Strange Highways

the highway. Judge reached the car, got behind the wheel, and swung the door shut. He had left the engine running. The Volkswagen instantly pulled away. Its tires hit the asphalt, spun briefly, shrieking and kicking up thick smoke; then the car shot down Kanackaway Ridge Road.
     Chase didn't have a chance to catch even part of the license-plate number, because he was startled by an air horn frighteningly close behind.
     He leaped sideways off the road, tripped, rolled on the gravel verge, hugging himself for protection from the stones.
     Brakes barked just once, like the cry of a wounded man. A large moving van - with dark letters against its orange side: U-HAUL - boomed past, moving much too fast on the steep incline of Kanackaway Ridge Road, swaying slightly as its load shifted.
     Then both the car and truck were out of sight.

    7

A TWO-INCH SCRATCH ON HIS FOREHEAD AND A SMALLER SCRATCH ON his cheek, inflicted by the thorns in the bramble row, were already crusted with dried blood. The tips of three fingers also were scarred by the brambles, but with all his other pains, he didn't even feel these minor wounds. His ribs ached from the roll he'd taken on the gravel shoulder of Kanackaway Ridge Road - although none seemed broken when he pressed on them - and his chest, back, and arms were bruised where the largest stones had dug in as he tumbled over them. Both his knees were skinned. He had lost his shirt, of course, when he ripped it in two as protection from the thorns, and his trousers were fit only for the trash can.
     He sat in the Mustang by the edge of the park, assessing the damage, and he was so angry that he wanted to strike at something, anything. Instead, he waited, cooled off, settled down.
     Already, in the early darkness, a few cars had arrived at lovers' lane, driving over the sod to the hedges. Chase was amazed that all these young lovers were returning unfazed to the scene of the murder, apparently unconcerned that the man who had knifed Michael Karnes was still on the loose. He wondered if they would bother to lock their car doors.
     Since police patrols might be out along Kanackaway, hoping for the killer to return to the scene as well, a man sitting alone in a car would be highly suspicious. Chase started the engine and headed back into the city.
     As he drove, he tried to recall everything that he had seen, so no clue to Judge's identity would slip by. The guy owned a silencer-equipped pistol and a red Volkswagen. He was a bad shot, but a good driver. And that was about the sum of it.
     What next? The police?
     No. To hell with the cops. He had sought help from Fauvel and received nothing but bad advice. The cops had been even less help.
     He would have to handle the whole business himself. Track Judge down before Judge killed him.

     Mrs. Fielding met him at the door but stepped backward in surprise when she saw his condition. "What happened to you?"
     "I fell down," Chase said. "It's nothing."
     "But there's blood on your face. You're all skinned up!"
     "Really, Mrs. Fielding, I'm perfectly all right now. I had a little accident, but I'm on my feet and breathing."
     She looked him over more carefully. "Have you been drinking, Mr. Chase?" Her tone had gone swiftly from concern to disapproval.
     "No drinks at all," Chase said.
     "You know I don't approve."
     "I know." He went past her, heading for the stairs. They appeared to be a long way off.
     "You didn't wreck your car?" she called after him.
     "No."
     He climbed the stairs, looking anxiously ahead toward the turn at the landing-blessed escape. Strangely, he did not feel nearly as oppressed by Mrs. Fielding as usual.
     "That's good news," she said. "As long as you have your car, you'll be able to look for jobs better than before."
     After a glass of whiskey over ice, he drew a tub of water as hot as he could tolerate it, and he settled in as though he were an old man with arthritis. Water slopped over his open wounds and made him sigh with both pleasure and pain.
     Later, he dressed the worst abrasions with Merthiolate, then put on lightweight slacks, a sports shirt, socks, and loafers. With a second glass of whiskey, he sat in the easy chair to contemplate his next move.
     He looked forward to action with a mixture of excitement and