Part 9 (1/2)
”I'm not crazy,” said Harve.
”That's what I said, too,” said the old man. ”But they took me off to the crazy house just the same. I had a big story, too-all about the things folks had done to me, all about things folks was ganging up to do to me.” He shook his head. ”I believed that story, too. I mean, Mr. Elliot, I believed believed it.” it.”
”I tell you, I'm not not crazy,” said Harve. crazy,” said Harve.
”That's for a doctor to say, now, ain't it?” said the old man. ”You know when they let me out of the crazy house, Mr. Elliot? You know when they let me out, said I could go home to my wife and family?”
”When?” said Harve. His muscles were tightening up. He knew he was going to have to rush past death again-to rush past death and into the night.
”They let me go home,” said the old man, ”when I could finally see for myself that n.o.body was really trying to do me in, when I could see for myself it was all in my head.” He turned on the radio. ”Let's have some music while we wait,” he said. ”Music always helps.”
Asinine music about teenage love came from the radio. And then there was this news bulletin: ”Units of the Ilium Police are now believed to be closing in on Harvey Elliot, escaped maniac, who killed a woman outside of the fas.h.i.+onable Key Club in Ilium tonight. Householders are warned, however, to continue to be on the lookout for this man, to keep all doors and windows locked, and to report at once any prowlers. Elliot is extremely dangerous and resourceful. The chief of police has characterized Elliot as a 'mad dog,' and he warns persons not to attempt to reason with him. The management of this station has offered a thousand-dollar reward for Elliot, dead or alive.
”This is WKLL,” said the announcer, ”eight sixty on your dial, the friendly voice of Ilium, with news and music for your listening pleasure around the clock.”
It was then that Harve rushed the old man.
Harve knocked the gun aside. Both barrels roared.
The tremendous blast ripped a hole in the side of the house.
The old man held the gun limply, stupid with shock. He made no protest when Harve relieved him of the gun, went out the back door with it.
Sirens sobbed, far down the road.
Harve ran into the woods in back of the house. But then he understood that in the woods he could only provide a short and entertaining hunt for Captain Luby and his boys. Something more surprising was called for.
So Harve circled back to the road, lay down in a ditch.
Three Ilium police cars came to showy stops before the old man's house. The front tire of one skidded to within a yard of Harve's hand.
Captain Luby led his brave men up to the house. The blue flashers of the cars again created revolving islands of nightmare.
One policeman stayed outside. He sat at the wheel of the car nearest to Harve. He was intent on the raiders and the house.
Harve got out of the ditch quietly. He leveled the empty shotgun at the back of the policeman's neck, said softly, politely, ”Officer?”
The policeman turned his head, found himself staring down two rusty barrels the size of siege howitzers.
Harve recognized him. He was the sergeant who had arrested Harve and Claire, the one with the long scar that seamed his cheek and lips.
Harve got into the back of the car. ”Let's go,” he said evenly. ”Pull away slowly, with your lights out. I'm insane-don't forget that. If we get caught, I'll kill you first. Let's see how quietly you can pull away-and then let's see how fast you can go after that.”
The Ilium police car streaked down a superhighway now. No one was in pursuit. Cars pulled over to let it by.
It was on its way to the nearest barracks of the State Police.
The sergeant at the wheel was a tough, realistic man. He did exactly what Harve told him to do. At the same time, he let Harve know that he wasn't scared. He said what he pleased.
”What you think this is gonna get you, Elliot?” he said.
Harve had made himself comfortable in the backseat. ”It's going to get a lot of people a lot of things,” he said grimly.
”You figure the State Police will be softer on a murderer than we were?” said the sergeant.
”You know I'm not a murderer,” said Harve.
”Not a jailbreaker or a kidnapper, either, eh?” said the sergeant.
”We'll see,” said Harve. ”We'll see what I am, and what I'm not. We'll see what everybody is.”
”You want my advice, Elliot?” said the sergeant. ”No,” said Harve.
”If I were you, I'd get clear the h.e.l.l out of the country,” said the sergeant. ”After all you've done, friend, you haven't got a chance.”
Harve's head was beginning to bother him again. It ached in a pulsing way. The wound on the back of his head stung, as though it were open again, and waves of wooziness came and went.
Speaking out of that wooziness, Harve said to the sergeant, ”How many months out of the year do you spend in Florida? Your wife got a nice fur coat and a sixty-thousand-dollar house?”
”You really are are nuts,” said the sergeant. nuts,” said the sergeant.
”You aren't getting your share?” said Harve.
”Share of what?” said the sergeant. ”I do my job. I get my pay.”
”In the rottenest city in the country,” said Harve. The sergeant laughed. ”And you're gonna change all that-right?”
The cruiser slowed down, swung into a turnout, came to a stop before a brand-new State Police barracks of garish, yellow brick.
The car was surrounded instantly by troopers with drawn guns.
The sergeant turned and grinned at Harve. ”Here's your idea of Heaven, buddy,” he said. ”Go on-get out. Have a talk with the angels.”
Harve was hauled out of the car. Shackles were slammed on his wrists and ankles.
He was hoisted off his feet, was swept into the barracks, was set down hard on a cot in a cell.
The cell smelled of fresh paint.
Many people crowded around the cell door for a look at the desperado.
And then Harve pa.s.sed out cold.
”No-he isn't faking,” he heard someone say in a swirling mist. ”He's had a pretty bad blow on the back of his head.”
Harve opened his eyes. A very young man was standing over him.
”h.e.l.lo,” said the young man, when he saw that Harve's eyes were open.