Finding a Girl in America Read Online Free Page A

were alone,’ Matt said. ‘We’ve got it worked out.’
    â€˜There’s no planes this time of night, Mr. Fowler.’
    â€˜Go back through town. Then north on 125.’
    They came to the corner and turned, and now Willis’s headlights were in the car with Matt.
    â€˜Why north, Mr. Fowler?’
    â€˜Somebody’s going to keep you for a while. They’ll take you to the airport.’ He uncocked the hammer and lowered the revolver to his lap and said wearily: ‘No more talking.’
    As they drove back through town, Matt’s body sagged, going limp with his spirit and its new and false bond with Strout, the hope his lie had given Strout. He had grown up in this town whose streets had become places of apprehension and pain for Ruth as she drove and walked, doing what she had to do; and for him too, if only in his mind as he worked and chatted six days a week in his store; he wondered now if his lie would have worked, if sending Strout away would have been enough; but then he knew that just thinking of Strout in Montana or whatever place lay at the end of the lie he had told, thinking of him walking the streets there, loving a girl there (who was she?) would be enough to slowly rot the rest of his days. And Ruth’s. Again he was certain that she knew, that she was waiting for him.
    They were in New Hampshire now, on the narrow highway, passing the shopping center at the state line, and then houses and small stores and sandwich shops. There were few cars on the road. After ten minutes he raised his trembling hand, touched Strout’s neck with the gun, and said: ‘Turn in up here. At the dirt road.’
    Strout flicked on the indicator and slowed.
    â€˜Mr. Fowler?’
    â€˜They’re waiting here.’
    Strout turned very slowly, easing his neck away from the gun. In the moonlight the road was light brown, lighter and yellowed where the headlights shone; weeds and a few trees grew on either side of it, and ahead of them were the woods.
    â€˜There’s nothing back here, Mr. Fowler.’
    â€˜It’s for your car. You don’t think we’d leave it at the airport, do you?’
    He watched Strout’s large, big-knuckled hands tighten on the wheel, saw Frank’s face that night: not the stitches and bruised eye and swollen lips, but his own hand gently touching Frank’s jaw, turning his wounds to the light. They rounded a bend in the road and were out of sight of the highway: tall trees all around them now, hiding the moon. When they reached the abandoned gravel pit on the left, the bare flat earth and steep pale embankment behind it, and the black crowns of trees at its top, Matt said: ‘Stop here.’
    Strout stopped but did not turn off the engine. Matt pressed the gun hard against his neck, and he straightened in the seat and looked in the rearview mirror, Matt’s eyes meeting his in the glass for an instant before looking at the hair at the end of the gun barrel.
    â€˜Turn it off.’
    Strout did, then held the wheel with two hands, and looked in the mirror.
    â€˜I’ll do twenty years, Mr. Fowler; at least. I’ll be forty-six years old.’
    â€˜That’s nine years younger than I am,’ Matt said, and got out and took off the glove and kicked the door shut. He aimed at Strout’s ear and pulled back the hammer. Willis’s headlights were off and Matt heard him walking on the soft thin layer of dust, the hard earth beneath it. Strout opened the door, sat for a moment in the interior light, then stepped out onto the road. Now his face was pleading. Matt did not look at his eyes, but he could see it in the lips.
    â€˜Just get the suitcase. They’re right up the road.’
    Willis was beside him now, to his left. Strout looked at both guns. Then he opened the back door, leaned in, and with a jerk brought the suitcase out. He was turning to face them when Matt said: ‘Just walk up the road.