Westlake, Donald E - Novel 50 Read Online Free PDF

tension-free.
                 A
sign passed on the right. The driver, noting it, lifted the telephone from near
his right knee on the dashboard and spoke into it: “We are entering Connecticut , madam."
                Immediately, Jack's head rose into
view on the other side of the partition. He was laughing, his eyes manic. He
gazed in the rearview mirror at the reflection of the driver's face—the
driver's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead—then groped for the rear seat
telephone and spoke into it.
                 The
metallic voice sounded in the driver's ear: “And that ain't all we're entering,
James. We'll need fifteen minutes.''
                 Not
a flicker of expression touched the driver's face. Correct, unflappable, he
said, “Yes, sir.''
                 Jack,
laughing, extended the phone down out of sight toward the floor in back. More
faintly, his metallic voice sounded from the phone the driver held to his ear:
“Do you wish to speak to James, madam?''
                 Another
voice sounded, equally metallic, but identifiable as that of Miriam Croft. At
first she was merely laughing, but then she said, “Halliwell, just keep
driving, dear, until we tell you otherwise.''
                 “Yes, madam."
                 Less
distinct, too far from the phone, Jack said, “How about me, madam? Should I keep driving?"
                 Miriam's
laughter was loud, then farther away, as Jack took the phone from her and spoke
into it again, grinning through the glass at the driver “We'll just keep
driving, James, you and me, right through Connecticut ! Can we do that?"
                 Miriam's
laughter sputtered and struggled as she fought for breath, trying to talk and
laugh and inhale all at once, crying out, “Oh, no! Oh, don't! Oh, poor
Halliwell!" but then the laughter broke into pieces, into choking and
gasping, into wheezing and terrible retching sounds.
                 Jack
stared downward, suddenly concerned, then frightened,
the phone in his hand obviously forgotten. Through it, the driver heard him
cry, “Miriam? Miriam! Jesus God, put
your tongue in! Miriam! Not you, too!"
                 Dropping
the phone, Jack poked and prodded at the out-of-sight Miriam, while the chokes
and gasps weakened. Then he turned to the driver, panicky, pounding on the
glass, yelling, his words barely audible at all until
he remembered the phone and dived for it. The driver, unsure what was going on
and knowing that practical jokes were not impossible with these people, at last
frowned at the rearview mirror, in which the wild-eyed and terrified Jack
suddenly reappeared, phone mashed to his ear as he yelled, "Help! She's
having a fit or something! Find a hospital!"
                 This was no practical joke. "Yes, sir\” answered the driver, and pressed
the accelerator to the floor.
                 And
so the limousine tore through the sweet-scented Connecticut night, trailing Jack's screams, Jack's
moans, Jack's brokenhearted cry: "Miriam! Please! Pull yourself together!" And across the empty lanes
his final, fatal scream: "Not agaaiiinnn\”
     

8
                 There
are things I shall not tell this interviewer. Wild torsos could not drag them
out of me, though they're invited to try.
                 On
the other hand—is it the other hand, or another part of the same hand? A
different finger?—on the other finger, then, there are things I shall not even
tell myself. In fact, so clever am I,
perched atop this other finger, that I shall not even tell myself what the
things are that I shall not tell myself. And to think people say drugs affect
the brain; not my brain, Pops.
                 Between
the things I shall not tell myself and the things I shall not tell the
interviewer are those incidents, those memories that can still cause pain but
not to an