D A Novel (George Right)

WINDY DAY IN WEST





The straight gray tape of the highway was rewinding under the Ford's wheels at 75 mph. The hot southern wind drove across the road clouds of dust and tumbleweed spheres similar to skeletons of balls. Pete Palmer had needed to close the driver's window that morning and since then the wind had only increased. A continuous haze hung over the yellow-orange desert. "The way things are going, I'll have to slow down," Pete thought. "Visibility is miserable even now." It was 3 PM; he had been en route for 74 hours and had left his car only to do the deed. He ate and slept right in the car.

"Hello, friends, Dan Daniels with you on the hour," sounded from the car radio. It was some local station. "What weather, huh? There hasn't been a scorcher like this for years. Well, the weatherman says this heat will last at least several days more. So we have to do the best we can. I like lying in a cool bath and sipping martinis with ice. Too bad my studio doesn't have a bath. Between you and me, I'm sitting here in my underpants only. Right now, I'm like the characters in the song you'll hear next–it's the hit of the month, 'Hot Guys Is What I Like!'"

"Moron," muttered Palmer and switched the radio off. The noise of the motor merged with the rustle of sand grains hitting the glass.

He finally noticed a figure on the roadside. He had nearly missed seeing it, not so much because of the dusty haze, but because he didn't expect to see anybody out here. He had passed the last town about an hour ago–if a gas station with a poster "Last Gas For 100 miles" could be called a town–and, according to the road map, the next populated place was no closer. Unless there was some nearby ranch not designated on the map? Anyway, the person was here and held out a hand with the thumb up, expressing an eager desire to leave.

Just a minute ago Pete hadn't considered picking up hitchhikers. Certainly, this guy stuck in the middle of the desert in stifling heat and a dust storm could hardly be envied, but those were his problems. Nevertheless, Palmer eased off the accelerator, wanting to look at the hitchhiker before passing him by.

It happened to be a girl. The wind fanned her short fair hair and billowed her loose T-shirt over worn jeans. A small backpack stood near her feet. On her T-shirt there was the question "ARE YOU SURE?" She wasn't a beauty. Otherwise Pete would have definitely passed her by.

The Ford rolled briefly while the driver's foot hovered between the gas and brake pedals–and, at last, Palmer chose the latter. "Yes," he said. "I am sure."

The girl, still not believing to her luck, hastily ran up to the car. She didn't ask anything, just simply opened the door, dusted the sand off her jeans, and plopped into the passenger seat.

"Thanks," she said.

"Where are you going?" inquired Pete, turning right and examining her more attentively.

"Ahead!"

"Means you're going my way," Palmer nodded, pressing the accelerator again.

The girl was silent and Pete thought that didn't suit him. He could keep silent alone, which he actually did for the last 74 hours.

"Rather odd that nowadays a girl isn't afraid to get in a stranger's car this way," he said. He dissembled a bit, as the appearance of his passenger actually didn't make her an especially desired victim for a rapist. She was short–which could by itself interest the maniacs who craved subtlety and defenselessness; however her build was not subtle, but, on the contrary, too corpulent, with some excessive flab around her waist, while she still could not be called fat. And at the same time her breasts weren't very well developed. Her round face was also quite ordinary and, besides, freckled. All in all, not very pretty. However, who knows what can get in the mind of a psychopath...

“You don't look like a maniac, mister," the girl said.

"As if you ever saw any," Palmer grinned.

"Only in the movies," she admitted. "Though my dear daddy can be worse than any maniac when he gets drunk–and the last time he was sober was three weeks before Christmas. Well, an explanation number two–I believe in destiny."

"Believing in destiny isn't worse than believing in anything else," Palmer shrugged his shoulders. "It's possible never to get in a stranger's car during your whole life and then to slip and die in your own bathtub, isn't it?"

"Exactly."

"But just the same I wouldn't let my daughter hitchhike, not even to the other end of town. These days–not for a moment. My God, I never was a goody two-shoes myself. I lost my virginity when I was 17 and my girlfriend was the same age. But at least we really thought we would get married. When I was young, if a man smiled at a kid and started talking to him, everyone around melted–look how he likes children! And in most cases, that's how it really was. And now in the same situation, the kid is immediately whisked away, because everyone thinks this guy is a f*cking pedophile. And goddamn it, in most cases they're right again!"

"Do you like children?" the girl asked.

"No," shortly answered Pete.

"But what about your daughter?"

"I don't have a daughter."

She became silent again.

"How did you get out here?" Palmer asked. "In the middle of the desert?"

"A guy who gave me a lift put me out of his car here."

"Did he molest you?"

"No, he didn't. But he was an a*shole. I don't know why I got in his car—I guess I just got sick and tired of waiting for a ride in this heat. He stank of sweat and smoked cheap cigars. At first we didn't talk at all–he listened to country music."

"He had thick hairy fingers and a cowboy hat. And he drives a shabby blue pickup," added Pete.

"You saw him?" the girl was surprised.

"No, but if you see one guy like that, you've seen them all."

"Well, that's what he's like, only the pickup is gray instead of blue. So, he listened to country, and sometimes he even tried to sing along. And then the music ended and the news came on. It was about that Dorothy Springles, the one who got her own husband locked up for rape."

"I know."

"Today the court said 'no' to his appeal or something. And this guy started yelling about 'underf*cked feminist bitches' and stuff. And he finished by saying that the dumbest thing Americans ever did was to allow cunts and niggers to vote. It looked like he even believed that it happened simultaneously. Well, and... I spoke up. To tell the truth, I was way more polite than he deserved," the girl glanced fearfully at Palmer, having thought too late that he could agree with the pickup driver. But Palmer didn't express an opinion in any way. "Well, then he stopped the car and told me to get the f*ck out. That I was a stinking bitch and so on. I wanted to tell him which of the two of us was stinking, but I didn't dare. He was at least three times bigger than me and there wasn't anyone around for 50 miles."

"How long did you wait there?"

"Well, probably, more than an hour. A little more and I would be a dried up mummy filled with sand."

"So you decided, just in case, to keep mum with me."

"Exactly."

"All problems between people come from two causes," Palmer said. "First, they don't tell each other the truth. And second, they do tell it."

The girl looked at him respectfully.

"Are you a writer?"

"Nope, I'm not a writer. And not a maniac. And I don't drop girls on the road in the middle of a desert–at least, not yet.”

"Glad to hear it."

"By the way, I didn't get your name."

"Bettie."

"Not very pretty," slipped off Palmer's tongue.

"What?" she seemed more surprised than offended.

"Sorry. Pay no attention. I've been having a bad time recently.” ("In the last 74 hours," he added mentally. "Or in the last 50 years–depending on how you look at it.")

"You can call me Liz if you want"

"Frankly speaking, I don't like 'Liz' any better than 'Bettie,'" he admitted. "But don't sweat it. That's just me. You aren't angry?"

"Everything is okay, mister."

"Don't call me 'mister.' Call me Pete."

"Okay... Pete."

"That bothers you?" he immediately asked, noticing an uncertainty in her voice. "You think I'm trying to seem like one of the boys, as if I still were young? It's unnatural for you to call such an old fart 'Pete?'"

"You don't look at all like an old... umm..."

"Don't lie to me, Bettie. I know perfectly well how a 50-year-old looks when you're 17."

"Actually, I'm 18 already."

"Is that so?" grinned Pete.

"Yes," Bettie answered, thinking aloud. "I turned 18 last week,and I decided that I have had enough. Enough of a permanently drunk dad, enough of a mother who dad turned into a dumb animal long ago, enough of a brother all the time trying to pinch my butt or to watch me change clothes–enough of the whole nice little town of Bricksville, let it burn in hell. I broke my piggy bank, packed a backpack and went to the road. By evening I was already 200 miles away from home and I hope never to come any closer to it again."

"And where are you going?"

"Dunno. Maybe Sacramento or Frisco. Or maybe I'll find a waitress job in some roadside diner this side of the Rockies. I don't have any definite plans. The main thing is to get far away from Bricksville and then we'll see."

"Can you do anything? Well, except housework."

"Not much," she admitted. "But I'm a fast learner.”

"Have you at least graduated from high school?"

"Yes... and my grades weren't too bad. Though I hope that when Bricksville burns in hell, the fire gets the school first."

"I see," Palmer nodded. It suddenly seemed to him that the girl was looking at him with hope and he hastened to dispel it.

"I'm asking for no reason. Don't think that I can offer you a job. For that matter, I'm unemployed myself now."

"But your ride is cool," mistrustfully noted Bettie.

"I've been unemployed for only 74 hours. 74 and a half now."

"Bad luck for you, I guess," she said sympathetically.

"It was bad luck for me when I was born."

"Just the same, I don't think everything is so bad," she carefully offered after a pause.

"At your age I thought so, too. When you're 18, it seems that you'll be young forever. But you'll hardly have time to sigh before you're 36, and then 54. Anyway, you start to die much earlier. Did you know, that after 25, a human loses a hundred thousand brain cells per day? After 40 this process sharply accelerates and after 50 the brain starts to dry out noticeably. There's no arguing with the f*cking science... We try to deceive ourselves too long. At 40, we try to tell ourselves that we're the same as always, though actually we've been sliding downhill for a long time. And at 50 you notice that you aren't just sliding but accelerating with the wind in your ears. Hold the handrail, ladies and gentlemen, the next stops are Arthritis! Sclerosis! Cancer! Infarct! Stroke! Parkinson's! Alzheimer's! Do you understand, Bettie?"

"I think I do," the girl answered without any real confidence, "but..."

"You don't understand a damned thing. And then, when you realize that ahead of you is only misery and after that–darkness and void, you start to look back at your past, searching for at least some meaning. But there isn't any, Bettie. Have you ever thought about how the life of an ordinary man is absolutely awful?"

"Maybe in Bricksville."

"Forget your f*cking Bricksville! As if in New York, Paris, or Venice things are different! Every day a man goes to work, doing some nonsense like advertising chewing gum or selling canned cat food. He may pretend that it interests him, or honestly admit to himself that he hates his idiotic job –it doesn't change things a bit. For all his life, beginning in school, he diligently works like a squirrel in a cage to provide himself with money. What does he spend this money on? On food which several hours later is flushed down a toilet bowl, on buying things whose main purpose is to show how much money was spent on them, on vacation trips where he is baked on a beach like a pig in an oven or runs like a sheep in a herd following the guide and shooting views which were already photographed 300 million times by other sheep. Work and other routine activities leave him no more than a couple of free hours a day, and how does he dispose of them? He kills them watching stupid TV shows or playing poker. Then, if he is in the mood, he f*cks his wife and if not—he just falls asleep immediately. In the morning, sleepy and angry, he again goes to work. And this goes on day after day. Somehow, he believes that all this is just a prelude to some bright and fine future–until it becomes obvious that the only future for him is a wooden box with decaying meat which will be pushed in the ground or into an oven, far enough from the eyes and noses of those who face the same fate later. And nothing will remain of him, absolutely nothing. Even the cat food which he sold all his life won't be named after him."

"Children will remain," Bettie objected.

"Sure, and from them–their children, and from those–their... Don't you see that all this is one big nothing? A million zeros added together makes a zero!"

"Maybe if you had children, things wouldn't seem so gloomy."

"I didn't say I don't have any–I said I don't have a daughter."

"So you have a son?"

"Yes. He's twenty years old and recently he got a job in a supermarket."

"Is he troubled about anything?"

"Seems to me he's happy."

"Then everything is okay with him?"

"Completely, if you don't count his Down syndrome."

"Oh... I'm sorry."

"That's all because of a guy named Gene Chromosome," said Palmer. "Have you read Kuttner?"

"Who?"

"Kuttner... or Gardner, I always mix them up. One wrote mysteries, the other science fiction. So the sci-fi writer had a series about Hogbens. Really funny stories. Hogbens are mutants, powerful almost like Superman, but living like typical bumpkins. When the grandfather tells the kid about mutations, the kid says: "I got a notion some furrin feller named Gene Chromosome had done it." Basically, I don't know whether we ourselves understand much more than that. There weren't any such birth defects in my family or in my wife's–if she didn't lie as usual."

"Sounds like you don't get along with her too well.”

"For the past 74 hours I've been trying to understand why I endured the bitch for the last 20 years."

"Is her name Bettie?"

"What? My God, no. Her name is Margaret, and, God help me, I like the name despite hating that stupid fat shrill hysterical bitch. I even married her partly because I liked her name. Very romantic, huh, Bettie? I liked her name more than her boobs. Though, to tell the truth, her boobs were pretty good back then–she wasn't fat yet. She stopped watching her weight after Max's birth. How do you like this idea–naming a moron 'Max?' She would even have named him Sylvester!"

Bettie said nothing.

"And all these 20 years," continued Pete, "she nagged at me, claiming Max was my fault because I f*cked her when I was drunk. Damn her, she drank more than I did that night! She wanted f*cking romance–a dinner with candles and champagne. She put away one and a half bottles alone. I drank only a little–I actually don't like champagne. At the end she was laughing nonstop and tried to get her foot under the table into my fly. We weren't married yet, but neither of us bothered with precautions. Shit, that's not romantic! As though there could be anything romantic in f*cking anyway... Did you ever f*ck, Bettie? Never mind, you don't have to answer that. We got married soon, without knowing that she was pregnant. And in just a few months I found out about her temper. But it turned out she was pregnant and I thought that was affecting her and after the birth she would calm down... And then Max was born and everything really went to hell. She handed him over to a state home and then regularly blamed me for it. By the way, I never saw Max since then. She went to see him, but I never did. He's disgusting to me. But, still, she handed him over herself. Every time I got fed up with her moaning, I told her to bring him back home. She said she would do exactly that and went off to blubber in her room. That's how it always ended. Then she started hitting the bottle. Once she even was put in the hospital with an alcoholic psychosis. But, unfortunately, they released her and she came home."

Palmer fell silent.

"Listen, mister... " Bettie began shyly.

"Pete!"

"Okay, listen, Pete... what happened 74 hours ago? You didn't...like... kill her?"

"A good question!" laughed Palmer. "No, don't think I have. Though it would be worth it, I swear to God."

"What do you mean...'you don't think?'"

"Well, maybe she died of a heart attack when she found out she wouldn't see me or my money any more."

"Well, I'm not a lawyer, but probably you still have to pay her alimony."

"What f*cking alimony, Bettie? Did you forget that I'm unemployed with no income now? You want to know what happened 74 hours ago? Already almost 75... Well, I'll tell you. That bitch whom I even don't want to call by her beautiful name was lucky that it didn't happen in our home. Otherwise, maybe I would have killed her. But it happened at my job. I didn't change my place of work for 30 years, Bettie. It changed itself–at first it was a small firm selling paint, then it was bought by a company which had a network of hardware stores, then the company was acquired by a corporation, and now all this is merged into a huge conglomerate which makes and sells thousands of things–from machines for construction work to toilet paper. And 26 of these 30 years I spent under one man–William T. Gills. At first I was his ordinary employee. Then he noticed he could work me like a horse pulling a plow and made me his deputy. I was young and naive, so I was damned proud–oh really, I'm making a career, advancing past other employees who are older and have more experience! I went all out to justify Mr. Gills' trust. By the way, I always called him 'Mr. Gills,' and he called me 'Pete,' though he was a year younger than me–but when he was just 25, he had a half-bald head and glasses, so he looked older. Anyway, this son of a bitch, of course, used my eagerness totally to his advantage. I can imagine how he chuckled to himself. I did all the work for him, he received praise from upper management, and I got nothing. Then he was promoted–do you think I got his position? Hell no–he already understood how useful I could be to him. He dragged me with him and again I became his deputy, only at the new level. And so it went all these years. This bastard used me and I always played the supporting role. Once I tried to call him 'Willie' and he said nothing, but looked at me in such a way that I immediately returned to 'Mr. Gills'. The whole following week I felt ashamed and worthless remembering it... Recently he was the general manager of the regional office of the corporation, and I was, accordingly, his deputy. And so three days ago two events happened. First, I turned 50. And second, Gills got one more promotion–to the very top, to the head office on the East Coast. There were rumors about it earlier, but he liked to keep matters secret till the last moment. And I had a feeling that this time he wouldn't drag me with him–and I was really sick of looking at his smug face for such a long time. I thought maybe this time I'd leave his shadow at last and become the general manager. So this bastard called me to his office... you, probably, think that he gave me the sack, and someone else got the job? No, Bettie, I got it. The top of my 30-year career. "Congrats on your anniversary with the company, Pete," he said. "And I have a gift for you–this office is now yours." And do you think I was happy? F*cking shit, like hell I was happy! Because I suddenly understood that it was the end. The last promotion in my life. I would leave this office only to retire. For 30 years I ran like a squirrel in a cage, and for what? The same f*cking vanity, foolish and senseless fuss. I would keep on doing the same work from then on until they kicked my ass out to make room for someone younger. The salary would increase, but the headaches would increase, too–I couldn't work Gills style, foisting everything off on deputies. And while I stood there, thinking about it and listening to that whistle with which the train approaches the Cancer or Alzheimer's stations–guess what Gills thought, looking at my sour expression? This f*cking son of a bitch got the idea that I felt sad about parting from him! "So it goes, Pete," he said consoling me, "it's sad for me to leave you, too, but in the new position I need somebody younger." And here I did what I dreamed about for many years. I smashed his face with all force I had. I think I knocked out at least five of his teeth, maybe even more. I wouldn't be surprised if I broke his jaw. I was beside myself with rage. When I hit him, he plopped in his chair which rolled back until it hit a wall. He sat and looked at me with bulging eyes, glasses half off, and blood on his chin. I cursed him for about four minutes. If his chair hadn't been on castors, I would probably have continued beating him. But he was too far from me and, besides, there was a table between us, so I was limited to words. I don't even remember what I said, but never in my life did I swear like that. Then I went out, sat in my car, and drove west. Before leaving the city, though, I stopped twice–once at my bank to withdraw my money and to close my accounts, and the second time at the post office to write and mail a letter to Margaret. I told her what I thought of her. Then I sent some more letters like that–to all addresses I could remember."

"And since then you've been going in one direction?"

"As you see, 18 years were enough for you to understand when enough is enough and I needed the whole 50."

"I think there's a difference. What will you do when you reach the West Coast?"

"I don't have any idea, Bettie, and what's the f*cking difference!"

"But I hope... Pete, you aren't going to commit suicide?"

"Oh no. I didn't piss off everyone just to go and die. I'm free now and I intend to use it. You know, the day before yesterday I wiped my ass with a hundred dollar bill. But it was stupid–toilet paper is much more convenient. Things should be used according to their purpose. If a human were intended for death, in old age he would be wearing a coffin, like a crab with a shell. How do you like this idea, Bettie?"

"There aren't any coffins in nature. Nature intends dead bodies to feed other animals."

"Then to hell with it, nature and its mania for killing. Did you ever think that we live only while we kill? Even the most devoted vegetarians are compelled to kill plants. This world is very fairly arranged, isn't it?"

"Pete, you really don't know what you're going to do next?"

"I already told you that I'm not going to think things out ahead of time. I'm fed up with planning long-term strategies. I don't intend to play by their rules any more. In any case, I have money. Do you want me to give you 1,000 bucks?"

"No."

"My God, I don't consider you a whore! I would be the worst bastard if I treated you like that! I want to give you this money just for nothing, you understand?"

"Pete, I could use the money of course, but I can't accept a gift like that, especially not when you're in this condition."

"In what damned condition? I am as okay as it is possible to be."

"You are NOT okay, Pete. And you know it. You haven't been okay for three days now..."

"Listen, girl, I'm sorry I told you all this. It seemed to me you would understand because your life made you fed up. But if I was mistaken, if you're like all the rest, let's forget our conversation once and for all."

"Pete, to you I am only a little girl, but listen to me. I decided to end my former life to begin a new one; you simply destroyed everything you had in your life and now you're trying to hide from the problem.”

"There is no problem! That's enough about it!"

"There is a problem. Pete, you need help. You don't have a job. The police may want you for hurting your boss. You left your wife. You offended everyone you know..."

"Bettie, shut up, or I'll put you out like that guy!"

"Pete, I'm not saying this to hurt you. I want to help you before you get in more trouble. Really, Pete, it would be easier for me just to shut up, but then it would be even worse for you. Everything can still be fixed... well, almost everything. You need to talk to a doctor..."

"SHUT UP, YOU BITCH! SHUT UP, F*ck YOU!"

He was so angry that he almost swerved the car off the road. Then the rage subsided and Palmer regained control again.

"Bettie, I'm sorry. You're right in some ways. My nerves are really shot. You know, after living 20 years with a hysterical woman... Don't take offense, all right?"

Bettie kept an insulted silence.

"Well, if that's how it is... But I really didn't mean to shout at you."

Silence hung. The motor evenly hummed.

"Let's, maybe, listen to some music," said Pete and turned the radio on.

"... terday," a familiar voice sang. "All my troubles seemed so far away..."

"Good old rock'n'roll," Pete said. "Yes, Johnny, you're right–yesterday my troubles seemed so far away. And the day before yesterday, too. I should have walked out long ago. No, Johnny, the world didn't go bad today. The world always was rotten, only now it's easier to see."

"Why she had to go I don't know–she wouldn't say," sang the radio.

"Some problem," Palmer sneered. "When a chick leaves you, it's nothing. Problems are something more serious. You found that out eventually, huh, Johnny?"

"... love was such an easy game to play..." radio insisted.

"Love amazed you," frowned Pete. "If you had written 'life' instead, it would be a lot more interesting. At first it seems life is an easy game–you just have to obey the rules. And then you understand that you're trapped and winning this game isn't an option at all. If that guy shot you before you understood this, you were lucky, Johnny. That guy also decided not to play by the rules any more. You know, Bettie, I understand those guys who climb up on a roof with a rifle and shoot passers-by until they're killed by the police. I'm not saying that I justify them, or that I'm going to do the same myself–my God, no! But I really understand them..."

The radio began playing "Nowhere man."



He's a real nowhere man

Sitting in his nowhere land

Making all his nowhere plans for nobody

Doesn't have a point of view

Knows not where he's going to

Isn't he a bit like you and me



"Yes," nodded Pete," very much like you and me. Especially me. You're right, Bettie, I really don't know what to do next. It seemed to me that it was enough just to break loose, but now I can't think what to do with my freedom. You see, once I read that if a grasshopper is covered with a jar and kept there long enough, then even after the jar is removed, it will still jump only up to the jar's height. Looks like that's the same with me."

Under a wheel a tumbleweed crackled.

"You're still young, Bettie," Palmer continued. "You can still jump above the jar. Though what the hell does it matter? Everyone will still end up at one of those stations I mentioned. It may be silly to rebel, knowing you won't win. But it's even sillier to obey, knowing you won't get any reward."



I don't mind, I think they're crazy

Running everywhere at such a speed

Till they find there's no need



sang the radio.

"I also think all of them went crazy," Pete agreed, "however there's some charm in going at great speed without any need. Don't you agree, Bettie?"

The girl was silent.

"Bettie, say something just for a change. It's wrong to sulk for so long."

"Keeping an eye on the world going by the window, taking my time," warbled the radio. Palmer turned his head and saw that Bettie had dozed off. The road and the music had lulled her.



Please don't wake me,

No, don't shake me,



the radio asked.

"All right, I won't," agreed Pete. "Sleep, Bettie. When you're young, it's easy. At your age, I passed out when my head touched the pillow.”

He became silent and concentrated on the road. However, there weren't many things to look at. The visibility was really limited. Sand tongues stretched across the asphalt, as if the desert was trying to creep away to the north, escaping from the heat.

Then a spot appeared ahead. A car–a police cruiser; Palmer distinguished the typical black and white pattern. The cruiser stood on the shoulder of the lane going in the other direction. Pete reflexively reduced his speed. However, if the cop wanted to make trouble for Pete, he had already had enough time to check his speed.

And it seemed he had–the officer got out of his car and made a gesture to stop. Palmer swore and braked ten yards short of the cop. Let him walk.

The policeman came to the Ford, clutching his hat to his head with one hand and trying to cover his face from the wind. He was very young–probably just a rookie.

"Good afternoon, sir!" he shouted approaching. "May I ask you for help? You see, my vehicle..."

As he was talking, he came close and bent to the driver's window, which Palmer had half opened. And here something strange happened with the cop. He didn't look like Gills in any way–the latter was bald, well-fed, round-faced, bespectacled, and almost 30 years older. And the cop had a thin bony face and brown hair peeked out from under his hat; on his chin Pete noticed a small cut–probably, the guy thought that a real man should use an open razor. But nevertheless the officer's expression vividly resembled that of Gills at the moment when Pete's fist smashed his face. Completing the similarity, the cop recoiled from the car, as if indeed thrown back by a blow; however, then the similarity ended. In the next moment the policeman already stood on half-bent legs, bulging his butt back and stretching forward his straight arms clasping a gun. The barrel shook slightly–probably this was the first time the boy actually had aimed at a human being–but nevertheless the round black hole looked right at the bridge of Palmer's nose.

"Exit the vehicle!" the cop cried out in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice. The wind tore his hat off and rolled it across the road but he didn't even notice it.

"What?" Pete stupidly asked.

"Exit the vehicle, slowly and so I can see your hands! One wrong move and I'll blow your head off!"

"All right, officer," Palmer shrugged his shoulders, pressing the lever of the door lock, "but what's the matter?"

"Ah, you son of a bitch!" the cop nearly choked from indignation. "You think strangling a girl is nothing special, huh?"

"Probably, I look like a sketch of some murderer," Palmer thought. "Everything will clear up soon." However a cold feeling of alarm suddenly spread in his belly and made him turn his head to the right.

Bettie wasn't sleeping. Her eyes were open... not just open. They were goggled and empty. Her face was purple. Her tongue fell out of her mouth. On her chin saliva had dried. But the most awful were the dark stains on her neck. The imprints of fingers. His fingers.

"No," said Palmer, "my God, no."

At work, it had been similar. He remembered hitting Gills and he remembered leaving the office. But those four minutes when he stood and swore at Gills had simply dropped out of his memory. However, when he had left, Gills was still alive.

"Bettie, I didn't want..."

He got out of the car backwards, without taking his eyes from the corpse. He hardly felt his own body; everything seemed just a nightmare. The strong hand of the policeman seized his wrist, closing the cool ring of a handcuff around it.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney..."

"BETTIE!!!"

But you can't hear me,

You can't hear me,



the radio sang.

Over the desert the hot wind blew.


In the story The Beatles songs "Yesterday", "Nowhere man", "I'm only sleeping", "And your bird can sing" were quoted.