"There's a cigar box in the bottom desk drawer," Baker said. "Petty cash fund. You can go out for lunch and get your medication on the way. Those boys are more dildoes than desperadoes. They'll be okay. Just leave a voucher for how much money you take. I'll get in touch with the State Police and you'll be shut of them by late this afternoon."
Nick made a thumb-and-forefinger circle.
"I've been trusting you a lot on short notice," Baker said soberly, "but Janey says it's all right. You have a care."
Nick nodded.
Jane Baker had come in around six yesterday evening with a covered dish supper and a carton of milk.
Nick wrote, "Thanks very much. How's your husband?"
She laughed, a small woman with chestnut brown hair, dressed prettily in a checked shirt and faded jeans. "He wanted to come down himself, but I talked him out of it. His fever was up so high this afternoon that it scared me, but it's almost normal tonight. I think it's because of the State Patrol. Johnny's never really happy unless he can be mad at the State Patrol."
Nick looked at her quizzically.
"They told him they couldn't send anybody down for his prisoners until nine tomorrow morning. They've had a bad sick-day, twenty or more troopers out. And a lot of the people who are on have been fetching people to the hospital up at Camden or even Pine Bluff. There's a lot of this sickness around. I think Am Soames is a lot more worried than he's letting on."
She looked worried herself. Then she took the two folded sheets of memo paper from her breast pocket.
"This is quite a story," she said quietly, handing the papers back to him. "You've had just about the worst luck of anyone I ever heard of. I think the way you've risen above your handicaps is admirable. And I have to apologize again for my brother."
Nick, embarrassed, could only shrug.
"I hope you'll stay on in Shoyo," she said, standing. "My husband likes you, and I do, too. Be careful of those men in there."
"I will," Nick wrote. "Tell the sheriff I hope he feels better."
"I'll take him your good wishes."
She left then, and Nick passed a night of broken rest, getting up occasionally to check on his three wards. Desperadoes they were not; by ten o'clock they were all sleeping. Two town fellows came in to check and make sure Nick was all right, and Nick noticed that both of them seemed to have colds.
He dreamed oddly, and all he could remember upon waking was that he seemed to have been walking through endless rows of green corn, looking for something and terribly afraid of something else that seemed to be behind him.
This morning he was up early, carefully sweeping out the back of the jail and ignoring Billy Warner and Mike Childress. As he went out, Billy called after him: "Ray's gonna be back, you know. And when he catches you, you're gonna wish you were blind as well as deaf and dumb!"
Nick, his back turned, missed most of this.
Back in the office, he picked up an old copy of Time magazine and began to read. He considered putting his feet up on the desk and decided that would be a very good way to get in trouble if the sheriff came by.
By eight o'clock he was wondering uneasily if Sheriff Baker might have had a relapse in the night. Nick had expected him by now, ready to turn the three prisoners in his jail over to the county when the State Patrol came for them. Also, Nick's stomach was rumbling uncomfortably. No one had showed up from the truck-stop down the road, and he looked at the telephone, more with disgust than with longing. He was quite fond of science fiction, picking up falling-apart paperbacks from time to time on the dusty back shelves of antique barns for a nickel or a dime, and he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that it was going to be a great day for the deaf-mutes of the world when the telephone viewscreens the science fiction novels were always predicting finally came into general use.
By quarter of nine he was acutely uneasy. He went to the door which gave on the cells and looked in.
Billy and Mike were both standing at their cell doors. Both of them had been banging on the bars with their shoes... which just went to show you that people who can't talk only made up a small percentage of the world's dummies. Vince Hogan was lying down. He only turned his head and stared at Nick when he came to the door. Hogan's face was pallid except for a hectic flush on his cheeks, and there were dark patches under his eyes. Beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead. Nick met his apathetic, fevered gaze and realized that the man was sick. His uneasiness deepened.
"Hey, dummy, how about some brefus?" Mike called down to him. "An ole Vince there seems like he could use a doctor. Tattle-talein don't agree with him, does it, Bill?"
Bill didn't want to banter. "I'm sorry I yelled at you before, man. Vince, he's sick, all right. He needs the doctor."
Nick nodded and went out, trying to figure out what he should do next. He bent over the desk and wrote on the memo pad: "Sheriff Baker, or Whoever: I've gone to get the prisoners some breakfast and to see if I can hunt Dr. Soames up for Vincent Hogan. He appears to be really sick, not just playing possum. Nick Andros."