Mr Ketchum was not pleased.
The town seemed fast asleep as he drove along its Main Street. The only sound was that of the car's engine, the only sight that of his raised head beams splaying out ahead, lighting up another sign. Speed 15 Limit.
'Sure, sure,' he muttered disgustedly, pressing down on the gas pedal. Three o'clock in the morning and the town fathers expected him to creep through their lousy hamlet. Mr Ketchum watched the dark buildings rush past his window.
Goodbye Zachry, he thought. Farewell, pop. 67.
Then the other car appeared in the rear-view mirror. About half a block behind, a sedan with a turning red spotlight on its roof. He knew what kind of car it was. His foot curled off the accelerator and he felt his heartbeat quicken. Was it possible they hadn't noticed how fast he was going?
The question was answered as the dark car pulled up to the Ford and a man in a big hat leaned out of the front window. Pull over!' he barked.
Swallowing dryly, Mr Ketchum eased his car over to the kerb. He drew up the emergency brake, turned the ignition key and the car was still. The police car nosed in towards the kerb and stopped. The right front door opened.
The glare of Mr Ketchum's headlights outlined the dark figure approaching. He felt around quickly with his left foot and stamped down on the knob, dimming the lights. He swallowed again. Damned nuisance this. Three a.m. in the middle of nowhere and a hick policeman picks him up for speeding. Mr Ketchum gritted his teeth and waited.
The man in the dark uniform and wide-brimmed hat leaned over into the window. 'Licence.'
Mr Ketchum slid a shaking hand into his inside pocket and drew out his billfold. He felt around for his licence. He handed it over, noticed how expressionless the face of the policeman was. He sat there quietly while the policeman held a flashlight beam on the licence.
'From New Jersey.'
'Yes, that… that's right,' said Mr Ketchum.
The policeman kept staring at the licence. Mr Ketchum stirred restlessly on the seat and pressed his lips together. 'It hasn't expired,' he finally said.
He saw the dark head of the policeman lift. Then, he gasped as the narrow circle of flashlight blinded him. He twisted his head away.
The light was gone. Mr Ketchum blinked his watering eyes.
'Don't they read traffic signs in New Jersey?' the policeman asked.
'Why, I… You mean the sign that said p-population sixty-seven?'
'No, 1 don't mean that sign,' said the policeman.
'Oh.' Mr Ketchum cleared his throat. 'Well, that's the only sign I saw,' he said.
'You're a bad driver then.'
'Well, I'm-'
'The sign said the speed limit is fifteen miles an hour. You were doing fifty.'
'Oh. I… I'm afraid I didn't see it.'
'The speed limit is fifteen miles an hour whether you see it or not.'
'Well… at – at this hour of the morning?'
'Did you see a timetable on the sign?' the policeman asked.
'No, of course not. I mean, I didn't see the sign at all/
'Didn't you?'
Mr Ketchum felt hair prickling along the nape of his neck. 'Now, now see here,' he began faintly, then stopped and stared at the policeman. 'May I have my licence back?' he finally asked when the policeman didn't speak.
The policeman said nothing. He stood on the street, motionless.
'May I -?' Mr Ketchum started.
'Follow our car,' said the officer abruptly and strode away.
Mr Ketchum stared at him, dumbfounded. Hey wait! he almost yelled. The officer hadn't even given him back his licence. Mr Ketchum felt a sudden coldness in his stomach.
'What is this?' he muttered as he watched the policeman getting back into his car. The police car pulled away from the kerb, its roof light spinning again.
Mr Ketchum followed.
'This is ridiculous,' he said aloud. They had no right to do this. Was this the Middle Ages? His thick lips pressed into a jaded mouth line as he followed the police car along Main Street.
Two blocks up, the police car turned. Mr Ketchum saw his headlights splash across a glass store front. Hand's Groceries read the weather-worn letters.
There were no lamps on the street. It was like driving along an inky passage. Ahead were only the three red eyes of the police car's rear lights and spotlight; behind only impenetrable blackness. The end of a perfect day, thought Mr Ketchum; picked up for speeding in Zachry, Maine. He shook his head and groaned. Why hadn't he just spent his vacation in Newark; slept late, gone to shows, eaten, watched television?
The police car turned right at the next corner, then, a block up, turned left again and stopped. Mr Ketchum pulled up behind it as its lights went out. There was no sense in this. This was only cheap melodrama. They could just as easily have fined him on Main Street. It was the rustic mind. Debasing someone from a big city gave them a sense of vengeful eminence.
Mr Ketchum waited. Well, he wasn't going to haggle. He'd pay his fine without a word and depart. He jerked up the hand brake. Suddenly he frowned, realising that they could fine him anything they wanted. They could charge him $500 if they chose! The heavy man had heard stories about small town police, about the absolute authority they wielded. He cleared his throat viscidly. Well, this is absurd, he thought. What foolish imagination.
The policeman opened the door.
'Get out,' he said.
There was no light in the street or in any building. Mr Ketchum swallowed. All he could really see was the black figure of the policeman.
'Is this the – station?' he asked.
Turn out your lights and come on,' said the policeman.
Mr Ketchum pushed in the chrome knob and got out. The policeman slammed the door. It made a loud, echoing noise-as if they were inside an unlighted warehouse instead of on a street. Mr Ketchum glanced upward. The illusion was complete. There were neither stars nor moon. Sky and earth ran together blackly.
The policeman's hard fingers clamped on his arm. Mr Ketchum lost balance a moment, then caught himself and fell into a quick stride beside the tall figure of the policeman.
'Dark here,' he heard himself saying in a voice not entirely familiar.
The policeman said nothing. The other policeman fell into step on the other side of him. Mr Ketchum told himself: These damned hick-town Nazis were doing their best to intimidate him. Well they wouldn't succeed.
Mr Ketchum sucked in a breath of the damp, sea-smelling air and let it shudder out. A crumby town of 67 and they have two policemen patrolling the streets at three in the morning. Ridiculous.
He almost tripped over the step when they reached it. The policeman on his left side caught him under the elbow.
'Thank you,' Mr Ketchum muttered automatically. The policeman didn't reply. Mr Ketchum licked his lips. Cordial oaf, he thought and managed a fleeting smile to himself. There, that was better. No point in letting this get to him.
He blinked as the door was pulled open and, despite himself, felt a sigh of relief filtering through him. It was a police station all right. There was the podiumed desk, there a bulletin board, there a black, pot-bellied stove unlit, there a scarred bench against the wall, there a door, there the floor covered with cracked and grimy linoleum that had once been green.
'Sit down and wait,' said the first policeman.
Mr Ketchum looked at his lean, angled face, his swarthy skin. There was no division in his eyes between iris and pupil. It was all one darkness. He wore a dark uniform that fitted him loosely.
Mr Ketchum didn't get to see the other policeman because both of them went into the next room. He stood watching the closed door a moment. Should he leave, drive away? No, they'd have his address on the licence. Then again, they might actually want him to attempt to leave. You never knew what sort of warped minds these small-town police had. They might even – shoot him down if he tried to leave.
Mr Ketchum sat heavily on the bench. No, he was letting imagination run amuck. This was
merely a small town on the Maine seacoast and they were merely going to fine him for-
Well, why didn't they fine him then? What was all this play-acting? The heavy man pressed his lips together. Very well, let them play it the way they chose. This was better than driving anyway. He closed his eyes. I'll just rest them, he thought.
After a few moments he opened them again. It was damned quiet. He looked around the dimly lit room. The walls were dirty and bare except for a clock and one picture that hung behind the desk. It was a painting – more likely a reproduction – of a bearded man. The hat he wore was a seaman's hat. Probably one of Zachry's ancient mariners. No; probably not even that. Probably a Sears Roebuck print: Bearded Seaman.
Mr Ketchum grunted to himself. Why a police station should have such a print was beyond him. Except, of course, that Zachry was on the Atlantic. Probably its main source of income was from fishing. Anyway, what did it matter? Mr Ketchum lowered his gaze.
In the next room he could hear the muffled voices of the two policemen. He tried to hear what they were saying but he couldn't. He glared at the closed door. Come on, will you? he thought. He looked at the clock again. Three twenty-two. He checked it with his wrist watch. About right. The door opened and the two policemen came out.
One of them left. The remaining one – the one who had taken Mr Ketchum's licence – went over to the raised desk and switched on the gooseneck lamp over it, drew a big ledger out of the top drawer and started writing in it. At last, thought Mr Ketchum.
A minute passed.
'I -' Mr Ketchum cleared his throat. 'I beg your -'
His voice broke off as the cold gaze of the policeman raised from the ledger and fixed on him.
'Are you… That is, am I to be – fined now?'
The policeman looked back at the ledger. 'Wait,' he said.
'But it's past three in the mor – ' Mr Ketchum caught himself. He tried to look coldly belligerent. 'Very well/ he said curtly. 'Would you kindly tell me how long it will be?'
The policeman kept writing in the ledger. Mr Ketchum sat there stiffly, looking at him. Insufferable, he thought. This was the last damned time he'd ever go within a hundred miles of this damned New England.
The policeman looked up. 'Married?' he asked.
Mr Ketchum stared at him.
'Are you married?'
'No, I – it's on the licence,' Mr Ketchum blurted. He felt a tremor of pleasure at his retort and, at the same time, an impaling of strange dread at talking back to the man.
'Family in Jersey?' asked the policeman.
'Yes. I mean no, Just a sister in Wiscons -'
Mr Ketchum didn't finish. He watched the policeman write it down. He wished he could rid himself of this queasy distress.
'Employed?' asked the policeman.
Mr Ketchum swallowed. 'Well,' he said, 'I -1 have no one particular em -'
'Unemployed,' said the policeman.
'Not at all; not at all,' said Mr Ketchum stiffly. I'm a – a free-lance salesman. I purchase stocks and lots from…' His voice faded as the policeman looked at him. Mr Ketchum swallowed three times before the lump stayed down. He realised that he was sitting on the very edge of the bench as if poised to spring to the defence of his life. He forced himself to settle back. He drew in a deep breath. Relax, he told himself. Deliberately, he closed his eyes. There. He'd catch a few Winks. May as well make the best of this, he thought.
The room was still except for the tinny, resonant ticking of the clock. Mr Ketchum felt his heart pulsing with slow, dragging beats. He shifted his heavy frame uncomfortably on the hard bench. Ridiculous, he thought.
Mr Ketchum opened his eyes and frowned. That damned picture. You could almost imagine that bearded seaman was looking at you.
'Uhr
Mr Ketchum's mouth snapped shut, his eyes jerked open, irises flaring. He started forward on the bench, then shrank back.
A swarthy-faced man was bent over him, hand on Mr Ketchum's shoulder.
'Yes?' Mr Ketchum asked, heart jolting.
The man smiled.
'Chief Shipley,' he said. 'Would you come into my office?'
'Oh,' said Mr Ketchum. 'Yes. Yes.'
He straightened up, grimacing at the stiffness in his back muscles. The man stepped back and Mr Ketchum pushed up with a grunt, his eyes moving automatically to the wall clock. It was a few minutes past four.
'Look,' he said, not yet awake enough to feel intimidated. 'Why can't I pay my fine and leave?'
Shipley's smile was without warmth.
'We run things a little different here in Zachry,' he said.
They entered a small musty-smelling office.
'Sit down,' said the chief, walking around the desk while Mr Ketchum settled into a straight-backed chair that creaked.
'I don't understand why I can't pay my fine and leave.'
'In due course,' said Shipley.
'But -' Mr Ketchum didn't finish. Shipley's smile gave the ' impression of being no more than a diplomatically veiled warning. Gritting his teeth, the heavy man cleared his throat and waited while the chief looked down at a sheet of paper on his desk. He noticed how poorly Shipley's suit fitted. Yokels, the heavy man thought, don't even know how to dress.
'1 see you're not married,' Shipley said.
Mr Ketchum said nothing. Give them a taste of their own no-talk medicine he decided.
'Have you friends in Maine?' Shipley asked.
'Why?'
'Just routine questions, Mr Ketchum,' said the chief. Tour only family is a sister in Wisconsin?'
Mr Ketchum looked at him without speaking. What had all this to do with a traffic violation?
'Sir?' asked Shipley.
'I already told you; that is, I told the officer. I don't see -'
'Here on business?'
Mr Ketchum's mouth opened soundlessly.
'Why are you asking me all these questions?' he asked. Stop shaking! he ordered himself furiously.
'Routine. Are you here on business?'
'I'm on my vacation. And I don't see this at all! I've been patient up to now but, blast it, I demand to be fined and released!'
'I'm afraid that's impossible,' said the chief.
Mr Ketchum's mouth fell open. It was like waking up from a nightmare and discovering that the dream was still going on. 'I -1 don't understand,' he said.
'You'll have to appear before the judge.'
'But that's ridiculous.'
'Is it?'
'Yes, it is. I'm a citizen of the United States. I demand my rights.'
Chief Shipley's smile faded.
'You limited those rights when you broke our law,' he said. 'Now you have to pay for it as we declare.'
Mr Ketchum stared blankly at the man. He realised that he was completely in their hands. They could fine him anything they pleased or put him in jail indefinitely. All these questions he'd been asked; he didn't know why they'd asked them but he knew that his answers revealed him as almost rootless, with no one who cared if he lived or –
The room seemed to totter. Sweat broke out on his body.
'You can't do this,' he said; but it was not an argument.
'You'll have to spend the night in jail,' said the chief. 'In the morning you'll see the judge.'
'But this is ridiculous!' Mr Ketchum burst out. 'Ridiculous!'
He caught himself. 'I'm entitled to one phone call,' he said quickly. 'I can make a telephone call. It's my legal right,'
'It would be,' said Shipley, 'if there was any telephone service in Zachry.'
When they took him to his cell, Mr Ketchum saw a painting in the hall. It was of the same bearded seaman. Mr Ketchum didn't notice if the eyes followed him or not.
Mr Ketchum stirred. A look of confusion lined his sleep-numbed face. There was a clanking sound behind him; he reared up on his elbow.
A policeman came into the cell and set down a covered tray.
'Breakfast,' he said. He was older than the other policemen, even older
than Shipley. His hair was iron-grey, his cleanly shaved faced seamed around the mouth and eyes. His uniform fitted him badly.
As the policeman started relocking the door, Mr Ketchum asked, 'When do I see the judge?'
The policeman looked at him a moment. 'Don't know/ he said and turned away.
'Wait!' Mr Ketchum called out.
The receding footsteps of the policeman sounded hollowly on the cement floor. Mr Ketchum kept staring at the spot where the policeman had been. Veils of sleep peeled from his mind.
He sat up, rubbed deadened fingers over his eyes and held up his wrist. Seven minutes past nine. The heavy man grimaced. By God, they were going to hear about this! His nostrils twitched. He sniffed, started to reach for the tray; then pulled back his hand.
'No,' he muttered. He wouldn't eat their damned food. He sat there stiffly, doubled at the waist, glaring at his sock-covered feet.
His stomach grumbled uncooperatively.
'Well,' he muttered after a minute. Swallowing, he reached over and lifted off the tray cover.
He couldn't check the oh of surprise that passed his lips.
The three eggs were fried in butter, bright yellow eyes focused straight on the ceiling, ringed about with long, crisp lengths of meaty, corrugated bacon. Next to them was a platter of four book-thick slices of toast spread with creamy butter swirls, a paper cup of jelly leaning on them. There was a tall glass of frothy orange juice, a dish of strawberries bleeding in alabaster cream. Finally a tall pot from which wavered the pungent and unmistakable fragrance of freshly brewed coffee.
Mr Ketchum picked up the glass of orange juice. He took a few drops in his mouth and rolled them experimentally over his tongue. The citric acid tingled deliciously on his warm tongue. He swallowed. If it was poisoned it was by a master's hand. Saliva tided in his mouth. He suddenly remembered that, just before he was picked up, he'd been meaning to stop at a cafe for food.
While he ate, warily but decidedly, Mr Ketchum tried to figure out the motivation behind this magnificent breakfast.
It was the rural mind again. They regretted their blunder. It seemed a flimsy notion, but there it was. The food was superb. One thing you had to say for these New Englanders; they could cook like a son-of-a-gun. Breakfast for Mr Ketchum was usually a sweet roll, heated, and coffee. Since he was a boy in his father's house he hadn't eaten a breakfast like this.