I think I must have fainted after that. When I came to, she was quite cold, and couldn't be stirred. I left her there and went up the bank to the car. I could hardly drag my feet; there were bright spots before my eyes; when I
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was back behind the wheel I remembered that the whiskey was back in the Nash and my hand began trembUng again.
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XXII
Sergeant Culloughs put his pipe down on the desk.
"We'll never be able to stop him," he said.
Carter shook his head.
"We can try."
"You can't stop a man doing a hundred miles an hour in a light car like that with nothing but a couple of motor-cycles!"
"We can try. Might break our necks, but we can try."
Borrow still hadn't said anything. He was a big, sprawling fellow, somewhat dark, ^ and he spoke with a drawl.
"I'm for it," he said.
"What do you say?" Carter asked.
Culloughs looked at them.
"Fellows," he said, "You might break your necks, but if you make it you can be sure of a promotion."
"After all you can't let a damn nigger turn the damn country upside down like that," Carter said.
Culloughs didn't reply, but looked at his watch.
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"It's five o'clock," he said. "They called about ten minutes ago. He ought to go by in about five minutes. If he does go by."
"He killed two white girls," Carter said.
"And a mechanic," Barrow added.
He checked the 45 in the holster at his side and went to the door.
"There are some others hot on this trail," Culloughs said.
"According to the last report, they're still there. The headquarters staff car is after him, and they expect another too."
"I think we'd better get going," Carter said.
"Get on behind me," he said to Barrow. "We'll take only one bike."
"That isn't according to regulations," the sergeant objected.
"Sorrow's a dead shot," Carter said. "But when you've got to drive the bike too, you can't shoot your best."
"Oh, do as you damn please." Culloughs said. "I wash my hands of the whole business.
The powerful motor-bike took off with a jerk. Barrow who was hooked onto Carter almost lifted him out of his seat. He was sitting backwards, back to back against Carter. The two of them were tied together by a
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leather belt.
"Slow down as soon as you get out of town," Barrow said.
"It isn't according to regulations," Culloughs grumbled at the same instant, as he watched Borrow's bike gloomily.
He shrugged his shoulders and went back into the police station. He went out almost right away and watched the big cream-colored Buick flash by with a roar of its motor. And then he heard the sirens and saw four motorcycles go by—so there were four of them after all—and then a police car right behind them.
"Damn lousy road," Culloughs grumbled again.
He didn't go back in.
He heard the sound of the sirens fade slowly away.
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XXIII
Lee moved his jaws dryly. His right hand shifted about nervously on the wheel and he pressed down on the gas pedal with all the weight of his body. His eyes were bloodshot and the sweat streamed down his face. His blond hair was matted with sweat and dust. He could hardly hear the scream of the sirens behind him even when he listened for it, and the road was too poor for them to shoot at him from that distance. He noticed a motorcycle just in front of him and he swerved to the left to pass it, but it kept pacing him. Suddenly the wind-shield was pierced by a missile and he caught a shower of splintered glass right in his face. The motor-cycle was motionless relative to the Buick and Barrow was able to take as careful aim as at the firing range. Lee saw the flashes of the second and third shots, but the bullets missed him. He was now doing his best to zigzag about on the road to duck the shots, but the wind-shield shattered again, and even closer to his face. He now felt the strong draft through the perfectly round hole the big metal .45 slug had cut through.
And then he felt as though the Buick
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was speeding up because he was getting closer to the bike, but he suddenly realized that the cops were slowing up. His lips formed a peculiar smile as he slowly decreased the pressure of his foot on the gas pedal. There was now no more than fifty feet between the two vehicles, forty, thirty... Lee suddenly pressed down hard again. He saw Barrows face just beside him and jerked violently under the blow of the bullet which hit his right shoulder. He passed the motorcycle grinding his teeth together so as not to let go the wheel. Once ahead of them he was out of the soup.
The road suddenly took a sharp curve, and then straightened out again. Carter and Barrow were still hot on his heel. In spite of the car springs, he felt every little bump in his injured arms. He looked into the rear-view mirror. Nothing had come around the curve yet besides the two men on the bike, and he then saw Carter slow down and stop on the shoulder to let Barrow turn around and get back on again since they weren't going to chance passing him by.
The road came to a fork a couple of hundred feet up. Lee noticed some sort of building to the right. Without letting up on the gas, he turned into the plowed-up field bordered by the dirt road to the right. The
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Buick bounced way off the ground and almost twisted over, but righted itself again to the groaning complaint of all the car parts, and came to a halt before a barn. He got to the door. Both his arms were hurting like the devil. He felt the blood begin surging through his numb left arm again—it was still tied to his chest—and it forced moans of pain through his lips. He ran towards a wooden ladder that led up to the grain shed and he flung himself on its rungs. He almost lost his balance but regained it with a grotesquely contorted movement of his body and he took the fat, rough, wooden rungs between his teeth. He stopped halfway up, panting heavily, and a silver cut his lip. He felt how hard he was clenching his teeth together when he againjelt in his mouth the salty taste of warm blood, as warm as he'd drunk from Lou's body, between her thighs smelling of a Paris perfume that was intended for a woman much older than her. He again saw Lou's twisted mouth and the skirt of her suit smeared with blood and again there were bright flashes before this eyes.
Slowly, painfully, he struggled up several more rungs as the scream of the sirens came closer. Lou's screams mixed in with the noise of the sirens, and the whole scene flashed vividly in his brain, he began to kill Lou all
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over again, and the same sensation, the same surge of pleasure shook him again as he reached the flooring of the grain-shed. The noise had died down outside the barn. Inch by inch, he pulled himself up to the little window. He couldn't use his right arm at all now because the slightest movement brought it excruciating pain.
Before him, as far as he could see, the yellow fields stretched out monotonously. The sun was going down, and a slight breeze was waving the grass along the edge of the road. The blood ran down his right sleeve and his body. He was slowly exhausting his last bit of strength, and he began to tremble with fear again.
The cops had completely surrounded the barn by now. He heard them call to him, and he opened his mouth wide, but soundlessly. He was thirsty and he was sweaty and he wanted to shout defiance and insults at them, but his throat was too parched. He watched his blood make a little puddle near him and finally run over and soak into his knee. He trembled like a leaf in the wind, and his teeth chattered, and when he heard steps on the ladder he began to bawl, a low moan at first which grew and swelled into a mad bellow; he tried to get the revolver out of his pocket, and
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finally got it at the cost of almost unbearable pain. He flattened his body against the wall, as far away as possible from the opening in the floor the cops would climb through. He held the gun in his hand, but he couldn't shoot.
The noise had stopped completely now. He stopped bellowing and his head fell back on his chest. He heard some vague sounds. Some time passed, and then several bullets struck him in the hip.
His body relaxed and slowly flowed to the floor. A thread of saliva stretched from his mouth to the coarse boards of the barn floor. The rope with which he'd slung up his left arm had left deep glue cuts in his flesh.
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XXIV
The townspeople hanged him anyway because he was a nigger. Under his trousers, his crotch still protruded ridiculously.
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Boris Vian, I Spit on Your Graves
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