Free Border Town Girl by John D. MacDonald

play ball with you.”
    “They won’t trust me,” she said in a small voice.
    “That’s a chance you have to take.”
    “I’m frightened, Lane.”
    “Of what?”
    “Prison. I dream of it sometimes. All gray walls and gray cotton and it’s always raining and big bells ringing. Do this, do that. Years and years, Lane.”
    She flung herself toward him, her weight against his chest, her head under his chin, and the sobs shook her and her tears scalded his throat. He put his arm around her and tried to comfort her.
    When at last the tempo of the sobs decreased until they were only great shuddering breaths that came at long intervals, he said, “So we’ll go back as soon as it’s dark?”
    Her voice was muffled. “Anything you say, Lane.”
    “To keep you amused,” he said bitterly, “I shall now tell you a long story of a promising young citizen named Lane Sanson who, as far as reports go, apparently dropped dead several years ago. It is a long amusing story about a book and a blonde wife and a problem involving integrity.”
    “Tell me,” she whispered.

 
8
     
    WHEN TOMKINTON, CLAVNA AND THE RANGER, who was named Vance, came into the third-floor room all Christy could do was look at them with his small alert blue eyes.
    Tomkinton came quickly back from the bathroom. He checked the top drawers of the bureau. He whistled softly. “Bad, bad news, Clav. The bird has flown.”
    Clavna cursed with great feeling. “Oh, that’s fine! That’s great! We can probably get jobs as ribbon clerks. You had to be the one to say we didn’t have to cover the whole joint because there was no reason for her to run.”
    “Don’t try to pass the buck to me,” Tomkinton said hotly.
    “No need to get in a fuss,” Vance said. “This is a tough town to run away from. I’ll put the lid on.” He picked up the room phone.
    As he picked it up there was a loud scream of rubber in front of the hotel. Tomkinton ran to the window. A red Buick convertible, several years old, rocked down through traffic. He squinted but the car was too far away for him to read the license.
    “Go down to the lobby and see what you can find out, Clav,” he directed.
    Vance, on the phone, was saying, “You already got the description. The Saybree woman. Yeah. Give them the word at the bridge and tell Hal that I think it’s hot enough to radio up the line for the usual road block. That leaves the airport and the bus station.”
    He hung up and grinned at Tomkinton. He was a lean man with a saddle-leather face and the ranger uniform sat well on his shoulders. “Least we got us a murderer if you boys got the right dope on this guy on the floor. He is the one you called Christy, isn’t he?”
    “That’s him,” Tomkinton said. Tomkinton was a young, round-faced man with the look of an affable bank teller. He walked over to Christy. He said softly, “Killing Shaymen was a mistake, friend. A bad mistake. Not up to your usual style.”
    He took out his knife and cut the nylon. He yanked the towel from Christy’s mouth. It was stained with blood where it had touched Christy’s lips. Christy coughed and moistened his lips with his tongue. “My wrists are killing me,” he muttered.
    “Where did the girl go?”
    “I don’t know. She left with a guy. Tall fella with a little bandage on his head. I never saw him before… The two of them busted me with a glass when I wasn’t looking. How about these wrists?”
    Clavna trotted through the open door. “Hey, she left with a guy named Lane Sanson. He had a room on the second floor. They went down the fire escape and took off in a red Buick convertible. Here’s the license number. I wrote it down.”
    Vance took the slip of paper and picked up the phone again. As he waited he said, “This’ll make it easier.”
    Tomkinton frowned. “Lane Sanson. Lane Sanson. I’ve heard that name before. Wait a minute. Newspaper guy. War correspondent. Hey, he wrote a book! I saw the movie.”
    Vance was talking