Free Psyche by Phyllis Young Page B

mind leapt gibbering into the light—if the child were dead he didnot want to know it, and what but death could have kept her silent so long? Why had she not cried out when the car struck? Why was she not crying now?
    He took two steps away from the car, and then stood still. He could not, must not leave that glaring clue. And what if the brat was dead? He hadn’t killed her—they couldn’t say he had killed her. He could open the bag without looking at her, could dumpher on to the floor without even touching her. If they ever caughthim he could say she was alive when he left her—they would haveto believe him, because it would be true—it would be true—itwould be true
    Mumbling incoherently, he opened the rear door of the car, pulled the black bag up on to the seat, unfastened the catches, hesitated an instant, and then, his eyes screwed shut, turned it upside down above the gap between front and back seats. There was a slithering sound, a soft thud, and silence. A horrid, wordless noise escaped from his slack mouth, and he sprang backwards as though from a pestilence, slamming the door with such force that the windows rattled and fresh fragments of glass from the broken headlight fell to the ground with a cold, musical tinkle.
    Briefly, he stood frozen where he was, his teeth chattering audibly in a silence now unbroken by any other sound. Then, the empty black bag bumping against his legs, he turned and ran down the road pursued by devils which would never again be far behind him.

3 THE HOBOES
    T HEY came along the deserted road that wound through the slag, just as the first yellow streaks of dawn were staining the eastern sky. There were two of them, and they employed a shambling walk that covered the ground with a minimum of effort while producing a very fair rate of progress. They were on their way south to a “jungle” in a city ravine, and an autumn conference of their kind in which it pleased them to play a yearly part. Like migrating birds, they had habits. Following the sun, propelled not only by their own whims but by a constabulary that wasted neither sympathy nor affection on them, they steered a seasonal course that varied amazingly little from year to year. This time it had taken them longer than usual to beat their way across the continent, and they were in a hurry lest they be late for their conference and the always interesting debacle that ensued when the police, spurred by an irate citizenry, moved in to break it up. Normally they rode the rods, but a small incident involving a brakeman now suffering from a sore head had made it advisable to desert the railroad in favour of the highway.
    Approximately the same height, dressed in much the same
mélange
of cast-off clothing, they were scarcely distinguishable one from the other. They were neither of them young, but their faces, weathered and not unamiable, had an ageless quality common to men who carry no responsibilities heavier than the light packs on their backs.
    They both saw the car at the same moment, and without needfor verbal communication became host to the same speculations. Anything was grist to their mill, and a deserted and partially wrecked car promised, to the enterprising, a number of small items that could later be negotiated for beer, cigarettes, or even cash.
    Glancing casually over their shoulders, they quickened their pace, and approached the car. Sharp eyes alert, they noted its age and make, the dust that lay thick over it, the extent of its damage, and, most particularly, the absence of license plates.
    â€œThe heap’s hot.”
    â€œI reckon.”
    There was evident satisfaction in both their voices. A stolen car was anybody’s prize, to be looted as thoroughly as was humanly possible.
    Before touching anything, they prowled around it like stray dogs around an intriguing garbage can, while a possibility, so glorious they were at first afraid to entertain it, began to dawn on