Free Detour by Martin M. Goldsmith

fill her up. I'd only owned one car before in my life, and you can bet it wasn't a big beauty like the one I was driving. What I had in New York was a heap, if there ever was one. A still more uncomfortable feeling though, than driving around in a car that wasn't mine, was whipping out Haskell's roll and paying for the gas. I couldn't get accustomed to the idea that now the dough was mine, and I kept mental count of every penny I spent as if Haskell would show up any minute and ask for his change.
    “Check your oil, sir?”
    Check my oil. That was a hot one.
    “No, that's all right. I changed it a while back. ”
    I was afraid to stop too long. Maybe someone already had found the body and the cops were on my tail. I was hot and, boy, did I know it. I wouldn't feel safe until after I ditched the car.
    “Here you are, sir. Thank you. Call again.”
    “Sure, sure.”
    I grabbed the change the attendant held out and stuffed it into my pocket. Without waiting to count it, I let in the clutch with a jerk that shot the Buick out into the middle of the road.
    Distance, brother. That's what I wanted to put between me and the place on Route 70. I'll never be able to wipe off the slate. Even as I drove along I could see it before my eyes; ahead was a slight bend in the road to the left, with a white guard-railing and a SLOW sign; to the right, on the far side of the gully, was a tree, the only decent-sized tree around, only a few inches shorter than the telephone pole alongside it; behind was a dip in the highway where a shallow puddle had formed. Yes, every last detail of the road, the ruts in the shoulder and the formation of the brush was clear. If I had been an artist I could have painted that scene accurately with out going back. But more than just that, I could see what was hidden beneath the growth of brush down in the gully. I could see a twisted form in blue pants and a maroon polo-shirt with a ripped collar.
     
    I gave the Buick everything. I rolled it up to eight-five, to ninety on the straight parts. On the curves the rear wheels skidded and screamed and this made me look in the mirror. I kept imagining I was being followed and that I could faintly hear sirens way back in the distance.
    Of course I knew it was dangerous, speeding like that. I was more apt to tangle with the law that way than by simply riding along at a reasonable rate. But I couldn't help myself. In Arizona the cops don't care how fast you travel through the desert—you drive at your own risk. However, in the townships they really clamp the lid on. I did slow down going through them, but my foot was itching to stamp on the accelerator.
    More dangerous than cops were my eyes. Fear kept them wide open, in spite of which I felt myself dropping off to sleep. I'd suddenly realize that things were getting a little out of focus and that the road was fading gradually away. I had to struggle to stay awake. All this at eighty and eighty-five miles an hour over wet pavement.
    Just how long it took me to cover the sixty-odd miles to the California State Line, I don't know. It must have been under an hour, but I'd lost all track of time. The rain had stopped and the sun was feebly trying to come out from behind some clouds when I drew up to the inspection booth at Ehrenberg. The two motor-cycle cops who were chewing the fat with the inspectors didn't make me feel any too happy, you can imagine. I put the car in second, resolving if they made any suspicious moves I'd make a run for it.
    One of the cops walked over to the car, slowly, which was a good sign. “May I see your registration certificate and driver's license, please?”
    All my life, ever since as a kid a cop cuffed me for playing football on the grass in Central Park, I have been a little leery of brass buttons. I've learned it is healthier to give the police a wide berth, because once they've got you pegged and you're in the Bastille you're completely at their mercy. Cops, as a rule, are overbearing and