damned police force was looking for him now. In their eyes—those ice-cold official eyes—he was an escaped lunatic and a murder suspect.
Lorch halted under a streetlamp on Washington Boulevard and stared into the plate-glass window of a hardware store. He examined his reflection carefully, wondering what the police would see if they spotted him.
Middle-aged man in a dark blue doubleknit suit. Good enough, because it hadn’t wrinkled too badly when he slept hidden under the bushes on the slope of the freeway last night.
His face was puffy and swollen, and he needed a shave, but that in itself was no crime—not yet. Plenty of middle-aged men walking around in need of a shave. And the suit looked respectable, even though he wasn’t wearing a tie.
The trouble was, if anyone stopped him, he had no identification. “Let me see your driver’s license.” That was always the first thing they said. And when you couldn’t come up with one, there was no way. What could you tell the judge? Your Honor, I plead not guilty on the grounds that I’m a pedestrian.
All right, so he was overdramatizing. They’d settle for credit cards, your Social Security number. But he had no cards with him at all. Not that his credit wasn’t good; hell, he still owned the company, the money was still rolling in, even at the sanatorium he got regular reports from his accountant. Blix was a smart operator, he kept his eye on the business.
But Blix was probably a little too smart. If Lorch had given way to his first impulse and gone to Blix for help, the bastard would be only too happy to throw him to the wolves. Thank God he’d had the sense to realize it and stay away.
So he hadn’t tried to contact Blix. He’d spent the day walking—stopping to rest at the little parks along the way.
He’d never realized how far it was from the Valley to Culver City, particularly when you have to make those uphill grades on foot. No wonder there aren’t many pedestrians around anymore. The sun bakes the juices out of a man, and by the time you start downhill on the city side, you’re tired and hungry and your throat is dust-dry.
That’s what kept him going—his throat. Lorch turned away from the window and moved along the street.
There wasn’t much traffic, not for early evening. Maybe everybody had decided to stay indoors tonight, because of what had happened. Well, he didn’t blame them. But nothing they could have heard or read would ever begin to equal the reality. The way that nurse had looked when the cord tightened around her throat, the way Griswold screamed like a woman, the way he smelled when the current went on full force—
But he mustn’t think about that now. He had to keep walking. Only a few blocks more. His feet burned, his throat burned, but he walked.
Nothing but business places here, no residences, and that was good. People who might recognize him were gone now, shops closed for the night. Lorch crossed the street—one more block to go, and he’d be home free. As far as he was concerned, the realty office was home. He couldn’t consider going to the house; they’d be watching there for sure. But at this hour the office was probably safe. It better be, because he couldn’t go much further.
There’d be some cash in the office; he kept an electric razor there, and a change of clothing. Maybe even another pair of shoes, though he couldn’t remember for sure. But once he had money in his pocket again he could make some plans.
Planning, that was his strong suit. Always had been. When you’re a kid in an orphanage, you learn how to take care of yourself. And when you leave, you know how to make it on your own. You’ve found out the hard way that you don’t need parents, so why worry about friends? It had been a long road he’d traveled from the orphanage to the Lorch Agency, and he’d made the trip alone. It was planning that kept him out of the draft, planning that got around the IRS and the Board of Realtors and
Lorch halted under a streetlamp on Washington Boulevard and stared into the plate-glass window of a hardware store. He examined his reflection carefully, wondering what the police would see if they spotted him.
Middle-aged man in a dark blue doubleknit suit. Good enough, because it hadn’t wrinkled too badly when he slept hidden under the bushes on the slope of the freeway last night.
His face was puffy and swollen, and he needed a shave, but that in itself was no crime—not yet. Plenty of middle-aged men walking around in need of a shave. And the suit looked respectable, even though he wasn’t wearing a tie.
The trouble was, if anyone stopped him, he had no identification. “Let me see your driver’s license.” That was always the first thing they said. And when you couldn’t come up with one, there was no way. What could you tell the judge? Your Honor, I plead not guilty on the grounds that I’m a pedestrian.
All right, so he was overdramatizing. They’d settle for credit cards, your Social Security number. But he had no cards with him at all. Not that his credit wasn’t good; hell, he still owned the company, the money was still rolling in, even at the sanatorium he got regular reports from his accountant. Blix was a smart operator, he kept his eye on the business.
But Blix was probably a little too smart. If Lorch had given way to his first impulse and gone to Blix for help, the bastard would be only too happy to throw him to the wolves. Thank God he’d had the sense to realize it and stay away.
So he hadn’t tried to contact Blix. He’d spent the day walking—stopping to rest at the little parks along the way.
He’d never realized how far it was from the Valley to Culver City, particularly when you have to make those uphill grades on foot. No wonder there aren’t many pedestrians around anymore. The sun bakes the juices out of a man, and by the time you start downhill on the city side, you’re tired and hungry and your throat is dust-dry.
That’s what kept him going—his throat. Lorch turned away from the window and moved along the street.
There wasn’t much traffic, not for early evening. Maybe everybody had decided to stay indoors tonight, because of what had happened. Well, he didn’t blame them. But nothing they could have heard or read would ever begin to equal the reality. The way that nurse had looked when the cord tightened around her throat, the way Griswold screamed like a woman, the way he smelled when the current went on full force—
But he mustn’t think about that now. He had to keep walking. Only a few blocks more. His feet burned, his throat burned, but he walked.
Nothing but business places here, no residences, and that was good. People who might recognize him were gone now, shops closed for the night. Lorch crossed the street—one more block to go, and he’d be home free. As far as he was concerned, the realty office was home. He couldn’t consider going to the house; they’d be watching there for sure. But at this hour the office was probably safe. It better be, because he couldn’t go much further.
There’d be some cash in the office; he kept an electric razor there, and a change of clothing. Maybe even another pair of shoes, though he couldn’t remember for sure. But once he had money in his pocket again he could make some plans.
Planning, that was his strong suit. Always had been. When you’re a kid in an orphanage, you learn how to take care of yourself. And when you leave, you know how to make it on your own. You’ve found out the hard way that you don’t need parents, so why worry about friends? It had been a long road he’d traveled from the orphanage to the Lorch Agency, and he’d made the trip alone. It was planning that kept him out of the draft, planning that got around the IRS and the Board of Realtors and
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