It hurt, and he pressed the side of his hand against his mouth. He hated the sting of tears, the momentary doubling of his vision when he blinked, but there was no way he could stop it. The panic was yammering more loudly now, asking what was he going to do, what was he going to do, for Christ’s sake, this might be his last chance—
What I’m going to do first is a thorough job of checking this situation out, he told himself grimly. If you can stay cool for just awhile longer, that is. Think you can do that, chickenshit?
He wiped his eyes—crying was not going to get him out of this—and looked out through the window which made up the top half of the door. It wasn’t really just one window but sixteen small panes. He could break the glass in each, but he would have to bust the lathes, too, and that might take hours without a saw—they looked strong. And what then? A kamikaze dive out onto the back porch? A great idea. Maybe he could break his back, and that would take his mind off his legs for awhile. And it wouldn’t take long lying out there in the pelting rain before he died of exposure. That would take care of the whole rotten business.
No way. No fucking way. Maybe I’m going to punch out, but I swear to God I’m not going to do it until I get a chance to show my number-one fan just how much I’ve enjoyed getting to know her. And that isn’t just a promise—that’s a sacred vow.
The idea of paying Annie back did more to still his panic than any amount of self-scolding had done. A little calmer, he flicked the switch beside the locked door. It turned on an outside light, which came in handy—the last of the daylight had drained away during the time since he had left his room. Annie’s driveway was flooded, and her yard was a quagmire of mud, standing water, and gob-bets of melting snow. By positioning his wheelchair all the way to the left of the door, he could for the first time see the road which ran by her place, although it was really no big deal—two-lane blacktop between decaying snowbanks, shiny as sealskin and awash with rainwater and snowmelt.
Maybe she locked the doors to keep the Roydmans out, but she sure didn’t need to lock them to keep me in. If I got out there in this wheelchair, I’d be bogged to the hubcaps in five seconds. You’re not going anywhere, Paul. Not tonight and probably not for weeks—they’ll be a month into the baseball season before the ground firms up enough for you to get out to the road in this wheelchair. Unless you want to crash through a window and crawl.
No—he didn’t want to do that. It was too easy to imagine how his shattered bones would feel after ten or fifteen minutes of wriggling through cold puddles and melting snow like a dying tadpole. And even supposing he could make it out to the road, what were his chances of flagging down a car? The only two he’d ever heard out here, other than Old Bessie, had been El Rancho Grande’s Bel Air and the car which had scared the life out of him passing the house on the first occasion he had escaped his “guest-room.”
He turned off the outside light and rolled across to the other door, the one between the refrigerator and the pantry. There were three locks on this one as well, and it didn’t even open on the outside—or at least not directly. There was another light-switch beside this door. Paul flicked it and saw a neat shed addition which ran the length of the house on its windward side. At one end was a woodpile and a chopping block with an axe buried in it. At the other was a work-table and tools hung on pegs. To its left there was another door. The bulb out there wasn’t terribly bright, but it was bright enough for him to see another police bolt and another two Kreig locks on that door as well.
The Roydmans... everybody... all out to get me ...
“I don’t know about them,” he said to the empty kitchen, “but I sure am.”
Giving up on the doors, he rolled into the pantry. Before he looked at the food stored on the shelves, he looked at the matches. There were two