Fear is the Key by Alistair MacLean Read Free Book Online Page A

instincts were inabeyance that afternoon so I let it pass. ‘Catchanything?’
    â€˜Some.’ I had no idea what fish if any were inthe local lakes and, when I came to think of it,it seemed unlikely that anyone should take offfor those shallow swampy lakes when the wholeof the Gulf of Mexico lay at his front door. ‘Lost’em, though.’ My voice sharpened in rememberedanger. ‘Just put the basket down on the roadfor a moment when some crazy idiot comes pastdoing eighty. Knocked basket and fish to hell andbreakfast. And so much dust on those side roads Icouldn’t even catch his number.’
    â€˜You get ’em everywhere.’ His eyes suddenlyfocused on a point a hundred miles away, thenhe said quickly: ‘What kind of car, mister?’
    â€˜Blue Chev. Broken windscreen. Why, what’sthe matter?’
    â€˜â€œWhat’s the matter?” he asks. Do you meanto tell me you haven’t – Did you see the guydrivin’ it?’
    â€˜No. Too fast. Just that he had a lot of redhair, but –’
    â€˜Red hair. Chilicoote Lake. Brother!’ He turnedand ran for the phone.
    We went out into the sunshine. The girl said:‘You don’t miss much, do you? How – how canyou be so cool? He might have recognized –’
    â€˜Get into the car. Recognized me? He was toobusy looking at you. When they made that sun-topI guess they ran out of material but just decided togo ahead and finish it off anyway.’
    We got in and drove off. Four miles farther onwe came to the place I had noticed on the wayup. It was a palm-shaded parking-lot between theroad and the shore, and a big sign hung under atemporary wooden archway. ‘Codell ConstructionCompany’ it read, then, underneath, in biggerlettering, ‘Sidewalk Superintendents: Drive RightIn.’
    I drove right in. There were fifteen, maybetwenty cars already parked inside, some peoplesitting on the benches provided, but most of themstill in the seats of their cars. They were allwatching the construction of foundations designedto take a seaward extension of a new town. Fourbig draglines, caterpillar-mounted power shovels,were crawling slowly, ponderously around, tearingup underwater coral rock from the bay bottom,building up a solid wide foundation, then crawlingout on the pier just constructed and tearing upmore coral rock. One was building a wide stripstraight out to sea: this would be the new streetof the community. Two others were making smallpiers at right angles to the main one – thosewould be for house lots, each house with its ownprivate landing-stage. A fourth was making a bigloop to the north, curving back into land again.A yacht harbour, probably. It was a fascinatingprocess to watch, this making of a town out ofthe bottom of the sea, only I was in no mood tobe fascinated.
    I parked the car between a couple of emptyconvertibles, opened the pack of cigarettes I’d justbought and lit one. The girl half-turned in her seatand was staring at me incredulously.
    â€˜Is this the place you meant when you said we’dgo somewhere to hide up?’
    â€˜This is it,’ I assured her.
    â€˜You’re going to stay here?’
    â€˜What’s it look like to you?’
    â€˜With all those people around? Where everyonecan see you? Twenty yards off the road whereevery passing police patrol –’
    â€˜See what I mean? Everyone would think thesame as you. This is the last place any huntedman in his senses would think of coming. So it’sthe ideal place. So here we stay.’
    â€˜You can’t stay here for ever,’ she said steadily.
    â€˜No,’ I agreed. ‘Just till it gets dark. Move closer,Miss Ruthven, real close. A man fleeing for hislife, Miss Ruthven. What picture does that conjureup? An exhausted wild-eyed individual crashingthrough the high timber or plunging up to his armpitsthrough some of the choicer Florida swamps.Certainly not sitting in the