CHAPTER TEN

                 The time that it took for me to drop the seven feet from the top of the chain link fence seemed like a lifetime. I hit the ground with a resounding thud. Searing pain shot up my right leg and converged in my lower back. I slammed back against the chain link fence and crumpled into a heap. I wished that I had learned how to do what skydivers euphemistically call a PLF, or a parachute landing fall. Properly executed, when a person hits the ground he allows his knees to bend and rolls to one side so his whole body absorbs the landing shock instead of concentrating it on his spine. My landing had more like a crunching flop.

                 I lay on the ground, perspiration beading up on my face and gasping for the breath which had been knocked out of me in the fall. My right ankle felt as if it had been crushed and searing pain radiated up and down my spine. All sorts of terrifying thoughts about broken bones, full body casts, traction devices and operations flooded through my mind.

                 When I had regained the ability to breathe, I gingerly flexed my ankle to see if it was going to bend in the proper directions or simply shoot forth more pain. Although my ankle felt as though it was badly sprained, it responded in the proper directions when asked. I decided to see if I could stand so I grabbed the fence, hoisted myself erect and placed some weight on my right leg. I took a few tentative steps while hanging onto the fence and when everything seemed to be working properly. At least, it appeared that I hadn't broken anything in the fall. There was still a considerable amount of pain in both my spine and ankle but I was able to walk. Urged on by the need to distance myself from there as quickly as possible and knowing that the main street was out of the question, I picked up my backpack and began to hobble slowly toward the dark street behind the courthouse. The residential area without street lights would offer me far more hiding places than would the business district.

                 In my concern that I might have broken something in the fall, I had blotted out the infernal howling of that siren on top of the courthouse. I heard the roar of an approaching car and dove for the cover of a small bush as it made a screeching turn onto the street where I was walking. Its headlights flashed across my hiding place as it roared past without stopping. I could hear other cars converging on the court house from various directions. Obviously the siren was used to summons all sorts of people in the event of a fire, air raid or natural disaster. I assumed that this time was for an escaped prisoner; me. From all of the activity which was being generated by the screaming of the siren, I was bound to be discovered if I didn't get out of sight in a hurry.

                 I reached the street behind the courthouse where the intersection was lighted by a dirty street lamp, ducked through the circle of yellow light and turned to the left in the direction of the airport. If I could make it to the Cub, I would hide there and take off at the slightest hint of dawn. At least I would have some mobility and a way to put distance behind me very rapidly. If it became necessary, I could manage a take off in the dark. Once in the air, I would have at least four hours of fuel and it didn't get light soon enough to see to land, I could always find an airport with a lighted runway by looking for its rotating beacon. I couldn't tell how high the clouds were, but it had stopped raining long ago and the visibility appeared to be a lot better.

                 The street was nearly pitch dark as the only light on it came from a few windows. There was no sidewalk along the street and I stumbled directly into a tree in the darkness. I decided that even though there were occasional cars coming and going, I could make much better time if I walked in the middle of the street. Each time that I heard one approaching, I would dart out of sight between houses or behind a bush.

                 I was about half way along the second block from the courthouse when I heard a car approaching so I stepped between a hedge and the porch of a dark house to let it pass. After it had gone by, a woman's voice behind me said, "We're going to have to stop meeting like this."

                 I froze in my tracks and turned my head in the direction from which the voice had come. I could see the red glow of a cigarette in the darkness. "Meeting like how?" I asked.

                 "I'm Maggie Nester, the waitress from the cafe," she replied. "It seems that every time that we meet, you are either already in trouble or getting into more of it."

                 "You gave me quiet a start. I didn't know you were there."

                 "I just took a bath and have been sitting out here on the porch, enjoying the cool air. I've been watching you ever since you left the courthouse."

                 "I certainly am in trouble, but whether you believe it or not, I haven't done anything wrong and the whole thing is a big mistake," I replied.

                 "I take it that the siren blowing at the courthouse means that you broke out of jail again. I'd say that your escaping twice in one night sets some sort of a record. That siren is the way the sheriff calls in his special deputies. I'll bet that he's having a cat fit right now."

                 "I don't really care to find out what kind of fit he might be having, I just want to find a way to get out of this town without getting caught."

                 "Well, I can tell you one thing for sure," Maggie said. "If you keep walking around on the streets, you'll get caught for sure. Why don't you come inside for a glass of lemonade and wait for things to cool off."

                 "I'd appreciate that, but considering that you are the one who started all of my troubles in the first place, why are you offering to help me now?"

                 "Well, I feel sort of guilty about being responsible for you getting arrested. When I showed the boss those three quarters in the cash register, he demanded to know who gave them to me. I told him that it was a some stranger and he called the sheriff. It didn't take a Pinkerton man to figure out that you were the only stranger in town. I guess the other reason for being nice to you is because I'd like to see what it would be like to be in bed with a man who travels around in a flying saucer."

                 I picked up instantly on what she said about going to bed but decided that the best way to handle such a situation was to simply ignore it. In the first place, I am a happily married man and secondly, there is a time and place for romantic trysts and here and now certainly was neither. "For something which is suppose to be a top secret, the news about me seems to have gotten around town awfully fast," I replied.

                 "Lillie came by the cafe for coffee this afternoon and told me about the telephone call you made to Texas and that you tried to call some number she had never heard of. Then she told me all about the call Sheriff Nester made to the FBI in Omaha. Lillie listens in on every phone call and then tells everything that she hears. Everybody in town knows better than to place a call when she is on duty if they don't want it repeated."

                 "You said that the sheriff's last name is Nester. That's the same as yours, are you related?"

                 "You might say that we were sort of related at one time. We were married for nearly twelve years, or at least we more or less married because we lived in the same house. He thought that making love was just like using his gun; pull it out, point and shoot. I finally realized that if he was in love with anything, it was his badge and gun."

                 My mouth was cotton dry and her offer of some lemonade was sounding better all the time. "I'll take you up on something to drink, if it's not too much trouble," I said.

                 She stubbed out her cigarette, took me by the hand and led me into the living room of her house. "You are limping pretty bad, are you hurt?" she asked.

                 I sprained an ankle when I jumped over the fence around the back of the courthouse, but I don't think that anything is broken," I answered.

                 She guided me through the darkness to a couch and said, "Have a seat and I'll get you a glass."

                 I slipped off my backpack and sat down on the couch. It was one of those soft, overstuffed things with lots of little loose pillows scattered around on it. I moved a couple of them out of my way and sank into its softness. I ran my hand over the fabric cover and it had a slick feeling, something like satin. I wondered what color it was.

                 From where I was sitting, I could see into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and the light from it outlined her. She had a towel wrapped around her hair and was wearing a short robe which showed the greater part of her long legs. The view of her from the back in that short robe was far more interesting than had been the one of her in a starched waitress uniform.

                 I ran my hand over my ankle and could feel that it was hot and was swollen inside of my sock. "I don't suppose that you would have some ice for my ankle," I asked. "I seem to have sprained it pretty badly when I jumped over the fence."

                 "Sure thing," she replied as she rummaged around in a cabinet drawer and came up with one of those pleated rubber things with a screw lid. She took two aluminum ice trays out of the little freezing compartment in the refrigerator, ran water over them in the sink and twisted the ice cubes out. She put half of the cubes into the ice bag, dropped the rest into two glasses and filled them with liquid from a pitcher. When she replaced the pitcher and closed the door of the refrigerator, it was pitch dark again.

                 I could hear the ice clinking in the glasses and her bare feet scuffing lightly on the floor as she returned to the living room in the darkness. "Here you are," she said.

                 I reached out but instead of finding a cold glass, I found my hand touching one of her warm, smooth legs. She didn't move but I instinctively jerked away. When I felt the cold glass touch my arm, I fumbled to get hold of it before my groping hand found itself in places where it had no business being. She moved some of the throw pillows out of the way and sat down next to me. "Put your feet up here in my lap," she said.

                 I lifted my injured foot and turned to where it would be in her lap. She moved closer so my leg would lie across her lap with my foot resting on a pillow, then she reached down and lifted my other leg across her lap. I felt her loosen my shoe laces, removed my shoes and begin to rub the ice bag over my swollen ankle. "Your ankle is the size of a football," she said. "It's a wonder you can even walk."

                 She was sitting so close that I could feel the warmth of her body and the smoothness of the satin robe which she was wearing. It felt very much like the material which covered the couch. She wore no perfume but had a clean aroma of soap. She also smelled of cigarettes.

                 As we sipped the cold lemonade, I felt that I should say something, so I asked, "Do you know what time is it?"

                 I looked at the clock when I got the lemonade and it was a few minutes past ten," she replied.

                 She moved her warm hand slowly upward along my leg and my urge to respond to her touch was very compelling, but I resolved to be strong. I slid my hand under hers, picked it up and kissed her fingers. "Maggie, you are a beautiful and sexy lady, and your attention does great things for my ego, but I am a married man. Your suggestion is very tempting, and I'm truly sorry that this can go no further. I appreciate everything that you have done for me, but I feel that it would be best if I left now."

                 "Your wife is certainly a lucky woman," she said as she leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek. "I really got a rush the instant I laid eyes on you. It's too bad that all the good ones like you are always taken.

                 "Thanks for the very nice compliment, but I really should go," I told her as I fumbled in the darkness for my shoes.                

                 "I can't stop you from leaving, but you won't last ten minutes if you walk out that door now."

                 "You'd call the sheriff?"

                 "Hell no. There's no love lost between him and me, but have you noticed all of those cars driving up and down the street. Every one of them has two or three men with guns in it and they are all searching for you. They aren't out there to arrest you; they are looking for target practice."

                 "What do you mean target practice?" I asked as a cold wave of fear swept over me.

                 "People have escaped from jail before but every one of them is pushing up daises now. According to the sheriff, they were all killed while resisting arrest when they were caught. I know how the sheriff and his special deputies work."

                 "Do you mean to tell me that the sheriff actually sends people out with the intention of killing someone instead of bringing them back alive?"

                 "That's exactly what I'm saying. You are just plain lucky that he didn't shoot you the first time you tried to escape. It wouldn't surprise me that he didn't tell Melvin to let you out."

                 "It's hard for me to believe such a situation exists. This sounds like a story about a crooked sheriff in some wild west town before the turn of the century, not 1946 in Nebraska." I said.

                 "You'd better believe it. Sheriff Nester runs this town with an iron fist," she replied. "There have been questions about whether some of the prisoners escaped from jail or were allowed to get out so that they could hunt them down and shoot them, but nothing was ever proven."

                 "That is a frightening thought."

                 "As I said, you will be better off here with me than out on the street. They would never think of looking for you here, so why don't you just sit here and rub your ankle with the ice bag while I dry my hair."

                 She closed the front door, lowered the shades on the living room windows and walked into the bedroom where she turned on a small radio on the bedside table. The soft music was the big band sound of Tommy Dorsey. She turned on a small bedside lamp and the light from it spilled out into the living room, giving me enough light to be able to see a little better. The room was neatly furnished with the couch, a couple chairs and a coffee table. Just as I suspected, the couch and chair were upholstered in a fabric with huge flowers on it. A large case filled with books ran along one wall and several framed photos hung on another.

                 Clamped to the back of a chair was of those strange looking hair dryers with a thing that looked like a big pot on it. She sat down, pulled the pot down over her head and turned it on. Since I had nothing else to do, I limped over to look at the photos on the wall. There weren't any of the usual family photos that one would expect to see, just several of a very beautiful young woman. She was dressed in short dresses and hats typical of the 1930s and was posed beside new automobiles and an airplane. There was also three framed magazine covers with her photo on them. I finally realized that the lady in the bedroom was the one in those photos.

                 I heard the hair dryer stop so I turned to return to the couch. From where I was standing, I could see into her bedroom. She had removed her robe and was combing her hair in front of a dresser with a large mirror. All that she was wearing was some thin baby-doll pajamas which left absolutely nothing to the imagination. In the image of her in the mirror, I could see her round breasts and erect nipples. She must be somewhere around forty years old, but she still had the body of a girl of twenty.

                 "Like what you see?" she asked with a smile.

                 Her question came as a shock because until then, I hadn't realized that by looking into the mirror, she could see me watching her from the living room. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare."

                 "Don't apologize," she said as she turned sideways, thrust out her breasts and struck a provocative pose. "I'm proud of my figure and work hard to keep it looking good. At one time, it made me a lot of money as a photographer's model."

                 "I surmised that you were a model from all those photos over there on the wall. I also see that you made some magazine covers, I'm impressed."

                 "Not only did I pose for photographers, but I was also in a couple movies."

                 "I don't mean to be personal, but why did you leave a successful movie and modeling career and how in the world did you end up married to a redneck sheriff in a dinky little town in Nebraska?" I asked as I leaned against the frame of the bedroom door.

                 "Both of those questions have the same answer. I came out here for an advertising photo session for a new line of farm equipment. I was twenty-two at the time and thought that I had a firm control over my emotions, but when I met a handsome sheriff, I fell head over heels in love. The rest is history."

                 "The sheriff said something about his son being killed in the war. Considering that he must have been eighteen or older at the time, I take it that he wasn't your son."

                 "No, he was from a former marriage. He was twelve when we got married. In fact, I found out later that the sheriff had been married twice before he married me.

                 Maggie removed the bedspread, folded it neatly and placed it on a chest at the foot of the bed. The bed had a fancy iron frame with cast joints and finals. In 1986, a wrought iron bed like that would bring close to a thousand dollars in an antique store. She turned back the sheets, pointed to the bed and said, "Are you going to join me or just stand there admiring the scenery?"

                 This was by far the best offer that I'd had since I arrived at this place and, what the heck, I might never get back to 1986 and who could ask for a better way to be trapped. I hung my jacket over the foot of the bed and began to unbutton my shirt.

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