Horner went down the ladder quickly, and out of the barn. It was still raining outside, but dawn light had finally come. Abruptly, Horner flattened himself against the wall of the barn. He'd heard something. Footsteps squelching through the mucky pasture. A big burly man went by and Horner waited ten seconds before he dared to move again. Then he found the lane behind the barn and marched along through the mud until he reached the three strands of the barbed wire fence, parted them and went through. He had come several hundred yards and now saw the truck ahead of him. He wondered if he dared start the engine with the farmer so close. He decided he had to chance it, swinging up into the truck and inserting the key in the ignition.
Moments later, he was driving through the rain. The lane took him to a two-lane blacktop which led to a concrete highway heading south for the city. Grimly, Horner clung to the wheel. It was still quite early and almost no traffic was on the road. Horner expected pursuit almost momentarily.
Miraculously, he was in Brooklyn. He still couldn't believe it. He had driven the pick-up truck down through the rain to the northern outskirts of the Bronx, where he'd parked it near a subway station. A series of subway rides had brought him through the Bronx and Manhattan to Brooklyn, where he lived with Jane. He thought his trail was covered quite well. There was something hearteningly anonymous about a subway passenger.
The rain had stopped. The time, on a bank clock, was quarter past eleven. The bank was around the corner from where the Hugh Horner lived. Horner's steps became swifter: he had already decided to see his wife. Jane must have been frantic, he told himself. Naturally, Horner couldn't just barge in on a wife now apparently twice his age and announce himself. In the first place, she wouldn't believe him. In the second, there would be the element of shock. In the third, he was still wanted by the police—as Lonnie Overman.
Horner shrugged. He would have to barge in on her. He had to get off the streets, or sooner or later he would be spotted as the escaped convict. Every couple married twenty years, and moderately happy, Horner told himself, had certain shared secrets. Given time and the opportunity, he could prove his identity to Jane beyond the shadow of a doubt, new body or not.
He reached their apartment building and went into the lobby. He stood there longer than was necessary, for the self-service elevator had already come down. He studied his reflection in the lobby mirror. The clothing was a pretty good fit, but the suit was a cheap sharkskin in a loud plaid, and the tie was a clashing polka-dotted affair. You look just great, Horner told his reflection. But he had to admit he was not really sorry. He was young again, strong and healthy, and not bad looking in a dashing, devil-may-care way. Despite Lonnie Overman's troubles, the face was one used to smiling. Horner could see that. It was a strong-looking face and the eyes, which Horner had expected to be furtive, were frank and bold. The furtive look, then, belonged to Overman's personality and Overman's personality no longer inhabited Overman's body.
Whatever happened, Horner was suddenly determined to keep this good, sound, healthy body. A lifer in prison, Overman did not need it. Whereas Horner....
He shut the thoughts off. There was no predicting the future, no sense raising his hopes, only to have them dashed, sundered, when the law overtook him. He entered the elevator, went up to the fourth floor, walked uncertainly along the hallway. Suddenly, he was frightened. Could he explain the situation to Jane? It hardly seemed likely. It was asking a lot of anyone. How could Jane believe the wild story he would tell her? How could he...?