and with Duntz and Dewey leaping after them, sped along Main Street, past Palmer Jewelry, Norris Drugs, the Garden Cafe, then around the corner and down to the depot and in and out, hide-and-seek, among a congregation of white grain-storage towers. Dewey drew a pistol, and so did Duntz, but as they took aim, the supernatural intervened. Abruptly, mysteriously (it was like a dream!), everyone was swimming - the pursued, the pursuers - stroking the awesome width of water that the Garden City Chamber of Commerce claims is the "World's Largest FREE Swim-pool." As the detectives drew abreast of their quarry, why, once more (How did it happen? Could he be dreaming?) the scene faded out, and faded in upon another landscape: Valley View Cemetery, that gray-and-green island of tombs and trees and flowered paths a restful, leafy, whispering oasis lying like a cool piece of cloud shade on the luminous wheat plains north of town. But now Duntz had disappeared, and Dewey was alone with the hunted men. Though he could not see them, he was certain they were hiding among the dead, crouching there behind a headstone, perhaps the headstone of his own father: "Alvin Adams Dewey, September 6, 1879 - January 26, 1948." Gun drawn, he crept along the solemn lanes until, hearing laughter and tracing its sound, he saw that Hickock and Smith were not hiding at all but standing astride the as yet unmarked mass grave of Herb and Bonnie and Nancy and Ken - standing legs apart, hands on hips, heads flung back, laughing. Dewey fired . . . and again . . . and again . . . Neither man fell, though each had been shot through the heart three times; they simply rather slowly turned transparent, by degrees grew invisible, evaporated, though the loud laughter expanded until Dewey bowed before it, ran from it, filled with a despair so mournfully intense that it awakened him. When he awoke, it was as though he were a feverish, frightened ten-year-old; his hair was wet, his shirt cold-damp and clinging. The room - a room in the sheriff's office, into which he'd locked himself before falling asleep at a desk - was dull with near-darkness. Listening, he could hear Mrs. Richardson's telephone ringing in the adjacent office. But she was not there to answer it; the office was closed. On his way out he walked past the ringing phone with determined indifference, and then hesitated. It might be Marie, calling to ask if he was still working and should she wait dinner.
"Mr. A. A. Dewey, please. Kansas City calling."
"This is Mr. Dewey."
"Go ahead, Kansas City. Your party is on the line."
"Al? Brother Nye."
"Yes, Brother."
"Get ready for some very big news."
"I'm ready."
"Our friends are here. Right here in Kansas City."
"How do you know?"
"Well, they aren't exactly keeping it a secret. Hickock's written checks from one side of town to the other. Using his own name."
"His own name. That must mean he doesn't plan to hang around long - either that or he's feeling awful damn sure of himself. So Smith's still with him?"
"Oh, they're together O.K. But driving a different car. A 1956 Chevy black-and-white two-door job."
"Kansas tags?"
"Kansas tags. And listen, Al - are we lucky! They bought a television set, see? Hickock gave the salesman a check. Just as they were driving off, the guy had the sense to write down the license number. Jot it on the back of the check. Johnson County License16212."
"Checked the registration?"
"Guess what?"
"It's a stolen car."
"Undoubtedly. But the tags were definitely lifted. Our friends took them off a wrecked De Soto in a K.C. garage."
"Know when?"
"Yesterday morning. The boss [Logan Sanford] sent out an alert with the new license number and a description of the car."
"How about the Hickock farm? If they're still in the area, it seems to me sooner or later they'll go there."
"Don't worry. We're watching it. Al - "
"I'm here."
"That's what I want for Christmas. All I want. To wrap this up. Wrap it up and sleep till New Year's. Wouldn't that be one hell of a present?"
"Well, I hope you get it."
"Well, I hope we both do."