Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 1, January, 1957

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They were going to kill him. He saw it in their eyes, on their faces... and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do.

By the time he was ready to stop for the night, the good places were all filled up and he had to settle for a third rate setup — where he was charged five dollars for one of the sour little cabins back up on a slope behind a diner that smelled of grease and sweat.

He had parked beside the cabin, carried in a single suitcase, and now he sat on the sagging bed, looking down at the reflected glare of a naked light bulb on scuffed linoleum. He was full of the tensions and weariness of five hundred miles of driving in heavy relentless traffic. And this, he thought with bitter humor, is the first day of vacation.

When he had explained it to Marian, trying not to see the look of hurt in her eyes, he had imagined it would be very different. “I’ll just throw some stuff in the car, maybe some fishing tackle, and take off. No special destination.”

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