Land Beyond the Map

Eighteen people die every day on the roads of Britain, and although Ulster is part of the United Kingdom and not a part of Great Britain, Crane began to wonder with a savage self-motification whether it might perhaps turn out that he and Polly would raise that number to twenty. At that, it would be one way out of the mess. He knew as each minute passed he grew more and more frightened and reluctant to enter the Map Country. Big words tended to melt in face of the threat he knew lay over the hills.

Out of nowhere, Polly said: “Do you think that tommy-gun of Liam’s would be any use against that oval of light?”

The answer was self-evident; but Crane had to say: “No.”

“Well, so far we haven’t seen it. Maybe they didn’t spot us.”

“We hope.”

“Ma said they were following the dark evil one. That could only have been McArdle. She’d probably seen him when he was around here before searching for the map. I don’t blame Liam for having nothing to do with him. The old man was wise to wait for us—”

“Like Allan. But Liam didn’t know anyone else would come after the map, and he could sell only to someone who knew about the Map Country.”

“Poor Liam. He may have turned into a spineless blob; but he was saddled with a horrible predicament.”

“True. And I’m not all that sure I’d be happy to go back into the Map Country, despite all its wealth, if those clanking monsters had taken my son-in-law.”

The darkness lowered about them outside, streaks and lines flowing past the car windows with not a dot of light to show perspective. Polly said: “I’ll have to switch the main beam on soon. Can’t see a damn thing.”

“If they’d been following us I think we’d have seen their lights by now. All right.” Crane drew a deep breath. “All right. We don’t want to up the rate to twenty.”

Polly glanced at him, puzzled, but offered no comment as the light went on.

“You realize McArdle must have followed us to Omagh? He must have had pretty strong suspicions that the map was hidden hereabouts somewhere.”

“Yes. Now Liam has confirmed that there is treasure in the Map Country I suppose we can assign that motive to McArdle?”

By her tones no less than the form of her words, Crane knew Polly didn’t believe that theory any more than he did. That was a sensible, comprehensible motive for McArdle’s appearance in the search for the map — but Crane no longer believed in sensible reasons for anyone’s further interest in entering the Map Country. Proof of that lay in the lack of courage to enter of the single man avowedly solely after treasure.

Only a moment thereafter, or so it seemed to Crane aroused from his somber brooding, he saw the big saloon parked at the roadside. Polly swung smoothly out to pass; but the man with upraised arms, pinned in the beam like an enemy bomber, halted her. She brought the car to a stop.

A face peered in at Crane’s window. A man’s voice said: “I’m so sorry to stop you on a night like this, but we’ve run into a spot of trouble—”

Polly turned towards the man and said something sympathetically and Crane wondered with a part of his mind that wasn’t scurrying frantically for shelter if she welcomed the interruption. The situation was one where her practical knowledge of cars could show to best advantage. Crane crouched low in his seat, thankful the dome light was off.

Oh, sure, he recognized the man looking in. Probably he was stopping all the cars out of Omagh, just to make sure.

Crane felt completely useless, dewed with the sweat of fear, slouching back in the darkness of the car.

Polly put her hand on the door handle and Crane moved. If she opened the door the courtesy light would go on and McArdle would know he had found his quarry.

“What—?” began Polly.

A torch beam cut through the gloom, fastened like a fly in a spider’s web on Crane’s face. He winced back, throwing up an arm, blinded.

“It’s him!” He could hear McArdle breathing, hoarse and rasping, and then a hand grasped his collar. His own hand snapped down to that hand, wrenched and tore, slipping along to a thick hairy wrist. His fingers caught in a smooth cold metal chain and he tugged desperately, feeling McArdle’s hand dragging him up, and seeing only a blood-red haze beating through his closed eyelids. Polly cursed. Crane felt her body press against him and heard a soggy thump. McArdle’s clawing hand slackened and through a haze of dancing blood-red specks, Crane glimpsed vaguely the torch disappear, McArdle vanish, and the sudden, bent-forward apparition of Polly’s face in profile with a ferocious look of fierce hatred plastered all across it. Then the car lurched forward in a gasping tearing of gears and spinning tires.

“Duck!” shouted Crane automatically.

Polly bent above the wheel and the windshield followed the rear window into shattered confusion. Cold, wet night air whipped in. More shots must have been fired lost in the roaring of the engine and the throaty shouting of the exhaust and the whickering crack of wind blustering through the car.