Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 4, April 1972

The Escapee by Clark Howard

This is what one could call a most timely double take.

Sheriff Frank Miles already had two things worrying him the afternoon he learned about the escapee.

One of those things was that the election, in which his job was on the block, was only two weeks away, and the consensus around town was that he was going to run second. A strong second, but still second.

The other thing that was worrying him was Gloria.

It was Gloria he was talking to on the phone just before Billy Ruud, his deputy, came in to tell him about the escapee.

“You did a lot of sweet talking when we first started seeing each other, Frank,” Gloria was saying. “You had me convinced that you really cared.”

“You know I cared,” Miles said. He pictured her long red hair the way it looked spread out on a pillow. “I cared a lot.”

“Cared? Or still care?” she wanted to know. Her voice was bitter.

“Both,” he told her. “Only—”

“Only what?”

“Skip it.”

“No, I won’t. Only what?”

“We’ve been through it before, Gloria,” he said patiently. “There’s a way you want to live and there’s a way I want to live. Unfortunately, they’re two different ways. Yours is a little too rich for me.”

“That’s a pretty weak excuse, Frank,” she snapped.

“I don’t think so. When it comes to money, I can’t compete with your husband; it’s as simple as that.”

“It’s not that you can’t compete, Frank. It’s that you won’t.”

“Have it your way,” he said. He swore silently under his breath.

Before Gloria could continue, there was a quick knock on his office door.

“Hold on a minute,” he said into the phone. He swiveled his chair around to face the door. “What is it, Billy?” he called.

The door opened just far enough for Billy Ruud to stick his head in. “Teletype from the highway patrol, Sheriff. Some guy busted out of Sanford and they think he might be heading our way.”

Sanford was the state prison for the criminally insane. It was twenty miles into the next county.

“How long’s he been out?” Miles asked.

“They don’t know for sure,” Billy said. “He was there for the morning count but missing at the noon count. They spent two hours searching for him inside before they notified the highway patrol.”

“That was nice of them,” Miles said. He did some quick calculating. Morning count at Sanford was at seven o’clock. Assuming that the escape was made within the next hour, by eight at the latest, that would give the escapee a four-hour start by the time the noon count was taken. Add two more hours while they searched the prison, that gave him six hours. It was twenty past two now; the guy could have been out for six-and-a-half hours. Figuring three miles per hour through the woods and across the fields if he stayed on foot, he could be walking across the county line any time. “What was he in for?” he asked Billy.

“Murder,” the deputy said quietly.

Miles nodded and Billy withdrew his head and closed the door.

Miles put the phone back to his ear. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “Some guy’s loose from Sanford and he’s had enough time to get almost this far.”

“I want you to call me back later,” she said firmly. “We’ve got to get this settled between us.”

“I don’t know if I’ll have time—”

“Then make time. If you don’t call me, I’ll call you down there.”

Miles sighed wearily. She knew he couldn’t permit her to call him at the office. The whole town would know about it before supper.

“All right, Gloria, I’ll call you.”

“Before six.” Six was when her husband got home.

“Before six,” he promised.

She hung up without saying good-bye.

Miles put his own receiver down. He could feel stomach acid bubbling inside him like a lava pit. Just last week, old Doc Scott had told him he was on his way to an ulcer if he didn’t settle down a little. That was funny, he thought. He was being picked to lose an election — and his job as sheriff — in two weeks; he had Gloria to contend with; and now an escaped murderer was believed to be heading for his jurisdiction. With all that, he was supposed to settle down a little.

He got up from the desk and went into the private bathroom that adjoined his office. From a package in the medicine cabinet he took some seltzer and dropped it into a tumbler of cold water. While it dissolved, he leaned against the clean, cold tile of the wall. He liked the private bathroom that went with his office. He had drawn it into the plans himself when the county built him a modem new jail three years ago, shortly after he had been elected to his second four-year term as sheriff. Now, from what Billy told him most people around town were saying, the private bathroom and the office would soon belong to someone else.

When the seltzer had fizzed to effervescent water, Miles drank it down and rinsed out the tumbler. He took his gun-belt from a coat rack and went on out to the public section of the sheriff s office. Agnes Hiller, his combination female deputy and office clerk, and Billy Ruud were at the teletype reading the latest highway patrol bulletin.

“What’s the rundown?” Miles asked.

Billy, who had been writing the information in his notebook, read it to him. “Guy’s name is Jacob Dall. Caucasian. Age forty-nine. Five-ten, a hundred and sixty. Gray-black hair cut short, gray eyes, prominent mole on left side of his chin. Last seen wearing green twill prison pants and a white shirt.”

Miles nodded. “What’s his record?”

“Killed his wife eleven years ago when he came home from the office early one afternoon and caught her without any clothes on letting the guy next door out the back way. He tried to get the guy too, but they caught him first. Apparently his mind snapped either before, during, or after the killing, because three court-appointed psychiatrists all certified him insane. The court couldn’t bring him to trial so it committed him under the Insane Criminal Act. He’s been in Sanford for ten years and been a model prisoner.”

“Until eight o’clock this morning,” Miles said. He buckled on the gun-belt he was holding. “Let’s get out on patrol,” he told Billy Ruud. “You take the county line from Miller’s Point east to the main highway. I’ll cruise the west end to River Road and back up to town.” He turned to Agnes Hiller. “Ag, you get on the phone and notify all the farms outside the northern city limits. Use the private line so the public number can stay open. Before you do that, get hold of Clary and Elton and tell them I might need them as special deputies and to stand by. Call us on the radio if anything else comes over the teletype.”

“Got it, Sheriff,” Agnes Hiller said. She was a tall, big-boned woman who had once been a sergeant in the Wacs. Miles had complete confidence in her, as he did in Billy Ruud. It was a shame that they would also be without jobs if he lost the election.

As they walked out of the jail, Miles and Billy ran into the very man who was opposing Miles in the election. He was Able Cross, the town’s chief of police. With him were his two city patrolmen, both of whom were related to him by marriage. A few people paused on the street to watch the confrontation between the two men.

“Afternoon, Frank,” the chief said. “Did you get the bulletin on that escaped murderer?”

“Afternoon, Able. Yes, I got it.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going out and patrol the county, Able,” Miles said, “as I presume you’re going out to patrol the city. That’s about the gist of it.”

“I reckon you’re calling in extra men.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I think you should,” Able Cross said, a little too loudly to suit Miles. “The people who live in the county deserve as much protection as the people who live in the city. I’m calling out extra men.”

“You do that,” Miles said evenly. “Put a couple more of your relatives on the city payroll. Before we spend any extra county money, we’re going to find out first if the escapee is even in our jurisdiction.” He jerked his head at his deputy. “Come on, Billy.”

The two of them stepped past Cross and his men and went around to the side of the jail where their cruisers were parked. Before they got into their cars, Miles looked over at Billy and said, “How did he do it anyway?”

Billy frowned. “How did who do what?”

“Dall. How did he kill his wife?”

“Oh. He strangled her.”

Miles nodded and proceeded on into the car. “See you later,” he said. “Keep in contact on the radio; I’ll do the same.”

“Right.”

The sheriff and his deputy drove off in opposite directions.

Miles drove north to the county line road, then turned west. He rode the front seat more erect than usual; his eyes behind wraparound sunglasses were alert and searching. He drove slowly, scanning the fields and farmlands on both sides of the road for any sign of life or movement.

Miles felt good behind the wheel of the cruiser. He liked the big, powerful car. It felt good to step down on the accelerator and feed gas to an interceptor engine with special gears that could fire the vehicle from zero to ninety in twelve seconds. It was comfortable to know that on the roof was a brilliant 600-candlepower red spotlight, and under the hood a shrieking, ear-piercing siren, either of which could instantly increase the heartbeat of any careless Florida-bound tourist failing to observe the county’s speed limits. It was also reassuring to be able to look above the sun visors where a special rack he had designed himself held a riot gun; and feel under the front seat where two spring clamps supported a short-barreled carbine.

Reaching a stretch of road that was cleared and flat on both sides and could be scrutinized with a single, sweeping glance, Miles relaxed and sat back from the wheel. The cruiser, like everything else, he thought, would probably soon belong to Able Cross. The election was in two weeks, and if he lost he would have only two months left in office; two months to get things in order and turn them over to his successor; two months to try to decide what to do, after eight years as sheriff.

He sighed and thought of Gloria. If she had her way about it, he wouldn’t even stay the two months. She wanted him to quit and run away with her before his term of office even expired — to go to Mobile or Atlanta or Charleston and become an insurance salesman or a real estate agent. He grunted softly. He could just see himself lugging a briefcase around all day — no authority, no respect, no nothing.

He came to River Road and turned south, back toward town. The land here, close to the river, was wooded, and he slowed down again and began moving his eyes alertly behind the sunglasses. He cruised for twenty minutes, observing nothing.

When he reached the city limits again, he remembered he had promised to call Gloria back. He made a U-turn and headed down End Street, the last street inside city territory. Half a mile down, he turned into a one-lane drive that led away from the street and dead-ended fifty yards outside the city limits. At the end of the lane was the neat little three-room cottage he rented from the county for next to nothing.

Miles pulled up close to the house and stopped directly next to his bedroom window. He unhooked the mike of his two-way radio and stretched its cord through the car window so that it would lay on the sill of his bedroom window. Leaving it, he walked around to the door, went inside to the bedroom, and raised the window. Stretching out on the bed, he lifted the receiver of his phone and dialed.

“Hello.” Her voice was edgy.

“It’s me,” he said.

“Oh.” She was silent for a moment. “Did you catch the escapee yet?” she asked finally.

“No. Not yet.” He wondered about her voice. “You sound funny. Did I wake you up?”

“No. ’Course not. How in hell could I sleep with you acting the way you are?”

Drinking, Miles thought. Probably started as soon as she hung up from their earlier conversation. That was all he needed; for her to get stoned and shoot her mouth off to someone about him. That would really sew up the election for Able Cross.

“I’ve made up my mind about us, Frank,” she said thickly but firmly.

“Oh? In what way?”

“We’re leaving, Frank. We’re not going to postpone it any longer. We’re leaving tomorrow morning, early.”

“You’d better quit drinking in the afternoon, Gloria,” he told her. “You can’t hold your liquor that well.”

“I can hold it well enough to know what I’m saying,” she warned, “so you’d better listen. As soon as my dear, darling husband leaves the house in the morning, I am going to pack my suitcases, put them in my car, and come over to your house to get you. I should be there around ten o’clock. If you’re not there, packed and waiting, I’m going to come uptown looking for you—”

“You’re talking like a fool, Gloria—”

“I was a fool, Frank; a fool to let you keep putting off making any definite plans about us and our future! But not anymore. I’m through letting you treat me like some cheap slut!”

“You’re being unreasonable,” Miles said tightly. “We both went into this with no strings, no promises—”

“Well, I’m making you a promise now, lover,” she said. “If I have to come looking for you tomorrow, I’ll tell everybody on the town square why. Just think what that will do to your precious reputation.”

Miles sat up and was about to swear at her when he heard a voice outside. He glanced out and saw the red bulb fight up on the car radio.

“Hold on a minute,” he told Gloria. He dropped the receiver onto the bed and stepped over to the window to pick up the mike. He depressed the speaker button. “This is Miles. Go Ahead, Ag.”

“Sheriff, Commissioner Haley is in your office. He wants to see you as quick as you can get back.”

Miles sighed wearily. Haley was chairman of the County Commission. He and his two fellow commissioners approved the annual budget for the sheriff’s office, and controlled, among other things, the sheriff’s salary and expenses. They also controlled quite a few votes.

“Do you know what he wants, Ag?”

“No, but I know he was talking to Able Cross out in front of city hall before he came over here.”

That figures, Miles thought. “Okay, tell him I’m on my way in. Anything new on Dall?”

“Negative,” said Agnes Hiller.

“Okay. Ten-four.” Miles put the mike back on the sill and picked up the phone again. “Still there?”

“Aren’t I always?” Gloria said with feigned sweetness. “I suppose you have to hurry off somewhere, like always.”

“Yes, I have to go—”

“Don’t bother to explain; I’ve probably heard it before anyhow. Just remember what I said and be ready to leave at ten tomorrow morning. ’Bye, lover.”

She hung up, leaving Miles with a dead phone in his hand for the second time that day. He muttered a curse and put the receiver back in its cradle. Once again he could feel the hot acid churning in his stomach. Old Doc Scott had probably called it right: he was getting an ulcer, sure as hell. Why, he wondered, had he ever allowed himself to get mixed up with Gloria in the first place? He smiled sardonically. Oh yeah, he remembered — that red hair. He had to see that red hair spread out on a pillow.

Miles left the bedroom and started for the kitchen where he kept the seltzer. As he was about to pass in front of his big kitchen window he happened to glance outside and saw a movement. Instinctively he froze short of the window and remained concealed. What cautioned him was the fact that the window faced west and there was nothing west of the house except a vacant field. No one ever went out there; there was no reason for anyone to go out there; it wasn’t even a shortcut to anywhere.

Miles went back into his bedroom and got a pair of binoculars. Returning with them, he stood well back from the window and focused on the field. When he zeroed in on his objective, the sheriff’s hands tightened around the binoculars like a vise and his mouth went suddenly dry.

The movement in the field was a crouching man. He had gray-black hair, cut short, and was wearing a white shirt and green twill prison pants.

Miles watched the man as he approached the boundary of the yard. The patrol cruiser was parked on the east side of the house, out of sight. From all outward appearances, the house must look deserted, Miles realized, and it was certainly isolated enough to appeal to an escapee looking for a change of clothes and some cash.

Jacob Dall paused behind a tree when he got to the edge of the yard. He’s getting ready to make his move, Miles thought. There was a side porch with a door opening into the house between the livingroom and kitchen. It was the obvious place for Dall to try. Miles put the binoculars down, stepped over to the door, and silently turned the inside knob to unlock it. Then he slipped a flexible sap out of his back pocket, flattened himself against the wall, and waited.

A moment later, Dall darted across the yard and onto the porch. He crept to the door and gripped the knob. When the door opened, he pushed it far enough to slip quickly inside. He was just closing it behind him when Miles slammed the sap against the back of his head and knocked him unconscious.

Miles caught Dall before he hit the floor and dragged him into the kitchen where he laid him on the floor next to the sink. He handcuffed Dall’s wrists together, then went out to the car and got a set of leg irons from the trank. Back inside, he shackled one of Dall’s ankles, wrapped the chain around the pipe under the sink several times, then shackled the other leg.

He examined the swelling where he had slugged the man. There was a considerable bump behind the right ear, but the skin wasn’t broken and Dall appeared to be breathing easily, so Miles decided he was all right. He thought about taping the man’s mouth but quickly dismissed the idea. Even if Dall did wake up and start yelling, the house was too isolated for anyone to hear him.

Miles locked up the house again, got back into his cruiser, and headed for town.

When Miles walked into his office, he found Commissioner Haley pacing back and forth impatiently.

“What the devil took you so long, Frank?”

“I was clear out on River Road, Commissioner,” Miles lied.

“Have you ordered up any special deputies yet?”

“Not yet,” Miles said.

“Why not?” Haley wanted to know. “The city has four extra men on duty right now.”

“How many of them are related to Cross?” Miles asked blandly.

“How would I know!” Haley stormed. “Anyhow, that’s not the point! What concerns me is that Cross has seven men covering the city, and there’s only you and Billy taking care of the whole county. That doesn’t look good, Frank. There’s a maniac loose and people are scared.”

“There’s no definite indication that he’s headed our way,” Miles pointed out, “and even if he is, the county territory is reasonably secure. All the farm residents have been alerted and Billy and I have set up patrol routes—”

“I know all that, Frank,” Haley said irritably, “but I’m still concerned about public opinion. There’s an election in two weeks.”

“How well I know.”

“All right, then. When do you plan to get some men on the job?”

“As soon as I feel that it’s necessary.”

There was an urgent knock on the office door and Agnes Hiller rushed in. “Sheriff, there’s been a killing,” she said tensely. “The call just came in—”

“Who and where?” Miles asked, already starting to move.

“Old Doc Scott’s wife—”

“Oh, no.” Haley said, paling.

“—found strangled right in her own home!” Agnes continued.

“Get on the radio,” Miles said, already moving through the outside office. “I’ll tell you what to do on my way out there.”

“Wait for me!” Haley said, hurrying after Miles. The sheriff was nearly to his car by the time Haley caught up with him.

Both men buckled their seat belts simultaneously. An instant later Miles was speeding toward the Scott residence, red light and siren going full cycle. He steered the cruiser with one hand and used the radio with the other.

“Ready, Ag? Okay. First, raise Billy; have him continue his patrol on a one-alert basis. Next: get hold of Clary and Elton; tell them I want roadblocks set up at State Highway and the county line, and where River Road intersects the bypass. Next: get back on the private fine and call all the farms again; tell them to lock their houses and stay inside. You got all that?”

“Affirmative,” Ag verified.

“Ten-four,” Miles said, hooking the mike in place and taking a corner on two wheels at the same time.

Three minutes later, the cruiser screeched to a stop in front of old Doc Scott’s two-story Colonial home. Two city police cars were already there. Chief Able Cross was just emerging from the house with one of his men as Miles and Haley got out of the car. Miles recognized the local newspaper reporter waiting on the sidewalk.

“What are you doing here, Frank?” Cross said for the benefit of the reporter. “This is a city case.”

“Have you caught Dall yet?” Miles asked.

“No, we—”

“Then it’s anybody’s case,” Miles snapped. “This house is only a quarter of a mile from the city limits; the killer could easily be in county territory. Now, let’s knock off the showboating and forget about politics for a while. Our job is to protect this community; you in the city, me in the county. So far you’re not doing your job too well, but I intend to do mine.” He glanced at Commissioner Haley and the reporter. They were taking it all in. “Now — let’s get down to business! Were there any witnesses?”

“Why, uh, no... not that we know of.” Cross answered subserviently.

“Who found the body?”

“Doc Scott’s cook. She just came back from the market.”

“How’d the killer get in?”

“Forced the kitchen screen door.”

“Probably left the same way, then,” Miles said. “And if he went across the back yard and kept going—”

“It would take him straight into county territory,” Cross said. He was recovering some of his composure. “That would make him your baby, Frank.”

Miles narrowed his eyes and smiled tightly for the benefit of his audience. “I’ll let you know when my deputies and I pick him up, Able,” he said flatly.

Before anyone could say anything further, Miles got quickly back into the cruiser and raced away, siren and red light going again.

Ten minutes later, with the siren and red light off, Miles arrived back at his house. He drove around to the rear and parked next to the back door. When he got inside, he found Jacob Dall still unconscious on the floor. Unshackling him, Miles dragged him out to the car and laid him face down on the back seat. He cuffed his hands behind him, then used the leg irons to hogchain his hands to his ankles. When Dall was securely trussed up, Miles got back behind the wheel and pulled away from the house.

He headed out the way he had come into town earlier, toward River Road. After he had gone a couple of miles, he radioed the jail and was told by Ag Hiller that the two roadblocks he ordered were up. He told Ag he was on his way to search the dirt roads that ran into the fields a mile or so behind old Doc Scott’s house. Clearing the frequency, he called Billy Ruud in the other cruiser and told him the same thing. He checked Billy’s position and was satisfied to learn that his deputy was a good four miles away.

When he finished on the radio, Miles turned east into the first back road he came to. He bounced and jogged over the hard ruts in the road, leaving a thick trail of dust behind him. Presently he came to another dirt road; he turned south, back in the general direction of town. One good thing about being born and raised in the same county, he thought absently, he knew every field road that existed. Half a mile farther on, he turned east again.

Miles drove for five minutes, then stopped and parked. He estimated he was about a mile and a quarter directly behind old Doc Scott’s house. There were at least three-quarters of a mile of open fields on every side of him. It was the perfect place to capture Jacob Dall.

He got out of the cruiser and opened the trunk. He took out a pair of soiled gardening gloves and threw them on the front seat. From a plastic bag he removed a few pieces of folded currency, a woman’s wristwatch, and a diamond wedding band. He put the articles in his shirt pocket and buttoned the flap. The last thing he took out before closing the trunk lid was a .32 caliber chrome revolver.

Holding the revolver in his left hand, Miles laid the muzzle across his right forearm, lifted it a fraction of an inch, took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. The blast of the bullet tore off a strip of his shirt sleeve and seared a neat crease in the flesh beneath. Miles groaned and dropped the gun; he swore in pain; tears flooded his eyes. He blinked and watched his own blood rise to the surface of the wound. Quickly he went to the glove compartment and took out a first aid kit. He bit the wrapper from a gauze pad, blotted the seeping blood away, and poured iodine along the open track of flesh. It burned like fire and he groaned and cursed again. Finally he got another gauze pad over the wound and wrapped a piece of tape around his arm to hold it in place. He went back, picked up the .32, and stuck it under his belt.

Getting back in the car, he turned around and headed out of the field. On his way back to town, he radioed the jail again. “Ag, I’ve got our man,” he said. “Call Billy and have him get the roadblocks down. Let all the farms know that the danger’s over. Tell the city dispatcher to notify Chief Cross. Then get a cell ready — and see if you can get me a doctor, somebody besides old Doc Scott; I’ve been shot slightly.”

He ten-foured out before Ag could ask any questions. The story, he knew, would be all over town in fifteen minutes.

On the way back to town, Jacob Dall awoke. “Where... where am I?” he asked groggily.

“In a police car,” Miles told him. “Just relax and the chains won’t bother you.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Jail first. Then back to the hospital probably.”

“Are you... going to hurt me?”

“No,” Miles said quietly. “You’re a sick man, Mr. Dall; nobody’s going to hurt you.” And nobody would either; there was no death penalty in their state. Even if there were, it wouldn’t affect Jacob Dall; he’d been certified insane.

When they got to the jail, a crowd had already gathered. Miles parked directly in front of the entrance. He unlocked the leg irons and helped Dall out of the car. Commissioner Haley hurried down the jail steps to meet him and together they led the prisoner through the crowd and inside.

After Dall was locked up, Miles lay down in an adjoining cell while young Dr. White, old Doc Scott’s assistant, cleaned and dressed his wound and gave him a tetanus booster to forestall infection.

Miles handed Haley the chrome revolver. “Old Doc Scott’s gun,” he said. “Dall must have taken it from the house after the killing. He had this stuff, too—” He scooped the money and jewelry out of his shirt pocket. “I doubt if there’ll be any of his prints in the house; he had a pair of Doc’s gardening gloves on when I caught him; probably picked them up outside before he went in. They’re on the seat of the car.”

Someone had come in while Miles was talking. He looked back and saw that it was the reporter who had been at the Scott residence earlier.

“Why didn’t you shoot him, Sheriff?” the reporter asked. “You had every right to.”

“He’s a sick man,” Miles said. “He’s not responsible. I didn’t want to shoot him unless I had to. As it turned out, I didn’t have to.”

“He sure came close to getting you,” the reporter remarked, looking at the sheriff’s bandaged arm. “You took a big chance.”

“That’s what the job’s all about,” Miles said. “That’s what the people elected me for — and that’s what I’ll go on doing until they elect somebody else.”

“I don’t think they’ll be electing anyone else for a while,” Commissioner Haley said. “You not only kept the county safe, but you captured the city’s killer for them. I’ll see to it that you get the county commission’s endorsement for reelection, and after this story gets out, you’ll get the people’s vote also.”

“I’ll second that,” the reporter said.

“Nice of you both to say so,” Miles said. “I hope you’re right.” He stood up, turning to Dr. White. “How’s old Doc Scott?”

“Broken up,” the young doctor said. “But it’s the second time around for him, as you know, and he’s seen a lot of dying over the years. He’ll be all right.”

“Sure,” Miles said. He pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then said, “Are they over at Haskell’s Funeral Home yet?”

Dr. White nodded affirmatively.

“I think I’ll walk over for a minute,” Miles told them.

They let him go without objecting. Miles left by the back door and walked down the alley. Haskell’s was at the end of the block. He avoided a small crowd there by using the ambulance entrance. One of the undertaker’s assistants led him to a preparation room where old Doc Scott sat alone by the wall. On a portable table in the center of the room, under a sheet, lay the body of old Doc Scott’s wife.

Miles walked over and lifted the sheet a few inches. Old doc’s young wife was as beautiful in death as she had been in life. Her red hair was spread out over her shoulders the way Miles had always liked it. The bruises on her neck where Miles had strangled her were barely visible. Miles was glad he had done it quickly so that she hadn’t suffered. Of course, he’d had to do it quickly; between the time he’d captured Dall and the time he got back to his office where Commissioner Haley was waiting for him, only a few minutes had elapsed. He hadn’t even had time to say anything to her — not that she would have understood him, drunk as she was.

Miles sighed and lowered the sheet back over her face. Well, he thought, he didn’t have to worry about Gloria anymore.

Or the election either, for that matter.