Part 3

She heard a noise outside and went silently to the window. Lucky was on the porch. He had found some rope and was tying the cab driver there. Lucky--with a psychopath's mind. Not insane, of course. An insane person was badly oriented. Lucky knew what he was doing--but he didn't care about the consequences, as they affected other people. A psychopath. A fugitive murderer psychopath with absolutely nothing to lose whether he tried to make love to her or decided to kill her....

Adventure, Jeanne-Marie thought. This was adventure, all right. This was what she had overlooked.

In adventure--always--was the element of danger. It was part of the definition of adventure. And a housewife--a mother with responsibility--had no business craving adventure.

No business?

Well, maybe once. Once only--to cure her. Or once, to keep with her all her life through the dull times and the humdrum days. Provided, Jeanne-Marie thought with a strange little smile, she lived through it.

"I see you're awake," Lucky said, coming inside the cabin. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing you would understand. Why did you tie him out there, Lucky?"

"Why do you think? Do we have to talk about it?"

"Not if you don't want to, I guess."

"I found something to drink," Lucky told her. "Want some?"

She shook her head and Lucky poured just one drink. He downed it in a gulp and Jeanne-Marie told him, "Keep drinking like that and you're going to get drunk."

He poured and drank another. "Don't I know it, baby. But they won't have any liquor where they want to send me, either. A man gets to appreciate--sure you don't want some?"

"I'm positive, thank you." He's very matter-of-fact about it, Jeanne-Marie thought. He's as matter-of-fact about enjoying his liquor now as he is about killing me if I try to get away or about making love to me if I stay here.

She looked at him. Lucky's altered behavior had not changed the fact that Lucky was an attractive hunk of man. And that's what she was here for, wasn't it? Romantic adventure. If in choosing the easy way out, she also satisfied a lifelong whim too.... What am I thinking about? she asked herself. It would satisfy him now and maybe afterwards, with the drink and everything, he'd even go to sleep and I'll be able to run somewhere for help. And anyway, it isn't me. It isn't my body. It isn't Mary-Jean. It's Jeanne-Marie. But there's no such person as Jeanne-Marie. Tomorrow, when I see the peddler at precisely four-fifteen back home....

If I see him, she thought wildly. Because I'm a prisoner now.

She looked again at Lucky, who was drinking steadily now. Drinking hard. Drinking so he could forget the fact that it would be all but a physical assault if he got what he wanted.

It's not Mary-Jean, it's Jeanne-Marie, she told herself again. But that didn't matter. All at once she knew it didn't matter at all. She would feel unclean all the rest of her life and she could never say an honest word of endearment again as long as she lived to her Tom, even if it did help her to escape. She shuddered at the thought.

* * * * *

"Come here," Lucky said. "Getting late now, so come here." His voice was thick and he took great care to enunciate each word distinctly.

Jeanne-Marie got up slowly and went across the room to him. He got to his feet unsteadily, preparing to meet her halfway. He walked an exaggerated straight line, as if to prove how sober he was. "Come here," he said again, more thickly this time.

She let him take her in his arms. She let him kiss her lips and her throat. That much, to allay his suspicions--and more. That much so she could apparently return his caresses while he surrendered drunkenly to the heat of the moment, while she....

Clutched at him wildly with her hands until he was used to the rather unexpected sensation of her clutching hands--then, still clutching but quite coldly and efficiently, searched his pocket for the cab-driver's ignition key.

She found it and she said, breathlessly, "Lucky. I think I'll take that drink now, Lucky."

He nodded, poured it and poured one for himself. "A toast," he said, "to--"

He didn't finish. For Jeanne-Marie, smiling sweetly up at him, flung the contents of the glass in his face.

He shouted hoarsely, rubbing at his alcohol-burned eyes. He lunched around the room after her, but blinded like that it was a comparative easy manner for her to stick out her leg and trip him near the door.

As he went sprawling, she got out of there.

"I'll send help back for you!" she called to the bound taxi-driver, and sprinted across the porch and down the hill toward the cab. She got in and slammed the door and with trembling fingers tried to insert the ignition key. She finally shoved it home and heard footsteps pounding across the wood of the porch. That would be Lucky. That meant only seconds remained to her....

The starter ground and ground. The car wouldn't kick over.

She was still trying when Lucky reached her. At the last moment she realized that the car was on a hill. If she released the handbrake she would at least coast downhill away from him.

The car began to move as she tried the starter button again. Then the door across from her was pulled open and Lucky threw himself into the car, sprawling across the front seat toward her. At that moment, the engine kicked over and Jeanne-Marie put the car in gear.

* * * * *

It started with a clashing of gears, leaping forward with a surge of power. The door on Lucky's side was still open and swung back and forth. Lucky was sitting up now, reaching for her, trying to pull her away from the wheel.

They struggled while the car skidded from side to side of the road. Jeanne-Marie kept her foot on the accelerator, though, and their speed increased. The car swerved wildly and, she knew, might even overturn on one of the steeper turns in the country road.

It swerved again, rocking. It went up on two wheels, the tires screaming. Now the open door banged and grated against asphalt. Lucky had a strong grip on her shoulder and his face was very close to her own and she told him, "You'll kill us, you fool!"

"You think I care? You care, baby. I don't--"

She felt her fingers being pulled inexorably from the steering wheel. If she lost her hold, the car, doing fifty now, would be entirely out of control.

The car swerved again, went up on two wheels, lurching. Her right elbow was suddenly free and she jabbed with it, hitting something. The car lurched again, as if deciding whether to right itself or go over on its side.

And Lucky, arms and legs flailing, went out the open door.

Jeanne-Marie braked the car quickly. She could see him in the rear-view mirror, a dark shadow on the surface of the road, not moving. She stopped the car and used its two-way radio to call the cab company. Then, making sure that the still form of the man on the road was not moving now, she allowed herself an unexpected feminine reaction.

She fainted.

* * * * *

It was two o'clock the next afternoon. Rural sheriff's station, full of city police now.

And Lucky: real name George Carmine, a prisoner.

And confused police.

"But, miss. You caught him for us. The reward is yours. Don't you want the reward?"

"No, please. Not if I'll have to identify myself."

"Afraid you will. There's no identification on her, Captain. Can you tie it?"

"I can't tie it," said the captain. "No one could tie it."

"We have the whole story, miss. All but you. Who you are, how you happened to find him. Fingerprints don't match any in Washington, miss. We've already checked. You won't tell us your name. Description doesn't match any missing persons. Have a heart, miss."

"I haven't done anything, have I?"

No, she hadn't done anything.

"Then just let me go. Please?" She had to hurry. Driving fast, she could just make it back home in time for the peddler. She had to make it. If she did not, the peddler would assume she wanted the adventure-procuring face and body of Jeanne-Marie all her life....

"We'll have to insist on your name and address. We'll have to insist on a routine investigation of you, to close out the case, you understand."

"Really, I'll have to be going."

"We'll have to insist.... Just go with the matron. Wait back there with the matron. Perhaps (hopefully) you'll talk to the matron?"

She would not talk to the matron. But she would go with the matron if they wanted her to.

The cabbie was just going outside. She said good-bye. He said good-bye. He said he was very grateful. He had said almost nothing but that for hours. Lucky, who had a broken collar bone, said nothing.

They passed a street door. After Lucky, it would be easy. Anything would be easy. She shoved the matron. She opened the door and went outside and slammed the door and ran.

"Holy Mac," the cabbie said, getting into his car.

"Show me how grateful you are?"

"I can't--"

"Just to the city line and a subway station. Please? But you've got to hurry...."

He uttered an understandable curse and let her in and they sped away before the matron could come outside and see in which direction her charge had disappeared....

At precisely four-fifteen, the cab turned into her block. The driver had changed his mind, had taken her all the way there. She was about to point out her house--knowing she could never be checked there because instead of Jeanne-Marie the police would find, praise be, plain Mary-Jean--when suddenly she spotted him on the street.

Rotund little man, long nose, enormous bag. The peddler. "Stop here," she said. The driver needed no coaxing.

"I was grateful," he said. "But we're even now, lady. There won't be any charge." And away he went.

* * * * *

"Hello, there," she said.

"Hello," said the peddler.

"I made up my mind."

"Naturally."

"What did you say?"

"Naturally, my dear lady. They always do. You've decided you'd had enough of adventure, right?"

"Well--y-yes."

"Always do. All right."

"Don't you have to do anything to change me back?"

"Nope. They always do. It wears off, you see. Besides, the memory of it keeps them happy, sort of. Or content. I don't know. Never was a housewife. Well, good-bye, dear lady. Got a job down the block."

"Right down _this_ block?"

"Someone you know? Of course, it's someone you know. You'd be surprised how many housewives we Happiness Salesmen do visit. They keep it secret, of course, like you'll keep it secret."

And the peddler walked off with his enormous bag.

Jeanne-Marie watched him for a while. While she was watching him, she became Mary-Jean. She could feel it. The electric tingling was gone from her skin. The ravishingly beautiful face and the million-dollar figure were gone.

She went toward the front door of her house. She was just plain Mary-Jean now. She liked it suddenly. She never thought she would like it.

Mary-Jean suddenly knew, without knowing how she knew, that sooner or later the Happiness Salesman visited almost every housewife there ever was.

Somehow, the thought of it made her feel very good.

THE END