orley Munson woke with a start. He was sure that someone was there in the dark, watching him. He had been feeling more and more certain that the noose of justice was encircling his throat and it was now only a matter of time until he was jerked off the ground to swing (and dance) for his sins.
Morley Munson peered around the room in his family home. It seemed as if there were a dozen figures lurking near the bedspread, waiting and watching. Ready to strike. Were they real or figments of his active (and addled) imagination? It didn’t matter — alone in the blackness, Morley Munson felt real fear nipping at his heels and clawing at his chest.
Morley Munson sat bolt upright, listening
to the sounds of the night. Waiting for the whispering to begin. He had begun to hear voices in his head and was fully expecting them to start up again. They were close now, these little harbingers of death and retribution, and he knew that they were slowly but surely coming for him.
Morley Munson didn’t really want to run anymore. He didn’t want to keep running
from the law and from himself. If only Constance Freeman would drop this idea
of getting rid of her husband and just go away with him (like sensible women do). There was no turning back now, though, and Morley Munson could hear it in the
low murmurs of Constance Freeman when she spoke about her husband, as if he was already dead and buried.
Morley Munson snapped on his bedside
lamp. Wild-eyed. He suddenly wanted
his mother, or Constance Freeman, or
even his (dead) wife. He needed someone
to hold him and soothe his troubled spirit.
But no one was there. He was alone.
Chapter 12 — The Road.Chapter 14 — The Attempt