For two hours, Dick trails the Chevy on Highway 15, his thoughts vacillating between confusion and incredulity. Where were the police? Every other minute, he considers calling them again and, each time, thinks better of it.
The needle on his gas gauge hovers at the quarter mark, and he wonders how much gas Shea has. He passes a sign that says, “Cedar City 40 miles,” which means Dick has approximately thirty minutes to formulate a plan.
* * *
It’s almost dark when Dick follows Shea off the freeway into a gas station.
He watches from the shadows as Shea shells out several bills to the attendant, then returns to his truck to fill it up. As Shea waits, he leans against the fender and smokes. He stretches his arms over his head to work out the kinks in his muscles. His red T-shirt has a waving American flag emblazoned across its front, with bold letters over the top that read, “Made in the U.S.A.”
When the pump clicks off, he crushes out the cigarette, then climbs back in his truck and drives to the diner across the street. Dick fills up the Sentra, then parks a few spots away.
Through the window, he watches Shea sitting at the counter. The back of his shirt says, “Land of the Free.”
Dick calls the Las Vegas Police. “Detective Harris, please.”
The call goes to voicemail.
He punches zero to reconnect to the switchboard. He explains that it’s an emergency, and the operator says she’ll page the detective. Dick recites the number for the prepaid cellphone and hangs up.
Inside the diner, Shea drinks coffee and studies the menu. A server with bleached hair and therapeutic shoes takes his order, and Dick thinks of Dee as he wonders how long the server’s been working at the diner and if, at one time, she had been pretty.
On the first ring, Dick snatches up the phone. “Detective Harris?”
“Mr. Smith? Where are you?”
“The question is where the hell are you? Did you find the boys?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. How’d you know about those boys being in that freezer?”
“It’s irrelevant.”
“It’s not.”
“What matters is the guy who put them there is sitting in a diner in Utah eating a patty melt.”
“Utah?”
“Yeah. Big surprise, when he realized his secret had been discovered, he decided not to stick around.”
“You followed him?”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“How are you involved in this?”
“I’m just a guy that had a bad hunch about another guy and who’s trying to do the right thing.”
“That’s quite a hunch and a hell of a commitment, following a convicted felon to Utah.”
“That wasn’t my plan. Where were you?”
“Warrants take time. We got to the storage unit a little before six.”
Dick looks at his watch. It’s almost eight. “Who were those boys?” he asks, his head throbbing with the image of the two frozen faces as he stares at Shea’s back.
Harris ignores him. “Where are you?”
Dick drops his forehead to the steering wheel. He’s so tired. “Who were they?” he asks again.
“It won’t help,” Harris says.
“Probably not. But I’d like to know.”
Harris’s gruff voice softens. “We’re not sure. Our best guess is they’re a couple kids from Winchester. The first was reported missing six weeks ago, the second, two weeks later.”
“Can you tell me their names?”
“Will you tell me yours?”
“No.”
“Germaine Johnson and Willy Pierce.”
“Route 15 Diner, ten miles south of Cedar City,” Dick says and hangs up.
Shea says something to the server, and she laughs. He must be a funny guy.
* * *
A few minutes later, Dick watches two patrol cars pull into the parking lot. Two officers walk into the diner and, within seconds, Shea is splayed on the counter, his face pressed to the gray Formica as they cuff his hands behind him.