October 11 (Tuesday morning)
When Shane Holder woke it was a little after seven o’clock. He was off the frontage road, south of I-40 near Exit 233 but he hadn’t even noted the motel’s name as he rolled in late last night. On the small desk was a black plastic portfolio with the name Envie Motel—sounded French. Maybe it was inspired by a perfume label.
Shane’s Monday travel had been slowed first by the morning’s heavy rain and then by a complex accident on the loop around Little Rock during late afternoon rush. Consequently, he didn’t hit Verde-town until nearly eleven o’clock... and didn’t figure he should call Bethany that late.
After a fairly long hot shower, Shane groaned as he dressed. His back hurt, his rump was sore, and his shoulders and neck cramped from holding handlebars for over two thousand miles. If he’d brought the shovel-head, he’d probably need traction. The lower part of his face—which the helmet visor didn’t cover—was raw. He also felt slightly dehydrated.
From his bag, he retrieved his photo of the three dumpster divers; he’d need a visual of Ricks for people he’d encounter during his search. Shane made his way downstairs, checked outside for his Harley, and then poured a cup of java at the smallish breakfast alcove. In a large thermos instead of a heated pot, the coffee was hardly more than lukewarm... but the tiny microwave was too nasty to apply more heat.
Shane made a waffle in the flip-over waffle iron, but his first effort stuck to both surfaces. Good grief. Without his glasses, he squinted to read the instructions. Apparently he was expected to spray the inside surfaces with lubricant before pouring the batter.
After starting his second waffle attempt, Shane tried to call Bethany. It was 7:45, so she might have left for work already. He’d forgotten to get her work address. Shane grumbled; if he’d made better road time, he could have found her at home last night. His call went to voicemail and he left a message saying he would see her sometime that day.
The second waffle came out more intact, but it tasted rather peculiar: maybe too much vanilla. He ate only half and then switched to a cold toaster pastry. With his second cup of lukewarm coffee, Shane went to the desk and asked the manager for a local map.
The name tag indicated Clay, which could have been a first or last name. Clay lifted his magazine and pointed to the full-size city map pressed under a thick pane of heavily-scratched glass. Old downtown was laid out on compass headings, twelve blocks north and south and twenty-four blocks east and west. Except for Main Street, which split that area in half, many of the east and west streets had fairly common tree names. Other than Quarry on the east and Dock on the west, many north and south roads were named after the first fifteen U.S. Presidents, beginning with Washington on the far eastern boundary and going through Buchanan, fairly near the town square. The street battle between John Adams and his son John Quincy Adams was settled by naming the second street Adams and the sixth street Quincy. The remaining nine streets west of the square were named after the most famous Southern Civil War generals, beginning with Lee and Stuart. The street for Thomas Stonewall Jackson was called Stonewall, since President Andy Jackson’s street already tied up that surname on the east side of town. Verdeville’s founding fathers had a sense of expediency if nothing else.
The railroad tracks formed the southern boundary of old downtown.
Verdeville itself was nearly a perfect rectangle—rare in a city limits. From the map legend, that quadrangle looked about five miles wide and seven miles long. ”Don’t think I’ve ever seen a town so symmetrical.”
Clay explained: during the Depression the city and county distinctions had blurred and both formerly merged in the 1950s, rather than have the city annex areas along the highways as those areas grew. So the original rectangular boundaries of Verdeville could remain as they were laid out by old man Greene and the other founding fathers of the late 1860s.
Shane asked for a verbal tour of the major areas and neighborhoods.
Clay, probably in his fifties, must have been a local historian. “Well, north of old downtown is the original silk stocking neighborhood. All the founders had big mansions along that stretch. To the south of old downtown is the other historical neighborhood... across the tracks. Originally working class folks and laborers in the mills and quarry. Some might have worked on the railroad too. Not sure. That area is a bit run down now. New residential on both sides of Quarry Pike going north out of old downtown.”
“Why do you call it old downtown?”
“Lots of businesses and banks have moved down toward the mall or the two Interstate exits. Plus, some of the city and county offices have moved out of the courthouse and further east. New hospital is way out to the west.”
Shane noticed a sizeable lake perhaps ten miles northwest of the center of town. Lake Envie. “Is that where your motel gets its name?”
He nodded. “It’s a loop of the river that the Corps took out of the main channel. Bypassed, you could say. The original settlement in this area was called Greene’s Landing... up around that lower bend of the Cumberland River.” He pointed. “Highway 231 cuts right through the middle of it. But once the river traffic began to die down, that little old settlement didn’t have anything to grow with. So, the big shots shifted south a few miles to the railway line and started a brand new town, Verdeville, with the railroad running right through its length. What later became two state highways are on either end.”
“Looks like heavy forest all around.” Shane pointed.
“Quite a bit, ‘specially to the north... but there’s lots of farm land to the south. Cotton and soybeans mostly. Old commercial zones to the southeast of old downtown, along U.S. 70 and State 266. But that died down a little after I-40 came through.”
“Where do people stay? Travelers...”
“Tell you the truth, most go on in toward Nashville. Lots of choices as you get closer to the city.”
“I meant around here.” Shane’s forefinger circled Verdeville.
“You wanting to change motels?”
“This one’s okay if the coffee was hot. But I came here to see my ex-girlfriend...”
“Don’t know if you can stay there yet?”
It sounded like the manager was prying, but his expression suggested that he understood relationships had complexities. “Yeah, a lot up in the air.” Shane shifted gears. “Anyhow, where’s the other motels?” He needed to know where Ricks might have settled in.
Clay turned his head sufficiently to see the map from a better perspective. “Well, all the newer motels are down here close to the Interstate where we are... and at the other exit, of course. Only the older places are still inside Verdeville proper, with a few just outside. You know, the old motor courts that were built along the major highways. Most around this town were along U.S. 70. People don’t hardly stay in those anymore... the few that are even still open.”
“What about hotels?”
“The only original hotel is abandoned now, but still standing. Northeast corner of old downtown.” He pointed with a ball point pen. “Fronts Washington Street but Quarry Road goes along the other side. Quarry is still Adams while it’s in downtown.”
Shane wasn’t interested in abandoned hotels. “I landed here last night because I saw your sign from the Interstate. But where would somebody go if he wanted to disappear?”
“Not sure what you’re looking for, but the bad part of town is over here.” He pointed to the southwest corner of Verdeville’s perfect rectangle. Bordered on the north by the railroad tracks and to the east by Highway 231. “Folks looking for trouble can find it in there.”
“I’m not looking for problems, but the guy I need to find is already in a bunch of trouble.” He pulled out the photo and laid it on the counter.
The manager studied it. “Hasn’t been here.” He looked up. “Friend?”
Shane laughed. “Not even close. He robbed my house in California a couple of weeks ago and I think he came here to...”
“Your ex?”
“Yeah. So I need to find him... quick.”
Clay’s finger made a lazy, small circle on the area he’d previously mentioned. “That’s where I’d start.”
“Okay if I have a copy of this map?”
“Sure.” He reached under the counter. “Got plenty left. Most travelers don’t care what’s around here.”
“Oh, one more thing. Where’s Netterville Street? Supposed to be in Old Highlands, whatever that is.”
Clay leaned forward and placed the tip of his pen on the paper map. It was perhaps a mile north along Highway 231.
But Shane didn’t need to reach Bethany’s house until mid-day since she was at work, and he had no idea where that was. He thanked the manager and began to move away from the desk.
“I don’t guess you’d consider asking the police to help find that feller?”
“This guy lives below radar for the most part.” Shane set his jaw grimly. “And when I find him, I don’t think I want any cops around.”
The manager nodded. He understood.
Back in the room, Shane pulled the weapons from his locked gym bag on the top shelf of the small closet. The firearm he’d prefer was his Smith & Wesson Model 629 in .44 magnum—stolen in the recent break-in... so he’d brought his S&W Model 686 revolver in .357 magnum. It was loaded with six and had three extra speed loaders, also full. Twenty-four rounds total, plus an extra box of fifty. He pulled his hunting knife from its home-made leather scabbard. It was a Buck Model 124, the version manufactured between 1968-73, before the series displayed a model number. Shane had handled a good many blades—both civilian and military—but this Frontiersman was probably his favorite... for heft, balance, and holding an edge.
He kept both concealed until he got to his motorcycle and unlocked the fiberglass saddlebags. His weapons went on top, then he locked it. If he was at home, he’d probably carry both on him, but didn’t want to risk it in this little burg. You never know when some small town cop’s gonna get nosy or pushy. Inside his saddlebag was close enough, because Shane was never far from his Harley.
He turned the key and the bike roared to life.
While waiting for Bethany to return home, hopefully for lunch, Shane did some prep work to help locate Ricks. “Okay, Ricky-boy, where would a tweaker hang out in Verde-town if he was up to no good? And this burg probably doesn’t even have dumpsters.” When you enter hostile territory: locate the enemy, assess his strength, and prepare a plan.
With his new map and the manager’s detailed briefing, Shane rode north on Highway 231, toward downtown. As he crossed the railroad tracks, he pulled to the side. Looking west, he could clearly see why it was the bad part of town. Not merely because of the run-down condition of most tiny houses and small businesses, but weeds and trash had overtaken several lots. Many structures seemed vacant and most had been vandalized. Some buildings looked like they’d be good choices for meth labs or crack houses, if people in Verde-town did such things. Some of the dwellings were old-fashioned shotgun houses, devoid of paint. Most were also missing shingles and several had caved-in roofs. Abandoned, rusted automobiles of various vintages lined the roads and yards.
Three depressing streets south of the tracks, Shane spotted a corner saloon with metal bars on the windows and a few sorry-looking pick-up trucks outside. He could discern no name, other than Bar, but it bordered Mill Street and the highway.
Though he did not doubt the assessment of the motel manager, Shane wondered what kind of reaction he’d get from the same question here. So, inside, Shane asked where the bad part of town was.
The beer-bellied bartender sighed—expelling horrendous breath—and pointed to the pitted and stained surface of the bar immediately in front of him. “Ya already foun’ it.”
Shane ordered a bottle of beer and surveyed the dimly-lit establishment. It was the kind of dirty and dingy place where, if they had free pretzels, a smart person wouldn’t dare eat them.
An older man in the corner had been watching. Maybe in his seventies—hard to tell with his stringy gray hair and at least a week’s worth of face stubble. The man rose with considerable difficulty and hobbled over. “Bikers don’t come here anymore much.” He nodded past the dingy glass, faded sign, and rusty bars at Shane’s motorcycle. “You ain’t local.”
“Just got here, Mister. Looking for an acquaintance that might’ve hit town about ten days ago.”
“He’d be a biker too?” The old man rubbed his stubbled chin.
“No. He’d be a tweaker. Meth head.” Shane pulled the snapshot from his shirt pocket. “Skinny one on the left.”
After a moment to process that description and scrutinize the photo, he said, “I’m Cratchit.”
“Can I get you a beer, Cratchit?” Shane indicated the empty chair and the old man sat slowly. Shane signaled the bartender.
“Feller ya lookin’ fer ain’t yer friend.” It was not a question.
“Can’t say he is. He broke in to my house, conked me on the head, and took some of my stuff.”
“You figure to get it back.” Another statement. The bartender brought the beer, paused to see if anything else was needed, and then returned to his station at the bar. Cratchit took a long swallow and smiled. Bad teeth.
“So... you see anybody new in town, besides me?”
“How long ago?” He scratched his sparse gray hair.
“Probably early last week. Most likely a stolen car, could be California plates.”
“How much do ya like Nevady plates?”
Shane sized him up—ten bucks ought to suit him. Shane first pulled out a five and slid it toward the old man, but kept two fingers on one end.
“Dark blue fer-door wit’ Nevady plates drove by Mondee er Tuesdee afternoon. Made two slow passes, then stopped in th’ lot out there an’ he read somethin’... mebbe a map. Couldn’t tell.”
“Didn’t come in?” Shane kept finger pressure on the bill.
“Not then. But later—I wuz ahready gone—Murphy said there’s a skinny, scraggly feller that talked funny. Acted strange.”
“Is that Murphy?” Shane pointed to the bartender.
Cratchit nodded.
“You got any idea where the Nevada guy’s staying?”
The old man tugged at the fiver and Shane released it. “I’m on fixed income an’ ever’thing costs more ever’ day.”
Shane placed another five on the table and covered it with his entire hand. “If your information is good, I’ll come back and fix your income a little better. But this is all I can spare for what sounds like guesswork.”
Cratchit took a deep drink. “Murphy said th’ feller wuz on foot when he come back that night.”
“So he’s staying somewhere close.” Shane looked out the window. “Any cheap motels around here?”
Cratchit stared intently at the bill on the table. “A couple down th’ highway a block er two... an’ one a few blocks west on Mill Street. But th’ newest places er down at th’ freeway exit.
Shane lifted his hand.
The old man snatched the bill and smiled so wide that Shane could count the missing teeth. Two gone from the top and three from the jaw.
“Okay, Mister Cratchit. You find out exactly where this guy is and I’ll double that.” Shane pointed to the two bills crumpled in the informant’s wrinkled hand.
Ricks would be sleeping somewhere during the day. Pretty much like a vampire.
Shane needed some rest too. But, more than rest, he needed to ride around this rundown section of town for a while. You can see a lot more from a bike than from a car or truck. Presently, he was looking for a dark blue sedan with Nevada plates. It probably already smelled like dumpster garbage.