WALKER PASSED THROUGH THE LAST town in Dax County—five deserted houses and a gas station, half the weathered boards fallen off half the broken windows, old washing machines and rusted cars trapped in tangled weeds. Poor suckers, thinking they could build a house and root cellar, store homegrown vegetables, raise a few cows and sheep, open a Phillips 66 service station, and survive. Must have been sweet until traffic detoured north to join the mainstream speeding along the interstate. Those sorry folks must have rocked on the porch trying to ignore the hungry ache in their bellies wondering what the hell happened. That was always the way, people lacking the flexibility or foresight to see what was coming next. The guy who invented McDonalds sure predicted the American future. Drive-thru. Smart man. Genius.
Just outside the Colorado border, he registered as Ross Plank at a Motel 6 and sat behind the wheel outside his room. Take the money inside, or leave it in the trunk. Take it in. The car might get stolen. He slept with his arm draped over the suitcase, waking several times in case a shady night manager tried to sneak in, lift his arm ever so gently, and slide it from his side.
Dax County law would still be trying to locate Danielle’s Jeep. A mechanic in Grants had given him a name and he’d followed the kid from behind the counter at Dairy Queen to his uncle’s doublewide west of town. A couple of cars in various stages of body repair were for sale under a metal carport. He’d paid too much for a just-waxed, ’97 silver Honda, considering he’d thrown in the Jeep, but there hadn’t been time to haggle over a couple hundred bucks. He paid an extra hundred for a Nevada license plate that dangled among others at the end of a wire from the roof. After filling out the bill of sale, he sent the kid into the house for a glass of water and transferred the suitcase to the Honda’s trunk. When the kid returned Walker handed him the key to the Jeep and wrote down the uncle’s address, promising to send the title in two days. The boy would get a lecture when the title never arrived. Never buy or trade a car without transfer of title—at least write down the name of the buyer, his address, blah blah blah. Ah, the pains of growing up. All the mistakes Dad had promised would make him smarter had never amounted to a scrap of sense. Useless logic, believing man learns from his screw-ups. Maybe the kid would learn you couldn’t learn a thing. If so, he might stand a chance of having some fun.
In the morning, frost coated the windshield. He drove to the nearest restaurant and ordered a breakfast burrito. His gut swirled and churned, the way it always did close to the border. Soon he’d be operating outside his playground. Huevos with red or green chile might not appear on a menu for a long time, if ever again.
He zoomed across back roads and passed the Welcome to Kansas sign. The sky was almost as big as New Mexico’s and the late afternoon sun shone down on flat fields, but mesas no longer defined the horizon and the air had lost the smell of piñon and sage. He took a quick look at the map and lit a smoke. This trip was going to be l-o-n-g.
The country was tidy, all right. Huge, tight hay bales seemed to have rolled randomly and stopped like a fleet of abandoned highway leveling equipment. Every last blade of wheat, hay, and sorghum had its use. No waste here. No lazy farmer here. No goofing off here. Kansas and Nebraska were serious about hog and cattle farming, and grand-scale grain production. He smelled dollars. Damn them, though, he’d never met a farmer or rancher who claimed to make a profit. No sir. Weather did them in. Disease did them in. Government did them in. Banks did them in. Yet, somehow they earned enough to build big sturdy farmhouses and enormous barns, moaning all the while about the price of feed, seed, and greed. Did anyone chuckle around here?
He rolled down the window.
“Ha ha!”
The wind tickled his ear.
Forget industrious farmers, silos, and feedlots. Focus on recent events. He popped a Tecate. Hell, it was a drag dwelling on the past, but Pat Merker’s intentions had to be addressed. Was the con in cahoots with the vet? Had they both intended to kill him, keep the land and the money, or had that been Keith’s independent plan all along? Here he was, driving to God-knows-where to partake in early retirement intrigues with Pat Merker, whose commitments and promises suddenly appeared more than dubious. Son-of-a-bitch. He ought to slam on the brakes, change direction and split for Montana. Uh-uh, hold on a second. If Pat hadn’t been in on the plan to cut his life short, he’d surely resort to murder upon arriving in the UP and discovering no Walker and no loot.
Any adventure, imagined or real, packed more zing with an accomplice along to plot tactics, share the hilarity, count the winnings, and revel in their wits. In prison, he and Pat had sat side by side on Pat’s cot memorizing each other’s social security numbers and practicing each other’s signatures over and over, until Walker didn’t even have to think about how to sign Pat’s name, how the slash missed the “t” and the “k” bled into the “er” and eased off into a scrawl at the end. Sworn to secrecy, as dedicated as teens in a backyard clubhouse, they’d declared loyalty their number one priority. Shit. Could have been a set up.