CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A thin layer of sand crunched under the soles of Starr’s boots. Outside the Trading Post, two boys on bicycles circled the Bronco, gold chains swinging from their necks as they angled over the handlebars to gain speed. The glass door of the Trading Post, spotted with stickers, flyers and handprints, set off a metallic ding when Starr walked through it, Minkey following.

Junior was agitated. That much was clear.

Starr asked the man behind the counter if he’d been the one to call, and he answered by uncrossing his arms and sweeping both hands in Junior’s direction.

“What is it today, Junior?” Starr said.

Junior’s lips curled into a snarl, and Starr stepped away from the glass behind her. One look at Junior, with his shoulders hunched forward like a defensive lineman’s, and she decided she wasn’t going to be tackled through a window. Not today.

“You feeling all right, Junior? Tell me what’s going on.”

The man behind the counter opened his mouth to speak, but Starr held up a hand to silence him.

Junior’s chest heaved, but he said nothing. On the counter, and overflowing onto the floor where he stood, were supplies: a sleeping bag, a fishing net, several lures and a roll of filament, cans of Van Camp’s pork and beans, a can opener and an empty canteen.

“You going somewhere? Looks like you might be thinking about going out of town. Not what you want to be doing right now. Trust me on this.”

Junior looked past Starr, locking on Minkey.

“This is Officer Minkey—er, Minkle—so take it easy, Junior. He’s from Dexter Springs, lending a hand so we can cover more ground on the cases we’re working. You step outside with him, and he’ll listen to whatever you have to say. I’ll be right out.”

Minkey moved to the door and held it open, which sent out another metallic ding from behind the register.

“Junior, is it?” Minkey said. “Let’s talk out here.”

“Go on,” Starr said, eyeing Junior and stepping aside. “You don’t need this kind of trouble. Just head out and cool off.”

Starr waited until Minkey and Junior were standing outside, the boys on bicycles leaning into the wind as they curved closer and closer to the men, before she turned her attention to the man behind the counter. He’d taken a seat in a kitchen chair stationed where he could watch the gas pumps. The register area was a mess: crooked stacks of single-leaf papers and copies of the Sentinel-Times newspaper out of Dexter Springs, along with a block of wood with a single nail, bloated with impaled receipts.

“You gotta do something about him,” said the man. “He’s come in here more in the last twenty-four hours than I’ve seen in years, and he’s worse than ever. Talking crazy, scaring off my customers.”

Starr looked around at the empty store. There were shelves stretching out along one side of the Trading Post, and refrigerator cases along the back. She could hear the whir of an ICEE machine. Separated from the convenience shop by a half-wall of warped paneling were a dozen hard-surfaced orange booths, the tabletops scattered with crumbs and condiments. Beyond the booths was a narrow pass-through window that looked into an empty kitchen.

“You always this busy?”

He scoffed.

“Look, I do all right. Got this place I run during the day, until I switch out with my night manager. Then I head to my place over on Route 66. Imagine you’ve heard of the Red Garter. But now I got this guy hanging around, talking to every woman who tries to get gas, telling them stuff that doesn’t make sense, showing them something in his pocket.”

“Like what?”

“Hell if I know.” He leaned closer, and Starr could see the shine of his pink scalp through a thin layer of combed-over hair. “I got this one lady, runs the diner side of things, and I been trying to be delicate about this because of her. Junior’s a relation to her, and I can respect that. Family’s gotta stick together. But this, this is too much. He’s been in here or out in the parking lot for hours, and I can’t have him harassing people. Bad for business.”

“You got a name?” Starr asked, taking her notepad from her uniform.

“JJ,” he said. “Jake Johnson.”

The boys who’d been wheeling their bikes came in, preening and casting their eyes. They split off, one going down an aisle, examining bags of chips, the other spinning a display of sunglasses. JJ called after them.

“Boys, I know you’re trying to take something. I told you not to come in here unless you have some money to spend.”

“Nice of you,” Starr said.

“I’m positively a ray of sunshine,” he said flatly.

Starr took in his beaded belt, his bolo tie, his Western shirt with mother-of-pearl snaps straining at his paunchy belly. Behind him, the restaurant’s menu, a white board with black letters slotted into linear grooves, hung over the pass-through window. Even from where she stood, she could see a layer of grease that clung like film to the menu board, building up dust. On the bottom it read: Pop Dr Pepper Shasta Coke Sprite Refills Extra.

Starr noticed movement in the kitchen. It was Odeina, carrying a pan of silverware.

“Hang tight,” Starr said, and walked toward the kitchen, her leg still aching from the dog bite the day before.

Starr rang the bell on the window counter and Odeina’s voice came out of the kitchen: “Be with you in a minute.”

When Odeina appeared through the saloon doors beside the window, her hand was reaching into an apron pocket for a pen. When she saw Starr, she came to a halt.

“You got—” Odeina swallowed hard. “Do you have news for me?”

“No. No, nothing like that. Still investigating.”

Odeina slammed her pen and order pad onto the counter. “Oh, so you’re finally looking into it? Exactly what are you doing here, then?”

“I have a couple of questions for you. We received a complaint about Junior, and he seems pretty spun up. How long has he been here today, and what is he up to?”

Odeina looked over Starr’s shoulder, scanning for Junior. Starr pointed outside, where Minkey and Junior were talking, and noticed that JJ had repositioned himself in his chair by the window to watch them.

“He’s doing what he can. Trying to get people’s attention, urge them to stick together, be safe. It’s a hell of a lot more than you’re doing.”

“So he’s talking to people. That’s it?”

“Women, mostly. He’s trying to give them protection.”

“Protection?”

“Look, you wouldn’t understand, but he took it hard when you found that young woman by the creek. I mean, we know it’s not Chenoa, and I’ll be forever grateful for that, but this is someone’s daughter. Do you understand me? I care about that. And so does Junior. He’s really been through it, his own losses you would know nothing about.”

“So, this protection he’s offering is…”

“It’s a medicine bundle, wards off harm.” She pulled out of her pocket a leather bag, same as the one Minkey had found hanging from the door handle at the marshal’s office. “But don’t you forget who you’re supposed to be looking for. Nothing can help that girl by the creek now. You should be out there looking for my daughter, not wasting your time up here about Junior.”

“Those supplies he’s buying. That doesn’t look good. Maybe he’s running. Maybe it has something to do with that girl’s death.”

“Doubt it.”

“What about Chenoa? Were they close? Has he been acting strangely since you last saw her?”

“What is it about you that makes you so incompetent? I’m trying to keep my head above water, working doubles, and when I’m not doing that I’m looking after Grandmother or putting up flyers or driving around to ask if anyone has seen my daughter. But you know who they haven’t seen? You. What good are you if you aren’t even looking?”

Starr clocked Minkey and Junior in the parking lot, something serious in the way they were talking, Junior leaning toward Minkey, then surprise on Minkey’s face. And something else. Fear?

Starr retraced her steps to the front door, motioning JJ to stay where he was. The moment the door opened, Minkey straightened.

“So, no cable, then?” Minkey said.

“Just rabbit ears. Keep it on for the noise. Gets quiet out here, so at night I’ll try to pick up a show,” Junior said. He nodded to Starr, then looked directly at Minkey. “Truth is, maybe that TV is watching me more than I’m watching it.”

The boys on their bikes were gone and there weren’t any cars at the gas pumps. A purple-black bird hopped toward Starr, cocking its head to catch the gleam of late-afternoon sun, its feathers a mass of unruly angles, looking as scrappy and damaged as everything else.

“Junior,” she said, “let’s see what you’ve been up to. Empty your pockets.”