Thirty-One

When Blatchford finally called, it wasn’t from Creston. Around seven p.m. he phoned from the truck crossing near Aldergrove, stuck in a long line waiting for Customs to let him back across the border.

“Figured I’d get them both out of the way,” he said. “Henshaw and Crowhurst. They’re not our guy. Henshaw’s in a wheelchair. He’s a colostomy bag with an old man attached. I saw that and headed straight to Redmond.”

“And Crowhurst?” I asked.

“Not much better. Guy’s borderline special ed. Lives on the old family farm—‘farm,’ fucking place is all mud. I stopped by like I needed directions, how to get back to the highway, just to see how sharp he is.”

“And he said what?”

“‘It’s about a half hour.’ And I ask him which way, and he kinda frowns and says, ‘whichever way you got here.’”

“Did you tip you were interested in him?”

Blatchford’s answer was a muttered “fuck” and the sound of his truck engine gasping back to life. When he came back on the line he said, “I rented a car in Bellingham, like you told me to, with Washington plates. Guy didn’t give two shits about what I was driving. I was keeping him from his cartoons.”

“Nobody living with him?”

“Nah. He’s got a sister who checks in on him once in a while. He works in some warehouse stocking shelves. No license, guy can’t even drive himself.”

“How about Henshaw’s family?” I asked. “He has a daughter and son-in-law.”

“And they’re both sweet as punch, and they have two kids. It’s not him, Dave. Not either of them. You know who it is.”

Before I could answer, his horn sounded, crackling the speaker of the phone.

“I’m going, shitstain, all right?” He was speaking to whoever was behind him. Once he’d maneuvered his car, he said to me, “I’ll head over tomorrow morning and scope out Dale Petrie. I won’t confront him till you say so. You and Kay learn anything about him?”

“He keeps a low profile,” I said. “But his money has to come from somewhere.”

“You’d keep your head down too, you were going around shanking people. I’ll call you when I get there, let’s say around noon.”

“Stay safe,” I said to a dead phone. He’d already hung up.