Twenty-Seven

Now what do you suppose Anderson is doing at Fat Boy’s Tire? By the looks of that fancy Oldsmobile, he doesn’t need tires. And I doubt it’s for that beat-to-hell International truck sitting in his front lawn.

As I’m into my second Thermos of coffee, Anderson follows some geek from the tire shop around the back of the store. I maneuver my truck so I can watch them. The kid leads Anderson to an enormous pile of old rubber. He went to six body shops before the Ford dealership, and I followed him as he met with the college student. Now the tire shop? What the hell’s he up to?

And then I have my answer. Somehow, Anderson has found out about that one tire I took a chunk out of when I ran over a metal fence post driving into the pasture that night with Jillie. Perhaps he spotted it at Wooly Hank’s. Either way, he knows about the huge chunk missing as surely as it were an identifiable fingerprint. While I was being rehabilitated in Napa, the good Dr. Oakert finagled me a job in the hospital library. That had access to the internet. What else did I have to do but study up on methods cops use to tie people to crimes: one being tire impressions. After the fact, I kick myself: I’ve underestimated him. Anderson tracked down the kid with the truck, and he tracked down where the kid bought new tires and wheels.

Anderson leaves the pile of tires too soon. Without looking for mine. He has not found the ones they took off my truck, and it’s odd that he hasn’t even looked. But if the Denver Post stories are right about his persistence, Anderson will find them. In time.

I don’t want to confront Anderson. I don’t want to risk anyone seeing me with him. But between the tires and him talking with Maury, it’s a matter of hours, perhaps, before he figures things out.

Damn! I hit the dash, and the bite Jillie gave me radiates pain from my hand all the way to my shoulder. Damn! I’ll have to take care of Anderson sooner than later. But where? He’s far too cautious. A retired cop will be too hard to get to while he’s out here in the public, so that leaves his house. As many times as I’ve successfully entered homes unnoticed, I’ve learned that most people feel safe and secure in their castles. They drop their guard. Will Anderson relax at home? He has to, as it’s the only place he can relax. And the only place he’ll let his guard down.

I put the binos away and break off following him. Tonight, Mr. Anderson. Tonight, we dance like Don Whales and I danced last Saturday night.