nineteen
Grant didn’t think he could simply walk up to Macready and tell him he’d reconsidered. He reckoned he’d have to take a different route. Luckily for him the different route presented itself almost as soon as he got back to Absolution.
The town hadn’t changed while he’d been away. There was no reason that it should. But something was different. He tried to put his finger on it as the hearse bounced over the railroad crossing and approached the intersection with First Street. He stopped at the junction. Avenue D straight ahead. Left towards the Absolution Motel or right towards Gilda’s Grill at Sixto’s. Nothing strange about that. No obvious signs that the world had moved on or that Absolution had changed its pattern of heat and misery.
Grant surveyed the skyline. The houses were the same as when he’d left. There was no gaping hole where burned-out buildings used to stand. There was no smoke cloud or wreckage or any other sign of violence on the outside. But violence had come to town, and it had come in the shape of Jim Grant. Let off the leash by a wife- beating Mexican and his friends.
The restraint Grant had shown since coming to Absolution was gone.
The engine ticked over in neutral. The needle showed that the gas tank was barely a quarter full. Grant was working up to telling Hunter Athey about the damaged rear fender, but there was no need to give the hearse back running on empty. If he turned left, he could pack his bag and leave Absolution behind. He didn’t. Grant turned right towards Sixto’s, and the future was set.
“You need to drive more careful once you’re off the main roads.”
The man working the pump wasn’t the old Mexican from before and he wasn’t Scott Macready. He could have been Macready’s distant cousin though. Same slant of the cowboy hat. Same insolent body language. Same Texan drawl. He uncapped the gas tank and slid the nozzle home. He clicked the trigger on auto and left it to fill up while he examined the broken window and dented bodywork.
Grant made a that’s-the-way-it-goes gesture.
“Loose chippings and potholes. It’s dangerous out there.”
“This is Texas, mister. It’s dangerous everywhere.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
The dog was still guarding the compound. Wrecked cars were still piled high beyond the wire fence. The pair of army jeeps was still parked in front of the workshop doors. The dog barked as if it remembered Grant. Its stumpy tail wagged hard enough to bring up dust. Foam dripped from its jaws, and Grant vowed to keep his distance no matter how friendly old Pedro looked.
The pump jockey poked a finger into one of the bullet holes in the bodywork. “Looks like you hit more than potholes.”
Grant nodded.
“A statistical anomaly.”
“A what?”
“More people die on the roads than are killed by gunshot. The anomaly is that I nearly got two in one.”
The pump jockey didn’t look any the wiser. Grant gave up.
“Target practice. Too near the road.”
The cowboy nodded his understanding.
“Yeah. Them road signs are mighty tempting.”
Grant indicated the sign across the road.
“Seems like it.”
The gas pump continued to hum, the display clocking up the quantity and price with a little ding for every cycle. Fumes shimmered around the filler cap in the heat. The most dangerous time when filling up. Ninety percent of gas station fires were started by fume ignition, not the petrol itself. Not like Rambo dropping his Zippo in a spreading pool of gasoline. Grant backed away from the smell and glanced towards the diner.
Sarah Hellstrom was looking out of the window.
That was the other decision Grant had been mulling over. He supposed there had never been any doubt which way that one would go. Filling up the hearse might have been the polite thing to do, but the gas station being next to the diner was the real motive.
Grant nodded at Sarah.
Sarah didn’t nod back.
A finger of doubt stroked the back of Grant’s neck. He watched her turn away from the window and disappear into the shadows. The pump continued to ding, ding, ding, the cycle slowing as the tank reached capacity. The trigger clicked off and the pump stopped. The cowboy followed Grant’s gaze and his eyes slitted into a sly little smile. A secret smile that Grant wasn’t supposed to see. Grant ignored the implication. In a town this small there would always be gossip and innuendo. Let them think what they wanted.
The pump jockey wiped his hands on a greasy cloth. “You paying cash?”
“Yes.”
Grant took the money wallet out of his back pocket and followed the cowboy to the office. He noted the amount on the pump display and began to count banknotes from the wallet. The office door creaked as he went through. Another fly zapped itself on the electronic bug catcher above the door. The old Mexican was sitting behind the counter. He rang in the amount and the till drawer opened. He wouldn’t meet Grant’s eyes. The first sign that things weren’t right. The second, Grant corrected himself. The first was Sarah turning away without acknowledging him.
The pump jockey stood with his back against the door. The Mexican moved to the back of the office. The fly died a slow and painful death. Grant’s eyes flicked around the hot interior. Front door—blocked. Door in the rear—partly open. Two men in the room—the Mexican and the cowboy. Grant discounted the Mexican. He was an employee but not hired muscle. The pump jockey was no hard man either. That left the partly open door at the rear.
The pump jockey stuffed the rag in his back pocket. “I hear you’re all kinds of accident prone.”
Grant looked at the cowboy but half turned towards the rear door. Peripheral vision gave him good sightlines to both.
“You reckon?”
The cowboy moved away from the front door. The Mexican sat behind the counter and almost disappeared. The rear door moved slightly, and a gentle breeze wafted dust across the floor. The view through the opening was sand and scrub and the parched landscape behind the service station.
Grant relaxed his hands. Took half a step towards the pump jockey. The nearest threat. “How d’you work that out?”
The desert wind picked up and slammed the back door shut. The noise was loud in the confined space of Sixto’s. Grant tensed, ready for action. Nobody came through the door. Nobody yanked it open to come charging in.
The cowboy smirked.
“Potholes and target practice. And spilled coffee lids.”
Now Grant understood what the sly little smile had been all about. Towards the window of Gilda’s Grill. The threat wasn’t coming from the rear door to the office. Before he finished the thought, Grant was out of the front door and crossing the forecourt.