I-10
Park drove bullet fast down the highway. He called Houser’s cell phone again. He steered with his knees. He drank coffee. He chewed gum.
Voice mail. Third time.
“Sheriff Houser, this is Detective Park out of Fontana PD again. Following up on my lead on Nate McClusky. Wondered if he and his daughter had been spotted out in your neck of the woods. Sure you’re busy so I just decided to hop on the ten and come on over to Hangtree myself. Maybe you can take me by this Slabtown.”
What he said on the sheriff’s voice mail was a lie. He wasn’t paying a courtesy visit. He was chasing a buzz as strong and pure as he’d felt since he’d missed Nate and Polly at the motel.
It had been days of pure police work since he’d left Lompoc. He’d run Charlotte Gardner. He’d gone by her place, learned no one had seen her in a week. He’d gotten her auto info from the DMV. Charlotte made poor parking choices. She had parking tickets on the regular. She had a street cleaning ticket in North Hollywood. Park went to that block. It only took a couple hours of canvassing before he found a woman who recognized both Charlotte and Nate, knew where they were staying. Polly she wasn’t sure about. She said there was a girl, but not the one from Park’s photo. A girl with bright red hair.
He called in an assist from L.A. County deputies. He ran a records search to find the house’s landlord. He got verbal permission to go in. Inside he found clothes for all three of them. He found open drawers like they’d packed in a hurry. He found a glass of water with slivers of ice still floating in it. He’d missed them again, by hours this time. Park got mad. He kicked over a trash can. Wadded up papers rolled out. He unwadded one. A hand-drawn map of a town called Hangtree. A hand-drawn map of a place called Slabtown. As lab techs scoured the house for other clues, he’d talked to Sheriff Houser. He’d given the sheriff the lowdown on Nate McClusky. How he might be with a little girl. How he’d been robbing Aryan Steel spots. That he’d hit banks and storehouses. It looked like he was heading someplace called Slabtown. Looked like there were labs there. The sheriff said he’d look into it. That had been yesterday.
Park waited overnight out of professional courtesy. Then he hit the road to Hangtree.
Minutes after his last voice mail, his phone vibrated his nuts. He keyed it on.
“Park here.”
“Detective Park, this is Sheriff Houser.” His voice echoed, faint, like he was calling from deep under the earth.
“Been trying to get a hold of you.”
“Well, here I am.”
“Any sign of McClusky?”
“No, sir. No sign of your fellow up here at all. I went poking around Slabtown, didn’t see hide nor. Could might be you’re chasing a ghost.”
“Well, I’d like to come up and take a look myself,” Park said.
“No need for that,” Houser said. Weird—Houser’s tone buzzed him. “I’ll be sure to give you a holler if I hear anything.”
“I’ll be in Hangtree in a hour or so,” Park said. Long beat of silence after that. More weird buzzes.
“Head to the station,” Houser said. “Deputy Jim Callen will meet you there. Just ask for Jimmy.”
“And he can take me to this Slabtown place?”
Pops and hisses. A sound like Houser had a chest cold. Deep wet coughs.
“You all right?” Park asked.
“Fine as May wine,” Houser said.
“So your man will take me to Slabtown?” Park asked again.
“If that’s how you want it,” Houser said, then killed the call.
Park had that feeling again, like he was a bullet midflight. Like it was way past up to him where he went or what damage he’d do.