I was glad I was already out of the car. I figured there was not much worse than being stuck in a car with armed men all around. Of course, your best option is to run them over. But I couldn’t get through the truck. And, except in extreme cases, vehicular manslaughter is not the right choice.
And only one of the three had a weapon in hand, which was encouraging. But there were three of them, which wasn’t.
One guy is nothing, and two is not much more of a problem. But three presents a lot of variables that make a successful hand-to-hand encounter tougher, even if you can keep them all in front of so you can’t be attacked from behind like I had been the previous day. Three is a perfect storm. More than that, and they can all get in each other’s way so you can skirt around and line them up before picking them off one at a time, like ducks in a shooting gallery. And, usually, once a couple of heads have been acquainted with the pavement, the rest come to the conclusion that they should just cut their losses and run. But three guys can come at you all at once and from multiple sides.
Of course, all things aside, running is usually the most sustainable choice.
Fight or flight.
Some people say the best fights are the ones you never have. I disagree. The best fights are the ones you win quickly and decisively, without a scratch except for those on your
knuckles.
Keeping the open door between me and the cops, I ran through my mental database of past fights. Not the sanctioned bouts in a ring, with referees and rules.
No, I was recalling the real ones. The ones without breaks every few minutes, when I was just as likely to get killed as not.
When I was nine, on a playground a lot like the one I had seen earlier in Cluff, I fought my first fight. That had been against two twelve-year-olds, and I had put them down hard. And they’d deserved it. They should have known better than to steal money from my little sister’s lemonade stand.
In all of my hard-won battles I had never faced three at once. Not yet.
And all three of the men before me were above average—in terms of size, that is, and probably strength. And I could safely assume all three had extensive training in defensive tactics from the academy.
I closed the door and stepped around to the hood. The cops congregated into a loose semicircle around me, well out of reach.
Strawn was in the center, flanked by his deputies. The white-haired guy faded to my left, keeping me in the line of fire without putting his partners in the way. Rock assumed a posture that was somewhere between a boxing stance and that of a linebacker before the snap.
Strawn spoke, holding up his hands reassuringly. “I see you found your car. Nice ride.”
The tension was broken. They weren’t looking for a fight. Strawn shook his head once at Rock and motioned to the other guy by chopping his hand sideways through the air in slow motion, like he was an umpire signaling safe with one hand.
The cop I hadn’t seen before holstered his weapon.
Rock just stood there frowning, maybe mad I wasn’t in cuffs on the ground yet.
I said nothing.
Strawn did the whole rueful awe-shucks-I-don’t-want-to-bring-it-up-but-I-gotta thing, like the good old boy he was. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, Mr. Sawyer, there is the little issue of your . . . uh . . . procurement of a police vehicle.”
I shrugged. “I don’t need it anymore, and it saved your department having to look for my car.”
He rolled his jaw.
The cop I didn’t know looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
Strawn turned back to his truck. “Let’s get out of the snow. We don’t mind so much, but I’m sure you’re not used to it, and you’ve got no coat.”
“The bad guy is probably close; I found the car right there,” I said, pointing back the way I had come.
Strawn looked contemplative and then pointed at Rock and the other guy. “Rock, call French. You two check the outbuildings around here. Knock on some doors. Lang, back on patrol. Mr. Sawyer, if you’ll follow me to my office.” The chief spoke evenly—no barking orders. He was just a guy who said things, and then they happened.
I said nothing—just climbed back into my car.
He nodded, and I waited until Strawn turned and inched up the hill. Then I followed, leaving Rock and Lang to turn the SUV around. I was glad Strawn had sent the other two off on other errands. He seemed like an okay guy, torn between his good nature and the exigencies of the job.
I felt a brief but very big jolt as I entered the lobby. What if they had duped me into a false sense of security? I imagined Strawn didn’t want to make a big chase all across town; he could lure me back to the station all on my own and toss me in the clink before throwing away the keys. But I did not think he would have sent his boys away if that had been their scheme.
Strawn was already inside, stoking the fireplace; he had removed his overshirt. “Mr. Sawyer.”
He extended his hand again, and I shook it. I noticed his knotted forearms were as big as my calves. I hoped I never had to arm wrestle him.
I decided to accept his friendliness at face value. “How are you, Chief?”
He smiled guilelessly. “I’ll be better when this business is behind us. At least you got your vehicle back.”
“I’d trade all the cars in the world to bring back the dead guy,” I said.
“Life is a kick in the teeth, and then you die. Bad situation all around. But we’ll find the perp, make no mistake. He can’t be far. I’m sorry if you thought I doubted your story at all.” Strawn clapped a hand on my shoulder. It was heavy. My knees nearly buckled. “That is what we wanted to talk to you about, before you took off.”
“Your boys looked like they might shoot first and ask questions never.”
Strawn missed barely a beat and then recovered. “It seems you all got off on the wrong foot. No more independent action from you though. Let us handle this. I will keep them off your case.”
I had been hopeful enough that I would avoid arrest but had been sure I would get a long lecture. But he didn’t even bat an eye. Hadn’t even mentioned me hitting his deputies with the table, which was beyond surprising. But, regardless of his reasons, I wasn’t complaining.
“Thanks for that. And thanks for not minding about the joyride.”
He smiled under his moustache. “At least you didn’t crash that one. Or let it get stolen.” Strawn motioned me back into his office with a jerk of his head. “Well, Mr. Sawyer, you may have heard we are due for some worse weather.”
I nodded. “I was in the café when the news announced it. People were pretty worried about the storm.”
“Actually two storms. One from the west and one from the northeast. We’re going to be the meat in a snow sandwich. And if those folks knew a poor bullet-riddled body was tossed right outside of town, they’d be beside themselves.” I nodded, and he continued. “So, I want you to keep what you know quiet, just until we get a read on the situation.”
I understood. It was one thing for the town to find out a storm was coming but another to know there was a murderer in their midst.
A matter of disclosure.
“I can do that,” I said.
He smiled, apparently relieved I didn’t need more convincing. But I did. At least in one respect.
“What about the body?”
“We can’t get out there until the roads clear. That’s the bottom line. There’s no way. But the conditions are ideal for preservation, and we aren’t worried about critters.”
“Have you called the FBI?” I asked.
“And tell them what? That we may or may not have one of theirs frozen stiff in the snow, with no leads, one witness, and a snowed-in town? They couldn’t do anything until the storm passes anyway, not even land a helicopter.”
I understood. Sort of. It was what some people called compartmentalization. Timing was vital. And maybe he wanted to save a little face and have a prisoner to show the feds when they finally came. It would be embarrassing if Strawn couldn’t find the needle in his fairly small, snowed-in haystack.
Strawn waited for me to comment and continued when I didn’t. “The town’s doctor doubles as our examiner and will perform the autopsy, unless the feds want to wait even longer to do so themselves. Good thing you threw a monkey wrench into the perp’s plans. We might never have known what happened.”
That brought up another question.
“Why do you think he was driving with a dead guy? He could have tossed him out anywhere.”
“Maybe he had a spot in mind for disposal.”
A cell phone rang, a high-pitched, generic trill. Strawn pulled the little rectangle from his breast pocket, looked at it, and must have hit a button to ignore it. He stood up. “Well, thank you, Mr. Sawyer, for your cooperation. The whole department is looking for that son of a gun. Thanks to your description, it shouldn’t be long before we find him.”
That didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. I hadn’t provided a detailed portrait. The guy was nondescript, average everything. He had no tattoos, no distinguishing marks, besides the bumps from the crash. I had not even taken a good look at him. The only thing that might have identified him had been my car, which I had found. My coat, too, unless he had ditched it.
“Was that French?” I asked, pantomiming a phone call.
His forehead creased. “As a matter of fact, yes, it was. He’s probably reporting on an assignment I sent him on. We couldn’t all go hunting you down. Speaking of which, what is your room number? In case we need to get a statement?”
“Three,” I said.
I wanted to ask more questions but couldn’t articulate them at the moment. So Strawn walked me back out to the lobby. I pushed through the double doors, entirely unsatisfied.
I am curious by nature. And stubborn.
I realized I was also hungry. It was almost lunchtime, and I hadn’t even had breakfast. I was facing an energy crisis. It was not a good habit to start, but it was certainly rectifiable.
I drove to the restaurant through the life-size snow globe. It was a much more enjoyable trip than last night’s frozen hike. I didn’t see Rock or French or Lang, which was fine with me. I could go the rest of my life without seeing them, and I would have counted it among the greatest of blessings. I felt I had struck out in the friends department with all three deputies and was on thin ice with Strawn.
The parking lot was a little sparser when I got there and the snow a lot thicker. Maybe people were already beating hasty retreats to their burrows.
I parked and pocketed the spare key. I made sure the car was locked.
Mary was gone when I got back to the restaurant. So were all the previous patrons. Some newcomers were scattered about, but nobody who had seen my desperate flight from the law. Except the other waitress.
She came out from the kitchen with a pot of coffee. She looked distressed. When she saw me, she stopped. Putting a hand on a hip, she grilled me with a glare.
“Are you going to run all over the place again, or are you going to sit and eat like a normal person?”
I inclined my head in an abbreviated bow. “Ma’am, I am sorry for the trouble. I know you and Mary had to clean up my mess. I’m just here to eat. Anyway, I couldn’t run much farther on an empty stomach.”
With a tilt of her head in acknowledgment of my promise, she went around refilling coffee.
The corner table I had sat at last night was open again, so I took it.
Without being asked, the waitress set a mug of cocoa in front of me, just like Mary had done.
“Try not to spill this one,” she said.
I thanked her, but she was already vanishing back into the kitchen. A handful of people came through the door. This seemed to be the lunch-hour rush, such as it was. I didn’t want to put the waitress out any more than I already had, so I held off on my
order.
Breakfast and lunch are my standardized meals. Everywhere I go I get some variation of pancakes, bacon, and eggs in the mornings and a sandwich for lunch, preferably corned beef, though I sometimes settle for pastrami. I tend to vary on dinners, but any of the aforementioned edibles are always plausible candidates.
They don’t make pancakes or sandwiches in Peru, so I had a lot of catching up to do.
Letting my cocoa cool and the other lunchers order ahead of me, I followed a sign to the restrooms and washed up.
I came back and found the waitress sitting at my table. Maybe that was a Montana thing. I wasn’t complaining.
I sat down. She looked at me. I sipped my cocoa—perfect temperature.
“Mary said you’re all right.”
I swallowed and smiled, looking down. “That is a very generous estimation.”
“You seem all right.”
“Thank you. You’re kind,” I said.
She was taller than average, with curly auburn hair, graying on the ends. She wore it shorter than most, like she was more concerned with getting out the door in the morning. But it looked good on her. She had sharp, appraising features that made her look like a very pretty bird of prey. She was lined almost equally by smiles and worry, and she was tan, but not from the sun, not in this season—just naturally olive-toned.
“I’m Agnes Kirk. This is my establishment.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You’re sorry?”
“I mean, I’m Sawyer; my name is Sawyer. I meant I’m sorry for the trouble I caused you earlier.”
She waved that off. “No harm, no foul; I’ll just charge you for a broken mug. But I’m always happy to see someone stick it to the police.”
“Why is that?”
“Mary said you’re nice to talk to.”
I was really hungry, but it would have been rude to order right then. Oh, it’s nice to meet you, and thanks for the compliment. Now, how about you make me a sandwich with a couple of pickles on the side.
“So is she,” I said. “You don’t like the police?”
“Not those policemen,” she said.
“Why?”
She sighed. “That is a very long story, and I have some more work to do. Mary will be back soon; she was hoping you’d be back.”
“Pardon my saying so, ma’am, but it isn’t often you see a business owner bussing tables.”
“Are you a restaurateur, Mr. Sawyer?”
“No,” I said. “But I’m a human being on planet earth. Are you short-staffed or something?”
She stood up. “No. At least, I wasn’t until today, which is what Mary and I were going to talk to you about. She’ll be back in a couple of hours. Will you wait?”
For Mary? You bet, I thought. I nodded.
“Can I get something started for you? To eat, that is. Anything with Mary you’ll have to arrange yourself.” She winked at me, which made me blush.
I asked for a Reuben sandwich. She said that was a good choice and went off to check on other patrons.
I wondered what it was they wanted to talk to me about. It certainly couldn’t be a job. I wasn’t planning on sticking around long enough to fill out any kind of forms or learn customers’ names and usual orders.
So I sat and waited and thought. It felt good to have reclaimed my car. My work here was done. Except it wasn’t, not really, mostly because the roads were closed and partly because I don’t like being beaten. I’m not exceptionally competitive or vengeful or anything. I really didn’t care that the guy had bushwhacked me and made off with my car. Those were occupational hazards for incorrigible Good Samaritans. No good deed goes unpunished and all that. So I didn’t mind that so much. Actually it had been kind of a wake-up call. I needed to be more vigilant, hyperaware of any and all situations.
No, what bothered me was that I had been an arms’ length away from a cold-blooded killer, and I had let him get away.
When I was in Peru, I was serving in an area for several months, and in the local congregation was a middle-aged guy from Holland who would share his incoherent “testimony” over the pulpit every month in broken Spanish. His name was Peter. He was the only member there who could play the piano, and he did so exceptionally well. But he was a little off, with a wild-eyed look and a scraggly ring of long blond hair haloing a bulbous bald head. His veins throbbed in his temples, and he was always in need of spare food, clothing, and money.
We were always cordial and helpful, brotherly. He lived in the bishop’s spare room, selling fruit whenever he could.
One night we were woken up by our landlady, who lived next door. She said she knew we didn’t watch television but that we had to see the news. We came over, and her family was watching Peter being arrested by Interpol in Lima. He was wanted for three murders in Bolivia and Chile, all young women.
I was angry I hadn’t seen it or sensed it, angry I hadn’t apprehended him myself. I didn’t want that to happen again. I wanted to see justice.
And I wanted to see Mary.
So I would stick around.
Interrupting my thoughts, the sandwich came, with a side of potato salad. The kraut was made with red cabbage, and the corned beef was thick.
I ate the culinary masterpiece slowly. It is easy to eat too fast, especially when you’re hungry and food is good—another habitual pitfall I had trained myself to avoid. That was on account of a conversation I had had with the fittest guy I had ever met, a soldier in Peru who was also something of a strongman. He’d said the secret to fitness was chewing every bite of food thirty times.
I didn’t always count, but I had learned to savor each meal.
After I finished I set my dishes on the edge of the table for easy retrieval, wiped the table with my napkin, and eased back in my seat.
I must have dozed off watching a silent showing of Shane on the television, because the next thing I knew I was peeling my forehead off the table at the sound of the door.
Mary.
She looked even better than she had the night before, more radiant. Her cheeks were extra rosy from the cold, and snowflakes hung in her hair and eyelashes.
She saw me and waved. I waved back. With one finger she signaled me to wait and walked back into the kitchen. A moment later she came back without her hat and coat.
It was getting dark outside, and the dinner rush was coming early. People were apparently trying to beat the snow. Unsuccess-fully. It was still falling and looked like it would never stop.
Mary sat down.
“Thank you,” I said with a yawn.
“For what?”
“For your compliments and for sitting with me.”
“You’re welcome. So I guess Agnes talked to you?”
“Only briefly. She said you both had something to talk to me about,” I said.
“Yes, and it’s important. That’s why she is closing early.”
Agnes bustled by with laden trays. She was working hard and fast, and when Mary moved to help, she just shook her head.
“Agnes doesn’t seem to like the police,” I said.
“Not these police,” Mary said, echoing Agnes’s earlier words. “You shouldn’t have run, by the way. That was stupid; you could have been arrested, or worse.”
“Why doesn’t she like them?” I asked.
“That’s a long story.”
“So I keep hearing.”
“I’m sure Agnes will tell you about it later, but what we really wanted was to ask you for is your help. Rock and French said Strawn told them you were a Mormon missionary?”
I nodded.
“Well, Agnes’s niece, Amy, is having a hard time. She is a sweetheart but a little . . . troubled. Not in a bad way, but there are a lot of dark clouds hanging over her past. It’s understandable. She’s not off the edge but flirting with it. Rebellious, remote. You know, all the symptoms. There are no drugs yet or anything like that. But you guys are supposed to be good counselors. I mean, I know you’re not like an actual counselor, but we were thinking you could preach to her. Give her some advice, like as an independent third party. You’re a friendly, attractive guy. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
A call to serve.
“Absolutely. I am no expert, but I can talk and listen,” I said.
“We’re getting worried. She didn’t come in for work today and hasn’t responded to our calls or texts.”
“Does that happen a lot?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Never.”
I remembered Strawn’s words: I want you to keep what you know quiet, just until we get a read on the situation.
A murderer on the loose did not bode well for a missing girl. So, I thought for a second and leaned in, lowering my voice.
“Mary, I think you and I need to go see her right now. I got my car back, but the police haven’t caught the guy who stole it. He killed someone right before he knocked me unconscious.”
Mary showed no sign of distress other than a narrowing of her eyes and a pursing of her lips.
“Let’s go,” she said. “Let me get my coat.”
I moved to wait by the front door.
Mary appeared, all bundled up, and held up her car keys. “Do you have winter tires and chains?” she asked.
“No.”
“Let’s take my car; it’ll handle better.”
Her car was the burned-orange Jeep Wrangler I’d noticed the first time I’d gone to the café. It had all the bells and whistles and looked well-suited for the terrain.
We were in a hurry, but I figured there was time for chivalry, so I moved to the driver’s side door to open it. It was locked.
Mary looked at me strangely. “I can get my own door.”
“I know,” I said.
She hit the unlock button, shrugging and smiling. “As long as you know.”
She climbed in, and I trekked around to the passenger side. I sat sideways in the seat with my legs hanging out the door and kicked my boots together like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz to knock the snow off.
There’s no place like home.
Mary pushed some buttons and pulled some levers, which started the heater running and the windshield wipers working.
I recognized some of the side streets from my earlier escapade. We drove for a few minutes in silence and passed the motel. I looked at Mary; she was picturesque. Her red hair was long and straight and framed her face like petals on a flower, like fire around a burning, bright ember.
She drove with her left hand, resting her elbow on the window ledge.
I broke the silence. “Not that I’m not flattered or anything, but what made you and Agnes think I’m a good fit to help you?”
She smiled and looked at me out of the corners of her eyes. “I told Agnes I thought you seemed genuine and respectful.”
We drove on in silence a little more. I was scanning outside the windows for any potential danger.
“What are the odds your attacker got to her too?” she said quietly, as if whispers lessened the likelihood of evil.
“Nine hundred and sixty to one,” I said.
She gave me a funny look.
“The population,” I said.
The snow was so heavy the flakes reflected the headlight beams back at us like miniature supernovas. We could have been driving in circles. Or into the middle of the woods. Or right off the edge of the world.
“Odds are getting better,” I said. “No way would he have hiked all the way out here, not in this.”
Mary nodded, said nothing.
“So why not go to the police?” I asked.
She shifted in her seat, like her heater was getting too hot. “Agnes thinks they’re all useless. I don’t think they’re all that bad.”
“And Amy lives alone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Where are Amy’s parents?”
“That’s what I meant by dark clouds. Agnes raised her because Amy’s mom was viciously attacked when she was pregnant. She lived long enough to deliver Amy, but that was it. There was no sign of her dad, and they never found the killer.”
“Could have been one and the same.”
She shivered. “It’s just awful.”
It was, and I was sorry to hear it. I didn’t get any more background because, just then, we saw more lights, some white, some red and blue, strobing and washing across the snow and the trees.
Three police vehicles huddled around the smoldering remains of a house, like wolves gathered to a carcass. The officers were spread out and moving around the smoking heap, flashlights blazing.
Mary pulled up short, her whole body going rigid. My blood chilled for a beat, and the ancient part of my brain waved a red flag behind my eyes.
Danger. Fight or flight, the most fundamental binary decision in the world.
“Stay in the car,” I said, stepping out into the cold light of night.
Flashlight beams played over me, and I shielded my eyes.
“Sawyer?” Strawn said. “What are you doing here?”
“We were coming to check on Amy,” I said.
Rock moved by us, glaring at me and motioning for Mary to get out of the jeep. French was squatting close to the burned ruins, maybe looking for clues, maybe for warmth.
“There’s no sign of her,” Strawn said.
“Do you think the bad guy got her?”
Strawn swallowed slowly, like his mouth was dry or he was balancing his words, like a smart guy who thought before he spoke. “Did you tell anyone about your accident?”
Collision.
“No.”
“Then, what are you doing here?” he asked, stepping forward. His back blocked the headlight beams from his car, silhouetting him against the glare, and his shadow stretched over me.
“I didn’t think my problem had anything to do with Amy. Mary just wanted to check on her. She was worried about getting stuck, so she brought me along,” I fibbed.
“You seem to be making yourself right at home, Sawyer. Does Miss Mary think you capable of lifting four thousand pounds?”
“Not all at once,” I said, remembering too late Washington’s nineteenth rule: Let your countenance be pleasant but in serious matters somewhat grave.
French came and stood next to Strawn; he had a cell phone out and was cupping his hand over the mouthpiece.
“Doc’s on the line,” he said.
Strawn waved me away, like he was slapping the air with a backhand. “You have a knack for showing up at the scenes of serious crimes, Sawyer. We’ll be in touch if we need you. Until then, goodbye.”
He took the phone, and I took the hint. I stomped back to Mary, not out of anger, just in trying to stave off the frostbite. She hadn’t gotten out but was talking to Rock through her lowered window.
Strawn called to Rock and asked loudly, “Where the devil is Lang?”
Rock hustled back to his boss and stepped right into my way, like he expected me to move. My pride is not so great that I feel the need to rise to every lame challenge, so I stepped aside, thinking Rock was a problem that wouldn’t keep much longer.
I climbed back into the Jeep, bringing enough snowflakes for our very own snowball fight.
Mary was biting her lip and kneading the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.
“What did Rock say?” I asked.
“That she isn’t here, but as far as they can tell, the fire was started on purpose. They found gasoline splashed around on the walkway.”
“Weird,” I said.
“What are we going to tell Agnes?”
“Nothing yet. Is there anywhere else Amy could be? Maybe at a friend’s or boyfriend’s house?”
Mary shook her head. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend that I
know of.”
She started the intricate process of backing up and turning around. We drove back mostly in silence.
There were plenty of explanations for Amy’s disappearance, plenty of probabilities, between best- and worst-case scenarios. I was optimistic. Mary wasn’t.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said.
“She could be in danger.”
“True. Or, equally possible, she could be safe and sound somewhere. What else did Rock say?”
“Her car is gone.”
“There you go,” I said. “I found my car clear on the other side of town, and there is no way the bad guy walked from there to here. What kind of car does she drive?”
“A white Mercury Grand Marquis.”
“That wasn’t the car I crashed with.”
“Would you come over?” Mary asked. “I don’t want to talk to Agnes alone.”
“You live together?”
“I rent her basement,” she said.
“Amy didn’t want to live there?”
“She is not very social. And she is rebellious.”
“But not very,” I said, “or she wouldn’t have kept working for her aunt. I think she is going to be okay.”
We said nothing the rest of the way, which was fine by me because I had time to think and I wanted Mary to be able to concentrate on the task at hand. The roads were invisible, and more than once I thought we were bound for the ditch. But Mary was a good driver, and the winter wheels did their job.
I eventually recognized some of the turns from my earlier exploration in the stolen police car. We ended up at the end of the nine o’clock spoke, close to the main part of town but far enough removed it felt like we were in the frontier.
The snow-covered, paved road ended at a nondenominational church. A dirt path covered in filthy snow extended a couple hundred yards from there. I couldn’t tell what was beyond because of the thick trees.
The Jeep bumped along, passing the church and skirting a metal mailbox as Mary turned down the long drive. Now I could see some lights winking from a distance between the trees. Agnes lived in a prosperous house situated in such a way as to be near enough to neighbors without being too close.
“You sure Agnes won’t mind my being here? I mean, I’m not a bad guy, but I wouldn’t expect two women out in the middle of nowhere to take a big ugly stranger’s word on that.”
“You’re not ugly,” Mary said. “And you’re welcome here. You’re helping us out.”
“I haven’t helped at all so far.”
“I think you will. You seem like a useful kind of guy to have around.”
Nice but inaccurate.