Dawn, and he drove the Winfield City cruiser towards the state line. So far nobody had looked his way and that included a sheriff’s deputy who passed on the highway and barely lifted a hand. Up ahead he saw a sign that read Henry’s Diner and he eased his foot off the gas.
Pulling into the parking lot he stopped outside an old slat-board shack that was built on shallow stilts. Climbing out of the car he stretched his shoulders, then shifted the weight of the Colt where it hung on his hip. He cast an eye over the three other vehicles parked up: an old Ford pickup, a Lincoln and a Buick sedan. Adjusting his cap he crossed the dusty parking lot, climbed the steps and went in.
Sitting on a swivel stool at the counter he drank coffee and forked scrambled eggs into his mouth, considering the half-dozen or so customers at the tables and the short-order cook working the hatch. The waitress was efficient, moving up and down the counter with the coffee pot; no sooner was he sipping and setting down than she was right there topping him up.
Quietly he cased his fellow diners: two good old boys in coveralls, a middle-aged couple, and a guy of about thirty wearing a shirt and tie who was well into a plate of ham and eggs. He had a Coke going alongside his coffee cup and when he was finished eating he reached for a pack of Lucky Strikes.
From his stool he watched as the man palmed a few bills onto the table then slid from the booth. Through the window he saw him button his jacket as he trotted across the parking lot. Taking a couple of dollars from the money clip he had stolen from the cop on the station platform, he laid them down on the counter and watched as the Buick pulled away.
He followed that car up the highway, passing a sign that indicated there was a swimming hole called Henry’s Bathtub a mile further on. The driver of the Buick could not have been watching his mirrors because he was fairly ticking along. Flicking on the roof light, he checked the dashboard for a siren switch.
Within minutes he was tailgating the Buick, then backing off as the driver pulled into a turnout fifty yards from the dirt road that led to the swimming hole. Easing the prowl car in behind, he turned off the engine but remained in the seat. He was wearing the police officer’s gunbelt and next to him a pump-action shotgun stood upright in its stirrup. As he climbed from the car he could see the man in the Buick with his eyes riveted on the rear-view mirror.
The driver’s window was rolled down and the guy had both hands hooked around the steering wheel. His gaze was nervous, darting, sweat across his brow as if he were high on dope.
‘Officer, is everything all right?’
‘Guess you weren’t concentrating on your speed.’
Tongue shifting the length of his lips the man’s gaze locked onto the shotgun. ‘Was I going too fast? I’m sorry. I guess I was listening to the radio and just got carried away.’
Moving back from the car door he shifted the shotgun to his other shoulder. ‘Would you mind stepping out of the car? I need you to sit in the back of my cruiser while I run a check on your license and registration.’
Still the man sat where he was with his fingers encircling the wheel. ‘Registration, right. The car isn’t mine. It belongs to the company I work for.’
Stepping back from the door he indicated for the driver to get out. ‘That’s all right. If you’d just take a seat in my car for a moment I’m sure everything is going to check out fine.’
The man did as he was asked, walking ahead of him to the cruiser and waiting while he opened the rear door. Seated in the back with the door closed he was a prisoner, locked in and going nowhere. Stepping over to the Buick again he took the keys from the ignition and slipped them into his pocket.
Back in the cruiser he fired up the engine and watched the color slide from the young man’s face. Beyond the metal grille he was sitting on his hands saying nothing, though he swallowed hard when they pulled out onto the highway and drove fifty yards to the sign for Henry’s Bathtub.
They drove the dirt road for a hundred yards before it climbed a short rise then dipped into a gully, where a natural swimming hole filled the stubby valley beyond. He let the cruiser roll all the way to the bank and then he put on the parking brake. Reaching for the shotgun he swivelled in the seat. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I’m going to have to ask you to get out of the car.’
‘Why? What’s this about?’ the man stammered. ‘What’re we doing back here? I don’t understand. I mean if it’s a ticket you’re writing what’re we doing back here?’
‘Sir, if you’d just get out of the car.’
He stood with the shotgun resting on his hip once more and asked the man to take his jacket off and toss it on the back seat. First, though, he had him take out his wallet, check book and driver’s license. Walking around to the back of the cruiser he unlocked the trunk.
‘Yeah,’ he said, peering inside. ‘I figure there’s enough room.’
‘Enough room for what?’ Trembling, the young man stared.
‘Me and the boys back at the station house, we had a bet to see if you could get someone in the trunk along with all the gear.’ He indicated the traffic cones. ‘You see, with only the back seat there on a busy night it’s a case of holding a suspect where you can. Oblige me, sir, please, would you?’
Still the man stared. ‘Are you kidding? You want me to get in the trunk?’
‘You’re about average size: what do you weigh, one sixty; one sixty-five?’ He racked a cartridge into the chamber and pointed the shotgun at the man’s stomach. ‘Go on now, do as I say.’
The man was shaking badly but he did as he was told, climbing over the fender and crouching down in the cruiser’s trunk.
‘Curl up on your side.’
‘What?’
‘Like a baby now. Curl up on your side.’
The man lay down and looked up.
‘That’s good,’ he said, nodding. ‘That’s real neighborly.’ Closing the trunk he walked around to the passenger door and fetched his own clothes from the paper sack.
He could hear the man hammering on the trunk lid as he changed out of the uniform and slipped on his T-shirt and jeans. He tugged on the sleeveless Levi jacket then pocketed the man’s wallet and check book. The driver’s license said his name was Kelly, and the Buick was owned by a company called Mission Farm Supplies. There was thirty-six dollars in cash in the wallet and half a dozen checks in the book.
He kept the pistol but not the holster, which he left with the uniform on the passenger seat. Taking the shotgun and extra shells he reached across the column and slipped the cruiser into neutral. Releasing the parking brake he stepped back and watched as it began to roll.