He woke to threads of sunlight creeping around shabby drapes: a grubby motel in Fairview; one street with a supper club, mercantile and bank. Working the heel of his hand into his eyes he climbed out of bed, crossed to the window and eased aside the drape. A handful of vehicles had been parked in the lot last night but only the Buick he had stolen was left.
In the bathroom he splashed cold water over his face. There was a coffee pot and some packages of coffee on the side and he added water from the faucet. While the coffee perked he got dressed. The shotgun was resting against the wall where he had left it and the Model 10 Colt he had taken from the deputy’s holster lay on the nightstand by the bed.
Driving down the street to the mercantile, he went inside and hunted among the shelves till he found a two-foot hacksaw and roll of duct tape.
‘Don’t be cutting yourself now,’ the girl at the counter warned him. ‘That there tape won’t work on a missing finger.’
Back in the motel room he moved the folding luggage rack into the middle of the floor and placed the twelve-gauge shotgun lengthwise across canvas bands. Keeping it steady with his left foot he sawed the barrel off half an inch in front of the magazine. He had no file to square the cut with so he took a wet towel to the burr instead.
Taking up the saw a second time he sectioned the stock so it left only a pistol grip and he bound that carefully with tape. Then he folded the rack once more and set it against the wall by the closet. Sliding the six bullets from the chamber of the Model 10 he cleaned that with the towel then reloaded and stuffed the pistol in his waistband. He had a few dollars left from the money he had taken from the dead salesman’s wallet but he still had the check book as well.
The bank was not busy, only one customer ahead of him as he waited in line. Filling out a check for a hundred dollars, he passed it across and the teller told him she would have to call the bank in Little Rock to check the account. He waited while she crossed to the manager’s office.
When the teller came back she told him there was actually only sixty-one dollars in the account right now, so he wrote another check for sixty. The woman cashed that and he pocketed the money then walked back out to the car.
Behind the wheel once more he drove out of town, keeping to the speed limit, and headed for the freeway. Driving south he pulled off at the exit for Marshall and stopped at a diner across the road from the library and Army/Navy.
*
Out front of the station house in Winfield, Quarrie took a good look at the tire tread on one of the department’s cruisers while the driver looked on with a puzzled expression on his face.
‘What you doing there, Sergeant?’ he said.
Quarrie considered the tire: a Goodrich Radial, he memorized the pattern of the tread.
‘Tell me something,’ he said. ‘Do all your vehicles carry this make and model of rubber?’
‘I don’t know. I guess so. I really couldn’t say.’
Quarrie squinted at him. ‘Go inside and ask someone for me, would you? It’s important.’
The rain had stopped; the skies much clearer this morning and the sun beat down on the sidewalk. Sweat was beginning to mark Quarrie’s shirt at the armpits, and already he had his top button undone and his tie stowed in his overnight bag. Leaning against the door of his Riviera he polished the toe of one boot against the back of his leg. A moment later the young officer came out and told him that as far as anybody knew, all their patrol cars had the same tires.
‘Thanks,’ Quarrie said. ‘I got another question for you. Where can I find Henry’s Diner?’
He drove south-east on Route 49 heading for the Louisiana state line and thinking about the four-oh-five to Houston and what Mary-Beth Gavin’s killer had been doing on the depot platform. They had no idea whether he was local or from out of town, but given he had stolen the cruiser Quarrie thought it more likely to be the latter. This morning the chief had called to tell him the victim’s body had been shipped down to Queensboro right after they saw it. Since then the coroner had been on the phone to inform him the head trauma had occurred post-mortem. That only added fuel to Quarrie’s theory that the perp had been looking for something. It seemed clear that he did not find it, and whatever it was it was either still in that house or had never been there at all. Frustration, that’s what the head trauma indicated, and especially now they knew it had happened after the victim was already dead. So who was this guy and what had he wanted from Mary-Beth Gavin?
These were questions had no answers to right now, and his thoughts shifted as the sign came up for Henry’s Diner. He had not had any breakfast, his stomach was rumbling and he turned into the parking lot. Taking off his hat he took a seat at the counter where the waitress poured out a cup of coffee. She looked like she was in her twenties, wearing a white housecoat with the name Nicole printed on a plastic tag.
Quarrie ordered some bacon and fried eggs. Adding cream and sugar to his coffee he took a long swallow.
Nicole served another customer and then she returned with the steaming coffee pot.
‘Nicole,’ he said, ‘my name’s Quarrie. I’m a Texas Ranger.’
‘The cruiser,’ she said. ‘You want to know about the Winfield city police car?’
Returning her smile, he nodded. ‘Yes mam, as a matter of fact I do. Was it you that called it in?’
‘Yes it was; yesterday morning, early. There was a Winfield city cop came in and I thought it odd because this is a long way out for those guys.’ Setting the pot back on the warmer she rested her elbows on the counter. ‘It’s not often we see cops from Winfield in here and I didn’t recognize this guy.’
‘Did you talk to him at all?’
Nicole shook her head. ‘No sir, I didn’t. I mean other than to say good morning and ask him what he wanted.’
‘Do you remember what that was?’
‘What he ordered? I don’t know; I’d have to think about it. Maybe some scrambled eggs.’
He smiled again. He nodded. ‘You got a good memory. Tell me, do you recall what he looked like?’
Pursing her lips she looked a little speculative. ‘He wasn’t a real cop, was he?’
‘No, he wasn’t. Do you remember him at all, Nicole?’
She took a moment to think about that. ‘I don’t know, a little maybe, I guess. He was about thirty I’d say. No, actually, I think he was younger. It’s hard to tell when a man’s in uniform. He was younger than you though, if that’s any help.’
‘I’m thirty-six years old,’ Quarrie told her. ‘How much younger than me do you think he was?’
‘Mid-twenties then maybe. He was clean-shaven and I think he had blue eyes. Yeah, blue eyes. They were about the same color as yours.’
‘OK, Nicole, thank you. That’s helpful. Was there anything else you noticed? How did he act? Was there anything that stuck out at all? Anything that caught your attention?’
Nicole shook her head. ‘No sir, nothing odd. He was just like any other customer. He ordered and ate. Then he left.’
‘Were you busy around then? I guess if it was breakfast time you probably were?’
‘Actually,’ she said, ‘right around the time he was in we were a little slow.’
‘The other customers, do you remember any of them?’
‘Sure, I notice most of our customers. I like people – in this job you have to. There was an older couple I’d never seen before. Then there was Willy and Ellis from the breakers’ yard and a handful of regulars I guess. One guy on his own who comes in from time to time: he’s not from around here. I think he’s some kind of salesman.’
Taking another sip of coffee Quarrie set the cup down. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Nicole, that’s useful. The cop though, when he left out: could you tell which way he was headed?’
‘No sir, I didn’t see. But I remember he left right after that salesman.’
Quarrie ate his breakfast and when he went back outside he considered the floor of the parking lot. The ground hard-baked and covered in dust, it was littered with an assortment of different tire tracks. The rain hadn’t made it this far yet and the coating of dust lay like powder. Leaving his car for a moment, he walked to where the parking lot met the highway and studied the marks at the lip of the asphalt. It took a while to pick it out but finally he spotted a partial tread that had been crossed over by a number of others.
Climbing behind the wheel once more, he reached for his sunglasses and Mary-Clare smiled at him where she sat on the fence at the cabin he still owned in the shadow of the Grand Tetons. Set at the end of a narrow dugway, they’d found it purely by chance when they moved north not long after they were first married.
He let the engine idle for a second or so before selecting a gear and cutting out onto the highway. He drove at a steady forty-five; one hand on the wheel, he was taking in every ranch and airline road, every single sign that was posted. Spotting one for Henry’s Bathtub his eyes narrowed a fraction. A swimming hole about a mile down the highway, that young cop had mentioned it when he told Quarrie how to get to the diner. He said the bathtub had been named after the old guy who first opened the place, how he always had so much grease on him from flipping hamburgers the only time he ever got really clean was when he went for a dip. Somebody named the swimming hole after him and eventually the county put a sign up.
There was a gravel turnout about fifty yards ahead of the sign for the turn-off to Henry’s Bathtub. Instinctively Quarrie brought the Riviera to a stop and got out. This was just a hunch but that waitress had said the bogus cop had left the diner straight after a guy she thought might be a travelling salesman. Right now Quarrie was wondering just how far the perp thought he’d be able to get driving a Winfield City prowl car. Standing on the edge of the highway he hunted down a cigarette and smoke drifted as he studied the surface of the turnout. No scenic overlook, nowhere for a picnic, this was the kind of spot where people would stop only if they had to adjust something on their vehicle. It was where a trooper might pull someone over.
Stepping closer to where the asphalt gave out he considered the packed gravel, the layer of dust and mess of tire tracks that fouled it. There were quite a few tracks here as there had been at the diner, and it took him a moment to locate it. But there it was: the same tread he had seen at the diner.
Back in the car he rolled down to the turning and eased up just ahead of the cattle guard. From where he sat he could see the same tire tracks marking the dirt beyond the metal grille. He still wore his pistols on his hips and, instinctively, he worked the hammer clips loose. Then he put the Riviera back in gear and rolled across the guard, following the trail for a hundred yards as it snaked towards a shallow rise. At the top of the rise he halted. Nothing but the flat, gray waters of the swimming hole, fifty yards down the slope to a stubby little bank of mud and rocks where the water was lapping gently. A little breeze in the air, as he got out of the car he could feel it cool on his face where it coasted off the water.
He followed the tire tracks all the way down the hill to the bank where they disappeared. He stood there with his hat in his hand, scrutinizing every inch of dirt where the tires dug deeper with the weight of the car and that told him it had been stationary. He could see the wall of the track where a little dirt had lifted then collapsed again and that indicated the car had moved some after it came to a halt. No reversing marks though: the trail ended there at the water.
As well as the tire tracks he located two sets of footprints, flat-soled shoes on them both, that had to be the perp wearing Officer Michaels’ uniform and whoever it was he had with him. Moving a few paces into the brush, he picked up another set of prints that led back up the trail to the rise. No flat sole now, he recognized not only the pattern of the jungle boot, but also the nick in the heel.
For a moment he stared at the water then went back to his car. Unhooking the radio handset he rested an elbow on the roof.
‘Zero Six calling Marion County sheriff.’
It took a moment before a disembodied voice crackled back. ‘Copy that, Zero Six.’
‘I’m at Henry’s Bathtub, the old swimming hole on Route 49. Need you to put a call in to the police department in Winfield. Tell Chief Billings I think I might’ve found his cruiser.’