There were three Lindstroms—Ole, Walter, and, of course, Daniel. City cops never listed their names and home addresses unless they used their kids', wives', or even their dogs' names, but the pigs in little burgs were too dumb to expect reprisal.
Dumb Danny had his address right there: 15103 Old Orchard Road. Duane noted that and the phone number, and then added the number for the Sheriffs Office. He slid the notebook back into his pocket and dialed the last number.
The voice that answered was laconic, touched with just a shadow of a drawl, "Sheriff."
Duane let his voice falter and he spoke in a thin nasal tone. "Yes sir, I was trying to locate Deputy Lindstrom."
"Not here. Anyone else help you?"
"No sir—I guess I better talk to him. Could you tell me a good time to call back?"
"Be in about 7:30. You wanta leave a number?"
"No sir. I ain't got a phone at my place. Thank you sir. I'll call him tonight."
"O.K." The phone went dead, the desk man unaware of how much help he'd been.
In fifteen minutes Duane had learned Joanne's surname, her husband's name, their address and phone number, and
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Danny's shift; 7:30 check-in meant third watch—which meant Danny would be gone from home from then until dawn.
Perfect.
Duane walked out into the morning sun, filled with the joyous blessing of the bowling alley; the light and the way had been pointed out to him, and he had endless corridors of time in which to develop his procedure and carry it out.
He knew the Old Orchard Road; he traversed it every day with the full wine bottles chunking together in his saddlebags. The dirt road crossed the blacktop edging the river where he had his vantage point in the woods. He had found it unerringly as if an inner voice had led him almost to her door, sensing without knowing that she would be close. He believed in no god beyond himself, but he was convinced there were forces unseeable that had propelled and buffeted him in his quest, and the sheer gift of this realization hit him now, relaxing all his taut muscles so that he almost stumbled as he walked toward his bike.
Sam dreamed that he was walking across a desert wearing a fur parka hauling his injured leg behind him. A red bird circled over his head—a vulture—screeching at him in annoying cadence, but he couldn't move fast enough to get away from its raucous cry. In his dream he fumbled with the zipper of his parka, struggling to pull the heavy garment off so that he could run.
Pistol, sprawled across his master's chest, took umbrage at the rough treatment, struck out with one unsheathed paw and caught Sam across the chin, leaving a dotted path of blood.
Sam swung and reared up in the same motion, swearing at the scarlet bird that had just attacked him, and sending Pistol off the daveno to skid against the wall. He was awake
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now, his mouth as parched as the desert he'd just escaped, the afternoon's ninety-five degrees threatening to bake him alive before he could stumble to the door and kick it open. Pistol spied the opening and was gone in a blur of disgruntled gray fur. The bird became a phone and continued to shrill at him.
His bad leg almost buckled under him.
"HELLO! God damn it—"
"Hello yourself, little Mary Sunshine," Danny laughed. "Did we disturb his little nappie?"
"What the hell do you want?"
"This is your wake-up service, sir. You asked the desk to call you at four so you could get the preacher's wife out of your room before vespers."
Sam relaxed against the counter, rubbing his leg with one hand and holding the black earpiece with the other. When the leg could bear his weight, he used the massaging hand to reach into the refrigerator for a cold beer. He rubbed the can over his face and chest before opening it, slowly coming back to the reality of the afternoon.
"She left at noon. Said she couldn't take any more after the fifth go-round. They don't make women like they used to—at least / don't. Now could you tell me why you're calling at dawn?"
"Joanne says supper will be ready at five-thirty, quarter to six, and to get your ass out here."
"She didn't say that. She talks nice." Sam ripped the tab off the beer and took a deep draught. "You sure she wants me out there tonight?"
"I'm sure. Mother-in-law cruised by and left yesterday's harvest. There's enough to feed the whole department, but we thought we'd start with you. Corn, beans, tomatoes, and steak."
"Mother-in-law ran over a cow, did she?"
"Only the front half. You comin' out?"
Sam glanced around the trailer; it was so hot inside he could almost see heat waves emanating from the debris he'd meant to pick up when he woke up. "Oh hell yes. What can I bring?"
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Danny paused for a moment and Sam heard him cover the phone with his hand and call something to Joanne. Another pause.
She says nothing—but I'll take a couple of beers if you want to stop by and get some."
"I'll stop. Mother-in-law still there. Maybe I better get a case—I know what a lush she is."
Danny laughed at the thought. "Halfway under the table already, and she's panting to see you. The woman's insatiable. Naw, really—she left after the produce run. We'll see you in a while." He hung up before Sam had a chance to change his mind.
Sam's head felt thick from his day's sleep in the heat of the aluminum trailer. He grabbed another beer on his way to the shower and enjoyed the cold spray against his chest as he opened it; it was cooler than the shower would be. He was grateful he had someplace to go. He could stand staying in the trailer just long enough to put on his uniform—but no longer.
His truck, parked for forty-eight hours with locked doors and closed windows under the tin-roofed lean-to, breathed fire when he opened the door. He held his breath as he leaned across the hot vinyl seat and rolled down the passenger window, knowing he'd have to drive five miles before enough air could circulate to make the cab bearable. Before he could suppress it, his memory tricked him and raced back to find a cool place, and he was on the deck of the houseboat again with the rain sluicing down his neck. He could feel his hand on her doorknob, see through the steamy windows to where she sat cross-legged on the floor staring out at the water.
He felt better once he was out on the blacktop, moving away from his bleak thoughts and cloying memories. He was not lost; he had someplace to go, someone who waited for him, and a job he was damned good at. It was O.K. now, and he drew a breath of air that was, if not cool, at least bearable.
Natchitat was always two different towns to him; in the morning light, the dawn light, no matter the season, it was
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clean, kind, almost surrealistically pure, all imperfections softened by the plum velvet shadings of summer and the blue-pink of winter skies. But late afternoons brought a harshness, an unforgiving searchlight that weathered facade and exposed an underlying ugliness. If it were possible, he would have avoided Natchitat in daylight and stayed in the hills beyond town.
Sam wheeled into the Safeway parking lot, relieved to see that the evening shopping crush hadn't begun yet in earnest. For a moment he thought about locking his truck but dismissed the precaution, unwilling to face the furnace again. He stepped into the store and felt the ice-water air piped there. His uniform pulled eyes, sparked curiosity even among the most languid of shoppers. When he moved easily toward the rear, nodding at the Fast-Check-Out clerk, the one with orange hair and shelflike breasts that obscured her view of the cash register, the shoppers relaxed—half-relieved, half-disappointed, that it was to be an ordinary day after all.
He grabbed a six-pack of Coors, and then realized it wouldn't look good for him to buy only beer while he was in uniform. He picked a half-gallon of Safeway Snow Sparkle Almond Crunch ice cream, and spun around toward the quick-check line. He watched the checker—Beverly—yeah, Beverly—and saw a thin trail of perspiration ooze its way toward her cleavage.
"You find everything you want, Sam?" Her breasts seemed to have a life of their own, and they vibrated as she spoke. Sam looked up, caught. She smiled.
"Seem to have it all for today, Bev. You have a special I missed—giving anything away free? I forgot my coupons." There was no desire behind his banter; it came as automatically as breathing. She was very young, and her round brown eyes reminded him of a calf s. She liked him, but, God, what was she? Twenty-three? Twenty-four? He had nothing to say to her, or she to him. Even so, he smiled back, his eyes aimed directly into hers.
"You, Sam, don't need coupons." She reached across for
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the beer and ice cream, leaning just off balance enough so that he knew it wasn't accidental that her breasts brushed his tan-clad arm. He kept his hand flat on the check-out counter, pretending he hadn't noticed.
"You going on duty? Or off?"
"On, sweetheart. Can't you see I'm not sweating yet? Graveyard, like always. We're ships that pass in the night. You work days; I work nights, and you'll be tucked safe in bed long before I get off. My bad luck." She looked away from him, jabbed at the cash register with improbably long scarlet nails. Twenty years ago, he would have thought about her as he rode through darkened streets. Now, she slipped from his mind like smoke before he was even through the automatic door to the parking lot.
The Harley parked next to the vapor light pole caught his interest. His own bike had been a Harley. This one had no distinguishing marks at all, just a few nicks and scrapes in its black hide, scuffed black leather saddlebags, and Oregon plates. And all alone. Harleys generally moved in herds, but this one was a maverick. Probably belonged to some businessman with a midlife crisis. Sam moved on, but the bike registered someplace deep in his mind, the cop part, a programmed chip full of vehicles, faces, distinguishing characteristics, M.O.s and peculiarities, most never needed again.
He eased the pickup through town and floored it when he hit the blacktop, passing the trailer park again without glancing at it, and a mile farther on, turning onto the dirt road that led to Danny's place. He didn't see the black dot in his rearview mirror until it grew large enough to fill the mirror. It was the Harley, going too fast for the unstable surface—almost close enough to destruct on his rear bumper if he chanced to stop suddenly. Irritated, he tapped his brakes and the hog pulled back, controlled easily by the big man who rode it. Sam pegged him certain for a stranger; his old pickup was familiar to almost everybody in Natchitat, and no punk around town would have the balls to play games with him. He gunned the
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truck again and the bike pulled up closer. He tapped the brakes, watching the rider in his mirror. The bike shimmied, slid off-course a few degrees, and seemed about to tumble into the ditch before the rider rammed his booted foot into the gravel and skidded to a stop. Sam laughed and picked up speed, sashaying the old truck's rear end in a mechanical put-down. The biker's helmeted head protruded from the froth of the road dust and his silver-rimaied goggles glinted in the sun, making him ageless, unidentifiable—a disembodied, round-headed mask.
Sam lit a Marlboro from the crumpled pack on the dashboard and tasted stale tobacco flakes on his tongue, annoyed with himself because he'd forgotten to buy more at the Safeway. Now he'd have to wait until he got to the machine in the office or give in and accept one of the rotten cigars that Danny smoked occasionally.
He heard the bike roar behind him again just as he reached the lane up to the farm, where he concentrated on avoiding the weed-choked ditches on either side of the narrow entrance, his truck crawling a few miles an hour. He waited, only slightly curious, for the Harley to pass, turning his head to catch a glimpse of the black hog with its tall male rider. Jeans. A black T-shirt and the white helmet. Caucasian. The rider's right hand left the hand grip for just a moment, jutted in Sam's direction and the middle finger raised in obscene salute.
Sam debated backing the pickup out and giving chase. He would enjoy seeing the slow recognition on the Harley rider's face as he unfolded his uniformed frame from the pickup, seeing the turkey's bravado seep out of his features when he realized who he'd been playing with. He debated too long, torn between the welcome waiting up at the top of the orchard road and the satisfaction of writing a ticket for the fingerman. The hell with it; he'd have all night long to find assholes. No need to run one down now when his stomach growled for something to eat and his mouth watered for a beer. Besides, the ice cream would melt.
He pulled in behind Danny's new red GMC and headed
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for the back door, boots silent on the mowed lawn behind the house. He could see them inside, unaware of his presence, only a dozen feet away from him through the open window but caught in emotions that did not include him.
Danny stood, back to the refrigerator, arms folded over his chest, a closed look on his face—not angry, but cautious. Sam had seen that look a thousand times, that protective facade while his partner waited for someone else to speak, to telegraph weakness. Joanne was at the table, her hands full of silverware, her face turned toward Danny. Her shoulders, bare above the flowered sundress, were bent, almost supplicatingly, toward her husband. Sam could not let them speak because if they did, he would be able to hear every word, and they would be very private words, not to be shared with him or with anyone else. He banged on the door, and their startled faces turned toward him, veiled almost immediately with smiles.
"Hey, can I come in before I get goosed by the goose?" he said too loudly.
"He thinks he's in love."
Danny strode toward him through tension that still hung heavy in the kitchen and held the screen door open, grabbing for the Safeway sack with his free hand. "What the hell took you so long? I've been reduced to drinking lemonade."
Joanne took a beat longer to shake the dark mood, and then she laughed and brushed his cheek with a half-kiss. "He just got out of the shower, Sammie. If you'd got here any sooner, you would have had only me to talk to."