Flesh

The sound of a car engine snapped Jake back into the present, and he felt as if he’d awakened from a sweet dream.

Headlights appeared on the road to the restaurant.

The car approached. As it passed below him, Jake saw that it was a station wagon.

Terrific.

So much for his warning.

And so much for his plan to check the place out.

He watched the red taillights rise and fall with the dips in the road. When the brake lights came on, he raised the binoculars. A door opened. The car’s interior light came on.

Smeltzer and Smeltzer. The dynamic duo.

Ron opened the rear door. He pulled out a double-barreled shotgun.

The door shut. Jake lowered his binoculars and watched the couple climb the stairs. They spent a few moments on the porch, Ron at the door. Then they both went in. Moments later, light appeared in the bay windows.

So what gives? Jake wondered. Why’d they come back?

Forgot something? If that’s the case, they’ll be out in a minute. Unless they get jumped.

Jake realized he was holding his breath, listening for a shotgun blast. Or a scream.

He got to his feet. He started down the slope to the road. Still listening. He heard his own heartbeat, the foliage crunching under his boots, the normal constant sounds of crickets and birds.

Maybe the guy doesn’t jump them, Jake thought. Maybe he hides. He would’ve heard the approach of the car. An old restaurant like that, it must have plenty of good hiding places.

If he’s in there at all.

He might just as easily be in the trees beyond the restaurant. Or two or three miles away. He could be anywhere. Hell, he could be lying in the weeds, dead from his injuries.

Or he might be crouched in a dark corner of the Oakwood Inn, watching for a good chance to pounce.

From a high spot on the road, Jake could see the station wagon and restaurant. But not the Smeltzers.

They didn’t forget a damn thing, those idiots. They came back to work.

Not a big surprise.

Jake picked up his pace.

The woman, that afternoon, had obviously been reluctant to leave. Ron was the sensible one. But weak. The little wife must’ve pursuaded him that they shouldn’t let a little thing like a possible killer in the vicinity stand between them and their chores. Scared? Take the shotgun. You stand guard while I sweep up the dust bunnies.

“Smart move, folks,” Jake muttered.

He hoped they were smart enough, at least, to check the doors and windows carefully. Assuming they had locked up before leaving (and they’d certainly taken long enough, Jake remembered), then the guy probably couldn’t have entered without breaking something.

Unless he was already inside before they secured the place. Hiding.

What if they know?

The thought astonished Jake. He stopped walking and stared at the restaurant. And toyed with the idea.

They weren’t hostages—that didn’t fit at all. But what if they were cooperating with the guy for some reason?

What reason?

Money? Maybe the guy’s loaded and bribed them to help out.

Ron’s story about going for ice always did sound fishy.

And they spent an awfully long time inside when they were supposed to be locking up. Maybe discussing the situation with their new friend.

They leave with me. Come back after dark. With a shotgun.

A shotgun for their pal.

Jake started walking again, frowning as he gazed at the restaurant.

What do I know about the Smeltzers? he asked himself. Next to nothing.

Hell, the van might’ve been on its way here when somebody got the bright idea of running down Celia Jamerson.

You’re stretching it, aren’t you?

Just covering the bases. Taking a good look at every angle. That’s how you avoid surprises.

Do you really believe they’ve thrown in with the guy?

The wife, maybe. Yeah, I could believe that. But Ron?

Maybe Ron’s a terrific actor.

Jake doubted it.

They had to both be in on it, or neither of them. So it was neither. Probably.

As Jake neared the restaurant, he decided that, in all likelihood, the two had simply decided to ignore the risk, bring a gun along for protection, and spend a while finishing up their chores. But he couldn’t ignore the other possibilities, remote as they might be.

Better safe than dead.

He chose not to knock on the door.

Instead, he silently climbed the porch stairs and peeked through one of the bay windows to the right of the entrance. He saw no one. The area beyond the window would be the cocktail lounge. A long, dark wood bar with a brass foot rail ran the length of the room. It had no stools, but there were a couple of folding chairs and a card table in front of it, about halfway down. The card table held a small collection of bottles and cocktail glasses.

There’s some evidence for you, Jake thought. They had been planning to drink here. Ron must’ve been telling the truth about going for ice.

Jake crept to the other side of the door. Through the window there, he had a full view of the main dining room. Without any tables or chairs, it looked huge. The dark paneled wall to the left had half a dozen windows. Sconces were hung in the spaces between the windows, between the windows at the rear, and along the wall to the right. The wrought iron sconces each held three imitation candles—white stalks with glowing bulbs at the top. Apparently, they didn’t provide enough illumination for the Smeltzers. One table lamp rested on the floor, casting a pool of light across the glossy hardwood.

Next to the lamp stood a vacuum cleaner. A broom was propped against a stepladder. There was an open toolbox on the floor, and an assortment of rags and cans and bottles of substances to be used for cleaning and polishing.

Jake figured that the wall on the right must close off the kitchen area. About halfway down it, light spilled out from bat-wing doors.

Jake climbed down from the porch. He made his way around to the right side of the building and approached one of the glowing windows toward the rear.

Quiet music came from inside, so he realized that the window was probably open. He crept toward it cautiously.

The window was open, all right.

It was high off the ground, its sill level with Jake’s shoulders. Bracing himself with a hand against the rough wood wall, he peered in at a corner. He smelled the window screen and a faint odor of ammonia.

Ron, in a far corner of the kitchen, was bent over a bucket, levering dirty water out of a sponge mop with a long handle. He wore jeans and no shirt. His shirt was draped over the counter close to the radio.

Jake spotted the shotgun. It stood upright, barrels propped against the wall in a nook probably intended for a stove or refrigerator.

He couldn’t see the wife.

Ducking low, he made his way along the side of the building. He stepped around the corner and peered through a rear window.

The wife was at the other end of the kitchen, down on her knees, scrubbing the floor. She still wore her red shorts. But nothing else. Her back was arched. She held herself up with one hand and scrubbed with the other. Her