The door crashed open and a young, wiseass-looking guy strode in, wearing metal-shod cowboy boots, slapping a long leather quirt against his leg. He looked like somebody spoiling for a fight.
“Gimme a pint a’ blackjack,” he snarled.
Two young men on horses were visible through the open front door. The three had ridden up and nobody inside except Bunkowski had heard them. He was examining the Winchester twelve gauge. The punk paid for his Jack Daniel's and stomped out, not bothering to close the door. Chaingang saw him leap onto the nearest horse and use the quirt on it, unnecessarily, as the trio rode off.
“Fucker killed two horses last year, I heard. Mean mutha friggin’ sumbitch. Anyway, Rykers is working me a hundred—'
“How much?” Chaingang asked in a deep basso rumble. The proprietor told him, and was rewarded with more filthy bills.
“I can always drive produce for Lamonica or the Wallace boys, but shit, they want you to go outside or run around them scales and you can't do that shit now and keep your friggin’ CDL.'
“Give me a box of shells. Double 0.'
This took the man aback. Nobody bought double 0. “I don't have an entire box. I got, oh, maybe ten or so.” He pawed through an open box of loose shells.
“I'll take what you have.'
“You don't pay a damn speeding ticket they'll jerk your CDL now. Hell, I'd work for Lamonica but he's liable to tell you to go run outside the friggin’ scales, you know?'
Chaingang pocketed his change, and asked the proprietor in a quieter voice, “That kid on the horse? What's that boy's name?” His tone implying he'd known the fellow and forgotten his name.
“Jerry, you mean? The Rice boy?'
“Jerry Rice, sure. Does he still live in town?'
“Naw,” the man eyed him suspiciously. “He's never lived in town that I knowed of. He lives right down at the end of the gravel road where he's always lived.” The older man pointed.
“Ah! He ain't who I was thinkin’ of, then,” Chaingang said conversationally, making small talk until he could see the suspicion drain from the man's eyes. When the mood struck him he could be notoriously deft as a con artist, even muster an array of rather disarming social skills, bolstered by the unique talents of a natural actor, the unerring ear of a mimic, and his eidetic recall of stored observational minutiae. When he determined it was safe to do so, he took his purchases out to the car and drove away, not turning down the gravel road. That would come later, after dark.
The rain opened up again, splashing onto the stolen car. He was pleased in one way, as he'd neglected to clean off the windshield or refill the container of wiper fluid under the hood. However, it would also make the tags easier to read. He'd changed them once, but by now both sets would doubtless be on the hotsheet. He needed a fresh ride as soon as it became feasible. He needed soap. A real bed. Real food. His stomach rumbled, and seemed to be answered by a thunderclap.
The storms had moved with him, and he remembered the slick bridges, rain-soaked highways, and limited visibility that preceded the run-in with the drunk driver. It had rained since he'd left Kansas City. He normally enjoyed driving in rain, but the wet roads had probably helped bring about the mishap. The weather patterns, moving from the west, had accompanied his journey; it appeared that he'd brought the flooding rivers with him.
43
She woke up running from someone and successfully getting away and was almost free of her pursuer when the jarring, jangling telephone caused her to sit bolt upright, caught in a tangle of covers, completely disoriented and befogged, lurching around to find the unfamiliar instrument and snatching out at it as she tried to unfog her sleep-drugged mind.
“'lo.'
“Mizz Kamen?” A voice she didn't recognize.
“This is she speaking,” she tried to say through a mouth like cotton.
“Did I disturb you, ma'am?'
“No. No. Not at all.'
“Good. I wanted to see if by any chance you'd heard anything about your father's whereabouts since you were in Chief Randall's office?” The voice sounded distant and hollow.
“No. I haven't heard anything. Who did you say this was?” She was still groggy, she noticed, as her fingers fumbled instinctively to remove an earring she wasn't wearing as she tried to press the phone closer.
“This is Sheriff Pritchett, Mizz Kamen, I'm...” Whatever the man said next was lost in an electro-spasm of crackling static.
“Hello? Can you hear me?” she asked.
“I think the line's about to go, ma'am. Can you hear me okay?'
“Fine. Did you hear anything about Da—my father?'
“Surely haven't. We're intensifying our search. I take it you haven't heard anything more?” he asked her for the second time, a hard cop edge to his tone.
“No. I'd certainly call the authorities if I learned anything—'
“We've placed him in New Madrid,” the sheriff continued smoothly, his voice growing fainter as he spoke, “but after that we've been—”
“Well, let's see. He said he was going to head back Monday at the latest. He was going back to St. Louis first and he said he had some business there, and then he was coming home.'
“Where was he going in St. Louis?'
“He didn't tell me,” Sharon said.
“Was that usual for your father? Didn't he ordinarily tell you where he was going when he went out of town?'
“He always made it a rule not to discuss the cases—his investigations.'
“Would there be anyone he might have talked with down here beside Chief Randall and myself, in law enforcement? For instance, did he mention any contacts in New Madrid or Clearwater counties?'
“No, I can't think of anyone.” She'd never heard him speak of his unofficial contacts, what she'd once teasingly called the Old Goy Network.
“Okay. So he was going to St. Louis today, he said, then coming back home immediately. Is it possible he'd come back tonight and not phone in the interim if he'd had a change in where he went?'
“Yes, I suppose so. It isn't likely, but it's certainly possible. He didn't plan to come home that soon anyway, Sheriff. He was going to St. Louis today to take care of some business, then coming on back to Kansas City either Wednesday or Thursday, I think he said.” It was hard to recall specific conversations, and she was beginning to doubt her memory.
“But if he drew a blank on his investigation, he could have headed on up to St. Louis, huh?'
“His things are still here. I think something's happened to him.” It made Sharon suddenly cold to put voice to it. She was wide awake and frightened.
“All right. Well, stay in touch with me and we'll be talking soon.'
She assured the sheriff she would, as the spitting phone line went dead in her hand.
Her wristwatch revealed an astonishing piece of information, as she glanced at it to check the time. It was morning. How long had she slept? Twelve, thirteen hours? She rubbed sleep out of her eyes and walked over to the heavy curtains, peering around into the parking lot and street beyond. Rain was sluicing down in torrents, and she'd been in such a fog she hadn't realized it, though it was audible inside the motel room. The fact she wasn't totally functioning at the top of her abilities descended on her like cold rain. She watched a vehicle splash by and thought,
