happened there were tire tracks on the dry ground stretching to the large barn. He felt nothing, seeing it all again. In Seattle he’d known police officers who were place sensitive-refused to revisit scenes where they’d been subjected to violence, suffered in one way or another if they did-but he’d never been afflicted with the syndrome. Places were just places to him. Now more than ever, with Colleen gone.
His Ford was parked where he’d left it, next to the dust-streaked pickup. Rinniak pulled up alongside. The farmhouse door had opened as they approached, and a slat of a man in his fifties, gray haired and gray bearded, had come out to stand on the porch, waiting. John Belsize, probably. He’d been just a voice behind the white flashlight glare last night.
Belsize stayed on the porch as they got out of the car. Rinniak said, “I want to talk to Mr. Belsize. You sure you’re okay to drive?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be in touch if there’s any news. I made a note of your cellular number. If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow night, you’re free to go back to San Francisco.”
“I may want to hang around a little longer. Depends on how much I’m needed at my agency.”
“Your call. Try to stay out of Kelso’s way if you can.”
“If I can.”
He found his way back to Gray’s Landing. The Ford didn’t have air-conditioning-he hadn’t needed it in Seattle-and even with all the windows open, the heat was a weight on him by the time he reached the motel. The pain throb in his head had grown intense; his vision had gone a little smeary again at the edges.
In his room at the motel, the message light on the phone was blinking. Reporter from the Redding paper, requesting an interview. He erased the message; no mood for the media. He swallowed two of the Vicodin tablets they’d given him at the hospital, then cranked up the air conditioner to high cool, drew the drapes over the single window, stripped, and got into bed. This kind of enforced downtime grated on him, but the EMT last night and the doctor today had been adamant that you didn’t mess around with head injuries. He mistrusted the medical profession on principle, even though the Seattle doctors had done all they could to save Colleen, but he believed Dr. Yeng’s warning well enough.
He slept, but it wasn’t a good sleep-fitful, sticky in spite of the air conditioner, dream ridden. The dreams were mostly an episodic succession of ghost images, distorted wanderings among hanged men, vehicles with flashing lights, dark-shadowed places filled with disembodied voices. But one, the last one, was clear and vivid in every detail, as were all of his dreams about Colleen.
In this one they were on their first date in Old Town. Old-fashioned Italian place, candles in Chianti bottles, checked tablecloths. Both of them a little nervous, but only because they didn’t know each other well yet and each wanted to make a good impression. At ease in each other’s company otherwise. Colleen leaning forward, her face lighted like a madonna’s by the candle flame, saying, “I never thought I’d be going out with a cop.” Him asking why not and her saying, “I’ve always been afraid of policemen, ever since I was a little kid. No reason, just that they seemed so… don’t know, authoritarian, dangerous.” Him saying, “You never have to be afraid of me.” And her saying, “I know. It’s just the opposite with you; you make me feel safe.” And the feeling that came over him in that moment, sudden and sharp and overwhelming-the revelation that he was in love with Colleen McPhail and the certainty that he would marry her and they would be together until death did them part.
He awoke dripping wet. Even the pillow was sodden-sweat, drool, tears. But his headache had dulled and except for a desert mouth and throat he felt better. A thin strip of fading daylight showed where the window drapes didn’t quite overlap; his watch said it was twenty of eight. In the bathroom he drank three glasses of water, checked the bandage in the mirror, then took a long, careful shower. He was hungry by the time he finished dressing. Another good sign.
Still hot when he stepped outside and crossed to the coffee shop. Cool enough inside, though. Noisy. He sat at the counter, ordered iced tea and a sandwich. He was just finishing up when somebody sat down beside him and said, “Mr. Runyon? Can I talk to you?”
Young woman, early twenties. Short ginger blond hair. Pale blue eyes. Pretty enough in a conventional way. Wearing shorts, a tank top, and an intense, nervous expression.
He said, “Depends on who you are.”
“Sandra Parnell. Jerry’s friend… Jerry Belsize.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Not here. You’re staying at the motel, right? Can’t we go to your room?”
That made him wary. She didn’t look cheap or duplicitous-just an average small-town young woman worried about her boyfriend-but it paid to be cautious. One of the most vicious jackrolling hookers he’d encountered in Seattle had been a sixteen-year-old with a face like an angel. “I don’t think so.”
“Outside, then. My car’s in the lot. Please?”
There was still some daylight left and there were plenty of people around. He was still wary but curious enough to say, “All right.”
Sandra Parnell went out first, stood waiting until he paid the check and joined her. “Over here,” she said, and led him to a beat-up Chrysler at least as old as she was. Convertible, with the top down. He waited for her to get in before he went around to the passenger side.
She said, “Jerry’s father says you’re a detective. That you came up here to see Jerry about that mugging in San Francisco.”
“That’s right.”
“He’s not a bad person, Mr. Runyon. I mean, he shouldn’t have lied about getting a good look at the man with the knife, but he was scared. He’s scared a lot; he just can’t help it.”
Runyon said nothing.
“He and Manuel, they always got along. He just couldn’t’ve done what they’re saying.”
“Why tell me?”
“Nobody else will listen. The cops… Deputy Kelso. You know him?”
“We’ve met.”
“He kept trying to make me tell him where Jerry is. He hates Jerry because… never mind why; he just does. If he ever gets his hands on him…”
“What do you think would happen?”
“He’d beat him up. Maybe even kill him.”
“He’d have to be the one to catch Jerry first.”
“You think he couldn’t? He knows this county like nobody else.”
“Does that mean Jerry’s still in the county?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you do know where he is.”
“No!” Too quick, too emphatic. She knew, all right.
“The best thing for him to do,” Runyon said, “is to walk himself into the county sheriff’s office and talk to Joe Rinniak. He’s the man in charge, not Kelso. The longer Jerry stays away, the worse it’s going to look for him.”
“They’d just arrest him and convict him and send him to prison. They wouldn’t keep looking for the real criminal.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“It’s what Jerry believes.”
“You need hard evidence to convict a man of arson and murder, Sandra. There’s no hard evidence against him.”
“What about those kerosene cans and the stuff in his room?”
“Circumstantial. No direct links to any of the fires. Or to the murder of the hired hand. Can he prove where he was when that went down?”
“He was with me.” Too quick again. A lie this time.
“All day yesterday? Why didn’t he go home when he was supposed to?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I just can’t.”
“Let’s quit playing around. You think he should turn himself in. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here talking to
