“No,” I said.
“Which means they don’t either.”
“Exactly.”
“You are good.”
“Exactly.”
“Hey, we’re missing the game. Looks like someone crossed over that yellow line thingy. That’s a good thing, right?”
Except now, I didn’t feel much like watching the game. The vandals upset Cindy, which upset me. Someone was going to pay.
Chapter Twenty
It was after lunch and I was back in my office listening to my voicemail. The first message was from Bank of America. I hear from them each day. Good people. Very persistent. My pal the female computer recording asked me to please hold, followed by some static and then a human voice that said: “Hello, hello?” a few times before hanging up. I owed Bank of America many thousands of dollars. Bank of America and I were just going to have to suffer through some lean times together.
The second message was from BofA.
So was the third.
The fourth was from a man I did not at first identify. The voice was soft and hesitant. I pressed the receiver harder against my ear and replayed the message from the beginning. It was from Jarred, the Rawhide town historian, and he wanted to see me ASAP. He gave me a location and a time. I looked at my watch. I could make it if I hurried.
An hour and a half later, I was sipping a Diet Coke at Sol’s Cafe in Hesperia. I ordered a burger and fries, and read a few pages of an emergency novel I keep in my glove box, a John Sanford I’ve been working on here and there.
Jarred arrived just as I was working on the last of the burger. The Rawhide historian looked a little wild-eyed and unsettled. Half of his shirt collar was turned up. He sat opposite me and looked out the window, as if making sure he hadn’t been followed. Then he glanced down at my nearly finished meal.
“Been here long?” he asked.
I shrugged. “About eight or nine minutes.”
“And you’ve already finished your meal?”
“What can I say? I’m a pig.”
He gave me a half grin, but seemed distracted. He kept looking out the cafe window. I looked, too, but didn’t see much, other than the nearly empty parking lot. Jarred’s face was pale, the color of worm guts.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, fine. Look, sorry for the clandestine meeting.” There was sweat on his brow and upper lip. The bottom rim of his glasses had collected sweat as well. Knee bouncing. Playing with his fork, flipping it over and over.
I watched all of this. “Clandestine is good. Makes me feel important.” I pushed the rest of the hamburger in my mouth. “Besides, I’ve always been meaning to check this place out.”
“Really? Oh, you’re joking.”
“You want a drink?” I asked.
“No, I’m fine.” He looked out the window again.
“What’s out there?” I asked.
His knee stopped bouncing. Wiped the sweat from his brow. “I think I was followed here.”
“By who?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Why do you think you were followed?”
“Because it was a Rawhide maintenance truck, and it tailed me out here.”
I had seen the trucks scattered around Rawhide. “One of those blue deals,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why would anyone follow you?”
He shrugged. “Maybe someone doesn’t want me to meet you.”
Jarred pushed his glasses up, reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it on the table in front of me. It was a map. A hand-drawn map; of what, I couldn’t be sure.
“You still want me to show you where we took Willie?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Look, I was told that if I cooperated with you, I would be fired. I like my job, and I’m doing good things out there. I’m making a name for myself. Now, I can’t help you directly,” he said, “but this is the next best thing.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a map to the site.”
“Where Sylvester was originally found?” I said. “And where you took Willie Clarke?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the map. It seemed fairly basic, with very clear and concise directions.
“Where exactly was Willie’s body found?” I asked.
Jarred pointed to an X on the map. “Somewhere along here, about five or ten miles from the site.”
“Where he died of heat and fatigue and dehydration,” I said, “after his car ran out of gas.”
Jarred looked positively sick. He swallowed and said, “That’s what I understand. Lord, if I would have known he was out of gas, I would have given him a lift.”
“You didn’t wait for him?”
“His truck started right up. I thought he took an alternate route out of the desert, as he was heading back into Orange County. We thought he was fine.”
“Hell of a way to go,” I said. “Dying in this godforsaken heat.”
Jarred looked away. That he felt guilt or some remorse for the death of the college graduate was evident.
“Just make sure you have a full tank,” he said to me. “If you head out there.”
“I will.”
“And water.”
“I’ll stock up here in town.”
“You need help with the directions?”
I looked at them again. “Seem clear enough.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Why are you going out there?”
“Scene of the crime.”
“But there’s been no crime, at least not according to the police.”
I grinned. “I didn’t say which crime. I want to investigate where Sylvester was found as well.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s tied into this somehow.”
“Or maybe not at all,” said Jarred.
“Or not at all,” I said.
“There’s nothing out there, you know. It’s just an empty desert valley. I’ve been out there dozens of times myself. It’s just a big waste of time.”
I shrugged. “Who knows, maybe you actually missed something.”
