When the fingertip skin was dry enough and the ink fluid enough, Flemm removed his surgical gloves and fit a small latex finger-cot over his forefinger, then slipped the skin fingertips over the latex. Meanwhile the diener had laid out a fingerprint card on the stainless-steel counter. Gingerly, Flemm dipped his forefinger into the saucer, shook off the excess ink, then gently pressed his double-gloved fingertip against the card and rocked it delicately from side to side.
Peering over Flemm’s shoulder, Pender whistled low in appreciation. “Perfect,” he exclaimed. “Absolutely perfect.”
“And only nine more to go,” said Dr. Flemm, beaming.
April 18
To tell the truth (and why would I lie to you, my own brand-new, full-sized dear diary), I could have thought this thing out a little better. Or maybe I didn’t really believe I was going to make it. I wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t come up lucky on a couple of counts, the first of which was that it had been my left ankle that was injured, so driving a car with an automatic was not a major problem.
The most crucial piece of luck was that Murphy’s barn was still standing. Or at least leaning. Half of it, anyway. A landslide had taken out the rear half of the building, hayloft and all, but the front was still intact, jutting out from the base of the landslide.
More luck: Rudy’s untouched van was parked right where I’d left it ten years ago, inside the barn, facing the rear, with the front bumper only inches from the edge of the landslide. The money was still there, too, stuffed behind the false walls and floor along with two kilos of vacuum-sealed Humboldt County wacky weed.
Unfortunately, dear diary, you can’t live on money and weed alone. So after I’d cleaned the two of us up as best I could without water, and exchanged our ash-smeared clothes for clean but creased and musty- smelling jeans and shirts from Rudy’s suitcase, we drove back to the giant Wal-Mart outside Marshall City to stock up. I figured it would be safe enough, that no one would be looking for us so soon after the fire, and I was right.
We did get some curious stares, what with me tootling around in the electric scooter (I couldn’t put any weight on my left ankle) and Chuckles lumbering along beside me pushing two shopping carts. But by the time we left, with the trunk and backseat of the Beemer stuffed with food, clothing, medical supplies, including a pair of crutches for yours truly, camping equipment, etc., etc., all paid for in cash, we were provisioned for a good long siege.
It was full dark by the time we got back to Murphy’s farm. Chuckles got out and opened the sliding barn door. I drove the Beemer inside and parked it next to the van, which left us a living space around fifteen feet wide and twenty feet deep. For supper we ate bologna sandwiches by lantern light, then crawled into our new sleeping bags. Chuckles dropped off while I was writing yesterday’s entry, and I followed him into dreamland an hour or so later.
And that, dire deary, was about the extent of my good luck. When I woke up this morning, my left ankle resembled an eggplant in both size and color, and was throbbing painfully. With the aid of my new crutches I went outside to take a leak, and when I got back Chuckles was sitting up in his sleeping bag, hugging his knees and rocking back and forth while muttering unintelligibly under his breath.
That was twelve hours ago, and guess what, he’s still there, rocking and muttering. The only thing that’s changed is that now he seems to be aware of my presence: every once in a while he looks over at me and glowers. So even though I’m pretty sure that he’s only detoxing, I’m glad I’ve got Rudy’s.38 automatic in my sleeping bag with me. My plan, as soon as I finish this entry, is to turn off the flashlight and pretend to close my eyes. If he makes a move toward me, I’ll shoot him dead. If not, I’ll try to get some sleep, and hope my ankle will start to show some improvement in the morning.
Because I didn’t go to all this trouble just to sit around here watching Chuckles drool. I’ve got more important things to do, like driving back down to Santa Cruz to pay a little call on my grandparents. And won’t they be surprised to see me! I can hardly wait to see the expression on their dear old faces.
Pender found Skip sitting on the edge of his hospital bed dressed in a paper-thin seersucker robe over an open-arsed hospital gown. “Hey there, Magnum, P.I.! How’s it going?”
“Not bad, G-man, not bad at all. I just talked the doctor into cutting me loose. The problem is, they seem to have burned everything but my wallet and my shoes.”
Pender winked. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Twenty minutes later, Skip left the hospital wearing a pair of ludicrously oversize blue-and-green plaid golf pants, a loosely draped, periwinkle-colored polo shirt, and a pair of ankle-high pink socks. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful,” he told Pender as they drove away in Pender’s dusty rental car, “but would you mind stopping off at the first clothing store we come to?”
“Right after I get this to the sheriff’s station,” said Pender, waving the card with the dead man’s fingerprints. “Cal-ID’s promised to give it crash priority.” Cal-ID was the computer network that linked population centers all over the state with the main fingerprint database in Sacramento.
Skip told Pender he’d wait in the car while Pender dropped off the card and conferred briefly with Sheriff Lisle. But when they drove off again, instead of heading back into town to find a clothing or department store, Pender aimed the Toyota in the opposite direction. “They found something out at the site that the crime scene tech thinks might interest us.”
“No way,” Skip protested. “I’m not going anywhere dressed like this.”
“Are you kidding?” said Pender. “You look great in periwinkle. It brings out your eyes.”
April 19
Dear Diary: Other than sleeping, smoking weed is the only thing that even comes close to fighting the pain in my leg. The worst part is the throbbing-it feels kind of like there’s a balloon in my ankle that somebody keeps blowing up to just short of bursting, then letting the air out, then blowing it up again.
When I’m stoned, though, it feels more like the pain is coming in waves, long, slow rollers an old Steamer Lane boogie boarder like myself can ride all the way in to shore.
The dope is doing wonders for Chuckles, too. His first few turns I had to hold the joint to his lips, but he got the hang of it pretty quickly, and it must really be helping him with his detox, because oh, man, is he ever grateful. I’ve never owned a dog myself, but when I first moved in with my father he had a chocolate Lab named Toots that absolutely doted on him, and the look Chuckles gives me when I roll a joint for him is the exact same look Toots used to give my dad when Big Luke tossed him a piece of bacon.
The downside is that now Chuckles wants to stay stoned all the time. He keeps waking me up to ask me to roll him another doobie, as he calls them, doobie being one of the few words he can pronounce intelligibly. I finally got smart and prerolled half a dozen fatties for him, which ought to hold him long enough for me to get some uninterrupted shut-eye.
April 20
