'Can you check please?' he asked.
'It should have come in today. Maybe it's still in the back.'
The night clerk clucked to himself and excused himself for a minute. The door behind the desk swung closed after him. Quickly, Joe jumped up and sat on the counter. He reached across the night clerk's desk and slid out the drawer. There were two extra keys for room 238.
Joe took one of them.
Joe scanned the small office as he waited impatiently for the night clerk to return without a package. He noted the small plastic sign stuck to the wall under the clock, informing all guests that for their convenience, their room key would open the back door of the motel as well as the door to their rooms. The man finally reappeared, apologized, and Joe said good night. Once outside, Joe jumped into the pickup, wheeled around to the side wing of the motel and parked near the exit door. Using the key, he entered and took the staircase steps two at a time.
Two-thirty-four, two-thirty-six, two-thirty-eight. No one in the hallway. Joe pulled the Velcro safety strap from around the hammer of his .357 magnum and turned the key in the lock. He stepped inside and shut the door after him. No lights were on.
Joe stood still for a moment, waiting until the objects in the room gradually took shape around him. It was a suite with a wet bar and some stools. A dark couch with clothes piled on it. Buckaroo prints mounted on the walls. A large-screen television. Two interior doors that he guessed led either to the bathroom or to the bedroom. Someone coughed, and he turned toward the room on the left. He walked across the carpet and eased the door open.
It smelled of stale bourbon and cigarette smoke inside. He couldn't see anyone, but he could sense there was more than one person in the bed. Pointing the revolver toward the bed with his right hand, he searched the wall in back of him with his left for the light switch.
Table lamps on either side of the bed came on, and Joe swung the revolver around until the front sight was squarely on Vern Dunnegan's sweaty forehead. Vern had thrashed in the sheets when the lights came on but was now sitting up in bed staring dumbly at the big black hole of the muzzle. An older, skinny woman with streaked blond hair clutched the blanket to her mouth. Her eyes were smudged with liner on the outside and road-mapped with red inside. She muffled a squeal.
'Joe, for Christ's sake,' Vern said, his voice choked with sleep and anger. 'What in the hell are you doing here?'
'I'm looking for you,' Joe said. 'And I found you.'
The woman was beside herself. She was trembling and looking from Joe to Vern.
'What's your name, ma'am?'Joe asked. He recognized her as a barmaid at the Stockman's Bar.
'Evelyn Wolters.'
'Evelyn,' Joe said. 'If you don't get out of that bed right now, you're going to have Vern Dunnegan's brain splattered all over you.'
Evelyn Wolters shrieked and dove out from the covers. She had long pendulous breasts that swung from side to side as she scooped up her clothing from the floor.
'Evelyn, do you know Sheriff Barnum?' Joe asked.
She nodded her head yes very quickly.
'Good. Then get your clothes on and get in your car and drive over to his house as soon as you can. Tell him to get out to Joe Pickett's house right away with every deputy he can find. Can you do that?'
Evelyn said she could.
'Aren't you going to check with me?' Vern asked her, thoroughly disgusted.
Joe stepped aside so she could run past. She didn't reply to Vern as she left the room. Vern and Joe stared at each other in silence, only the sounds of Evelyn Wolters getting dressed in a hurry--grunts punctuated with the snapping of elastic--breaking the quiet. Vern's face was flushed, and his eyes were narrowed into slits. Joe had never seen him so angry.
The door slammed in the front room, and Evelyn was gone.
'Joe, what the fuck is going on here? You don't really want to do this. Joe? Do you? This isn't like you at all.'
Joe thumbed back the hammer on the Smith & Wesson. The cylinder turned from an empty chamber to one filled with a hollowpoint bullet. Little muscles in Vern's temples started to throb.
'Well, Vern, I don't know about that,' Joe said, his voice betraying his rage.
'Maybe you just haven't seen me on a night when my wife gets shot, my baby son dies, and one of my daughters is missing.'
Vern shook his head. His famous chuckle rolled out.
'Joe, you don't think I had anything at all to do with any of that, do you? I was closing down the Stockman with Evelyn when one of the local boys who'd been out at your place came in and told me about Marybeth being shot. He said Wacey told him to come find me and tell me what had happened out at the Pickett house. Soon after that, Evelyn and I packed it up and came here.' Vern paused and shot Joe a look that was both petulant and accusatory.
'Frankly, Joe, I don't know how you could even imply that I might have been involved in all this stuff that you've been going on about.'
'Shut up, Vern. You're so deep into this you'll never get out.'
'Joe, I ...'
'SHUT UP!' Joe barked. His finger tightened on the trigger--Vern saw it and even though his mouth was still open, no sound came out.
