Something floated in the dark, just beyond him, translucent, ghostly in the still air.
There seemed to be a sudden stillness, as if the night itself had ceased to function, time had stopped.
What would involve her, draw her to them?
What?
She was a victim?
That would drive her away.
What?
She committed a crime herself.
It was so simple, and in the next second, wholly, it detonated in all its beauty into his mind; he saw into it now, clearly and absolutely.
A category that isn't a category.
A minor who commits a capital crime… but the court records are sealed, because she's a minor. There's no category for that. One cannot access it through normal channels.
C.D. blinked, opened the bottle, and swallowed a well earned blast of Harper's.
If the court records are sealed, I can't get into them.
Maybe tomorrow, but not now.
It angered him. So close and yet so far. Who else would have records?
And then the next step, easy as pie.
The newspaper.
C.D. opened a little black book he carried with him always, and located the number of the managing editor of the Lawton Constitution.
He didn't give a damn what time it was as he called.
“Hello,” came the groggy voice.
“Parker? Parker, it's goddamned C. D. Henderson.”
“CD.? What in hell—”
“Never you mind. You got anybody down at the paper tonight?”
“Ah—sure, skeleton crew, night telegraph editor, night photo editor, late makeup, sports desk. Probably a few odd bodies lying around.”
“Ain't you all on some sort of computer system?”
“Nexus, it's called.”
“I thought. Listen here, I'll give you a scoop and a half, you do me a favor. You call whoever's in charge down here, you tell him I want the name of all convicted female teenaged murderers in the last ten years.
Out of your records.
Not the court records, your records. I want it fast. Okay, Parker?”
“I—What is—”
“Never you mind, Parker. You just git me that information and I'll take care of you. Have them call me here- 555-3321—soonest. I mean soonest. Lives at stake. We're going to try and save an innocent woman and put a guilty man into the ground, where he deserves to go.”
The joy of it was that he could watch Bud without risking himself, or even leaving.
Lamar lay in the gully with a pair of binoculars, just down the road from the red dirt turnoff that led to Ruta Beth's house. He looked at his watch. If Bud had left the Exxon station twenty, twenty-five minutes ago on the way to Toleens, the only road he could take was this one and he'd be heaving into sight in a few minutes. And then what? A chopper overhead, a SWAT bus and convoy ten minutes behind? Would his truck have an aerial, suggesting he was in radio contact?
It was all very interesting to Lamar.
But of course the hard part was not shooting.
Bud would roll by; it would be so easy to nail him with four or five 12-gauge blasts, take him down and do him here, on the spot. Lamar saw it: the crashed truck, the holes in the door, the smell of gasoline, broken glass everywhere.
The lawman in pain, begging for mercy. Lamar putting the shotgun muzzle up close to him, feeling him squirm a bit, and then the blast, the blood spatters, pieces everywhere.
Oh so nice it seemed. I-magi-nation. Big word: Pictures in your head.
But Lamar knew they could have done him at the ball game or at any of the pay phones. Lamar forced himself into the hunter's patience. Check it out, he told himself.
Use the edge you got yourself. Don't rush things. Do it right. Make him pay. Make him pay real bad. Imagination.
Far off, he saw headlights. Their swift approach indicated reckless speed. Lamar was able to tell quickly enough it was a Ford F250, blue and white, and as it approached, he dialed Bud's tense face into focus.
Square-headed man, eyes hooded under the Stetson, dark clothes, driving fast but well, steady as a rock. There was a set to his face that Lamar remembered from the Stepford farm, as poor Bud walked up toward the house and he and O’Dell prepared to take them down. He looked so body proud so full of his own self, and he still had that bullnecked swagger to him, though now cut through with so much tension that he hardly seemed human. He flashed by Lamar toward his destination still a good twenty miles down the road, not knowing how close he was to being reeled in.
Next Lamar looked at how the truck rode, which appeared to be normal; it didn't ride low on its tires, which meant he wasn't carrying a big load, which meant a Trooper SWAT team or gaggle of Texas Ranger snipers wasn't hunkered down in the truck-bed. It had no extra aerial.
Lamar watched the taillights grow tiny, then fade, and listened till the whine of tires on asphalt died away. He put the glasses down and listened hard. No sound. He waited and watched. Only the low night wind pushing across the wide plains, now and then the squawk of some night creature.
No choppers followed Bud a thousand feet up, and the road itself remained empty for the longest time, a flat blank ribbon glowing ever so slightly in starlight. No convoy appeared, nothing.
Satisfied, Lamar rose and headed back toward the farmhouse, enjoying the power he felt under the wide night sky.
It was like being invisible, like being a god. He felt a stirring in his crotch at the promise of action.
He hardly ever thought about such things, for they were so much a part of the way he was. But now he felt it, pure and blood deep: He was the Lion, he was the king. And he was about to feed.
Bud hit Toleens, which was exactly one decrepit old general store, windblown and nearly barren of paint, with two gas pumps out front and a pay phone next to the front door.
He pulled over and waited, checking his watch. Nearly four.
He'd just made it.
He waited until ten after. Now what was wrong? Goddammit!
He began to grow nervous. This was the perfect setup. At any moment gunshots might explode out of the dark, taking him down. Lamar might be just across the road, watching him twit nervously on the porch before blowing him away at leisure.
But the phone rang finally.
“Yes.”
“Well, old Bud, how are you?”
“Cut the shit, Lamar. You haven't hurt her?”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“Prove it.”
“Now don't you go using that attitude on me, Lawman. I don't have to prove nothing. You want your woman, you better do what I say or the hell with her. And then I will hurt her.”
“Where are you?”
“Oh, not yet, Pewtie. We ain't done playing tag. You got a bit more running around to do. I want to be real sure.”
“Tell me.”
“No sir. I want you headed east now, toward Chickasha.
Town called Anadarko. That's your next stop. Another gas station. On 62, a Phillips. You got a hour.”
