“So-the usual,” Virgil said.
Davenport laughed. “Yeah. Tell you the truth, I think everybody likes it-gives them something to do, and they can go on TV. But it’d be best if we could catch the guy like… tomorrow.”
“Well, if we can get to Knox,” Virgil said. “Bunton thinks Knox has a finger in it.”
“He’s wrong,” Davenport said. “I know Knox. Knox would never do anything like this. Not in a million years. I don’t doubt that he could make people go away, but if he’d done it, there wouldn’t have been a ripple. No lemons, no monuments-just gone.”
“Still gotta find him,” Virgil said.
“Get your ass back here. I’ll have Jenkins and Shrake chase him down, but I want you here to talk to him. What about this last guy?”
“Don’t know-maybe Knox will know.”
THE RES WAS DARK, clusters of houses scattered along narrow roads radiating out from the town of Red Lake. Ray steered Virgil to his mother’s house-“Her name is Reese now, so that won’t give me away.”
The two Indian cops were waiting in Reese’s yard, sitting on a concrete bench, drinking from cartons of orange juice. Virgil hadn’t been introduced when they were all down in the roadside ditch, and when they got out of the truck, Bunton pointed to the older one and said, “Louis Jarlait, who used to bang the brains out of my little sister, and Rudy Bunch, who’s going to kick your ass someday.”
“Fuck him if he can’t take a joke,” Virgil said. Then to Jarlait: “Thanks for doing this.”
“What are we supposed to do with him?” Bunch asked.
“Keep an eye on him,” Virgil said. “Keep an eye out for strangers who might be looking for him. He says he’ll be safe here… hell, ask him. Once you get him talking, he won’t shut up.”
Jarlait looked at Bunton. “You okay with this?”
“Only goddamned way I’m gonna stay alive,” Bunton said. “Even if you guys kissed me off this afternoon.”
“We don’t have to keep him or nothing?” Jarlait asked Virgil. “He takes care of himself, I mean, moneywise?”
“He stays with his mom, maybe you could have a guy hang with him. We can talk about compensation for your time, maybe later?”
“What about him puttin’ you in the hospital?” Bunch asked.
“We’ve decided to let that go,” Virgil said.
The two cops looked at Ray, who nodded, so Jarlait shrugged and said, “Okay by me, I guess, if it’s okay with Ray.”
“So we’re good,” Virgil said. “And we’re all good friends.”
Bunch grinned, a tight grin. “If I were you, I wouldn’t park my car in Red Lake.”
“Rudy, Rudy…”
BUNTON TOOK VIRGIL inside to meet his mother, who seemed nice enough, and they sat down to chat, and Virgil fell asleep. A gunfight woke him up, but it was on television. “You passed out,” Reese said. She was a heavyset woman, wearing a fleece, though the room was warm.
“Tired,” Virgil said. “Listen, thanks for lettin’ me sleep.” He looked at his watch. He’d been out for two hours.
Bunton came in from the kitchen, crunching on a carrot. “You outa here?”
“I am,” Virgil said. “You take it easy, Ray. This thing’s gonna wear itself out pretty quick now. If you keep your head down for a week, you’ll be okay.”
LATE, RUNNING FOR HOME, probably wouldn’t make it back until 2 A.M. Looking at the stars, listening to the radio, singing along with a country hit by the Rolling Stones, “Far Away Eyes”…
Two calls on the way back. The first from Mai: “I had a pretty good time last night.”
“Slammed the door on my ass,” Virgil said.
“If I hadn’t, you would have been climbing on me like ivy,” she said.
“Might possibly be true,” Virgil admitted. “That was quite the neck rub.”
She giggled, sounding girlish, and asked, “So why don’t you come over? We can walk out and get a Coke.”
“ ’Cause I’m two hundred miles away,” Virgil said. “Had to run out of town. Looking for that guy.”
“Find him?” she asked.
“That’s an official police secret,” Virgil said.
“Pooh,” she said. “So… when do you return?”
Virgil thought about it for a minute, then said, “I’m on my way right now. I’ll get back really late. Need to get some sleep. How about tomorrow night?”
“Call me.”
He thought about what she’d asked him.
DAVENPORT, VERY LATE, lights of the Twin Cities on the far horizon. “Can’t find Knox. He’s crawled into a hole. Shrake talked to his daughter, and she says he’s traveling. Says he’s taken up art photography as a hobby, and nobody knows where he is. Says he never takes a cell phone, so people can’t bother him and he can concentrate on his art.”
“You believe her?” Virgil asked.
“No. He’s hiding out,” Davenport said. “We need to know why. Are you on the way back?”
“Coming up to Wyoming.”
“Okay… Tell me about this Vietnamese chick.”
So they talked about it, Davenport sitting in a leather chair with a Leinie’s, Virgil rolling along under the stars, big fat yellow-gutted bugs whacking the windshield like popcorn.
A wonderful summer night, Virgil thought. Or, as Ray would have said, a wonderful fuckin’ night.
13
VIRGIL SLEPT until ten o’clock, when Davenport called. “Where are you?”
“About to leave the motel. I slept a little late,” he said, sitting up in bed, scrubbing at his tangled hair.
“You gonna go talk to Shirley?” Shirley Knox was Carl Knox’s oldest daughter.
“That’s the plan,” Virgil said. They’d worked it out the night before. First the push from Shrake, then another push from Virgil.
“I’ll be running around with Rose Marie putting out brush fires,” Virgil said. “We’re pretty much guaranteeing people that it’ll all be over in a week. They just don’t want it to slop over into the convention.”
“Good going,” Virgil said.
“Hey, no pressure-if you can’t produce, we can always turn it over to the FBI.”
A USED Caterpillar 988B rubber-tire front-end loader, with a spade-nosed bucket, repainted and updated, sat on a patch of grass in front of Knox Equipment. A hand-lettered sign in the bucket said, in large black letters, “New Front Differential!” and under that, in smaller letters, “6000 hrs.”
A hard-faced, dark-haired young woman was behind the counter. Virgil walked in, sniffing at the odor of diesel fuel, scuffing his boot heels. The woman had one yellow pencil behind her ear and another in her hand, and was focused on a stack of invoices and a hand calculator. On the wall behind her were two color portrait photos, with a sign that read, “Our owners.” Under a picture of a square-faced man, a label said, “Carl.” The other picture, of the woman behind the counter, said, “Shirley.”
Shirley didn’t look up for a minute as Virgil waited at the counter. Her lips were moving, and then she jotted a number on an invoice and looked up and smiled and said, “Sorry. You caught me in the middle. Are you Dave?” She had one slightly crooked front top tooth, and the smile and the tooth gave her a sudden snaky charm.
“Nope. I’m Virgil. I’m looking for Mr. Knox.”
“Dad isn’t here,” she said. “If I could help you?”
Virgil shook his head, pulled his ID out, and said, “I really need to talk to him.”
