Marci looked through the book. “No one by that name.”
“Anything close? Maybe a combination of the two? Dale de Seroux? Jimmy Lundy?”
Uncertain, the girl pored over the names again.
Laura looked at the names upside down. “That’s it. James E. Lund. Could you pull the card please?”
“I don’t know—“
“We have a warrant.”
“Oh. Okay.” Marci found the registration card and pushed it diffidently across the desk.
The date of check-in was July 15. James E. Lund, Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Drove a 1994 white GEO Prizm with a Colorado plate. He was in Room 17.
A white GEO?
Laura wondered if he’d ditched the motor home or if he’d just added the car. Sometimes the simplest things could slip under the radar. All the agencies were on the alert for a motor home. But they might not even see a motor home towing a car.
She asked Marci for the key to Room 17. Marci handed it over without asking to see the warrant, which was good because Laura didn’t have one. Victor Celaya was on his way with it.
“How did he pay for the room?” she asked. “Cash, check, or credit card?”
Marci looked up the receipt. “He paid cash in advance.” She anticipated Laura’s next question. “For a week.” Laura counted up in her head. He had three days left.
She walked back out into the gun-metal haze.
At this time of day, between check-out and check-in, there were few cars in the parking lot and no white GEO Prizm with Colorado plates.
She walked back to the 4Runner, got in, and turned the air conditioner on full blast. Immediately her cell started bleeping. It was Charlie Specter. “A TPD officer spotted a motor home in a trailer court on Benson Highway that looked suspicious. He says it fits the description and the photo—the Pace Arrow. From the looks of the street numbers, it’s less than two miles from where you are now.
“I got hold of the owner of the trailer court, asked him if he had anyone there by the name of Lundy or de Seroux. He said the guy with the motor home gave his name as John de Seroux.”
Summer ran through the trailer park pounding on doors, screaming for help.
But the trailers just dozed in the summer sun. Nobody was going to open their door to her. She didn’t know why, but she knew it was true.
She started running up the lane toward the street.
Behind her the motor home door banged open and she heard running feet.
She knew it was him, but looked back anyway. Dale got into his car, backed it up and swerved around, heading toward her in a funnel of dust.
Summer knew she wouldn’t make it to the road. She scanned the trailer court and saw a break in the fence near the last trailer she’d been to. She had to go back in the direction of the GEO, but the good news was he’d have to turn around.
He saw what she was doing and hit the brakes, but by the time he had stopped the car, she was past him and was already cutting across the concrete pad next to the trailer. Behind her, she heard the tiny engine roar as he put it in reverse. She darted toward the break in the fence, trying to figure out how to get through the clumps of prickly pear guarding it.
Behind her she heard the car slam into park and the door jerk open.
She had to get down on her stomach, which took time, and shimmy through, careful to avoid the cactus. chain link snagged her dress and she had to yank at it, legs flailing. Then she was free, out into the desert and running.
“Summer, get back here!” Dale yelled.
Then: “
Summer’s mind raced. What would he do? Could he drive into the desert? He’d have to get out onto Benson Highway and get past the other businesses before he could get to the empty lot. It would be fastest and easiest for him to make a right onto the highway and another right, so he would probably be up ahead. She switched directions, following a path through the scrub, her sandals scarfing up dirt like an open mouth and stickers pricking her feet and legs. She stepped on the point of a doghead that went through the bottom of her sandal and yelped. Pulled it out and kept on going.
She hoped she’d guessed right. As she ran she could see rooftops rising above the screen of creosote and mesquite—the next street, parallel to Benson Highway. A neighborhood. She ran for it.
50
Where did all this traffic come from? Musicman slammed the steering wheel with his fist. Summer was loose and here he was, just sitting here, waiting as a whole procession of cars drove by.
His mind raced. Where would she go? Would she stick to the desert or would she make her way back to the highway? Or would she head for another road?
Dammit! His side hurt. Raw, throbbing. Blood starting to show through the towel. If a cop stopped him now …
