He drove the back roads. His police radio came on from time to time, but he always rolled down his window before grabbing the mike and mumbling into it. The howling wind drowned out his conversation.
Avery leaned forward, moved his cuffed hands, and glanced back at his wristwatch: 6:10. If the lights of a gas station and a neighboring burger joint were any indication, they’d reached some semblance of civilization. But the cop kept driving, and the cluster of sleepy stores and streetlights gave way to darkness again.
Then they slowed down, and the squad car bounced over a set of railroad tracks. Avery saw a deserted train depot and a neglected Tudor station house. Two box cars sat in the depot, so old and ravaged they were mere shells. The policeman pulled up alongside the station house. “The Great Northern used to run through here,” he said. “This was a major freight stop. But not anymore. Fuckin’ Jews on Wall Street put an end to that.”
He stepped out of the squad car, then opened Avery’s door. “All right, O-U-T,” he said, grabbing Avery’s arm and pulling him from the cop car.
Avery finally caught a glimpse of the cop’s name tag. “Listen, Officer Taggert, you haven’t even told me what I’m being charged with. I think—”
He didn’t finish. Without warning, Officer Earl Taggert punched Avery in the stomach, a hard wallop that knocked the wind out of him. Avery doubled over. “That’s enough out of you,” Taggert said.
He led Avery up some steps to the train platform and station house. The battered door looked painted shut, and cobwebs clung to the top corners. But Taggert unlocked the door and pushed it open. The place had a musty odor. Taggert shoved him, and Avery stumbled across the dusty floor and bumped into a bench. “Sit,” the cop said.
In the darkness, Avery plopped down on a bench. He was still bent forward, trying to catch his breath after Taggert’s sucker punch. He watched the cop move amid the shadows to an office alcove caged off from the waiting area. Taggert switched on an overhead, and the light spilled into the main room. Avery sat on a long, dusty bench with a curved back. Across from him were doors to the men’s and ladies’ rooms, and a ticket window with bars.
Sitting on the edge of a beat-up metal desk, Taggert made a call on a beige Touch-Tone phone. Avery stared at the ring of keys he’d casually tossed on the desk. He wondered which one worked his handcuffs. For the last two hours he’d been trying in vain to squeeze his hands free.
“Okay, we’ll be here,” Taggert said, then he hung up. Grabbing his keys, he swaggered over to the radiator. He gave the knob a twist, and Avery heard the sound of steam building up in the old pipes. “We might as well be warm while we wait for the federal men to come pick you up,
“I didn’t kill that woman,” Avery said. “I never even touched her.”
“Shut your pie-hole,” Taggert grumbled. He wandered back to the tiny office and picked up the phone again. “Move one muscle, and it’s just the excuse I need to put you down. Okay?”
His hands cuffed behind him, Avery stared at Taggert. Cop or no cop, he obviously worked for the group in Opal. There weren’t any “federal men” coming. Taggert was just biding time, waiting for his friends to arrive.
Avery tugged and pulled at the cuffs until his knuckles felt raw. He’d never picked a lock in his life. Still he checked the station house floor for a lost bobby pin or piece of wire.
His only hope was acting dumb and obedient, placating Taggert until he found the right moment for a sudden attack—a head-butt or a kick to the groin. He hadn’t slugged it out with anyone since breaking Steve Monda’s nose in ninth grade. But recently, the stuntman who trained him for his fight scenes in
Taggert raised his voice in the next room: “You tell that son of a bitch, Hal, that I’m the one who caught him, I should be able to take him to Spokane and do the job there….” A minute later, he hung up the phone.
Through the barred windows, a beam of headlights swept across the musty waiting room. “What the hell…” Taggert stomped over to the window. Avery twisted around to look at him.
“Ah, crap. It’s Tonto. Goddamn pain in the ass.” He turned and glared at Avery. “Want to get yourself into deeper shit? Go ahead and talk to this guy. But if you’re smart, you’ll shut up.”
Avery watched the headlights go out; then after a moment, a tall figure walked past the dirt-smeared window. Slowly, the door opened. A policeman stood at the threshold, one hand poised at his gun. The cop was a Native American in his late twenties, with neatly trimmed black hair, and almost too brawny a physique. His muscles bulged against his blue and gray uniform. He seemed to recognize Taggert and stepped inside. “Earl?” the young policeman said, cracking a wary smile. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Pete, how’s it hanging, buddy?” Taggert gave his shoulder a punch.
“I saw your squad car outside….” He looked at Avery, eyes narrowed.
“I’m hauling this joker to Lewiston,” Taggert said, pulling out a handkerchief to blow his nose again. “He raped a teenage girl there on Thursday night. I just stopped here to take a pee.”
Pete seemed puzzled. Hands on his hips, he glanced at Avery—and then at Taggert. “I didn’t hear anything about a rape in Lewiston on Thursday.”
The other cop laughed and scratched his head. “Hell, then you must be slipping, Pete.”
He chuckled along. Stepping in front of Avery, he stared at him again. “Wait a minute,” he murmured. “My God, you’re Avery Cooper. What are you—”
A loud shot rang out.
The young policeman gasped. He seemed paralyzed for a moment, standing there with a dazed look in his brown eyes, Then he twisted around and keeled over, slamming onto the dusty floorboards.
Avery gaped down at the bullet hole in his back, the blood slowly blooming dark crimson on his gray shirt.
Officer Taggert still had the gun in his hand. “Now look what you’ve done, trying to resist arrest,” he said. “You just shot a police officer.”
“I asked you a question, doll face.”
Sean didn’t turn to look at the stranger in the backseat. Gripping the wheel, she studied him in the rearview mirror. “What do you want?”
“I just want to know you better.” He brushed her ear with a gun.
“Okay,” she said calmly. “Then let’s go some place and talk over coffee.” She started the car.
“Turn off the goddamn engine,” he growled.
Sean obeyed. Leaving the keys in the ignition, she slowly sat back.
“I almost ran you down a few hours ago—outside the post office. You ought to be more careful, honey. Why were you in such a hurry?”
“I had to meet an old friend of my mother’s. She lives in that white stucco.” Sean nodded toward Hildy’s house. She furtively slid her hand toward her purse. There was a pocket-knife inside, within her reach.
“Bullshit. But say something else in that high and mighty tone of yours. Say: ‘I’m not supposed to hang up on you, though I’m sorely tempted.’”
Sean stared at him in the rearview mirror.
“We talked on the phone night before last. You’re Dayle’s lawyer friend, Sean Olson.”
Sean swiveled around. The stranger was a handsome guy, despite his unwashed long, black hair. In that leather jacket, the jeans and T-shirt, he had a certain cheap, lounge-lizard sexiness. Beside him on the backseat was a big, black leather satchel. “Are you Nick Brock?” She murmured.
“Pleased to finally meet you, babe,” he said with a cocky smile.
She gaped at him. “You’re supposed to be dead. That hotel fire—”
“Oh, yeah.” He reached inside his bag and took out a wallet. He flipped it open and glanced at something. “The guy toasted in the fire was Charles W. Stample, age forty-nine. I figure, with the police force here, I have another day before Sheriff Andy and Barney Fife figure out the charcoal briquette in their morgue is actually one of Opal’s most eligible bachelors. Meanwhile, I’ll take advantage of them thinking I’m dead.” He slipped the wallet and his gun back inside his bag.
“Charlie,” Sean murmured. “Hildy mentioned him. He’s one of Lyle’s hunting buddies.” She scowled at Nick. “Did you kill him? Are you the one who set fire to that hotel room?”
