A police cruiser rode my bumper, headlights flashing like a strobotron.
I SLOWED AND PULLED ONTO THE SHOULDER. THE CRUISER FOLlowed.
Traffic whizzed by, normal people on their way to normal places.
I was staring in the rearview mirror when the cruiser's door opened and Lucy Crowe climbed out. My first reaction was relief. Then she put on her hat, squared it carefully, suggesting this was not a social call. I wondered if I should get out too, decided to stay put.
Crowe walked to my car, looking tall and powerful in her sheriff 's livery. I opened the door.
“Mornin',” she said, giving her inverted nod.
I nodded back.
“New car?” She spread her feet and placed hands on her hips.
“Borrowed. Mine took an unscheduled sabbatical.”
Crowe was not asking for a license or posing the usual questions, so I assumed this was not a traffic stop. I wondered if I was about to be arrested.
“Got something you're probably not going to want to hear.”
The radio on her belt sputtered, and she adjusted a knob.
“Daniel Wahnetah turned up last night.”
I almost couldn't ask.
“Alive?”
“Very. Knocked on his daughter's door around seven, had dinner with the family, then went home to bed. Daughter called me this morning.” She spoke loudly over the rush of traffic.
“Where was he for three months?”
“West Virginia.”
“Doing what?”
“She didn't offer that.”
Daniel Wahnetah was not dead. I couldn't believe it.
“Any developments on George Adair or Jeremiah Mitchell?”
“Not a word.”
“Neither really fits the profile.” My voice was tight.
“Guess this doesn't help you much.”
“No.”
Though I'd never allowed myself to say it, I'd been counting on the foot belonging to Wahnetah. Now I was back to zero.
“But I am happy for the Wahnetah family.”
“They're good people.”
She watched my fingers worrying the steering wheel.
“I heard about the news report.”
“My phone's ringing so much it's now off. I just left a meeting with Parker Davenport, and there was a crazy media scene outside the Sleep Inn.”
“Davenport.” She hooked an elbow over the top of the car door. “There's a real peckerwood.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked up the road, then back at me. Sunlight glinted off her aviator shades.
“Did you know that Parker Davenport was born not far from here?”
“No, I didn't.”
She was quiet a moment, lost in memories that were hers alone.
“I take it you don't like the man.”
“Let's just say his poster's never going to hang above my bed.”
“Davenport told me that the foot is now missing and accused me of taking it.” I had to pause to keep the tremor from my voice. “He also said that a data technician who helped me take measurements has also disappeared.”
“Who's that?”
“An elderly black lady named Primrose Hobbs.”
