‘Marielle and Grady,’ said the man. ‘Somebody stuck a needle in ’em.’
‘How’d you hear this?’
‘My brother-in-law is a sheriff’s deputy.’ He belched hard. ‘No way Grady injected himself, so he’s no killer. I could have told them that. Anyone in town could have. You here to hunt?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Need a guide?’
‘Got one, thanks.’
If he heard me, he decided to ignore what I said. He fumbled in his pocket with his right hand while continuing to aim with his left, and produced a business card for Wessel’s Guide Service. Everybody seemed to be a guide in these parts.
‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘Greg Wessel. You can call anytime.’
‘I’ll remember.’
‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Parker.’
‘I won’t shake your hand.’
‘I appreciate that. You hear anything about the men who were killed? The folk on the news didn’t seem to know any more than I do, and I don’t know anything at all.’
‘Ernie Scollay and Teddy Gattle,’ said Wessel. ‘Brother-in-law says Teddy had track marks on his arm too, and Teddy was a pothead. Potheads don’t use needles. Old Ernie just took two in the back. What kind of fucking coward shoots an old man in the back, huh?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘You ask a lot of questions,’ said Wessel. It was a comment, and I heard no belligerence or suspicion in it. ‘You a reporter?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m just here to hunt and, you know, this kind of thing makes a man concerned for his safety.’
‘Well, you got guns, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you know how to use them?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Then you got nothing to worry about.’
He finished peeing, and waited his turn while I washed my hands.
‘Don’t forget,’ he said. ‘Wessel’s Guide and Taxidermy. I’ll be sober before dawn. Guaranteed.’
Now, back at the table, the waitress brought three burgers for Angel, Louis and me. They were not big. Around them were scattered a dozen very thin, very brown fries, like the detritus of a destroyed bird’s nest. Angel poked at his burger. It oozed a thin trickle of grease.
‘Did we order sliders to share?’ he asked.
The waitress returned to fill up our water.
‘You need anything else?’ she asked.
‘More food would be a start,’ said Angel. ‘Any food.’
‘It’s burger night,’ said the waitress. Her hair was very red. So were her lips, her cheeks, and her uniform. If it hadn’t been November, and the heart-shaped tattoo on her right forearm had not read ‘Muffy’s Bitch’, she might have seemed festive.
‘What’s so special about burger night?’ asked Angel.
The waitress pointed to a hand-lettered sign behind the register. It read ‘Burger Night, Wenedsday! $3 burger and fries!’
‘Burger night,’ she said. ‘Wednesday.’
‘It’s just that the burgers are kind of small,’ said Angel.
‘That’s why they’re three bucks,’ said the waitress.
‘Right,’ said Angel. ‘You know, you spelled “Wednesday” wrong.’
‘You know, I didn’t spell it at all.’
‘Right,’ said Angel again. ‘Who’s Muffy?’
‘Ex-boyfriend.’
‘He ask you to get that done?’
‘No, got it done myself, after we broke up.’
‘
‘To remind myself that I was once Muffy’s bitch, and not to let it happen again.’
‘Right,’ said Angel, for the third time.
‘You got any more questions?’
‘Too many.’
The waitress patted Angel on the arm. ‘Well, you hold onto them. I get you boys another round of beers?’
The diner’s front door opened, and Jackie Garner walked in.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘And one extra for our friend who’s just come in.’
‘You think he’ll want to eat?’ asked the waitress. ‘Kitchen’s closing in five.’
‘He can share ours,’ said Angel. ‘There’ll be leftovers.’
Jackie didn’t want to eat, and was happy just to sip a beer. The kitchen closed, and gradually the crowd began to thin out, but nobody tried to hurry us along. We clinked our bottles, and toasted to luck, but Angel was right: luck rarely seemed to come our way.
Which was, indeed, why we had guns.
Across the road from the motel and diner stood an abandoned gas station-cum-general store, the pumps long since gone and the windows and front door of the store itself imperfectly boarded up. The back door had disappeared entirely, but the single piece of wood that had failed to deny access to it still remained, although unsecured, providing the illusion of closure.
Scattered inside were empty beer cans and bottles, a box of cheap wine that was still half full, and the odd used rubber. In one corner was a rat’s nest of blankets and towels, damp and moldy from the rain that had poured through the hole in the roof above, a consequence of a small fire that had also blackened the walls and left a smell of burning.
A firefly glow appeared in the darkness, its illumination growing quickly until it was entirely consumed by flame. The Collector put the match to his cigarette and stepped closer to the window. The lengths of wood used to block them were imperfectly nailed in place, and he could clearly see through them the four men drinking in the diner.
The Collector was torn. He was not used to experiencing anger or the desire for vengeance. Those whom he hunted had not sinned against him, and the pleasure that he took in removing them from the world was general, not personal. This was different. Someone close to him had been killed, and another injured. The most recent conversation with Eldritch’s physician had revealed that he was not recovering as quickly as might have been expected, even for a man of his advanced years, and his stay in hospital was likely to be extended. The physician suggested that the effects of shock and grief were greater threats than his physical wounds, but Eldritch had rejected offers of counseling or the attentions of a psychologist, and when the subject of a priest or pastor had been raised the patient had laughed for the first and only time since his admission.
But they were dangerous, and not only because they were armed. They knew of the Collector, and understood the threat that he posed. He had relearned a painful but valuable lesson from Becky Phipps about confronting someone who was anticipating an attack. He preferred to prey on the unarmed and unwary. He supposed that this might be regarded as cowardice in some quarters, but he saw it simply in terms of practicality. There was no reason to make his task any more difficult than it had to be and, when required, he was prepared to fight for his trophy, just as he had done with Phipps.
Bu he also wanted the rest of the list, and these men could lead him to it. He didn’t know where the Flores woman was hiding, and he could only hope that she had not already found the plane. If she had located it and secured her prize, he would have to hunt her down, and that would be time-consuming, and difficult. No, ideally
