Perhaps I should go back to Willie’s and search the bodies.
I decided to do it. I had the brains to come down a side street and look toward Willie’s before I turned that way and committed myself, which saved my silly ass. Two cop cars with lights flashing were parked in the street.
I turned the other way and fed gas. As I drove I heard the moan of an ambulance.
My arm was leaking blood where the bullet had grazed me.
I hoped they were dead. All three of the sons of bitches.
Fifteen minutes later I pulled into a McDonald’s and parked. The sky was turning light. The sun wasn’t up yet, but it soon would be. The vehicle registration certificate was in the glove compartment. The car was registered to a Donald P. Westland in College Park. His insurance certificate verified the address. I used his cell phone to call information.
“I’m sorry,” the operator said. “I don’t have a listing for a Donald Westland in College Park.”
“Could it be an unlisted number?”
“No. I have no listing at all for anyone by that name.”
I read her the address. “It might be under his wife’s name,” I said.
After a moment of silence, she said, “I’m sorry, sir. I have no Westland listed.”
I thanked her and broke the connection.
I was getting quite a collection of cell phones. I punched my way through the stored numbers on this one, looking for one I recognized. They were all new to me.
I turned the telephone off and sat there trying to think. My heart was still beating a mile a minute. I was leaving bodies all over, and I didn’t know who these guys were.
What if this was a government car, and the name and address on the registration and insurance were merely cover? I got out, opened the door, looked for an oil change sticker. And there it was: Jiffy Lube.
I opened the wallet. The driver’s license was for one Johnson Dunlap, Bethesda. The mug staring at me from the license was the balding getaway driver outside of Willie’s. That certainly wasn’t conclusive — my employer routinely issued fake ID to back up false identities. The credit cards were also in the name of Johnson Dunlap. Couple hundred dollars in bills in the wallet, several credit card invoices, a dry cleaning stub, and an AAA membership card.
I turned on the telephone and called information. The operator gave me a number for Johnson Dunlap. That number was one of the ones stored on the telephone memory. I dialed it.
After ten rings I broke the connection.
Perhaps Johnson Dunlap was a real man. I tapped his driver’s license on the steering wheel as I considered. If he was a cop or federal employee and lost his wallet containing his real driver’s license while committing a serious felony with three colleagues— now dead — whoever was running this show was going to be very unhappy with Mr. Dunlap. He would undoubtedly realize that. Would he share the bad news with them?
I had another wallet in my pocket, the one I took off the driver who wrapped his SUV around a tree on Allegheny Mountain yesterday. I got it out and gave the driver’s license a close look. Jerry Von Essen, Burke, Virginia. I called information. They gave me a telephone number, so I dialed it.
After four rings, I got a sleepy female. “Hullo.”
“Is Jerry there?”
Talk about a hot woman — she went thermonuclear in two seconds. “The son of a bitch hasn’t come home yet,” she snarled.
“Think he’d take the time to call? You see the bastard, tell him I’m not taking any more of his shit! I’m moving out.”
Before I could reply she slammed the telephone down.
Johnson Dunlap. Should I go check on him, or should I hotfoot it back to Dorsey’s? Willie probably blabbed Dorsey’s name, so they would show up before too long.
I glanced at my watch. My sense was that I had a little time, and God knew I needed information.
I thought about calling Dorsey, warning her. Hell, she didn’t even own a weapon. The only thing she could do would be to load Kelly in a vehicle and run for it. Or call the police. Neither option seemed very attractive to me. I couldn’t protect the women if they were running around the country, and I wasn’t ready for the police.
Yesterday’s clouds had dissipated. No rain today. Terrific.
CHAPTER TEN
Johnson Dunlap lived in an older tract home in what had once been a fashionable neighborhood, perhaps sixty years ago, immediately after World War II. The maples, oaks, and tulip poplars that blocked out the sky looked about that old.
His house looked similar to every other house up and down the street — single story, brick facade, not much grass in the front lawn due to the deep shade cast by the huge trees. The driveway was empty.
I checked my watch, then drove down to the main arterial and along it until I came to a convenience store. I bought a newspaper from the box near the door and got back behind the wheel to look it over. The paper contained nothing on the massacre yesterday in West Virginia, not an inch. No story on a massive manhunt; nothing at all on fires and murder and corpses in the forest.
I started the engine and drove back to Dunlap’s. I parked in his drive in front of his single-car garage.
As I walked around the house I checked for a security system, which would have been out of place in this neighborhood. Nope.
I let myself into the backyard through a gate. There was dog poop scattered about, so I wasn’t surprised when the pooch began yapping inside the house as I picked the lock on the kitchen door. As I opened the door a small canine rluffball shot through. Apparently he, she, or it was more interested in relieving bladder pressure than taking a hunk out of my leg. Once in the kitchen, I firmly closed the door behind me.
There were several stacks of mail on a small stand near the kitchen table, but I bypassed them and headed for the bedroom. Sure enough, there was Baldy and a woman in framed photos on the dresser and nightstand. So Baldy was indeed Johnson Dunlap, a real person. Somehow establishing that fact seemed important.
I glanced around the bedroom and went back to the mail in the kitchen. If there was a pay stub or pay summary in one of those piles that gave the name of his employer, it would make my day. I was flipping through the envelopes when I heard another car pull into the driveway.
The dog in the back yard began yapping. I sat down at the kitchen table, got out the automatic, and laid it in my lap.
From where I sat I could see the front door. The key turning in the front door lock was plainly audible. The door opened and a woman in her early thirties dressed in a nurse’s white uniform entered the house. She had a bag in her arms and was so intent on getting in and not dropping the bag or her keys that she didn’t see me. She closed the door and turned to walk along the hallway to the kitchen. That’s when she saw me.
She stopped, tried to recognize my face. The light wasn’t great, so she took several more steps toward me.
“Johnson?” She raised her voice. “Johnson?” Then to me: “Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I came alone.”
“But the car?”
“I borrowed it from your husband.”
She entered the kitchen. She set the bag containing groceries on the kitchen counter and extracted a half gallon of milk, which she placed in the refrigerator. She had short dark hair, was a tad plump, and had had an accident with some food during her shift — there was a stain on her blouse. It looked like mustard.
“Did you just get off work?” I asked.
“Yes.” She named the hospital. She glanced around the room again, noted the dog in the back yard, made eye contact with me and asked in a worried voice, “Where is Johnson? Has he been hurt?”
“He’ll be along shortly.”
“How’d you get in here?”
