"Did Winkler get any calls or messages before he took off?" I asked.
"Davis said he got two, but he didn't think anything about them at the time and Winkler wasn't upset that he could tell. Nothing to make him run out of here like a frightened hare." Gavin headed toward his bedroom.
"Around here we say scared rabbit," I said distractedly. "Con. Con. Con." I was beating my forehead with a fist.
"Keep that up and you'll have a nice bruise tomorrow," Gavin said, turning toward me.
"Go f**k yourself," I muttered, but somehow he heard.
"I prefer to perform that act with someone else," he retorted, walking into his bedroom and closing the door.
"You would," I grumbled, standing up to pace a little. I did have one thing I knew about Winkler that none of the others did. I had his scent. I could have picked him out of a crowd anytime. Just like I could find Davis, or Phil, or Glen, or Gavin. Especially Gavin. He had a scent that didn't come close to anyone else. The guy in the bar? That was similar but about a hundred miles behind what Gavin had. I put that out of my mind.
"Con," I said again, out loud. "Con. Fuck." I paced a little more. It took me ten more minutes, pacing and muttering to myself before something hit me. "Fuck!" I said one last time and ran out the door.
Yanking the door to the van open and nearly unhinging it in the process, I pulled the keys from my pocket and started the thing before I was completely in the seat. I was fastening the seatbelt with one hand while steering the van through the gate with the other in seconds. Precious time was wasted winding my way out of the Nichols Hills neighborhood but I finally made it, driving straight toward Hefner Parkway. That hooked into I-240 and then I-40; I was making my way westward as fast as I could, holding my speed back enough so I wouldn't risk getting stopped by the Highway Patrol. All I needed now was for somebody to pull me over and then arrest me for carrying a phony driver's license.
Yukon, Oklahoma, is nearly due west from Oklahoma City. I left the interstate and turned north on the exit for Garth Brooks Boulevard. The Flaming Lips had an Alley; Garth Brooks had a Boulevard. Hell, Will Rogers had an airport and Gene Autry had an entire town. Yukon has a population of around twenty-two thousand and it's scattered. First, I drove slowly through the town and the nearby neighborhoods with the windows rolled down on the van—looking for the Jaguar and sniffing the air as I went. I smelled plenty of people but didn't catch even a whiff of Winkler. Then I started widening my search, heading east toward Oklahoma City. Time was ticking for me just as much as I figured it was ticking for Winkler, if he wasn't dead already. I drove past house after house, yard after yard, before getting into isolated farmhouses surrounded by wheat fields. Five o'clock came and went and I was still driving—only I was traveling mostly through wheat fields. I was just about to give up and head toward the house, hoping I had enough time to get there before sunrise when I caught a small glint with my headlights. Backing up in the middle of the narrow road between planted fields, I drove forward more slowly this time until I caught the glint again.
Shoving the van into park, I flung myself out the door to investigate. As bad as my luck had been for the past month, somebody decided to smile on me that night. It was the tail light of the Jaguar I'd seen. The car was buried in a deep ditch filled with brush and saplings, which nearly covered the car completely. Only a tiny bit of red plastic had been caught by my headlights. Winkler wasn't in the car but he'd been inside it, and there wasn't any scent of blood or anything else that might indicate he'd been killed. I did smell others around the car; I got a good whiff of them. There was also another scent there and it surprised me a little—Mexican food.
I followed the scents. They hung in the air as I crossed the road, walking into the wheat field. There was no fence around the field and the spring wheat was about a foot high and green, rustling around me in the early spring breeze. I found the footprints then—I could see them clearly. The ground was wet from rain the day before, the soil sucking at my shoes as I walked through it. When I caught the scent where the footprints ended, I nearly gave up hope right then and there. I smelled death and decay and almost sat down to cry. No time for that. I started digging. Something was buried there and I was pretty sure it was Winkler.
Chapter 6
If I remember correctly, it took ten years or more to dig the Panama Canal in the early 1900's. Had they hired vampires to do the digging, they might have gotten it done in a lot less time and the mosquitoes wouldn't have been a problem. My nails were blackened with soft, wet earth and the sides of my trench had caved in on me twice but I was moving so fast my hands were blurring before my face. That's when I heard the noise. I was even more grateful that I heard it before reaching the body lying atop the metal box Winkler's kidnappers had used as a coffin.
I recognized the body the minute I jerked it up, my hand twisting the collar of the shirt he wore. The head of the body lolled back as I examined it. It was a male security guard—the one that had been fired after having sex with his female co-worker. He flew out of his makeshift grave so high and so fast it was a good thing he was already dead—the ensuing fall to earth would have killed him anyway. The banging became louder inside the metal box; somebody was kicking the end, now. There was a heavy steel lid on it, locked with a padlock. I ripped the lock off easily, taking the hasp with it. The hinged lid was up and off next. I found Winkler folded up inside the cramped space with duct tape over his mouth and his hands and feet tied with heavy nylon cord.
Getting him out of that hellhole came first—I pulled the tape off his mouth once I had him upright in the wheat field. Cutting through the nylon cords was the next item on the agenda. I was thankful he was only half-conscious when I ripped those ropes apart like they were spider silk.
I wanted to weep as I saw the horizon pinken, but Winkler was beginning to show signs of lucidity, although he was still wobbling drunkenly. I was forced to hold him upright for a few seconds while I attempted to explain things. "Winkler, I need to find somebody who can take you back to the house," I peered into his dark eyes, hoping for swift understanding. Desperation almost made me hysterical and it was coming out in my voice. I'd never had much religion before that morning but I found a little bit of it, somehow, when I saw a farm tractor coming down the road. "Thank God," I muttered, hauling Winkler toward the middle of the paved, narrow lane.
I flagged the farmer down and ordered him, as strongly as I could, to drive the van and take Winkler to the address I gave him in Oklahoma City. I also commanded him to forget he ever saw me afterward. Winkler, still confused, blinked at me as I settled him into the passenger seat of the van before sending the farmer on his way.