In my pocket was the.38 slug the mechanic had removed from the tire. I really wasn't sure what it signified, but as I'm keenly aware of the obvious, I had a fair idea.
6
I went back to the Vagabond and got cleaned up. I made a wad of my overshirt and tucked it in the duffel, pulled on a fresh T-shirt and buckled on my shoulder rig. I put my briefcase on the bed beside me while I took out a box of PMC cartridges and loaded my.32, which I tucked snugly under my left arm. A threat on your life is a curious thing. It seems, at the same time, both abstract and absurd. I didn't have any reason to disbelieve the facts. I was on Tyrone Patty's hit list. Some guy in a pickup had shot out my tire on an isolated stretch of road. Now, it could have been a wholly unrelated prank, but I suspect if the flatbed full of farmworkers hadn't pulled up behind me, the guy in the pickup might have circled back and plugged me. God. Saved by a truckload of Mexicans making obscene digital remarks. I might have been abducted or killed outright. Instead, providentially, I was still in one piece. What I was having trouble with was figuring out what to do next. I knew better than to go to the local cops. I couldn't tell them the make, the model, or the license number of the truck itself and I hadn't gotten a good look at the driver's face. Under the circumstances, the cops might sympathize, but I didn't see what they could offer in the way of help. Like the Santa Teresa police, they'd be long on concern and short on solutions.
What then? One alternative was to pack my car and head back to Santa Teresa "toot sweet." On the other hand, it didn't seem smart to be out on the road at night, especially in territory like this, where it was possible to drive for ten miles without seeing a light. My friend in the pickup had already tried for me once. Better not offer him a second opportunity. Another possibility was to put a call through to the Nevada private eye and ask for some help. The community of private investigators is actually a small one and we're protective of one another. If anyone could offer me assistance, it would be someone who played the same game I did with the same kind of stakes. While I pride myself on my independence, I'm not a fool and I'm not afraid to ask for backup when the situation calls for it. That's one of the first things you learn as a cop.
In a curious way, this still didn't feel like an emergency. The jeopardy was real, but I couldn't seem to make it connect to my personal safety. I knew in my head the danger was out there, but it didn't feel dangerous-a distinction that might prove deadly if I didn't watch my step. I knew I'd be wise to take the situation seriously, but I couldn't for the life of me work up a sweat. People in the early stages of a terminal illness must react the same way. "You're kidding… who, me?"
After the phone call from Irene Gersh, I'd have to come up with a game plan. In the meantime, as I was starving, I decided I might as well grab a bite of supper. I zipped on a windbreaker, effectively concealing the shoulder holster and the gun.
On the far side of the road was a cafe with a blinking neon sign that said eat and get gas. Just what I needed. I crossed the highway carefully, looking to both sides like a kid. Every vehicle I saw seemed to be a red pickup truck.
The cafe was small. The lighting was harsh, but it had a comforting quality. After years of horror movies, I'm inclined to believe bad things only happen in the dark. Silly me. I elected to sit against the rear wall, as far from the plate-glass window as I could get. There were only six other patrons and they all seemed to know one another. Not one of them seemed sinister. I studied a clear plastic menu with a slip-in mimeographed sheet reproduced in a blur of purple ink. The items seemed equally divided between cholesterol and fat. This was my kind of place. I ordered a Deluxe Cheeseburger Platter, which included french fries and a lily pad of lettuce with a slice of gas-ripened tomato laid over it. I had a large Coke and topped it all off with a piece of cherry pie that made me moan aloud. This was the cherry pie of my childhood, tart and gluey with a lattice top crust welded in place with blackened sugar. It looked like it had been baked with an acetylene torch. The meal left me in a chemical stupor. I figured I'd just consumed enough additives and preservatives to extend my life by a couple of years… if I didn't get killed first.
On the way back to my room, I stopped by the motel office to see if there were any messages. There were two from the convalescent home and a third from Irene, who had called about ten minutes before. All three were marked urgent. Oh, boy. I tucked the slips into my pocket and headed out the door. Once out on the walkway, I stopped dead in my tracks, struck by the eerie sensation that I was being watched. A silvery feeling traveled my body from head to toe, as chilling as a trickle of melting snow down the back of my neck. I was acutely aware of the glowing windows behind me. I eased out of range of the exterior lights and paused in the shadows. The parking lot was poorly illuminated and my motel room was at the far end. I listened, but all I could hear were the noises from the highway-the whine of trucks, the sonorous blast from a speeding semi warning vehicles in its path. I wasn't sure what had alerted me, if anything. I peered into the dark, turning my head from side to side, eyes averted as I tried to pinpoint discreet sounds against the obliterating fog of background noise. I waited, heart thumping in my ears. I didn't like what this business was doing to my head. Faintly, I picked up the musical tinkling of a little kid giggling somewhere. The tone was impish, high-pitched, the helpless snuffling of someone being tickled unmercifully. I sank down on my heels beside a wall of thick shrubbery.