They rolled along for a while and then Turley said, “Where’s Williams?”
“Long gone,” Parker said.
Turley nodded. “Dead?”
“No, just gone. Some other state.”
“You two didn’t stick together?”
“We had different things to do.”
“You were both in the jewelry heist, weren’t you?”
Parker said, “You hearing my confession?”
Turley chuckled and shook his head. “I’m just interested,” he said. “You know, I knew you wouldn’t work inside the system, so you didn’t surprise me. It’s Marcantoni I underestimated.”
Just as Parker had known what Turley was doing underneath his words back in Stoneveldt, he understood now what this cosy chat was all about. Turley was a good cop, but he was also mortal. His second job, if he could do it, was to bring Parker in, but his first job was to keep himself alive. Talk with a man, exchange confidences with him, he’s less likely to pull the trigger if and when the time comes. Like Mackey deciding to do it the more difficult way because Henry had made him lunch.
That was all right. Part of Parker’s job right now was to keep Turley calm, and so long as Turley devoted his mind to his little strategies he would remain calm. So Parker said, “Underestimated Marcantoni? How?”
“I didn’t think he’d team with a black,” Turley said. “I could see the three of you working something or other, but I thought it’d go a different way.”
“That was the way we had,” Parker said.
Turley thought about that. “You mean, your original bunch was broken up. You needed to work with the population around you, and most of that, as you know, is pretty sorry stuff.”
“That’s what you get in there,” Parker said.
Turley nodded, agreeing with him. “So you did a little talent search,” he said, “came up with the best team, didn’t care about any other qualifications.”
“Nothing else to care about,” Parker said.
“Is that right? Walheim didn’t make it, you know.”
The abrupt change of subject left Parker blank for a second, and then he remembered. Walheim had had a heart attack. He said, “So he escaped, too.”
“You could look at it that way.”
They drove in silence a minute, and then Turley said, “You didn’t ask me about Bruhl.”
“Ask you what about Bruhl?”
Turley looked at him, then faced the road again. “I guess you don’t care, but I’ll tell you anyway. Bruhl will live and do time. More than Armiston, and in a harder place.”
Parker said, “Armiston was dealing with you before you ever talked with me.”
“Well, around that time,” Turley agreed.
Far away, miles away, a few low buildings were clustered around the road. At the moment, there was no nearby traffic. Parker said, “Pull off the road and stop.”
Turley did, and said, “Engine on or off?”
“On. In Park.”
Turley did that, and faced Parker. “What now?”
“You know the easy way to take a piece out of its holster,” Parker said. “Thumb and forefinger, just holding the butt.”
Affecting surprise, Turley said, “I thought you weren’t going to take my weapon. I’m keeping my dignity that way.”
“You’ll get it right back,” Parker assured him. “I just don’t want you shooting out my tires.”
“Oh, I see, we’re saying so long now.” Turley shrugged. “Okay, fine, here it comes, gentle and easy.”
Holding the windbreaker open with his left hand, he grasped his revolver, a .38 Colt Trooper, by the bottom of the butt between thumb and forefinger and slowly lifted it out of the holster strapped around his underarm. Once it was clear, Parker took it away and said, “You got one in an ankle holster?”
“I’m not that kind of cop.”
“Show anyway.”
Turley lifted both legs of his tan chinos. Black socks above black oxfords, nothing else.
Parker said, “Fine. Now you step out.”
“See you again,” Turley said.
“I don’t think so.”
Turley opened his door and climbed out. On the gravel, he leaned to look back in and say, “Kasper, do us all a favor. When they come get you, don’t do anything crazy.”
“I’ll try,” Parker said.
Turley nodded and shut the door, as Parker slid over to get behind the wheel. He drove away from there, and a football field’s length down the road pulled over again. Triggering the passenger window open, he hurled the Trooper into the field, seeing in that outside mirror Turley, way back there, trudge this way. Parker drove on, mashing the accelerator, holding the Plymouth on this straight flat road above eighty.
The cluster of buildings still looked a long way away.
15
It wasn’t a railroad town, one of the freight depots that feed the midwest and help the midwest feed the world. It was a river town, from an earlier era, when barges kept the commerce moving. It was partly kept alive now by the east-west interstate highway that had been built just to its south. Even coming into the town from the north, Parker could see the fifty-foot-high signs of the two competing gas stations at the interstate exit.
Trucks were as good as trains, if you needed to travel fast and not be noticed. The problem now was time; there was no way to go around the town, so Parker had to go through it, all seven of the traffic lights on its main street, past the county courthouse, past the police station and the firehouse, past all the places where his own picture would have been posted now for a week, in a car that half the state was looking for.
He was prepared to cut and run at any second, and would rely on the weight of the Plymouth, a fully equipped police car under its mufti, to get him through or out of any problem. But nothing happened. Three-fifteen on a midday afternoon, very little traffic in the town, not a local cop in sight. The last traffic light turned green, the city street became a road again, and there was the interstate overpass just ahead, earringed with on-ramps.
Driving under the interstate, he looked at the long sloping shelves of rock to both sides, angled up to meet the bottom of the highway angling down. He could put the Plymouth off the road here, as far up the slope as he could go before the highway would be low enough to hit its roof, and not be seen at all from the air.
But for anybody driving by — particularly any cop — it would be an anomaly. Even if the cop didn’t recognize the vehicle or the license plate, he’d wonder why it was there. Parker drove on, out the other side to clear November afternoon sky, and entered the gas station on his right, where a second big sign, aimed at the traffic on the highway, blared easy on easy off.
This was much more than a gas station. There was a cafe attached, and a convenience store. For the long-haul truckers, or anyone else who wanted, showers and cots were available.
There were two parking areas, separating trucks from cars, and the truck area was more full. Parker drove in among the cars and parked as much in the center of the pack as possible. Before he left the Plymouth, he searched its glove compartment and trunk, finding a shotgun, a Colt automatic, flares, a first-aid kit, handcuffs, a box of Ace bandages, an extra radio. He left it all, with the key in the ignition, and walked away toward the convenience store.
Money could start to be a problem. He had a few hundred dollars on him, but no credit cards, no way to get quick cash except a minor-league holdup that would bring more trouble than profit. Claire’s two thousand through Brenda hadn’t gotten to him, and wouldn’t. He had no choice but to just keep moving, as fast as possible.