Far above them, up the last dry hill of Little Fish Creek, Hurlie Farger sat in his old truck looking down the falling land watching Harper ply the narrow roads and switchbacks. He had been there for three hours, killing a six-pack of beer and wagering with himself how long would it take the tall skinny cop to grow discouraged and leave, not accomplishing what he had come for. Knowing cops, he expected Harper might keep looking until nightfall, until it was too dark among the hills for any cop with good sense to hang around, when he was out of his own jurisdiction.
Hurlie Farger, at thirty-eight, was the spit'n image of how his gramps had looked at that age. And he could almost be the twin of his younger brother Gerrard. Certainly anyone running across Gerrard down in San Quentin, and knowing Gramps Farger from the old man's sojourns in various California prisons, would see at once that the sullen, wiry inmate with the muddy brown eyes and pitcher ears was a Farger, and they'd know Hurlie just as easily. All the Farger men had the same chicken-thin neck, the same narrow bony shoulders and lank, muddy hair. Maybe the Farger clan wasn't handsome, but the family genes were strong. In the long haul, Hurlie knew, it's blood that counts.
Watching the newlyweds ply the Little Fish Creek neighborhood, Hurlie had eased down comfortably in his old, rusted-out Ford truck drinking a warm Coors and cradling his cell phone, following Harper's progress not only with binoculars but via the wonders of modern electronics. From his good neighbors he had received a running account of all conversations. He had watched Harper circle his own place peering in the windows, and knew that Harper had gotten the address from Sheriff Beck. But Hurlie had made very sure that the visiting law would find nothing of interest.
Though Harper had the rural-route mailbox numbers of Hurlie's two cousins, he learned nothing from either, or from their kids. Hurlie spoke with and laughed with each of them after Harper left the premises. When Harper drove out of Little Fish Creek, surely hot and thirsty and short-tempered, and headed up the mountain in the direction of the Landeau place, Hurlie tucked the phone on the seat under his folded jacket, started the rattling Ford and headed down the road to meet him.
"They're covering for him," Max said with an amused grin as he turned onto the upper road the sheriff had described. "The laughter hidden down behind those sour faces. Hurlie's cousins nearly busted a gut trying not to laugh at me." He glanced over at Charlie. "See that occasional flash of sunlight up there atop the hill, see where that old truck's sitting?"
"You've been watching it."
"I'd say that's Hurlie up there." Max eased the truck steadily up the rutted, one-car road. Five turns later he slammed on the brakes.
The rattletrap truck sat in the road crosswise. Hurlie stood beside it resting on the fender like the heavy in an old B movie, a small-caliber rifle leaning beside him. Max touched his holstered Glock, wishing he'd left Charlie at the inn. He stepped out of the pickup. "Good morning, Hurlie. You want to move your truck out of the way?"
"I heard you was looking fer me. Thought I'd save you any more driving around, in this hot weather. What exactly did you want? You some kind of law?" Hurlie glanced in at Charlie with an insolence that made Max step closer to him.
"Right now I want you to move your truck. You're blocking the road."
Hurlie stared, his chin jutted out, his eyes on Max but glancing down at the Glock. "You were lookin' fer me you musta had a reason. I do somethin' wrong?" Gently his hand eased toward his pants pocket.
In one move Max grabbed Hurlie, spun him around and shoved him against the rusted truck, kicking his rifle into the dust. Pressing the Glock into Hurlie's ribs he patted him down, removing a snub-nosed Saturday night special from his pants pocket, two hunting knives and a straight razor from various pockets.
Hurlie, facing the cab of Max Harper's pickup, his hands pressed against the vehicle's roof, looked around at Harper. "So what's this about. I ain't done nothin'."
Max glanced at Charlie where she sat with her hand on the phone. He nodded.
As Charlie called the sheriff, Hurlie's expression remained one of puzzled innocence. Max arrested him for impeding the duties of a police officer, and cuffed him. "Sit down on the ground, Hurlie."
"It's dusty. Dust makes me cough."
"Sit down now."
Hurlie sat, stirring a cloud of dust.
"Why were you waiting for me? Why were you blocking the road?"
"You're that police captain from over to the coast."
"So?"
"So I heard you wanted to talk to me. I was just being cooperative, waiting here."
"Where's Gramps Farger?"
Though Dallas had a lead on Gramps, he hadn't found him yet, and there was no harm in shaking Hurlie up, see what he could jar loose. "Gramps staying with you, Hurlie? You'll feel better if you don't lie to me."
"What you want with him?"
"Is he living with you?"
"I ain't seen him since you sent my brother to prison."
"I don't believe that. And I know Curtis has been living up here with you."
"Ain't seen neither one. Can I get up? Like to smother in dust down here. Ain't no call to make me sick."
"Your shack is full of dust. You have everyone in that hollow covering for you. If I find Gramps up here, I'll lock your ass up for good, along with his. How long was Curtis here? Why did he go home? Be straight with me, Hurlie."
"You can't lock me up for nothin'."
"Harboring a delinquent, for starters. How long was Curtis here? What was he doing up here?"
"He wasn't here. I ain't seen him."
"You working up at the Landeau place?"
"What'd I do up at that fancypants place? Polish the silver? Where'd you get that notion?"
"Are you working for them up there?"
"Doing what?" Hurlie snapped. "Them high mucky-mucks wouldn't have me." As he scowled up at Max, a dust cloud appeared down the hill, the sheriff's car at its center winding up the twisting road.
The kit might be in exile, but her luxurious accommodations quite suited her. Wilma had left work at the library early in order to get her settled, and to visit with Cora Lee. She had brought Dulcie along for the ride, though Dulcie wouldn't be staying.
Following Cora Lee through the big, high-ceilinged living room, Wilma looked around with pleasure. The tired old hillside house, under the ministrations of its four new owners, was more charming each time she saw it. The four senior ladies were doing wonders, most of it by their own hard work.
The two women made an interesting contrast, both tall and slim, both in their sixties. Wilma's gray-white hair was done in a long, thick braid wound around her head. She was dressed in jeans, a red turtleneck T-shirt and red blazer. Cora Lee wore pale cream chinos and a mocha sweater that complemented her dusky complexion. She never understood why women of her coloring liked to wear plum and purple, the very shades that picked up all the wrong highlights. Moving toward the stairs, she was eager to see Wilma's reaction to how she had decorated her own room. The four ladies had drawn straws to choose their rooms, but Cora Lee suspected the outcome had been fixed. The upstairs room was the only one that offered a large alcove off the bedroom, which she could use as studio space.