“You can,” he said, “but I think you want to hear this.”
The Jeep had moved into the rightmost lane, toward the 395 interchange. I signaled and began forcing my way into line. “Go ahead.”
“I looked in the evidence box,” he said. “The knife’s a match: brand and model.”
“Excellent,” I said.
“Hang on, not done,” he said. “Seeing that, I thought I’d take a poke through the rest of it.”
I throttled the steering wheel eagerly. “And?”
“In the hood of the sweatshirt,” he said. “I found hairs. Nice, long blond ones.”
“Please tell me you’re not kidding.”
“Three of them. Root and all.”
“Holy shit,” I said. “That’s him. That’s Linstad.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure they don’t belong to your boy Triplett.”
“Fuck me.”
He was laughing. “Don’t get too excited.”
“Fuck that. I’m excited. How soon can we run them?”
“I still need to clear it with my lieutenant. I think he’ll bite, though. While I’m at it I want to run the knife, too. If it is the murder weapon — no guarantee there, but if it is — we might be able to pick up offender blood. That’d be even better.”
“You think Linstad cut himself while stabbing her?”
“Happens all the time. Especially if the victim puts up a fight.”
I remembered the crime scene photos. “She sure did.”
The Jeep juked toward Susanville. I went after it, cutting off a van. The driver leaned on his horn.
“Where are you, anyway?” Schickman said.
“Let you know when I get there. Hey, but, that’s fucking fantastic, man. Thanks.”
“No worries,” he said. “Thank you.”
The bulk of the traffic split off southbound: downtown Reno, airport, Carson City.
Karen Weatherfeld went north, toward the hilly fringes of civilization.
Finding myself directly behind her, I eased off on the accelerator. I still had my chains on, and whenever I broke forty miles an hour, a guttural protest rose up from the undercarriage. The Jeep had no such trouble. It had snow tires. The gap between us began to grow, until all I could see was two dancing red spots.
We’d been traveling for over an hour and a half. It was fully night now. In my rearview mirror, the lurid glow of downtown receded. Homes and businesses began to thin, blank patches appearing on the phone map.
Without warning, the Jeep veered from the middle lane toward the exit.
I cursed and gave chase.
The off-ramp bent violently, forcing me to jam on the brake. Once I’d straightened out, I spotted her taillights far ahead. The highway had dwindled to a single, unlit lane. I sped up, ignoring the noise, the steering wheel battling me. Drawing closer, I made out the Jeep’s square profile as it turned left, toward Panther Valley.
The road doubled back under the freeway, and for the next half mile the modern world flared up in the form of freight yards, an RV park, off-brand gasoline. Soon, though, darkness pressed down its thumb, and the asphalt broke up into gravel, warped spurs running off into oblivion. Fists of cloud silenced the stars, smothered the moon.
It was just the two of us out there. No streetlamps. If she was even the slightest bit aware of her surroundings, she would’ve realized I was following her.
Quickly I consulted the map. The neighborhood we had entered was stubby and self-contained, petering out in dead ends. There was only one way out, the same way we’d come in. Unless she intended to go off-road, she couldn’t get very far.
I took a measured risk: I pulled over and cut my engine, letting her drive on.
The Jeep bobbed, swayed, vanished.
I sat out five long minutes, restarted the car, and crept forward.
According to the map I was on Moab Lane. Snow clumped in the desert scrub. Shoved back from the road, every hundred yards or so, were small clapboard houses, half a step above trailers, dropped down at nonsensical angles. Weak moonlight touched mangy grass, woodpiles, lengths of collapsing chain-link, propane canisters, lots of vehicles in varying states of decay. The odd mailbox, sitting atop a four-by-four post, hammered into the dirt.
Near the end of the road I came to a compound of sorts, though nothing to inspire envy in the likes of, say, Olivia Harcourt. To the right of the main house stood a pair of padlocked wooden sheds. Junk lay out like rejected offerings: hubcaps, a smashed-up bicycle. A hammock drooped. I could make out the shape of a fourth structure toward the back of the property, most of it hidden behind an orange pickup a quarter of a century old. A black Camaro, no more recent, sat up on blocks.
Parked a few yards away — as if to distance itself — was Karen Weatherfeld’s green Jeep Cherokee.
Dark.
My phone was getting one bar, but the data network refused to budge. I mulled it over, then took another measured risk.
I called my office.
“Coroner’s Bureau, Deputy Bagoyo.”
My lucky night. Lindsey Bagoyo was good people.
“Hey there,” I said. “It’s Clay Edison, from B shift.”
“Oh hey, Clay,” she said, her voice cutting in and out. “What’s up.”
“Not much. Listen, I’m checking something out here, and I can’t get reception for shit. Can you do me a favor and look up an address for me?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
I gave it to her. Added, “It’s in Reno.”
“As in Nevada?”
“The very one.”
“What’s up there?”
“Long story,” I said. “Remind me to tell you sometime.”
I heard her typing.
She said, “I’m getting a couple names associated with that address. Arnold Edgar Crahan. Michael Wayne Crahan.”
What about the friend you mentioned from work?
You mean Wayne.
“Can you see if either of them have a record? I need to know who I’m dealing with.”
More typing; a beat.
“Nothing on our end,” she said.
“Okay. Great. Thank you.”
“Clay? Everything all right?”
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll fill you in later. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
I put down the phone and strapped up, vest and gun.
Dry frigid air constricted around me, tightening the skin on my throat as I approached the gate and lifted the latch.
It squeaked.
A thousand dogs began howling.
I stopped dead, my hand hovering at my pistol.
I could hear the dogs, but I couldn’t see them. The ruckus echoed across the frozen earth, fracturing crazily: claws on wood, steel chains tested, meaty bodies slapping together. All from the sheds to my right.
The main house porch light snapped on.
The screen door banged open.
A man in a flannel shirt leaned out. He swept a flashlight over the yard, landing on me. I raised an arm against the glare. “Mr. Crahan.”
“Who’s that.”
“Sheriff. I’m gonna put up my badge. Okay?”
“Stay put.”
He ducked inside, reemerged dragging a baseball bat, his moccasins crunching snow and gravel. In his late forties, he was Anglo and sinewy, with thin brown hair and a wire of scar tissue connecting his left ear to the left corner of his mouth, where a lit cigarette dangled.
He stopped within swinging range. “Lemme see it.”
I held out my badge. He snatched it and scurried back.
The dogs bayed and scratched and wailed.
“Are you Wayne or Arnold?” I asked.
“Arnold’s my uncle,” he said.
He tossed me the badge. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to speak to Julian, please,” I said.