“Yes, it is, isn't it? They're bad boys. How are the kids?”
“Russ got his college board scores. They were so high.
We should be proud of him.”
“He takes after you. How's Jeff doing?”
“Oh, he's fine. He had a game last night, but it was close and he didn't get in. But he was in a good mood afterward.
The boys went out for pizza and he went along.”
“I should be there. This damn job. I'll be there next year.”
“Oh, Bud?”
“What is it?” he said, glancing at his watch.
“Were you over near the Fort on Friday?”
Little signal of distress. Friday, yes. He'd been with Holly. In a motel room for a couple of hours. Place was called the Wigwam, a little down from the number four gate to Fort Sill, catering mainly to visiting military families. It was run by a retired city cop who let Bud have the room for free around midday.
Bud was surprised at how hard this hit him. He had never had any trouble before. He looked up and saw poor Ted sitting at the counter over an untouched plate of eggs and a half-gone Coke, talking to the waitress.
“No, no, can't say that I was,” he lied, trying to force some innocence into his voice and feeling himself fail miserably.
“Marge Sawyer swears she saw you pulling out of some parking lot. She honked, and you didn't see her. I only mention it because she wanted me to ask you if you knew that part of town, by the base, if you could recommend a ' good motel, something a little less expensive than the Holiday Inn, but in town, not at the airport. Her sister is—”
“No, Jen, wasn't me,” he barked.
“I don't know nothing about that part of town,” he said, feeling the lies awkward in his mouth.
“Look, I've got to get back on the road. Call you tonight if possible.”
“Sure.”
Bud hung up, feeling he had done badly and furious at himself for it; it was a bright morning, and he was surprised to find how hard he was breathing. Who the hell was Marge Sawyer? What had she seen? He'd been in uniform that day, too, so there could be no mistaking. Damn!
It had been a foolish thing to do. Best to cut back for a while or something.. ..
He dropped another quarter and dialed the number. She picked up right away.
“Oh, Bud, it's been so long since you called. You said you'd call last night.”
Now this always irritated Bud and in his present mood it struck a bad note. Sometimes just the managing of It got to be so damned troublesome that he needed a night off. There was always so much to remember: why he was late, what had happened, what route he'd taken home, all the things that go into running a deception. And sometimes it just wore him down.
“I couldn't get any time away from Ted. They got us running all over the damn place. I've only got a second.”
“Well, how are you?” Holly wanted to know.
“Well, it's a hell of a lot more boring than just patrolling, I'll tell you that. But I think they're going to pull back after a while. This road stuff ain't panning out.”
“Bud, you sound so irritated.”
“I'm just tired. Holly.”
“I miss you.”
“Sweetie, I miss you too.”
“The day they break it off—will I see you?”
“Well, I'll sure try,” he said, feeling vaguely trapped.
“I don't know if it's possible. I already missed one of my son's games and I want to get to the next one, in case he gets to play.”
“Okay,” she said in a tone that suggested it wasn't.
“I do miss you.”
“I know you do.”
“Talk to you soon.”
He hung up, feeling sour as hell. Hadn't he just promised her that on the first day off, he'd see her? Great. He'd be exhausted, and what would the situation be with Ted, wouldn't he be off the same day? It was a mess. Sometimes Bud didn't know what the hell he'd do.
So after indulging the sourness for a few seconds, he headed back into the diner and slid in next to Ted.
“How is she?” Ted asked.
“Fine. Just fine. You call Holly?”
“Oh, Holly's okay, I suppose,” Ted said.
“Well, I reckon we should shove, huh?”
Bud shot a look at his watch. Ten-fifteen, yeah, they were due back on the road, just in case. He didn't like to be out of radio contact that long. Didn't realize he'd been on the phone for close to ten minutes. He took a last sip of coffee —lukewarm—and stood to peel some money off for the food. Not strictly necessary, but Bud knew that if you started eating for free—it was so easy—people soon stopped respecting you. He left a single for the girl, also irked that Ted never bothered to pitch in, at least with a tip.
“Oh, Bud,” said Ted.
“One thing. This girl here, she wanted to ask you something.”
Bud turned to the woman, a middle-aged waitress, with the name Ruth on the nameplate of her uniform; she was vaguely familiar from previous stops, but he'd never struck up a relationship with her as he had with a few of the girls in other towns.
“Yes, Ruth?”
“Well, Sergeant, it's old Bill Stepford. He's stopped off for coffee each morning for the past ten years, every morning, nine o’clock sharp.
He didn't show this morning. It sort of bothered me.”
“I told her it was something for the Murray County sheriffs office,”
Ted said.
“Well, they're all out playing hero,” Ruth said.
“Sam Nicks hasn't set foot in this place since the jailbreak up at Mcalester.”
“Did you think about calling this farmer?” Bud asked.
“Yes sir, I did. The line was busy. Called four times and the line was busy.”
“Maybe he's talking to somebody.”
“Well, maybe he is. But I know Mr. Stepford and he is not the talking type.”
“What about his wife?” Ted asked.
“Well, she's a mighty nice woman but she's not the sort to spend half an hour on the line either.”
“Sounds like the phone is off the hook,” said Bud.
“Bill Stepford hasn't missed coffee here in ten years. He came the last time we had heavy snow; drove his Wagoneer through the drifts. He likes our coffee.”
Bud considered.
“Where is it?”
“Seven miles down the road. Then left, on County Road Six Seventy-nine. A mile, you'll see the mailbox. I'm afraid maybe he fell or something, can't get to the phone. People shouldn't live so isolated like that.”
“Well,” said Bud, "I'll call Dispatch and see if anything's going on they need us for. If not, maybe we'll take a spin by.”
Lamar let Richard shower and sleep first, because Richard had driven while Lamar and O’Dell slept. So Richard sank into dreamless oblivion, a mercy. But when Lamar shook him awake at nine, he was still in the Stepfords' upstairs bedroom, still an escaped convict, still in the company of murderers.
Richard pulled on a pair of Bill Stepford's jeans and a blue workshirt and then settled in to do two things at once, under Lamar's instructions. He was to sit in the upstairs bedroom and keep watch, just in case. And he was to draw lions.
“Ah, now, Lamar? With everything that's going on?”
“Yes sir. I want it done, I want it perfect, so that when the time comes, we can move to the next step.”
What next step?
Anyway, he now sat doodling, the original much-studied sketch before him. It was beginning to fade into gibberish, just a random blotch of lines. He wondered what Lamar saw in it to begin with. He knew it was insufferably banaclass="underline" a lion, a woman, some sort of crazed Aryan fantasy, something out of the Hyperborean age. It matched exactly La mar's arrested stage of development, but it had nothing to do with art; it was, rather, something out of that great unwashed fantasy life of the lumpen proletariat that expressed itself on the sides of vans or in comic books or boorish, bloody, boring movies. It was so coarse, untainted by subtlety or distinction.