I’d better warn them.
The damned restaurant only looked like it was a quarter of a mile away. Weary and discouraged—and gnawed by guilt for letting the creep slip away—Jake shoved himself away from the tree and made his way down the slope. He waded through the weeds. Once he reached the road, the walking was easier.
He kept a lookout, though he no longer expected to find the suspect.
Suspect, my ass, he thought.
This guy’s into wasting random victims.
And I lost him.
Maybe the accident, losing his partner, took some of the starch out of him.
Right.
Goddamn it.
I lost him and it’ll be my fault if he…
The distant sound of a car engine broke into Jake’s thoughts.
Chuck coming to fetch him?
He turned and realized that the sound came from the direction of the Oakwood Inn. He remembered the station wagon.
Snapped his head forward.
He was standing in a dip.
He saw only the road.
From the noise, the car was speeding.
And he knew.
He’d been slow—he should’ve guessed it the instant he saw the car sitting there, vulnerable, in front of the restaurant.
Your van is totaled, you’re on foot and hurt, you spot an unattended vehicle…
Heart racing, mouth gone dry, Jake Corey snatched out his .38, planted his feet on each side of the faded yellow centerline of the road, lowered himself into a shooting crouch, and waited.
He aimed at the road’s crest fifty yards away.
“Come on, you mother.”
Jake wished he had a .357 like the one Chuck carried. With that, he’d be able to kill a car.
Jake would have to go for the driver.
He had never shot anyone.
But he knew this was it. He couldn’t let the bastard get away.
Six slugs through the windshield.
That should do it.
The car burst into view, bounced on loose shocks as it hit the down slope, sped toward him.
Wait till he’s almost on you, blow him away, dive for safety.
Jake’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Brakes shrieked. The car skidded, fishtailed, and stopped thirty feet in front of him.
Jake couldn’t believe it.
“Let me see your hands!” he yelled.
The driver, a thin and frightened-looking man of about thirty, stared at Jake through the windshield.
“I want to see your hands right now! Grab the steering wheel right now!”
The hands appeared. They gripped the top of the wheel.
“Keep ‘em there!”
Jake kept his revolver pointed at the man’s face while he approached the car. The head turned, eyes following him as he stepped to the driver’s door.
No one else in the car.
Jake pulled the door open and stepped back. Crouching slightly, he had a full view of the man.
Who wore a blue knit shirt, and Bermuda shorts, and who didn’t appear to be injured in any way.
“What’s going on, Officer?”
“Place your hands on top of your head and interlace your fingers.”
“Hey really…”
“Do it!”
Why are you keeping this up? Jake wondered. Because you don’t know. Not yet. Not for sure.
The man put his hands on top of his head.
“Okay. Now climb out.”
As he followed orders, Jake got a look at his back. No blood or sign of injury there, either.
“Turn around slowly.” Jake made circular motions with his left forefinger. The man turned. Jake looked for bulges. The knit shirt was skintight. The only bulge was at the rear pocket of his shorts—a wallet. Good. Jake didn’t want to frisk him.
“Will you tell me what’s going on?”
Jake holstered his weapon.
“Could I see your driver’s license, please?”
The man took out his wallet. He knew enough to remove the license from its plastic holder. Probably been stopped for traffic violations.
Jake took the card. His hand was trembling. It reminded him of Celia’s shaking arm. The name on the license was Ronald Smeltzer. The photo matched the face of the man in front of him. The home address was on Euclid, in Santa Monica, California. “Thank you, Mr. Smeltzer,” he said, and returned the license. “I’m sorry about stopping you that way.”
“A wave would’ve sufficed.”
“I was expecting trouble. I assume you’re the new owner of the Oakwood.”
“That’s right. Could you tell me what’s going on? I realize I was taking the road a bit fast, but…” Smeltzer shrugged. He was obviously upset, but showing no belligerence. Jake appreciated his attitude.
“I was on my way to speak with you—to warn you, actually. We just had an incident over on Latham Road.”
“We were wondering. We heard the sirens.”
“On your way to investigate?”
“No, no. As a matter of fact, we haven’t got ice. My wife and I have been working all day, trying to get the place in shape. No refrigerator, yet. It’s supposed to be delivered tomorrow. We thought we’d relax over cocktails for a while, but…” He shrugged. He looked as if he felt a little foolish. “No ice. What can I say?”
“Your wife is back at the restaurant?” Jake asked. The man nodded. “I don’t think you want to leave her alone just now. We’ve got a situation. Give me a lift to your restaurant and I’ll explain.”
The two men climbed into the car. Smeltzer turned it around and headed back up the road at a moderate speed.
“Pick it up,” Jake told him. “I know you can do better than this.”
Smeltzer stepped on the gas.
As the car raced toward the restaurant, Jake explained about the attempt to run down Celia Jamerson, the blood behind the van, and his search for the injured passenger. Smeltzer listened, asking no questions but shaking his head a couple of times and frequently muttering, “Oh, man.”
The car lurched to a stop at the foot of the restaurant’s stairs. Smeltzer flung open his door. At the same moment, a door at the top of the stairs swung wide.
A woman stood in the shadows. She stepped out onto the porch as Smeltzer and Jake climbed from the car. Her perplexed expression altered into a frown of concern—probably as she realized that Jake was a cop.
She had nice legs. She wore red shorts. This is my day for beautiful women in red shorts, Jake thought. The front of her loose gray jersey jiggled nicely as she trotted down the stairs. The jersey had been cut off, halfway up. Any higher, Jake thought, and he’d be seeing what made the jiggles.
“Ron?” she asked, stopping in front of the car.
“Honey, this is officer…” He looked at Jake.
“Jake Corey.”
“I ran into him on my way out. Almost literally.” He gave Jake a sheepish glance.
“Some kind of trouble?”
Jake let Smeltzer explain. His wife nodded. She didn’t say, “Oh, man,” after each of his sentences. She didn’t say anything. She just frowned and nodded and kept glancing over at Jake as if expecting him to interrupt. “Is this true?” she finally asked him.
“He covered it pretty well.”
“You think there might be a killer hanging around here?”
“He didn’t kill anyone today, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Have either of you seen anyone?”
She shook her head.
“But we’ve been working inside,” Smeltzer added.
“You folks have a home in town, don’t you?” Jake asked. He seemed to remember hearing that they’d bought the Anderson house.
“I was on my way there,” Smeltzer said, “for the ice.”
“It’s certainly your decision, but if I were you, I’d close up here for today and go on back to your house. There’s no point in taking unnecessary risks.”