“I surprised him.”
“Evidently.”
“By having a gun in my desk drawer.”
“It always pays to be prepared,” Lowbock said. Then quickly: “But you were lucky to get the best of him in hand-to-hand combat, too. A professional like that would be a good close-in fighter, maybe even know Tae Kwon Do or something, like they always do in books and movies. ”
“He was slowed a little. Two shots in the chest.”
Nodding, the detective said, “Yes, that’s right, I remember. Ought to’ve brought down any ordinary man.”
“He was lively enough.” Marty tenderly touched his throat.
Changing subjects with a suddenness meant to be disconcerting, Lowbock said, “Mr. Stillwater, were you drinking this afternoon?”
Giving in to his anger, Marty said, “It can’t be explained away that easily, Lieutenant.”
“You weren’t drinking this afternoon?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“I don’t mean to be argumentative, Mr. Stillwater, really I don’t, but when we first met, I smelled alcohol on your breath. Beer, I believe. And there’s a can of Coors lying in the living room, beer spilled on the wood floor.”
“I drank some beer after.”
“After what?”
“After it was over. He was lying on the foyer floor with a broken back. At least I thought it was broken.”
“So you figured, after all that shooting and fighting, a cold beer was just the thing.”
Paige glared at the detective. “You’re trying so hard to make the whole business sound silly—”
“—and I wish to hell you’d just come right out and tell us why you don’t believe me,” Marty added.
“I don’t disbelieve you, Mr. Stillwater. I know this is all very frustrating, you feel put-upon, you’re still shaken up, tired. But I’m still absorbing, listening and absorbing. That’s what I do. It’s my job. And I really haven’t formed any theories or opinions yet.”
Marty was certain that was not the truth. Lowbock had carried with him a set of fully formed opinions when he’d first sat down at the dining-room table.
After draining the last of the Pepsi in the mug, Marty said, “I almost drank some milk, orange juice, but my throat was so sore, hurt like hell, as if it was on fire. I couldn’t swallow without agony. When I opened the refrigerator, the beer just looked a lot better than anything else, the most refreshing.”
With his Montblanc pen, Lowbock was again doodling on one corner of a page in his notebook. “So you only had that one can of Coors.”
“Not all of it. I drank half, maybe two-thirds. When my throat was feeling a little better, I went back to see how The Other . . . how the look-alike was doing. I was carrying the beer with me. I was so surprised to see the bastard gone, after he’d looked half dead, the can of Coors just sort of slipped out of my hand.”
Even though it was upside-down, Marty was able to see what the detective was drawing. A bottle. A long-necked beer bottle.
“So then half a can of Coors,” Lowbock said.
“That’s right.”
“Maybe two-thirds.”
“Yes.”
“But nothing more.”
“No.”
Finishing his doodle, Lowbock looked up from the notebook and said, “What about the three empty bottles of Corona in the trash can under the kitchen sink?”
3
“Rest area, this exit,” Drew Oslett read. Then he said to Clocker, “You see that sign?”
Clocker did not reply.
Returning his attention to the SATU screen in his lap, Oslett said, “That’s where he is, all right, maybe taking a leak in the men’s room, maybe even stretched out on the back seat of whatever car he’s driving, catching a few winks.”
They were about to go into action against an unpredictable and formidable adversary, but Clocker appeared unperturbed. Even though driving, he seemed to be lost in a meditative state. His bearlike body was as relaxed as that of a Tibetan monk in a transcendental swoon. His enormous hands rested on the steering wheel, the thick fingers only slightly curled, maintaining the minimum grip. Oslett wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the big man was steering the car mostly with some arcane power of the mind. Nothing in Clocker’s broad, blunt-featured face indicated that he knew what the word “tension” meant: pale brow as smooth as polished marble; cheeks unlined; sapphire-blue eyes softly radiant in the reflected light of the instrument panel, gazing into the distance, not merely at the road ahead but possibly beyond this world. His wide mouth was open just enough to accept a thin communion wafer. His lips were curved in the faintest of smiles, but it was impossible to know if he was pleased by something he was contemplating in a spiritual reverie or by the prospect of imminent violence.
Karl Clocker had a talent for violence.
For that reason, in spite of his taste in clothes, he was a man of his times.
“Here’s the rest area,” Oslett said as they neared the end of the access road.
“Where else would it be?” Clocker responded.
“Huh?”
“It is where it is.”
The big man wasn’t much of a talker, and when he did have something to say, half the time it was cryptic. Oslett suspected Clocker of being either a closet existentialist or—at the other end of the spectrum—a New Age mystic. Though the truth might be that he was so totally self-contained, he didn’t need much human contact or interaction; his own thoughts and observations adequately engaged and entertained him. One thing was certain: Clocker was not as stupid as he looked; in fact, he had an IQ well above average.
The rest-area parking lot was illuminated by eight tall sodium-vapor lamps. After so many grim miles of unrelieved darkness, which had begun to seem like the blasted black barrens of a post-nuclear landscape, Oslett’s spirits were lifted by the glow of the tall lamps, though it was a sickly urine-yellow reminiscent of the sour light in a bad dream. No one would ever mistake the place for any part of Manhattan, but it confirmed that civilization still existed.
A large motorhome was the only vehicle in sight. It was parked near the concrete-block building that housed the comfort stations.
“We’re right on top of him now.” Oslett switched off the SATU screen and placed the unit on the floor between his feet. Popping the suction cup off the windshield, dropping it on the electronic map, he said, “No doubt about it—our Alfie’s snug in that road hog. Probably ripped it off some poor schmuck, now he’s on the run with all the comforts of home.”
They drove past a grassy area with three picnic tables and parked about twenty feet away from the Road King, on the driver’s side.
No lights were on in the motorhome.
“No matter how far off the tracks Alfie’s gone,” Oslett said, “I still think he’ll respond well to us. We’re all he has, right? Without us, he’s alone in the world. Hell, we’re like his family.”
Clocker switched off the lights and the engine.
Oslett said, “Regardless of what condition he’s in, I don’t think he’d hurt us. Not old Alfie. Maybe he’d waste anyone else who got in his way but not us. What do you think?”
Getting out of the Chevy, Clocker plucked both his hat and his Colt .357 Magnum off the front seat.
Oslett took a flashlight and the tranquilizer gun. The bulky pistol had two barrels, over and under, each loaded with a fat hypodermic cartridge. It was designed for use in zoos and wasn’t accurate at more than fifty feet, which was good enough for Oslett’s purpose, since he wasn’t planning to go after any lions on the veldt.
Oslett was grateful that the rest area was not crowded with travelers. He hoped that he and Clocker could finish their business and get away before any cars or trucks pulled in from the highway.