He took off his broad-brimmed planter’s hat, wiped his sweaty forehead with a red bandanna, replaced the hat, and stuck the handkerchief back into his pocket.
There, just ahead, he saw something. Or rather, he didn’t see something. He bent and looked at the hot ground from only a few inches above it. There weren’t any real tracks, but the dry ground was too smooth. Carpet-walker, turned and headed that way.
Jay kept walking. Ahead and in a little declivity was a stand of cottonwood trees and what looked like willow. Water, a pond, or an underground stream come up to the surface, he figured. He could almost smell the moisture.
Sure enough, there was a small stream, maybe as wide as Jay was tall, clear water bubbling over a rocky bottom. The stream wound away, and Jay stepped into the water and started to follow it. A man looking to hide his tracks would use such cover, probably staying with it until he found a rocky enough spot to exit where he wouldn’t leave footprints.
Jay enjoyed the feel of the water around his ankles as he moved slowly along. Half a mile ahead, he paused. There, to the right, were six or eight big rocks leading to a patch of gravel. That’s where he’d leave the water, if he wanted to get back on his previous heading.
It took him more than a hundred yards before he spotted something. Another flat patch of dirt, too smooth. There were no wind riffle marks, no raindrop patterns, none of the natural weathering signs that ought to be there. Jay grinned. Bad man Hans had been here; he was sure of it.
In the distance, Jay saw a small village. That it had a Germanic look to it didn’t really fit the Texas panhandle, but it was okay to mix scenario now and then. It kept you from getting into a rut.
He’d bet diamonds against dog doo that Hans was in that village, smug in his belief that nobody could track him there.
Why didn’t these fools ever learn they couldn’t screw with Lonesome Jay Gridley? Must be some kind of genetic defect that ran in bad guys.
He picked up his pace a little. He didn’t need to worry about the signs now, he knew where Hans was. All he had to do was go and identify him. Once he was sure of that, the game would be over.
30
Toni felt terrific. She and Alex had a great night together, and when she awakened this morning, she’d been rested and much refreshed. Being able to help him with the case he was working on, that had been something, too. For a few moments there, she hadn’t felt totally useless. She hadn’t lost all her chops. Maybe that was a good sign.
After Alex left for work, she felt creative. She decided to go and work on her scrimshaw for a while.
At the bench, she turned on the gooseneck lamp, gathered her tools, and was about to get started when she saw the purple capsule lying there where she’d put it and forgotten all about it.
She reached for the cap, looked at it, and decided what the hell, as long as she had it in hand…
She put the cap on the table in her work field and adjusted the lamp to shine on it. Focused the stereoscope on it…
Ah. Here was a major discovery. It was a purple gelatin capsule with some kind of pale powder inside it. Oh, boy. Way to go, Sherlock.
Maybe something inside was more interesting. If she opened it very carefully…
“Shit!” she said, as the powder, which was a kind of bubble gum pink, spilled all over the table. She dropped the halves of the cap and grabbed a little paint brush she used for dusting the ivory. She swept the pink powder into a little pile, then onto a sheet of paper. There it was.
As she picked up the larger of the now mostly empty capsule segments to reload the powder, she noticed an odd strip of coloration on one end, just inside the edge. Hmm. What was that?
She held the cap under the scope, couldn’t quite make it out. It looked almost like some kind of pattern. Well, we’ll see about that. She put the cap down, removed the auxiliary lens, and brought the scope’s magnification to 10X. Let’s have another look, shall we?
Jesus! What was that? She fiddled with the light, turned the cap this way, then that, and got the shadows just right so she could make it out.
Etched into the material of the cap were tiny words. “Hi, Feebs! Want to find me? Ask Frankie and Annette’s grandkids, they know where! Sincerely Yours, Thor.”
Hello!
She reached for the phone on the end of the bench. She had to get Alex. He was going to want to hear about this.
The restaurant, Claudia’s Grill, was half a block off the highway and slightly up the hill, so it had a nice view of the water. Drayne pulled his Mercedes into the parking lot, gave the key to the attendant and got a parking stub, then went inside. It was three minutes to seven, and the place was pretty full. They served a good breakfast here, and it was a great location.
His father sat alone in a booth, staring out through a wall of glass at the Pacific, the waters already changing from gray to blue as the sun began to burn off the morning fog.
“Hello, Dad.”
“Robert.”
Drayne slid into the booth. “What’s up?”
“Let’s order first.”
The waitress came by. Drayne ordered poached eggs, chicken apple sausage, and whole-grain pancakes. His father asked for white toast, corn flakes, and decaf coffee.
When she was gone to put their order in, his father cleared his throat. He said, “I’m glad your mother isn’t alive to see what you’ve become.”
Drayne stared at him as if his father had just sprouted fangs and fur and might start baying like a werewolf. “What?”
“How stupid do you think I am, Robert? Did it never occur to you that thirty years with the Bureau might have taught me something?”
“What are you talking about?”
“PolyChem Products,” his father said.
Drayne felt his belly spasm, as if he had just gone over the big drop on a roller coaster. “What about it?”
His father looked disgusted. “There is no ‘it.’ It’s a paper corporation, a phantom. The bank records, the history, none of it is any deeper than a postage stamp. You thought I might look at it, but not too closely, didn’t you? You are PolyChem Products.”
Drayne couldn’t think of anything to say. He was cold, as if he had suddenly found himself shoved headfirst into a refrigerator. He’d never expected this.
The old man looked away from him, out at the ocean again. He said, “I have friends, boy, people who owe me favors. I know where you live, and I know you live well, but I also know that you don’t have any visible way of earning money. So that means you are into something illegal or immoral. Probably both. From the way you talked about admiring that criminal who assaulted the agents and staff at HQ recently, I surmise it probably has something to do with drugs.”
“Dad—”
His old man turned back to face him, held up his hand to silence him, and in that moment, he was Special Agent in Charge Rickover Drayne of old, steely-eyed and fierce, one of the most stalwart protectors of the republic. “Don’t say anything. I don’t want to hear about it, I don’t want to know about it. You’re an adult; you can make your own choices. I expected better of you, that’s all.”
Drayne lost it: “You expected me to turn into a fucking robot without feelings who would grow up to be just like you.” He was amazed at the sudden venom in his voice. “You wanted a carbon copy of yourself to send forth, a grown-up Boy Scout who was trustworthy, loyal, friendly, obedient, who would cog his way into the system and stay there smiling until he wore out, just like you. You never once asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up or cared what I thought about anything.”