imprint
idly, as if the ring were still there. "Still, if something were
. . . wrong. I'd better stay. Through the weekend, at least."
"It's up to you."
I started for the door.
"Will I see you tomorrow?" Karen asked.
I said, "I'll treat you to breakfast."
"If you find anything out at that motel, give me
a call."
"It could be very late, Karen," I said.
She said, "Call anyway. I'm not going to get
much sleep."
I left her sitting on the
bed, staring at her invisible ring.
***
It took me about forty minutes to drive out to
Miamiville. I tried not to think about Lonnie on the way. But it was
hopeless. And the question that kept running through my mind was the
same one that Karen had posed in the hotel room: Why the hell are you
doing this for him? It was past two in the morning, on a treacherous
winter night. My apartment was in ruins. A smart, attractive
woman--more attractive to me than I'd wanted to admit to myself or to
her--was probably tossing sleeplessly on a rented bed, worrying over
a man who had almost destroyed her life and was still trying to
destroy his own. And the man himself, the man I was looking for, was
either crazy or criminally stupid or both. Why the hell was I doing
it? Why wasn't I back in that hotel room, with Karen? Or at my own
apartment, trying to repair the damage?
I couldn't think of an answer to my own questions.
Worse, I knew that the chances were good that I was on a wild-goose
chase. Karen hadn't thought that Lonnie's friends had broken into my
apartment. She'd thought that Lonnie himself had torn it up, in a fit
of rage. If I hadn't wanted to believe that Lonnie wouldn't do that
sort of thing to me--to his old pal, Harry--I might have come around
to her way of thinking. She knew the man; I didn't. I was just going
on an old cop's habit of mind and some fairly dangerous sentiment.
Yet, in spite of the logic
and the unanswerable questions, I kept on driving. For old times'
sake. For that dangerous sentiment's sake. For the odd chance to make
things right again. For my peace of mind. So I could tell myself I'd
done the right thing-this time.
***
At a quarter to three, I pulled into the Encantada
lot and parked beneath the huge yellow-and-red neon motel sign. The
view through the icy windshield hadn't changed from the previous
night--right down to the lone Jeep parked in front of the Quonset hut
with the Miller sign in its window. The sign was off and the hut was
completely dark. At least I wouldn't have to check the bar, I told
myself. I hauled my butt out of the car seat and walked through the
blowing snow to the cottage with the Office sign above the door. The
lights were dimmed inside the office, and, this time, Claude Jenkins
didn't come out to greet me.
I rapped on the office door. When nobody answered, I
tried the knob. The ice made the door stick. I yanked it open and
stepped inside.
Claude wasn't sitting at the desk behind the counter,
but the TV was on in the little storeroom where I'd found Lonnie.
Someone had turned the volume up--so loud that I could hear it
blaring, even though the storeroom door was shut.
There was no point in calling out. The TV was too
loud to talk over. I walked behind the counter and jerked on the
storeroom doorknob.
Claude was sitting inside the storeroom, his back to
the door. A small black-and-white TV was propped on a stool in front
of him. The whole room flickered with the light from the television,
as if it were a green campfire burning in a box. The back of Claude's
white shirt looked green. Even his red hair looked green. I couldn't
see his face from the doorway.
"Jenkins?" I called to him, over the blare
of the TV.
He didn't answer me. I wasn't sure he'd heard me, so
I took a step into the room and froze. I looked down at the floor. It
was too dark to make anything out clearly, but I'd stepped into
something slick and sticky. The TV flickered dimly. When it went
bright again I saw the light reflect off the floor, running like a
lit fuse
idly, as if the ring were still there. "Still, if something were
. . . wrong. I'd better stay. Through the weekend, at least."
"It's up to you."
I started for the door.
"Will I see you tomorrow?" Karen asked.
I said, "I'll treat you to breakfast."
"If you find anything out at that motel, give me
a call."
"It could be very late, Karen," I said.
She said, "Call anyway. I'm not going to get
much sleep."
I left her sitting on the
bed, staring at her invisible ring.
***
It took me about forty minutes to drive out to
Miamiville. I tried not to think about Lonnie on the way. But it was
hopeless. And the question that kept running through my mind was the
same one that Karen had posed in the hotel room: Why the hell are you
doing this for him? It was past two in the morning, on a treacherous
winter night. My apartment was in ruins. A smart, attractive
woman--more attractive to me than I'd wanted to admit to myself or to
her--was probably tossing sleeplessly on a rented bed, worrying over
a man who had almost destroyed her life and was still trying to
destroy his own. And the man himself, the man I was looking for, was
either crazy or criminally stupid or both. Why the hell was I doing
it? Why wasn't I back in that hotel room, with Karen? Or at my own
apartment, trying to repair the damage?
I couldn't think of an answer to my own questions.
Worse, I knew that the chances were good that I was on a wild-goose
chase. Karen hadn't thought that Lonnie's friends had broken into my
apartment. She'd thought that Lonnie himself had torn it up, in a fit
of rage. If I hadn't wanted to believe that Lonnie wouldn't do that
sort of thing to me--to his old pal, Harry--I might have come around
to her way of thinking. She knew the man; I didn't. I was just going
on an old cop's habit of mind and some fairly dangerous sentiment.
Yet, in spite of the logic
and the unanswerable questions, I kept on driving. For old times'
sake. For that dangerous sentiment's sake. For the odd chance to make
things right again. For my peace of mind. So I could tell myself I'd
done the right thing-this time.
***
At a quarter to three, I pulled into the Encantada
lot and parked beneath the huge yellow-and-red neon motel sign. The
view through the icy windshield hadn't changed from the previous
night--right down to the lone Jeep parked in front of the Quonset hut
with the Miller sign in its window. The sign was off and the hut was
completely dark. At least I wouldn't have to check the bar, I told
myself. I hauled my butt out of the car seat and walked through the
blowing snow to the cottage with the Office sign above the door. The
lights were dimmed inside the office, and, this time, Claude Jenkins
didn't come out to greet me.
I rapped on the office door. When nobody answered, I
tried the knob. The ice made the door stick. I yanked it open and
stepped inside.
Claude wasn't sitting at the desk behind the counter,
but the TV was on in the little storeroom where I'd found Lonnie.
Someone had turned the volume up--so loud that I could hear it
blaring, even though the storeroom door was shut.
There was no point in calling out. The TV was too
loud to talk over. I walked behind the counter and jerked on the
storeroom doorknob.
Claude was sitting inside the storeroom, his back to
the door. A small black-and-white TV was propped on a stool in front
of him. The whole room flickered with the light from the television,
as if it were a green campfire burning in a box. The back of Claude's
white shirt looked green. Even his red hair looked green. I couldn't
see his face from the doorway.
"Jenkins?" I called to him, over the blare
of the TV.
He didn't answer me. I wasn't sure he'd heard me, so
I took a step into the room and froze. I looked down at the floor. It
was too dark to make anything out clearly, but I'd stepped into
something slick and sticky. The TV flickered dimly. When it went
bright again I saw the light reflect off the floor, running like a
lit fuse
Similar Books
