Hamilton, Donald - Novel 02 by The Steel Mirror (v2.1) Page B

Mercury
convertible, Illinois license six-one-o-two-six-one. Name of Nicholson. That’s
you, isn’t it?”
                 “Yes.
But…”
                 “Take
a look in the car, Bud.”
                 Emmett
heard the boy climb into the car. He cleared his throat. “What’s the trouble?”
                 “She’s
wanted as a material witness in a murder case, Mister.”
                 Emmett
felt the girl’s fingers dig into his arm. He turned his head slowly to look at
her. Her face looked hollow and ugly with fright.
                 “Do
you know anything about it?” he asked.
                 She
shook her head convulsively.
                 “Nothing
in the car, Sheriff Patman,” the boy’s voice said. “She’s got a roll of bills
in her purse and there’s a camera in the glove compartment, but no weapons,
saving a jack handle.”
                 The
sheriff holstered his weapon and came forward. Emmett stood quite still and
felt the big freckled hands pat him, turn him around, and take out his wallet.
                 “John
E. Emmett, Washington , D.C. You’re a long ways from home, Mister.”
                 “Yes.”
                 “Well,
keep your nose clean and you’ll be all right.”
                 He
felt the wallet put into his hands. He saw the small blue eyes study Ann
Nicholson with a look that he did not like.
                 “Sorry,
Miss, but I can’t take any chances,” the tall man said. “Keep your hands up.”
                 The
big freckled hands unfastened her jacket and pulled it open. Emmett looked
away. He heard the girl gasp and told himself there was clearly nothing that he
could do about it. He wished himself far away, on a Pullman rolling toward Denver .
                 “Sorry,
Miss,” the sheriff’s voice said, sounding a little strained. “Get in the car.
Reckon you’d better drive, Mister. Turn around and drive slow back to town.
Bud, you follow in the lizzie.”
                 As
they moved toward the car, Emmett glanced at the girl beside him. She was
fastening her jacket again. There were two red spots in the whiteness of her
face, but her lips, even with the lipstick, were quite pale. She did not look
at him. The tall man got into the rear seat of the convertible. Emmett slid
behind the wheel. Ann Nicholson got in beside him and closed the door. He
turned the car around on the highway and drove at thirty-five back the way they
had come, a little surprised to find it still early enough morning that the sun
was in his eyes, going east. In the rear-view mirror he could see the Ford
following closely.
                 They
entered the town. It looked like any town they had been through, perhaps a
little larger than average. There were railroad tracks on one side of the
highway with the depot facing the business section.
                 “Turn
left at the corner,” the tall man’s voice said. “Hell, watch the stoplight,
Mister. Don’t they have stoplights in Washington , D.C. ?”
                 The
light changed and he made the turn.
                 “Now
right,” the sheriff said. “Middle of the block.”
                 The
brick building was two stories high. Over the main door the concrete slab was
marked in sunken letters: Lane County Jail and Court House. A middle-aged woman
in a print dress walked by carrying a shopping bag as the two cars stopped.
                 “Get
out slow,” the sheriff ordered.
                 Emmett
glanced uneasily at the no-parking signs on the lamp posts along the curb, but
it seemed silly to mention them. He followed Ann Nicholson out of the car and
sensed the tall man getting out behind him. The Ford had stopped behind the
convertible.
                 “Run
her up in the alley,