Spencerville by Nelson DeMille

had company? What if her kids were home, or her husband? Why hadn’t he thought of that likely possibility even once when he replayed this scene over and over again through the years? Obviously, the imagined moment had become so real that he’d excluded anything that would have ruined it.
    He closed the door and drove off. He headed toward the farm, his mind racing faster than the car.
What
is
wrong with you, Landry? Get a grip, pal.
    He took a deep breath and slowed down to the speed limit. No use getting off on the wrong foot with the local gendarmes. Which reminded him of Annie’s husband. Surely, he thought, if she weren’t married he’d have had the nerve to stop and say hello. But you couldn’t compromise a married woman that way. Not around here. And in Spencerville you didn’t do lunch or have drinks after work.
    So maybe he should drop a note to her sister. Maybe he’d phone her. Maybe a guy who’d handled combat and a shoot-out in East Berlin could handle a phone call to a woman he once loved. “Sure.”
In a few weeks, when I’m
settled in. Make a note of that.
    He went back to the farmhouse and spent the afternoon on the front porch with his two six-packs, watching each car that passed by.
     
    *  *  *
     
    Bob Arles filled the chief’s car. Self-service didn’t mean Cliff Baxter had to pump his own gas. They chatted. Arles said, “Hey, Chief, had an interesting guy in here this morning.”
    “You got any of them beef jerkies?”
    “Sure do. Help yourself.”
    Cliff Baxter went into the convenience store and touched his hat to Mrs. Arles behind the counter. She watched him as he gathered up beef jerky, peanut butter crackers, salted nuts, and a few Hershey bars. About twelve dollars’ worth all together, she figured.
    He took an Orange Crush out of the refrigerator case, sauntered over to the register, and dumped it all on the counter. “What we got here, Mary?”
    “I guess about two dollars should cover it,” which was what she said every time.
    He flipped a few singles on the counter as she bagged his items.
    Bob Arles came in with a municipal charge form, and Cliff scribbled his name without looking at the gas total.
    Arles said, “Appreciate the patronage, Chief.”
    Mary wasn’t so sure of that. Men, she thought, had to make every business transaction into something like a bonding experience, with a little scamming thrown in. Bob overcharged the town for the gas, and Cliff Baxter fed his fat face for nearly free.
    Cliff took his bag, and Bob Arles walked out with him. “Like I was saying, this guy comes in with his foreign car, Washington plates and all, and—”
    “Look suspicious?”
    “No, I’m sayin’ he was from around here. Used to live here, now he’s back looking for work, livin’ out on his folks’ farm. Don’t get many who come back.”
    “Sure don’t. Good riddance to ’em.” Cliff got into his cruiser.
    “Drivin’ a Saab. What do they go for?”
    “Well… let’s see… maybe twenty, thirty, new.”
    “The guy did okay for himself.”
    “Nothin’ okay about foreign cars, Bob.” Cliff started to roll the window up, then stopped and asked, “You get his name?”
    “Landry. Keith Landry.”
    Cliff Baxter looked at Arles. “What?”
    Arles continued, “Folks had a farm down by Overton. You know them?”
    Cliff sat silent a moment, then said, “Yeah…
Keith
Landry?”
    “Yup.”
    “Moved back?”
    “He said.”
    “Family?”
    “Nope.”
    “What’d he look like?”
    Bob shrugged. “I don’t know. Regular guy.”
    “You’d make a hell of a cop. Fat? Thin? Bald? Dick growin’ out of his head?”
    “Thin. Tall guy, all his hair. Not bad-lookin’, I guess. Why?”
    “Oh, I thought maybe I’d keep an eye out for him. Welcome him home.”
    “Can’t miss that car. He’s out at his folks’ place. Check him out if you want.”
    “I might do just that.” Cliff pulled away and headed south toward Overton.

CHAPTER SIX
    C liff Baxter