salesman.’
Taking another sip of coffee Quarrie set the cup down. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Nicole, that’s useful. The cop though, when he left out: could you tell which way he was headed?’
‘No sir, I didn’t see. But I remember he left right after that salesman.’
Quarrie ate his breakfast and when he went back outside he considered the floor of the parking lot. The ground hard-baked and covered in dust, it was littered with an assortment of different tire tracks. The rain hadn’t made it this far yet and the coating of dust lay like powder. Leaving his car for a moment, he walked to where the parking lot met the highway and studied the marks at the lip of the asphalt. It took a while to pick it out but finally he spotted a partial tread that had been crossed over by a number of others.
Climbing behind the wheel once more, he reached for his sunglasses and Mary-Clare smiled at him where she sat on the fence at the cabin he still owned in the shadow of the Grand Tetons. Set at the end of a narrow dugway, they’d found it purely by chance when they moved north not long after they were first married.
He let the engine idle for a second or so before selecting a gear and cutting out onto the highway. He drove at a steady forty-five;one hand on the wheel, he was taking in every ranch and airline road, every single sign that was posted. Spotting one for Henry’s Bathtub his eyes narrowed a fraction. A swimming hole about a mile down the highway, that young cop had mentioned it when he told Quarrie how to get to the diner. He said the bathtub had been named after the old guy who first opened the place, how he always had so much grease on him from flipping hamburgers the only time he ever got really clean was when he went for a dip. Somebody named the swimming hole after him and eventually the county put a sign up.
There was a gravel turnout about fifty yards ahead of the sign for the turn-off to Henry’s Bathtub. Instinctively Quarrie brought the Riviera to a stop and got out. This was just a hunch but that waitress had said the bogus cop had left the diner straight after a guy she thought might be a travelling salesman. Right now Quarrie was wondering just how far the perp thought he’d be able to get driving a Winfield City prowl car. Standing on the edge of the highway he hunted down a cigarette and smoke drifted as he studied the surface of the turnout. No scenic overlook, nowhere for a picnic, this was the kind of spot where people would stop only if they had to adjust something on their vehicle. It was where a trooper might pull someone over.
Stepping closer to where the asphalt gave out he considered the packed gravel, the layer of dust and mess of tire tracks that fouled it. There were quite a few tracks here as there had been at the diner, and it took him a moment to locate it. But there it was: the same tread he had seen at the diner.
Back in the car he rolled down to the turning and eased up just ahead of the cattle guard. From where he sat he could see the same tire tracks marking the dirt beyond the metal grille. He still wore his pistols on his hips and, instinctively, he worked the hammer clips loose. Then he put the Riviera back in gear and rolled across the guard, following the trail for a hundred yards as it snakedtowards a shallow rise. At the top of the rise he halted. Nothing but the flat, gray waters of the swimming hole, fifty yards down the slope to a stubby little bank of mud and rocks where the water was lapping gently. A little breeze in the air, as he got out of the car he could feel it cool on his face where it coasted off the water.
He followed the tire tracks all the way down the hill to the bank where they disappeared. He stood there with his hat in his hand, scrutinizing every inch of dirt where the tires dug deeper with the weight of the car and that told him it had been stationary. He could see the wall of the track where a little dirt had lifted then collapsed again
Taking another sip of coffee Quarrie set the cup down. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Nicole, that’s useful. The cop though, when he left out: could you tell which way he was headed?’
‘No sir, I didn’t see. But I remember he left right after that salesman.’
Quarrie ate his breakfast and when he went back outside he considered the floor of the parking lot. The ground hard-baked and covered in dust, it was littered with an assortment of different tire tracks. The rain hadn’t made it this far yet and the coating of dust lay like powder. Leaving his car for a moment, he walked to where the parking lot met the highway and studied the marks at the lip of the asphalt. It took a while to pick it out but finally he spotted a partial tread that had been crossed over by a number of others.
Climbing behind the wheel once more, he reached for his sunglasses and Mary-Clare smiled at him where she sat on the fence at the cabin he still owned in the shadow of the Grand Tetons. Set at the end of a narrow dugway, they’d found it purely by chance when they moved north not long after they were first married.
He let the engine idle for a second or so before selecting a gear and cutting out onto the highway. He drove at a steady forty-five;one hand on the wheel, he was taking in every ranch and airline road, every single sign that was posted. Spotting one for Henry’s Bathtub his eyes narrowed a fraction. A swimming hole about a mile down the highway, that young cop had mentioned it when he told Quarrie how to get to the diner. He said the bathtub had been named after the old guy who first opened the place, how he always had so much grease on him from flipping hamburgers the only time he ever got really clean was when he went for a dip. Somebody named the swimming hole after him and eventually the county put a sign up.
There was a gravel turnout about fifty yards ahead of the sign for the turn-off to Henry’s Bathtub. Instinctively Quarrie brought the Riviera to a stop and got out. This was just a hunch but that waitress had said the bogus cop had left the diner straight after a guy she thought might be a travelling salesman. Right now Quarrie was wondering just how far the perp thought he’d be able to get driving a Winfield City prowl car. Standing on the edge of the highway he hunted down a cigarette and smoke drifted as he studied the surface of the turnout. No scenic overlook, nowhere for a picnic, this was the kind of spot where people would stop only if they had to adjust something on their vehicle. It was where a trooper might pull someone over.
Stepping closer to where the asphalt gave out he considered the packed gravel, the layer of dust and mess of tire tracks that fouled it. There were quite a few tracks here as there had been at the diner, and it took him a moment to locate it. But there it was: the same tread he had seen at the diner.
Back in the car he rolled down to the turning and eased up just ahead of the cattle guard. From where he sat he could see the same tire tracks marking the dirt beyond the metal grille. He still wore his pistols on his hips and, instinctively, he worked the hammer clips loose. Then he put the Riviera back in gear and rolled across the guard, following the trail for a hundred yards as it snakedtowards a shallow rise. At the top of the rise he halted. Nothing but the flat, gray waters of the swimming hole, fifty yards down the slope to a stubby little bank of mud and rocks where the water was lapping gently. A little breeze in the air, as he got out of the car he could feel it cool on his face where it coasted off the water.
He followed the tire tracks all the way down the hill to the bank where they disappeared. He stood there with his hat in his hand, scrutinizing every inch of dirt where the tires dug deeper with the weight of the car and that told him it had been stationary. He could see the wall of the track where a little dirt had lifted then collapsed again
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