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  And don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, Frank thought.

  “Appreciate it, Brent,” he shook Brent’s hand, managed a pleasant look on his face.

  The only thing he’d managed to do, other than embarrass himself, was to keep his word to the Nesbitts. Not that it would make any difference. After this much time Jimmy Nesbitt would either turn up or he wouldn’t. Dead or alive.

  13

  A couple hundred bucks and a bus ticket wouldn’t get you anywhere very far or very fast. He knew it would get him to Strothwood, wherever the hell that was. No matter what he did after that the money wouldn’t last long.

  Elway sat in the terminal for a long time, trying to make up his mind what to do. The only trouble with sitting still was it made him think, and he’d been sitting still and thinking for years. All that did was turn him in circles and then right angles and circles again, and everywhere he went in his head he’d already been.

  He put the letter away and looked up. Some homeless dude was working his way through the people sitting on these chairs, hitting them up for change. He was too stupid or wrecked to realize that most of them probably didn’t have much more than he did or they wouldn’t be sitting here in a fucking bus station.

  Only a matter of time, he thought, and sure enough a big overweight security guy came out of the restroom, not clocking the guy yet but the station wasn’t big and all he had to do was turn his head. The homeless guy didn’t see him, kept shuffling closer, kept getting ignored or turned down.

  He was wearing about three or four layers of clothing, dead giveaway, a ratty old overcoat draped over his scrawny frame. Elway checked him out without even thinking about it. Probably no piece underneath, although you could have hidden anything up to and including a bazooka under there. The guy was zero threat, and for just a second Elway thought how stupid he was to even consider it. Just as quickly he realized that was a good thing – you never knew these days, especially given the shit you saw on the news. The stuff going on out there even scared some of the guys inside.

  The homeless guy was close enough to where Elway was sitting that he could even smell him. He wasn’t as old as Elway first thought, maybe forty, not old enough to be staggering around like an old man. Elway brought his eyes up and stared at him. That was usually enough to persuade people they had somewhere else they needed to be. The bum got the message and turned away, straight into the security guard. He started to rebound away but the guard just grabbed his arm and held him there, his hand wrapping all the way around the homeless guy’s arm, the bulky sleeve of the overcoat compressing so that his arm got reduced to the size of a spindle. At least the guard wasn’t a complete asshole, just turned the bum around and wordlessly walked him to the door. He pushed it open with his free hand and kept the other one clamped on the bum’s arm, then propelled him outside onto the sidewalk.

  Elway had his eyes back down before the guard had turned back inside. He knew if the man noticed him at all he’d make him for what he was. Bad haircut, denims, a little over six feet and a ripped two-thirty. That didn’t describe too many people, but what narrowed it down even more were his eyes and the hard, set lines in his face.

  The guard was strolling the station now, puffed up and profiling because he’d pushed a one hundred thirty pound wasted skeleton of a bum out the door and into the cold. Elway felt that familiar pissed-off feeling coming up again, knew that it meant nothing good. He flicked his eyes to the schedule on the wall, then over to the big old white-faced clock that ticked off even more minutes of his life doing nothing.

  He thought about the homeless guy again, out in the dirty grey slush of the streets and looking for any kind of structure that held warmth. Two, maybe three days and the money would run out and Elway would be in the same place–nowhere. Elway fingered the worn, crumpled paper in his pocket, made up his mind.

  As if he’d ever had a choice.

  14

  Saunders didn’t usually bother answering the phone before he opened. This time he did, only because he was standing right by the bar when the damn thing rang. The guy at the other end didn’t waste time, got right into it. He asked if Saunders had ever thought of selling an interest in the bar, maybe taking on a partner.

  “Not really,” Saunders told him, “I hardly make enough money to support myself.”

  That wasn’t even close to being true, but Saunders had learned in his previous life that he wasn’t a partnership kind of guy. He’d been burned, badly, and when he’d opened this place years ago it had been with the conviction that he’d never get sucked in again.

  “This is a serious phone call, sir.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  Saunders got approaches like this a couple of times a year, usually with the same lack of finesse. They almost always came from locals – nobody relocated to Strothwood any more, certainly not to start up a business. Saunders was usually polite, but it took an effort. The callers almost invariably didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, thought running a bar was just a license to print money, sit back, and bang waitresses. Midlife crisis fantasy shit.

  The last time he’d taken a call like this he’d had his portable phone with him because he’d been busy scrubbing out a urinal when the cleaning guy hadn’t shown up. Not much fantasy there.

  Most of the time the callers wouldn’t have had the money to do anything anyway, didn’t have a clue about how much he took in in the run of a year or how much it cost to do it. Saunders wasn’t about to tell them. His place didn’t look like much, but after all this time it was his, free and clear. One thing about a low-end beer joint was that the worse things were the more recession-proof it got.

  This guy didn’t sound like a local. He’d asked to speak to ‘the owner’ and just about everybody within a thirty mile radius of Strothwood already knew Saunders owned the place. Saunders didn’t like talking on the phone to people he couldn’t identify.

  “I didn’t get your name.”

  An almost imperceptible hesitation.

  “Hendricks. Tony Hendricks.”

  The name sounded somehow made-up and this was beginning to sound like a fishing expedition. Saunders was due to open in another half hour. He didn’t have time for this, and his silence seemed to prompt the guy into moving things along.

  “What kind of money would interest you?” Hendricks persisted, “I mean, if you were interested in some kind of partnership arrangement.”

  “Look, Mr, uh, Hendricks, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m very busy here right now. If you’re interested in talking about it sometime I can meet with you in person. I don’t like doing business over the phone and I can tell you right now I don’t have a lot of interest in taking on a partner.”

  Another hesitation, longer this time.

  “You haven’t heard an offer yet.”

  “No, I haven’t – and if you’re as serious as you say you are I’m sure you’d like to come down and see the place first.”

  “I already have.”

  15

  Everything felt strange, unfamiliar, and Frank kept his head down as he walked toward the truck. Only traces of snow remained at the edges of the parking lot, vehicle traffic and a brief rise in temperature taking care of the rest. He’d gone out only infrequently over the winter, picking his spots and times carefully, and he’d done the same thing again this time. He’d been in and out of the Safeway in less than ten minutes, picked up what he had to have, kept on going.

  “Been meaning to talk to you, Frank.”

  Frank realized he hadn’t been paying attention, unaware of where he was or who was around. It was a measure of how he’d let things slide. He hadn’t even seen the old man approach, and he was a little surprised that anyone had come up to him at all. On the few occasions when he’d been out in public people who normally would have said hello or at least acknowledged his presence had just ignored him, pretended to be looking somewhere else. Some had even turned away when they’d se
en him.

  That wasn’t Ralph Jenkins’ style, and now Frank braced himself for whatever was coming. Jenkins was somewhere north of seventy years old and wiry, with a hard, angular face and arresting blue eyes. Frank doubted if he’d ever backed down from anybody.

  “How are you doing, anyway?” the tone of voice wasn’t what Frank expected.

  “I’m all right,” he allowed.

  Jenkins squinted up at him, nodded.

  “Sure you are.”

  “I suppose you know all about it.”

  Frank tried to keep the impatience out of his voice, didn’t pull it off. Jenkins either didn’t catch his tone or didn’t care.

  “I know what I hear around town. That means I don’t know jack shit.”

  Frank started to say something, but Jenkins held up his hand.

  “I was asking about you,” Jenkins said, “not about the fucking gossip.”

  Frank didn’t have anything to say about that. Jenkins glanced vaguely around the parking lot, then turned back to Frank.

  “I have something I want to say.”

  Frank reminded himself to keep his temper. He’d kept a low profile to avoid no-win confrontations like this, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. Jenkins leaned closer, those glittering eyes fixed on his own.

  “I’ve spent most of my life in this place,” Jenkins told him, “worked hard, tried to give something back, all that stuff you’re supposed to do. I look back on it and – hell, this is about you, not me.”

  Jenkins’ voice had trailed off almost to a whisper. For a second Frank thought the old man had lost the thread of what he was trying to tell him. Then a snap came back into his eyes and his voice gained some strength.

  “People here,” Jenkins gestured around him, “most of them have never been anywhere, done anything. So they spend their lives yapping about people who have. And if they don’t have the facts they go ahead and make shit up anyway, just to give themselves something to talk about. I figure if you’d done anything wrong with that Simmonds girl her mother would have had the law on you in a heartbeat. But she hasn’t, and that tells me everything I need to know.”

  Frank just stood there, stunned. He hadn’t expected that kind of speech from anybody, let alone Ralph Jenkins.

  “Don’t let the bastards get you down, Frank. Fuck ’em.”

  Frank couldn’t think of anything to say before the old man turned away and walked to his car.

  16

  Wagner seemed genuinely surprised to see him.

  “Jeez Frank – you’re out, walking around. What’s the occasion?” he held up a hand before Frank could say anything, “never mind. God forbid you just drop by and say hello like a normal person. What do you want?”

  There was something in Wagner’s tone that made Frank uncomfortable. They’d gone backwards, he realized. Frank lowered himself into one of the hard wooden chairs across from Wagner’s desk.

  “So?” Wagner seemed to be fighting back a smirk, “I’m right, aren’t I? You need something.”

  “Yeah,” Frank thought of telling him about his encounter with Ralph Jenkins, changed his mind.

  “Thought so. In answer to your unspoken question, I’m fine, thanks, doin’ well, not workin’ too hard…..”

  Frank sat there and took it, waited him out.

  “You done?”

  Wagner shrugged his skeletal shoulders – he was wearing a shirt and tie, suspenders over loosely fitting grey dress pants. Old-school, if the school was in 1920s Chicago. He stepped back behind his cluttered desk, folded himself into the old captain’s chair that he used instead of something with wheels and decent lumbar support. Every time Wagner moved Frank expected to hear bones clicking. Sometimes he did.

  “Yeah, I’m done. For now,” Wagner sat there, looked at him more closely, “you’re not looking so good, Frank.”

  “You told me that before.”

  Wagner’s expression soured a little but Frank kept going. He already knew what he looked like. Truth was he wasn’t feeling that great, either.

  “I had some visitors – maybe you know them. Jimmy Nesbitt’s parents.”

  Wagner rummaged through the papers and file folders littering his desk, came up with a couple of sheets of paper, glanced at them for a moment, then set them aside on more piles of paper. Wagner’s version of filing. Frank was surprised.

  “Not you, too.”

  Wagner looked blank for a moment, then saw what Frank was looking at. The uneven stack of documents looked like it was going to slide onto the floor.

  “Nothing to do with Jimmy Nesbitt. Slip and fall accident over at one of the nursing homes,” he lifted an eyebrow, “unless you want to investigate that too.”

  “I’m not investigating anything.”

  “Sure.”

  “The Nesbitts just came by,” Frank persisted, “said they weren’t being told much. I told them it wasn’t my job anymore.”

  “No, it isn’t. But?”

  “But I got curious.”

  “So you’re just killing time – like a hobby,” Frank knew Wagner’s baleful glare was an act, “some of us have to work for a living.”

  “Yeah, Jeff – I know all these dead people lying around here are in a big hurry.”

  Wagner sighed theatrically.

  “Frank, I’m not a cop, but you and I both know that kid could be anywhere,” Wagner waved a negligent hand in the general direction of ‘away’, “hell, boys that age? They just get in the car and go. Nothing holding him here.”

  “His parents.”

  Wagner shrugged.

  “I don’t think he was that kind of kid.”

  “You just used the past tense, Jeff.”

  “Gimme a break.”

  “They seem like nice people.”

  “I know who they are,” Wagner allowed, “and yeah, they are nice people. Doesn’t mean the kid isn’t an asshole.”

  Frank inclined his head slightly, conceded the point.

  “When I checked at the school, word was that he’d been seeing Emily Simmonds.”

  Wagner’s eyebrows went up again.

  “You’ve been poking around the high school? Brent won’t like it.”

  “Months ago – back when I was still a cop.”

  “Brent tried talking to Emily Simmonds,” Wagner said, “if that’s what you’re getting at. He didn’t get anywhere.”

  Frank of all people knew how protective and how fiercely private Adrienne could be, especially where her daughter was concerned.

  “You mean Adrienne stonewalled him.”

  “That too, but I mean Emily blocked it out, everything that happened with Wellner.”

  Wagner read the disbelief in his face, spread his arms wide, palms of his hands toward Frank.

  “Dissociative amnesia – absolute fucking blank. A person goes through something traumatic like that and the only way they can deal with it is to shut it out.”

  Frank looked at him skeptically.

  “No bullshit, Frank,” Wagner said, “it happens.”

  “Maybe it came back to her,” Frank said, “maybe that’s why she tried to kill herself.”

  “Maybe,” Wagner allowed, “maybe it’s even likely. But I’m not her doctor and I don’t like speculating.”

  Frank knew the medical community had a way of closing ranks and he knew that even applied to Wagner. Most of the time. He had to ask.

  “What do you think?”

  “About what?” Wagner snapped, exasperated.

  “Does she have a chance of coming out of this? The coma?”

  “I just told you I don’t like speculating and you’re asking me to speculate.”

  “Come on, Jeff, you’re not a cop and I’m not a doctor. Help me out here.”

  Wagner thought it over, then relented.

  “Of course she does,” he said, “these kind of things, there can be any number of outcomes. Sometimes good, sometimes not good at all. Now stop asking stupid questions and get the fuck
out of here. I have to go cut up a dead person.”

  17

  “You got a minute, Mr. Saunders?”

  One of the dumbest questions ever, Saunders thought. The bar was virtually empty, only a couple of dead-eye dicks playing the slots. They were low-maintenance – Sherry just had to keep feeding them beers once in a while–but anybody with a brain could see he was busy getting things set up for the night. He looked up from the bar.

  At first he wasn’t sure which of the two guys standing there had spoken to him. Then the smaller guy stuck his hand out across the bar, smiled. The smile was somehow mechanical and insolent all at the same time. Saunders disliked him immediately.

  “Tony Hendricks. We spoke on the phone.”

  Saunders stared at his hand, then reached out and shook.

  “This isn’t a good time, Mr. Hendricks. Like I said on the phone, better to make an appointment.”

  Hendricks glanced quickly at his buddy, who was ignoring both of them, eyes roving the room. Saunders automatically glanced around, couldn’t see Sherry anywhere. Good.

  “Well, I’m here now,” Hendricks said.

  Saunders looked at them both for a moment, just long enough to let them know he thought they were both assholes.

  “I told you, this isn’t a good time. And I’m not interested in selling anyway.”

  “You should at least hear me out. And like I said on the phone, there are other options.”

  Saunders cocked an eyebrow at him, waited. Hendricks took the cue, kept going.

  “I mean, any small business can use an injection of capital,” he said, “I understand you’ve had this place for a long time, and when you’ve put so much into it you may not be ready to let it go.”

  Hendricks leaned forward, put his elbows on the bar, the bar that Saunders had just swabbed to a reflective shine. Saunders looked pointedly down at his arms, then back at him. Hendricks smiled again, not pleasantly, but he straightened up, kept talking.