Headlights? They were outside, so he couldn’t see them directly, only their glow above the wall, and as he stopped to frown at that unexpected aura, the lights switched off.
But what were they doing here? Nobody was supposed to be in that area beyond the wall at night. That would be where the service road came in, at the end of the clubhouse, and there was never any reason for traffic out there after the track shut down.
Unless it was somebody out to harm the horses.
Why that should be, Bill had never understood, but there was a kind of sick human being who just liked to mutilate horses. Attack them with knives, axes, bottles of acid.
Why would people do things like that? They were always caught, drooling and bloody, and they were always put away in a nuthouse somewhere, and there was never any explanation. Whatever went wrong in your life, whatever went wrong in your head, why take it out on a horse?
And is that what he’d happened across tonight? It was those sickos, he knew, who primarily made his job as a night guard here at the track necessary, that and the constant fear of fire. So is that what he’d found, some maniac with a chain saw in his fist? Was he about to become a hero, like it or not?
He thought the thing to do was go back into the clubhouse and walk around to where he could look out one of the windows facing the service road. Let’s just see what’s out there. Couldn’t hurt.
15
Tom Lindahl drove past the main entrance to Gro-More, with its outlined stylized bulls on the gates, then drove on past the dirt road, unmarked except for the Dead End sign, that he should have taken down to the end of the clubhouse. But he just kept driving.
For a mile or two, he didn’t even think about what he was doing, but just drove on as though that were his only purpose in being out here, to drive aimlessly, forever. It was easy, and it was comforting, and it didn’t make any sense.
After a couple of miles, he came to himself enough to realize this wasn’t going to work. He hadn’t seen Smith anywhere on the long drive down, he’d come to believe he’d never see Smith again, but that didn’t mean he could just drive on and on. Where to? For what?
I can’t go back, he thought for the very first time.
That was a chilling thought. He was on a dark country road, and up ahead there was an intersection with a lit-up diner on the right. Refusing to think, clenching his teeth to hold back the floodgates of thought, he waited till he reached the diner, pulled in, stopped in the semidark around at the rear, opened his window, and shut off the engine. Then he slumped and stared at the back of the building, the Dumpster, the screen door closed over the glaringly bright kitchen.
I can’t go back there. He meant Pooley, he meant the little converted garage he’d been living in, he meant that whole life.
He didn’t think, I can’t go home. That wasn’t home, he hadn’t had a home for years. That was where he’d camped out, waiting for something to happen, although, until Smith had come along, there was never anything going to happen except one day he wouldn’t be waiting any more.
But Smith had come along and riled up the waters. Tom had met him, and hooked up with him, and told him about this racetrack opportunity, because he’d thought he wanted revenge and money, but he’d been wrong. He’d wanted a hand grenade to throw into the middle of his empty unbearable life, and boy, he’d sure found one.
He couldn’t go back because too many people had seen him with Smith, and, one way or another, who Smith really was would be bound to come out. If somehow they went ahead with this robbery, the police would automatically look at Tom Lindahl, simply because he was a former employee with a grudge, and what would they find? The mysterious Ed Smith, come and gone at just the exact right moment.
But even without the robbery, how long would Smith’s identity stay hidden? Fred Thiemann suspected something, though he wasn’t sure yet just what it was. Fred’s wife, Jane, was smarter and more persistent than Fred, and if she started to wonder about Smith, that would be the end of it. And weren’t Cory and Cal Dennison poking their noses in somehow?
So the only thing for Tom to do was what he’d instinctively started to do. Just drive, keep driving south, try to find somebody else to be, somebody else in some other place. Smith had told him it was impossible to disappear like that today, but that couldn’t be true. People vanished. And God knows, if there was one thing Tom Lindahl wanted to do, it was vanish.
The only question was, should he go back to the track, just to see if Smith showed up? Without Smith, he knew he wouldn’t be doing any robbery here tonight, wouldn’t even go into the clubhouse, wouldn’t even get out of the car. But at least he should go back, look at Gro-More one last time before closing that part of his life at last. He’d give Smith, say, half an hour, then drive away from here and never be Tom Lindahl again.
Once the decision was made, it was easy, as though it had always been easy; he’d just been too close to it to see the path. Now he could see it. He started the engine, drove back to Dead End, and this time headed on in. He went to where there was the right turn to the chain-link fence, and stopped at the gate there. He didn’t get out of the car but looked through the fence at the clubhouse and after a minute switched off the headlights. He didn’t need them to know where he was.
Smith, in the dark beside Tom’s open window, said, “Time to get started.”
FOUR
1
Parker saw the gray Volkswagen Jetta start out of Pooley after Tom Lindahl’s Ford SUV, and fell in line behind it, in the Infiniti he’d taken from Brian Hopwood’s gas station. The best opportunity to deal with the Jetta and the two inside it came just before the second roadblock, when the Jetta pulled off onto the apron of a closed gas station. Parker stopped beside them, planning to talk to them, see what he had to do to get rid of them, maybe shoot their tires out or shoot up their ignition, whatever it would take to scare them off, but before he got close enough to say anything, the idiot Cal was out of the Jetta and waving a handgun around and Parker put him down.
The other one got scared, all right, and skittered away from there like a drop of water on a hot frying pan, but Parker knew he’d be back. Cory’d made it his lifework to stand with his dumber crazier brother, so once the fright wore off, he’d have to come back.
The only problem was the body. Without the body, Cory would have nothing to say to the troopers down there at the roadblock, too far for them to have heard the flat crack of Parker’s single shot. The troopers were more bored tonight, less convinced they’d find anything useful out here, and they weren’t searching cars, not even cars with two males inside, so Parker threw the body into the trunk, went through the roadblock without a problem, flashing the Infiniti’s registration he’d found in the packet with the owner’s manual, plus William G. Dodd’s driver’s license, and a few miles later, at a silent dark empty stretch of road, no buildings in sight, he dumped the body off the road and down a slope toward a chattering little creek he could hear but not see.
Shortly after that, he overtook the SUV, still potting along ten miles below the speed limit. He passed it when he could, and went on to the track, leaving the Infiniti on the scrub ground outside the chain-link fence away to the left of the road, facing back toward the gate. Then he switched off the engine, buttoned the overhead light not to turn on when the door was opened, and waited.
It took longer than it should have for Tom to get there. Had he lost his nerve? If he was running, too spooked to think what best to do for himself, Parker would have no choice but to drive away from here and forget the track. He couldn’t get in without Tom’s keys and Tom’s knowledge.