“Those were their addresses when they enrolled. Not one of these four got a degree from the universities they were attending when the photographs were taken. If the pictures were larger and clearer, maybe I could eliminate one, two, or all of them. Incidentally, all four went to the University of Texas-Wyatt at Austin, Pittler at El Paso, Rodefer at Austin, and Broome at Arlington. And there is no guarantee that the people in the pictures are correctly identified by name. The lists of names can be incorrect due to transpositions, deletions, and so forth. For example, in this fraternity picture there are thirty-two faces, thirty-three names.”
“And maybe he didn’t go there.”
“I’m inclined to believe he did. Or at least had some connection with it. If I went around saying I went to the University of Heidelberg, sooner or later I would come upon someone who either went there or who knew the city well. It’s easier to know than to lie. Dumb persons tell dumb lies. Evan Lawrence didn’t strike me as being dumb.”
“And he could be one of these four?”
“Say at twenty-to-one odds. Or more. But what were the odds against your learning that he probably was not aboard the Keynes? What were the odds against that woman from Venice coming along with her camera and taking a picture which happened to show with sufficient clarity Pogo’s left hand? Odds such as that are beyond calculation. Except for coincidence, we would have believed him blown to bits, even after finding out about Norma emptying out her trust. What do we do next, Travis? You’re better at this sort of thing than I am. Do we start checking these people out?”
“I think I’d rather see about those Japanese stone lanterns. He said he worked for a man named Guffey who had a place north of Harlingen. He gave the impression it was after he got out of school, but a lot longer ago than when he worked for Eagle Realty. Remember, he said that they won’t be needing any Japanese stone lanterns down in that end of Texas for a long time.”
“Look for the lanterns?” he said, eyebrows high. “They’re conspicuous. A ranch wife would probably put one in her flower garden. Coarse gray stone, and they usually come in three parts. The four legs, and then the middle part where the candle or light bulb goes-it usually has four openings, about fist size-and then an ornate cap on top, like a pagoda roof, too heavy for anything but a hurricane to blow off. They’d still be at the places where he sold them. Harlingen sounds likely enough; I’ll assume Guffey was a name he made up at the moment. But if we go poking around the back roads, we want to try to be a little less conspicuous. What’s her van look like? Roger Windham said it was old.”
And it was. A heavy-duty GM originally painted a dark blue. Where the paint hadn’t been knocked off by the stones of rough roads and the branches of overgrown trails, it was a faded patchy blue. Where it had been knocked off, it was rust. Big steel-belted Michelins, eight ply. I rolled the door up and tried it. The battery was weak, and I didn’t think it would ever catch, but it finally did, ragged at first, and then with a healthy roar. The speedometer said five thousand and something, and, guessing it at ten or eleven years old, I didn’t know whether it had been all the way around once or twice. It had a dual battery system, a cot, a DC icebox, heavy-duty air conditioning, and a wooden crate of tools. It had an empty water tank, a tiny sink, and a Porta Potti.
We went out while the motor was still running and took it ten miles west and ten miles back to give the alternator a chance to pick the batteries up. It was almost full of gas in both tanks, and the oil was up to the line, and the batteries needed no water. But it was loud and rough, with a slight tendency to wander.
After we got back, Meyer said we probably should ask Windham if it was all right to use it, to take it down past Victoria and Corpus Christi into the valley. The papers on it were in the side pocket. The owner was Norma Greene, not Norma Lawrence. He said he had the lawyer’s home number.
He caught Windham just as he was heading out for a cocktail party. Windham told Meyer that it was his truck to do with as he pleased, but there might be a question of insurance. The insured was deceased. And insurance companies, in the event of accident, leap upon any excuse to refuse to accept a claim. Just drive very very carefully until Monday afternoon or, better yet, not at all, and by that time he’d have it covered.
Meyer said it would probably be better not to drive it at all. He was tired. His eyes were tired. His mind felt fatigued. He said he felt older than usual. There was little daylight left. He fell asleep in a chair. I thought of going out and getting something to eat, but realized I would set off the alarm system if I went out without knowing the right numbers to punch into the control panel. I went foraging through the cupboards and icebox. I found some wine and some vodka under the sink, a can of chili in the cupboard, and a wrapped slab of rat cheese in the refrigerator. Had a vodka on the rocks, heated the chili with a lot of thin slices of cheese. Roused Meyer and we ate same, in silence. He trudged up to bed. I cleaned up, looking around, and found a paperback by Stephen King about a big weird dog. Took it to bed and read a lot longer than I’d planned to. Very scary dog. Very scary writer. Wondered if he would be able to guess what kind of person Evan Lawrence was: as scary as King’s dog, but in a different way.
I kept trying not to think about Anne Renzetti, but the instant I turned the light out, there she was. The thought that kept flashing on and off right in the front of my mind was YOU BLEW IT. YOU BLEW IT. Later on there was another sign, farther back and not as bright, which kept saying YOU’LL NEVER GET A BETTER SHOT AT IT.
At what? Home and fireside? A riding mower for Christmas? A golden retriever who’d ride with his head out the car window, panting?
As the old spinach eater said, “I yam what I yam.”
Thirteen
THERE WAS some red tape to be arranged about the estate and the vehicle registration, so we didn’t get out of town in the van until so late on Monday, the twenty-sixth, we got only as far as a place called Robstown, about ten miles west of the Corpus Christi city line. We holed up at a motel on the far side of Robstomn, on U.S. 77, and as soon as we got in the room, Meyer started looking up Rodefer in the Corpus Christi phone book.
He found nine Rodefers, but none of them were Coy Lee or C. L. or even C. So Meyer wanted to go right down the list. “We’re right near the city. Why not? Why does it have to be lanterns first when we can eliminate this one right away? Or maybe find out it is the right one.”
There was no answer at the first Rodefer. As he started to call the next one, I realized I should be doing it. To his obvious relief I took the phone and placed the second call.
“Hello?” A female voice, hesitant, neither young nor old.
“This Miz Rodefer?”
“Well… the way you say it, it isn’t Rod, it’s like Road.”
“Ro-defer. Sure, I knew that. It’s just, I guess, ma’am, I haven’t rightly said it in so long, I said it wrong. Mebbe you can ha’ep me, ma’am. Long long time back I went to school up to Austin with Coy Lee Rodefer, and I’m over here in a motel next to Robstown, and I was looking in the book to see if old Coy Lee was in the book and he isn’t. But there is a bunch of Rodefers and I thought, Well, why not take a chance and see if he’s related to them, and so they’d know where he is today. Him and me were on the same runnin‘ team together.”
“Coy Lee, he’s my husband’s first cousin! What did you say your name is?”
“Travis McGee, ma’am. Just passin‘ through the area.”
“Well, if you were up there in the college with him, then you’d know why he had to drop out.”
“I just purely don’t know, Miz Rodefer. You see I had to drop out too on account of bad sickness in the family, and I had to go home to take care. I’ve always promised myself I’d go back someday and finish up, but I somehow just never did.”