Sherlock said, “I ran searches on Children of Twilight myself.”
He waited. “But?”
“Well, I did find a reference to a possible origin of the phrase, but, Dillon, it’s really out there—”
“And your point would be?” Savich held up his hand. The woman on the other side of the glass was reaching for the phone at her right elbow. He said, “Tell me the origin when we’re done here. It’s time for me to pump gas.”
Savich leisurely stepped from the car and eased the nozzle into the gas tank. The woman at the register dropped the phone into its receiver and turned back to watch him. He could tell from twenty feet away that her face was loaded down with makeup, from bloodred lipstick to bright blue eyelids. He gave her a little wave.
He replaced the gas nozzle and walked inside to pay the woman He saw lines of suspicion form on her face. Her blue-shadowed green eyes were lined with black.
He smiled at her. She didn’t smile back.
“Hello,” he said, his voice smooth, confident. “Nice dress.”
She looked surprised and uncertain, the compliment unexpeted, and she leaned toward him but only for a moment. Then she pulled back, crossed her heavy arms over her chest. She eased one leg over the other, letting her flowy blue print dress ease up to her knees.
“That’ll be only fourteen dollars and sixty-three cents,” she said, extending her hand. “Why’d you stop here when you didn’t need any gas to speak of?”
Savich glanced at her name tag as he peeled the bills out of his wallet. “You’re Doreen, right?”
“That’s me,” she said, and took his money. “You got three pennies?”
She had a deep Georgia drawl, every word syrupy-slow and with vowels. Savich shook his head no, watched her make change.
She gave him back a lot of nickels and pennies—payback, he sup-posed—then asked, her voice careful, “You and the missus take a wrong turn?”
“Oh, no,” Savich said. “We’re here to see the Backmans.”
He saw the whip of fear in her eyes before she smoothed it away. “Nice family,” Doreen said, looking down at an old People magazine with Drew Barrymore’s expressive face on the cover. He saw Doreen didn’t believe him. She said, “Outsiders usually pay with credit cards, not cash, particularly if they don’t have anything to hide.”
Savich said easily, “But then again I didn’t get much gas, did I? I like to keep rental cars nice and full. Do you also know Caldicot Caldicot Whistler, Doreen? Good-looking guy about your age?”
Savich loved this woman. She was wide open, every thought clear on her face. He saw the flash of recognition, then fear or suspicion, or alarm, he wasn’t sure which.
“Nope, never heard of this Whistler. Dumb name.”
“I don’t know. I think Blessed is a pretty dumb name too, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Can you give me a recommendation for a place to stay?”
“The Backmans won’t put you up? They got more bedrooms in that big house than that Hearst Castle place in California. How long you going to be here?”
“We haven’t decided that yet. I guess we’ll have to see how long our business dealings with Blessed take.”
She let her breath whoosh out. “You’re not—I mean, you really know Blessed?”
“Yes. Very well, as a matter of fact.”
“I don’t know how that can be, since Blessed doesn’t leave Bricker’s Bowl very often and I’ve sure never seen you before. Fact is, though, Blessed’s not here—in town, I mean. Haven’t seen him in more than a week. Heard he borrowed an old SUV from Mr. Claus and headed out. So you’re out of luck.”
“Then we’ll deal with Grace and Shepherd.”
“Haven’t seen Grace either. As for Shepherd, who knows? She hardly ever leaves that mansion of hers, much less Bricker’s Bowl. I heard she buried one of her sons—the Lost One—just two weeks ago. Martin was his name. We started out in the first grade together and went all the way through. He was smart.”
“Why do you call Martin the Lost One?”
She shrugged her big shoulders. “After he left, Mrs. Backman started calling him that. The Lost One. And she’d cry. No one ever heard from him again, not until his widow brought him back in a miserable urn to plant in the ground since she’d had him cremated up north somewhere. People think that’s not right around here, you know? I heard the urn was made of one of those new specially treated woods, last as long as metal. Can you imagine? I also imagine Shepherd wasn’t happy about that, Blessed and Grace either.”
“Hey, Martin’s widow brought him back to his hometown and family. That was surely a nice thing for her to do, don’t you think, Doreen?”
“She was gone fast enough. Delia Hoop down at the dry cleaner’s said she heard the widow was this city girl, all proud and proper, and Martin’s little girl was cute as a button. That’s what Mavis at the Food Star old her. Said the little girl liked butter-pecan ice cream. But she didn’t look a thing like her daddy. Martin was dark, had a five-o’clock stubble by the time he was sixteen. Shepherd didn’t like that either, I heard, the little girl looking the image of her mother.”
Savich nodded. “Blessed told me how he caught that young guy from the newspaper who was at the funeral spying on them, how he told him to go quit his job.”
Doreen’s eyes flashed again—was it fear? Or was it par for the course when you lived in Blessed’s universe? “The little snoop, serves him right, but old man Maynard wouldn’t let him quit even though he lost his prized camera.”
“Yeah, Blessed said he smashed the camera.”
Doreen’s mouth opened and Savich leaned forward a bit. Suddenly she looked out the window. Savich turned to see a big muscle truck, a Chevy Cheyenne, so spit-shined you could see your reflection in its black surface. He saw a gun rack but no one riding shotgun.
Doreen said, “That there’s Sheriff Cole. Burris probably saw you, wants to check you out. He’s real careful with our town. I told you, Blessed and Grace aren’t here. Why don’t you just leave now? I mean, you got a real full tank now, don’t you? Trust me, you don’t want to tangle with Sheriff Cole.”
“Tangle with the sheriff? Last thing on my mind. I’m pleased you called him for me, Doreen.”
40
“SHERIFF COLE DOESN’T like strangers. He’s always driving through town, watching for them, so you’d best hie yourself out of Bricker’s Bowl, back up to the highway, before he hauls you in and puts the hurt on you. I didn’t call anybody.”
“The hurt on me? Does he make a habit of beating up strangers who come to Bricker’s Bowl?”
“Don’t make him think you deserve it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Savich agreed, and gave Doreen a small salute and a smile that startled her. He walked out the door to stand in the bright sun a moment and stretch. He watched Sheriff Cole climb out of his truck, check himself in the high shine. So this was the man who’d kissed off Ethan. He watched him hoist up his tan polyester pants and settle the wide leather belt and big holster around his middle, run his fingers over the butt of his Smith & Wesson Model 29, Dirty Harry’s classic .44 Magnum. What was this small-town sheriff doing with such a powerful gun? Stupid question. Like his truck, the .44 Magnum helped make him the Big Man, someone with power, someone to fear. He actually was big and muscular, in his late thirties,
big hands, big booted feet. He rolled his powerful shoulders and, of all things, cracked his knuckles. Savich sincerely doubted the two of them would ever be friends. This was no Dougie Hollyfield or Ethan Merriweather. This man looked volatile, and that made him very dangerous. If Joanna was right, he was in the Backmans’ pocket.