Reuben's face swung toward me. His expression was probably just about the same as mine had been when I'd heard that from her.
"And she believes it?" he said.
"She seems to. I don't think she's, you know, overly critical."
His lips twisted sardonically and his head sank back against the chair.
"She didn't know where he was going to do the panning, or at least she wouldn't tell me," I said. "I wondered if you had any idea."
Reuben stayed quiet for a good long minute-eyes open and seemingly gazing out the window, but he was obviously weighing this further. He was too realistic not to have accepted by now that Kirk had met with either an accident or violence. My coming here and asking about this was a red flag on top of the suspicion already hanging over me. And he no doubt saw already that I hoped to divert that suspicion by coming up with other reasons why Kirk might have gotten in trouble-by linking him to something illegal, which would harm him if he was still alive and reflect badly on the Pettyjohn family in any event.
"Well, maybe that explains something," Reuben finally said.
He spoke on at some length-measuring his sentences carefully but without any gamesmanship, and answering my occasional questions without reluctance. I'd been pleasantly surprised that he hadn't dismissed me outright, and I was almost startled at his being so forthcoming.
But what really threw me was that right up to the last, I was braced for him to demand whether I knew anything about Kirk, or at least why I was asking what I asked.
All he said as I was leaving was, "Stop by again, Hugh."
34
When I got down to the empty wet street, my crosstop high was fading and I was starting to drag. I entertained a brief notion of going to Sarah Lynn's, giving her the rest of her money, and apologizing for not calling her. It was strange-of all the things I felt bad about, that was the one that kept coming up in my mind. And in there, too, of course, was the thought that maybe this time she'd take me in. But pushing it would be a mistake. I decided I'd do it tomorrow, instead-go see her at work, with a dozen roses and a dinner invitation.
I started the bike and headed homeward into thin night rain that stung my face, thinking over what Reuben had told me.
Back during the days when oil was first being recognized as black gold, a fair amount of drilling had started in the northern part of the state. Reuben's father had taken a stab at getting in on the action and had acquired a few bits of land. Nothing much had come of it-most of the operations had decayed to rusting skeletal derricks out in desolate fields, now worth only the scrub grass they might grow to graze a few head of cattle. Reuben leased out the rights for a pittance and otherwise paid no attention to them.
But soon after he'd sold the ranch to Balcomb, Kirk had approached him respectfully and asked for ownership of a particular one, in an area called the Sweet Grass Hills. It was a pretty spot beside a creek, with a shack on it. He claimed that he'd gotten interested in prospecting and wanted to fix the place up and nose around.
"I didn't much buy it," Reuben had said. "There used to be some gold mining up around there but it got picked clean years ago, and he knew it. He never gave a hoot in hell about anything like that, anyway. I figured more likely he was hoping to convince me he was finally amounting to something, so I'd start cutting him some cash."
Still, Reuben had signed the place over to him, and arranged to cover building materials and other expenses. He hadn't tried to explain why to me, but I understood. With all the anger, guilt, and grief that had pervaded that family, with Pete's suicide and Kirk's worthlessness, it was Reuben's last-ditch attempt to salvage Kirk as his son and himself as Kirk's father.
We hadn't talked about the obvious implications, either. The place was only a few miles south of the Canadian border, deep in a region that was barely populated and virtually roadless. The official crossing points were at least fifty miles apart, with no settlements in between. Border agents didn't have nearly enough manpower to patrol it all effectively, and the only barrier across the vast empty fields was a standard barbed-wire fence. It was so vulnerable there had even been a public-service TV commercial urging ranchers to keep a watch for terrorists, who, as a friend of mine had put it, could skip across in their jockstraps.
You couldn't ask for a better setup to run contraband.
The Victor didn't have a rearview mirror, but I was careful to keep tabs on what was behind me with quick, frequent glances over my shoulder. Traffic was light tonight, and nobody tried to pass me until I got a few miles east of town, out beyond the reservoir. Then I realized that a vehicle was gaining on me fast.
My first thought was that I'd been spotted by a cop. But it didn't turn on flashers, and as it got closer, I was able to see that the headlights were high and far apart, like on the oversize pickups called duallies. With somebody driving that kind of rig in a hurry and me without even a taillight, I was asking for it. As soon as I spotted a place to turn out, I hit my brakes and skidded into it.
The other vehicle roared past a few seconds later-a tow truck, probably driven by a guy who'd had to handle a wet Sunday evening emergency, was grumpy about it, and wanted to get back to his nice warm house.
The road was mostly straight for the next couple of miles, and while the tow truck gained a comfortable lead on me, its taillights stayed in sight. I didn't pay much more attention to it at first-just assumed that it would turn off. But it kept on going toward Canyon Ferry. I started to get puzzled. I hadn't gotten a good look at its logo, but I was pretty sure there was nobody living out this way who ran a tow operation. Maybe there'd been a freak wreck. Maybe the driver had a girlfriend out here.
Maybe Kirk's Jeep had been found.
That thought hit a lot harder than the worry about a cop. But it was next to impossible. The water was deep enough at that spot so you couldn't see the bottom even in clear daylight. In this weather the surface was choppy and murky, and the Jeep was black besides. There were hardly any people around at all, and for sure no swimmers. Searchers could have found it by dragging, but there was no reason to look there.
The last stretch of road before the lake came into sight was hilly and twisty. In spite of my rationales, I braced myself for coming over the final rise and seeing a cluster of flashing lights on the far shore.
Everything was dark over there. I exhaled with relief.
But the tow truck was still moving in that direction, approaching the bridge. Queasiness rose in my guts again-the fear that something else had turned up to arouse the suspicion of the authorities. I couldn't imagine how a tow would figure in, but this was too unsettling to just brush off.
The curves were slowing the big truck down. I knew that road almost literally well enough to drive it blindfolded, and the rain had pretty well let up by now. I switched off my jerry-rigged headlight and sped up. The truck came in and out of sight through the tight curves beyond the village. Without hesitating, it passed the place where Kirk and I had fought, and, a half mile farther, the submerged Jeep. Relief washed over me again. The driver was probably headed to Townsend or White Sulfur Springs or some other place east of here.
But when the rig got to Stumpleg Gulch the taillights brightened suddenly-braking. The bright amber cab-top flashers went on and it turned up the road toward my cabin.
This time I got a jolt of flat-out alarm. None of my few neighbors would ever call for a tow-they had their own heavy equipment and mechanical skills. There hadn't been a wreck up there throughout my entire lifetime.
I followed at a careful distance. As I got close to my place, I started to see more lights pulsing faintly in the night sky. It was eerie, like an alien spacecraft had landed in there.