He slept, but it wasn’t a good sleep-fitful, sticky in spite of the air conditioner, dream ridden. The dreams were mostly an episodic succession of ghost images, distorted wanderings among hanged men, vehicles with flashing lights, dark-shadowed places filled with disembodied voices. But one, the last one, was clear and vivid in every detail, as were all of his dreams about Colleen.
In this one they were on their first date in Old Town. Old-fashioned Italian place, candles in Chianti bottles, checked tablecloths. Both of them a little nervous, but only because they didn’t know each other well yet and each wanted to make a good impression. At ease in each other’s company otherwise. Colleen leaning forward, her face lighted like a madonna’s by the candle flame, saying, “I never thought I’d be going out with a cop.” Him asking why not and her saying, “I’ve always been afraid of policemen, ever since I was a little kid. No reason, just that they seemed so… don’t know, authoritarian, dangerous.” Him saying, “You never have to be afraid of me.” And her saying, “I know. It’s just the opposite with you; you make me feel safe.” And the feeling that came over him in that moment, sudden and sharp and overwhelming-the revelation that he was in love with Colleen McPhail and the certainty that he would marry her and they would be together until death did them part.
He awoke dripping wet. Even the pillow was sodden-sweat, drool, tears. But his headache had dulled and except for a desert mouth and throat he felt better. A thin strip of fading daylight showed where the window drapes didn’t quite overlap; his watch said it was twenty of eight. In the bathroom he drank three glasses of water, checked the bandage in the mirror, then took a long, careful shower. He was hungry by the time he finished dressing. Another good sign.
Still hot when he stepped outside and crossed to the coffee shop. Cool enough inside, though. Noisy. He sat at the counter, ordered iced tea and a sandwich. He was just finishing up when somebody sat down beside him and said, “Mr. Runyon? Can I talk to you?”
Young woman, early twenties. Short ginger blond hair. Pale blue eyes. Pretty enough in a conventional way. Wearing shorts, a tank top, and an intense, nervous expression.
He said, “Depends on who you are.”
“Sandra Parnell. Jerry’s friend… Jerry Belsize.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Not here. You’re staying at the motel, right? Can’t we go to your room?”
That made him wary. She didn’t look cheap or duplicitous-just an average small-town young woman worried about her boyfriend-but it paid to be cautious. One of the most vicious jackrolling hookers he’d encountered in Seattle had been a sixteen-year-old with a face like an angel. “I don’t think so.”
“Outside, then. My car’s in the lot. Please?”
There was still some daylight left and there were plenty of people around. He was still wary but curious enough to say, “All right.”
Sandra Parnell went out first, stood waiting until he paid the check and joined her. “Over here,” she said, and led him to a beat-up Chrysler at least as old as she was. Convertible, with the top down. He waited for her to get in before he went around to the passenger side.
She said, “Jerry’s father says you’re a detective. That you came up here to see Jerry about that mugging in San Francisco.”
“That’s right.”
“He’s not a bad person, Mr. Runyon. I mean, he shouldn’t have lied about getting a good look at the man with the knife, but he was scared. He’s scared a lot; he just can’t help it.”
Runyon said nothing.
“He and Manuel, they always got along. He just couldn’t’ve done what they’re saying.”
“Why tell me?”
“Nobody else will listen. The cops… Deputy Kelso. You know him?”
“We’ve met.”
“He kept trying to make me tell him where Jerry is. He hates Jerry because… never mind why; he just does. If he ever gets his hands on him…”
“What do you think would happen?”
“He’d beat him up. Maybe even kill him.”
“He’d have to be the one to catch Jerry first.”
“You think he couldn’t? He knows this county like nobody else.”
“Does that mean Jerry’s still in the county?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you do know where he is.”
“No!” Too quick, too emphatic. She knew, all right.
“The best thing for him to do,” Runyon said, “is to walk himself into the county sheriff’s office and talk to Joe Rinniak. He’s the man in charge, not Kelso. The longer Jerry stays away, the worse it’s going to look for him.”
“They’d just arrest him and convict him and send him to prison. They wouldn’t keep looking for the real criminal.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“It’s what Jerry believes.”
“You need hard evidence to convict a man of arson and murder, Sandra. There’s no hard evidence against him.”
“What about those kerosene cans and the stuff in his room?”
“Circumstantial. No direct links to any of the fires. Or to the murder of the hired hand. Can he prove where he was when that went down?”
“He was with me.” Too quick again. A lie this time.
“All day yesterday? Why didn’t he go home when he was supposed to?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I just can’t.”
“Let’s quit playing around. You think he should turn himself in. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here talking to me.”
She made a snuffling sound, rubbed at her nose, her eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I want. I can’t make Jerry do anything-he’s too scared.”
“Neither can I, if that’s what you’re after.”
“But maybe you-”
What caused her to break off was the roar of engine exhaust as a car came fast-wheeling into the lot. It racketed down the aisle behind them, a low-slung yellow and black Trans Am; slowed, and then slid into the empty space close on Runyon’s side.
Sandra said, “Oh shit.”
The Trans Am’s driver, a girl about Sandra’s age, shut off the noise and managed to squeeze herself out of the car without her door scraping the Chrysler’s. Slender, with oversized breasts in a tight bra under a loose blouse; midnight dark hair flowing down silkily to the curve of tightdenimed buttocks. Her passenger was slower to emerge. He stood peering over the cartop, a lanky kid with a mop of caramel-colored hair.
“Hey there,” the girl said to Sandra. “New boyfriend?”
“Shut up, Ashley.”
“No, he’s that detective, right? I can tell by the bandage. How’s your head?” she asked Runyon.
“Sore.”
“I’ll bet. I’ll bet if Jerry hit you any harder with that two-by-two, he’d’ve taken your head right off.”
Runyon said nothing.
“Jerry didn’t do it,” Sandra said, wearily this time. “Not that you care one way or the other.”
“That’s right, I don’t.”
Sandra looked over at the lanky kid. “Why do you let her drive your car, Zach? She’ll wreck it someday. She’s a menace.”
“She likes to drive fast,” he said.
“She won’t like if it her father catches her.”
“Hah,” Ashley said. She tossed her head, putting the long hair into a dark swirl. Habitual gesture, from the way she did it, showing it off. “You look all blotchy and red eyed, Sandy. Does that mean they caught Jerry?”
“You know they haven’t.”
“But they will. I’ll bet it won’t take long.”
“Why don’t you go squat on a sharp stick?”
“Oo, nasty. You hear what she said, Zach?”