“But I also got me a state-of-the-art security system,” Dark said with a proud smile that a frown suddenly erased. “When that Purchase fella was here, he wanted that old Caddie so bad I thought he might bang me over the head and drive off in it. So I sort of discouraged him.”
“How?” Haynes asked.
Dark stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Haynes heard them coming a second or two later, their claws clicking on the concrete floor, their growls punctuated by angry barks. He turned to find three rottweilers racing toward him, fangs bared and eyes blazing. Haynes also found there was no time to run or hide and just barely enough to wonder how much it would hurt.
Dark whistled again. The dogs stopped abruptly, skidding a little, then sat down on their haunches. One of them yawned and scratched his right ear with a hind foot. The other two seemed to grin at Haynes.
“Three of them,” he said.
“They fight over who’s boss. Keeps ’em mean. With two, you get buddies. With three, rivals.”
“What did Purchase do when you whistled them up?”
“He sort of froze just like you did. Just like everybody does. Still want his phone number?”
“I don’t,” Haynes said. “But Mr. Mott might.”
Forty
By 5:32 P.M. that Monday they had checked into the Bellevue Motel in Bethesda, Maryland, as Mr. and Mrs. Jeff T. Clarkson. The room was $58 a night and the motel owner demanded a $100 deposit after Haynes announced he would pay cash. The owner wasn’t in the least interested in either the make of Haynes’s car or its license number. Nor did he ask to see a driver’s license or other identification.
The pink and teal Bellevue Motel was built in the shape of a two-story U. The view it offered was that of the McDonald’s across the street. Haynes’s room was at the bottom of the U and as he nosed the Cadillac into the vacant parking space, he felt, then heard, the right front wheel run over and crush a glass bottle. He and Erika got out to inspect what damage, if any, a broken 750-milliliter Smirnoff vodka bottle had done to the tire. Apparently none, they decided.
Erika went into the room first after Haynes unlocked the door. He followed, carrying her canvas overnight bag that looked like something a stonemason might carry his tools in. After dumping the bag onto one of the twin beds, Haynes sat down on the other one, picked up the telephone and made a call to Sheriff Jenkins Shipp in Berryville, Virginia.
“That you, Granville?” the sheriff said, once a deputy had transferred the call to him.
“Yes, sir.”
“What can I do you for?”
“I’m calling about that car my father left me.”
“Steady’s big old Cadillac?”
“Right. Did the man who came to pick it up check with you first?”
“That fella Dark? He like to talk my arm off.” Sheriff Shipp paused to let a small measure of concern creep into his tone. “He was supposed to pick it up, wasn’t he? Least, that’s what Mr. Mott called and told me.”
“That’s right, he was,” Haynes said. “But I’m wondering whether anyone ever said anything about wanting to buy it?”
“You fixin’ to sell it?”
“Maybe.”
“You know, Granville, a fella did drop by last week and say he was interested in buying it. Wasn’t more’n a day or two after Dark came and got it. I told him to call Mr. Mott or go talk to Dark. Even gave him the address of Dark’s garage in Falls Church. Tell the truth, I think this fella was more’n just interested. I think he was in love with that car.”
“He give you his name?”
“If he did, I forgot it.”
“Was his name Purchase by any chance?”
There was a long silence until the sheriff said, “Granville?”
“Yes.”
“Just what the fuck’re you up to? We may be way out here in the boonies but when somebody with the name of Purchase gets himself killed during a shoot-out in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, the name sort of sticks in the mind — know what I mean?”
“Probably a different Purchase,” Haynes said.
“I’m afraid I lied to you, Granville. The man who wanted to buy Steady’s car — his name was Horace Purchase. The man who got killed in the Willard — his name was also Horace Purchase, or so CNN claims. Soon as I heard his name mentioned on the TV I got on the phone and called Washington homicide. They put me onto a real smart colored fella — Detective-Sergeant Pouncy — and him and me got to talking and it turns out he’s just dying to have a word with you.”
“I’ll call him,” Haynes said.
“Might be a good idea because soon as we hang up I’m gonna call and tell him I just talked to you.” Shipp paused yet again. “Or I could have him call you if you’ll gimme the number you’re calling from.”
Haynes made up a number. Shipp repeated it, sounding dubious, and said, “Just a couple of more things, Granville. First of all, I’m sorry I had to lie to you about not remembering that fella Purchase’s name. And second, they came out early yesterday and got old Zip and I expect he’s doggie dinner by now.”
“Thanks very much, Sheriff,” Haynes said, ended the call and turned to look up at Erika, who was standing between the two beds. “You get most of that?”
“Your lies anyway.”
“Here’s the rest: Purchase found out the car was at Dark’s from the sheriff. The sheriff found out who Purchase was from CNN. He then talked to Sergeant Pouncy, who wants to talk to me more than ever.”
“Why don’t you call him?”
“When I have something to say, I will,” Haynes said, rose and started toward the door, patting the right pocket of his topcoat as if to make certain McCorkle’s pistol was still there.
Erika picked up her coat from the bed and asked, ”Where’re we going?”
“To stash the car someplace. Maybe at Howard Mott’s.”
“Why there?”
“So I can take it apart.”
“Steady wouldn’t have hidden the manuscript in his car.”
“You might think that. And I might think that. But Horace Purchase sure as hell didn’t. And I’m fairly sure that whoever hired Purchase has by now talked to Ledell Dark, Prop. And Mr. Dark has probably told him all about my interest in Purchase and even what your overnight bag looks like. And I’d also bet that right now somebody is checking motel registers by phone and in person, asking about an attractive young couple in an old black Cadillac convertible — not exactly the world’s most anonymous car.”
“The manuscript could be in a safety-deposit box — or buried on Steady’s farm eight paces north of the sour apple tree.”
Haynes stared at her. “You’re convinced there is no manuscript, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Pretend there is. Just pretend. If you pretend that, then you know where the manuscript isn’t. You know it’s not in Steady’s farmhouse and wasn’t in the hotel room where he died. You know it wasn’t in Isabelle’s apartment and that Undean didn’t have it and neither did Tinker Burns.”
“Explain why I know all that.”
“Because the CIA and Mr. Anonymous, whoever he is, are still anxious to buy it.”
“What about all those fake manuscripts?” she said. “What the hell were they for if not to pull some kind of rip-off?”
“How should I know?” Haynes said. “Sure. It could’ve been a dodge of some sort — a con. Even a false trail. Or maybe Steady’d decided he wasn’t going to split fifty-fifty with Isabelle after all. You’ve got to remember that Steady wasn’t expecting to die. And that manuscript, if there is one — or even if there isn’t — was to be his annuity. His fuck-you money. And he could’ve decided it would fetch just enough for one but not nearly enough for two. So he hid the real manuscript where nobody would look and then salted the obvious hiding places with fake ones.”