"Q" is for Quarry (48 page)

“Bleak,” someone said.

I turned. Justine was standing to my left, making the same sad assessment of the room that I had. I saw her gaze linger on my jacket. “What.”

“Nothing. I used to have a jacket just like that.”

“Really? I’ve had this old thing for years.” I felt a spark of fear and a second lie sprung to my lips. “Hey, what was Cornell up to Friday night? I thought I saw him downtown about ten.”

She gave me a little smile of negation and bafflement. “He was home with the kids. I was out doing stuff for church.”

“He was home alone?”

“Not at all. The kids were there. I told you that.”

“Well, that’s odd. You sure he didn’t pop out to get a video? I could have sworn it was him.”

“It couldn’t have been. I went out at nine after the girls were in bed. He was folding laundry when I left and sacked out on the couch when I got home at midnight.”

“The church is open that late?”

“I wasn’t at the church. I was over at Adele’s, working on a mailing. That’s why he ended up baby-sitting.”

“I thought they did the mailing Saturday at Edna’s.”

“They finished it then. We started Friday night.”

I didn’t point out that Cornell could have driven to Creosote and back in an hour, with plenty of time left for a stop at the Tuley-Belle to deliver forty whacks to Pudgie’s head. She could have done it, too. Three hours would have been more than adequate. I tried to remember what Adele had said when she paid her husband’s parking citation. He’d been ticketed Friday night because he was late for a movie, but I couldn’t remember if she said she’d been with him or not. Changing the subject, I said, “You want some wine? I’m out. I’ll be happy to bring you some.”

“No, thanks. I don’t drink. I’ve seen enough of that.”

“I’ll be right back.”

I bumped into someone as I entered the living room. I said, “Pardon me,” and looked up to find Todd Chilton. He wasn’t in uniform and it took me an instant to realize who he was. I said, “Hey, how are you? I didn’t realize you’d be here. Can I talk to you a minute?”

“Sure.”

We stepped to one side. Music had started up. Someone had apparently put together a tape of Pudgie’s old favorites, starting with Chubby Checker.
“Come on, baby, let’s do the twist . . .”
Nobody seemed to think it was inappropriate. I was just happy to have the noise to cover my conversation with the deputy. He bent his head, a hand cupped to his ear.

I said, “Have they found the murder weapon yet?”

He shook his head. “We searched until six and then we had to give it up. No point fumbling around in the dark. Detective Lassiter did say he’d return Detective Oliphant’s call first thing tomorrow morning. Lot of paperwork’s piled up since we’ve been out in the field.”

“I’m assuming Pudgie’s murder hit the news.”

“Oh yeah. Big spread this morning, asking for volunteers. I was just talking to Cornell. We got a lot of desert out there and a weapon like that’s easy to hide. We’ve searched that whole area behind the Tuley-Belle and now we’ll head toward the highway. You’re welcome to join us. We could use the help.”

“Thanks. I may do that.”

Chilton moved away. I scanned the room, looking for Cornell. Adrianne had reappeared and she gave me a look of dark distaste before she walked away. I’d probably overplayed my hand with her. I didn’t want to think she’d tell her brother what I knew, but she was capable of that.

Felicia passed me again. “They’re about to cut that chocolate cake if you’re interested. It looks great.”

“I’ll have some in a bit. Have you seen Cornell?”

She glanced around. “He was here a while ago. He might be in the kitchen. I saw him talking to Adrianne. He might have left to pick up the kids at the baby-sitter’s. I hear he’s a doll about things like that.”

“I’m sure. Thanks.”

I crossed to the front window and peered out to the darkened street. Justine’s sedan was still there but Cornell’s truck was gone. I didn’t like that. His departure seemed abrupt. Maybe it was true he’d gone to pick up his kids, but it was also true he knew the search for the murder weapon was heating up. I let myself out the front door, struck by the chill night air after the suffocating level of artificial heat inside. My thrift store jacket, which had probably belonged to Justine once upon a time, was too light to offer much protection from the cold. I readjusted my shoulder bag and broke into a trot, heading for Dolan’s car.

I unlocked the door and slid in under the wheel. I jammed the key in the ignition and turned it. The car coughed and died. I tried again. No deal. I pumped the gas pedal twice and then realized I was only flooding the engine. I sat and waited and then tried again. The starter ground and turned over. I gave it way too much gas and the engine roared to life. I pulled out, tires chirping as I took off. I turned on the heat, hoping to warm up. My sense of urgency coupled with the dry cold was making me shiver.

Half a minute later, I was on Highway 78, driving north toward Quorum. At this hour of the evening, traffic was light. I thought I caught a glimpse of Cornell’s truck up ahead. There were four cars on the road between us and I was having to peer around and through them to keep an eye on him. Approaching the Tuley-Belle, the car in front of me slowed and I realized that, at the head of the line, Cornell had slowed to a stop. His turn signal winked merrily and he turned left as soon as oncoming traffic allowed.

I slowed as I passed the entrance, watching his taillights disappear into the dark. I drove on a hundred yards and pulled over to the side of the road. I doused the headlights, set the handbrake, and let the car idle while I debated with myself. I’d be foolish to follow him. The Tuley-Belle was a mile and a half from the main road, not only isolated, but riddled with hiding places better known to him than they were to me. I peered over my shoulder and stared into the darkness, picking up the parallel rounds of his headlights, now facing me. He hadn’t driven to the complex. For some reason, he’d turned the truck around and was now parked by the road, facing the highway. I saw the headlights go out. Soon after that, I picked up a faint smudge of light off to the right of the four-lane blacktop. What was he doing out there? Burying the murder weapon? Digging it up to move it? But why take that risk? Simple. He knew the sheriff’s investigators had been and gone. He also knew they’d return the next morning to start the search again. Todd Chilton had described the terrain the deputies had covered. If the weapon was out there, he could either move it into an area they’d already searched or remove the weapon from a section yet to be combed. Why would the tire iron be out there in the first place? Because he didn’t want the damn thing hidden anywhere close to home? Because he hadn’t had time to dispose of it anywhere else? Whatever he was up to, he must have decided this was his only opportunity to act.

I reached up and snapped the cover from the dome light and unscrewed the bulb. I got out, pushing the door closed without snapping it shut. I walked to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. I wasn’t worried about the trunk light. Nothing on the back end of Dolan’s vehicle worked, including the taillights. I felt my way across the darkened space until my hand came down on Dolan’s Smith & Wesson, snug in its holster. I picked up the gun and the holster, eased down the lid of the trunk, and returned to the driver’s seat. I slipped under the wheel again, leaving the car door ajar. I fumbled in my bag until I found my pen light. I snapped it on and placed it on the passenger seat, keeping my inspection process well below the level of the dashboard. This was the gun Dolan carried on duty; a 9mm Parabellum, with a clip that held fifteen rounds. I hit the clip release button and checked the magazine—fully loaded—and then smacked it back into place. I pulled the slide back and released it, then checked to see that the safety was on. I hefted the weight of the gun, close to twenty-eight ounces, feeling its clumsiness in a hand as small as mine. At least it was an equalizer, wasn’t it?

I stripped off my jacket. Dolan’s shoulder holster had a Velcro and leather strip shoulder strap that I adjusted and secured under my left arm, the gun tucked snugly in place. I pulled on the jacket again, tugging at the front until it lay flat. I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, waiting for a break in the flow of cars. As soon as I was clear in both directions, I made a wide U-turn, swinging across the two-lane highway and onto the berm on the far side of the road. I eased the car along on the berm until I found a spot that seemed to provide at least a modicum of cover. I was now facing in the direction of Creosote instead of Quorum on the same side of the road as the entrance to the Tuley-Belle. Cornell was laboring away somewhere to my right, though I couldn’t really see him from where I sat.

I killed the engine, tucked the keys in my jacket pocket, and got out of the car. It wasn’t my intention to do anything dumb. I wasn’t going to tackle the guy or try to make a citizen’s arrest. I just wanted to see what he was up to and then I’d slip back to the car and be on my way. Even so, if there’d been a public phone in a five-mile radius, I would have bagged my scheme, called the Sheriff’s Department, and let them handle him.

The entrance to the abandoned property had been blocked by bright orange plastic cones and a sign mounted on a sawhorse designating the entire area as a crime scene. Someone had moved the No Trespass warnings aside and the sawhorse now lay toppled on its side.

The thin crescent moon worked to my advantage. The road itself was dark, but the sky was a muted gray. The landscape—largely sand and gravel basins—gradually came into focus as my eyes adjusted to the dark. I could make out a number of features: clusters of tumbleweeds, like giant beach balls, creosote bushes, bayonet cactuses, yuccas, and the leggy branches of the palo verde trees. Ahead of me, I caught glimpses of a stationary light, possibly a lantern or a good-sized flashlight. I was getting closer, but as I’d noticed before, distances were difficult to calculate.

I could hear the peeping of ground frogs, probably poisonous, and the intermittent hooting of an owl. Unbidden, my brain suddenly played back in excruciating detail Dolan’s earlier recital about Mojave insect life, specifically the tarantula hawk, a species of desert wasp, the female of which sniffs out a tarantula, stings it into a state of paralysis, drags it back to her burrow, and lays an egg in its abdomen. Once hatched, the tiny grub feeds daintily until its final moult, then rips open the spider’s abdomen, thrusts its head and part of its thorax inside and devours everything in sight. Sometimes the tarantula is even dead by then. I was grossing myself out. This is the very same Nature that some people find spiritually uplifting. I picked up my pace, trying to block the interminable list of other insects he’d mentioned, scorpions and fire ants among them. Whatever else happened out here, I wasn’t going to sit down.

The road made a slight bend, and I found myself not ten yards away from Cornell’s white pickup truck, its engine still ticking as the metal cooled. Tucked in behind Cornell’s truck was Justine’s dark Ford sedan. I stared in disbelief. The last time I’d seen it, it was parked in front of Felicia’s house. Apparently, while I was struggling to get Dolan’s car started, Justine left the house in her car and followed him. By the time I was finally under way, it hadn’t occurred to me to glance back and see if her car was still there. She must have caught up with him, passed him, and turned off the highway before he did. She was the one who’d moved the barrier from the entrance to the place. She’d been back in her car and heading up the road before I’d caught sight of him making his turn.

I reached out and laid a hand on the hood of the truck, steadying myself, then eased to my left, using the cab as cover. I could hear the persistent chunking of a spade. He was digging. Were they burying the weapon or digging it up? I lifted on tiptoe. He’d set the flashlight on the ground. I saw the occasional distorted shadow as one or the other crossed the path of the light as the work progressed. I could hear them arguing, but the subject wasn’t clear. I wasn’t sure if they’d collaborated from the first or if Cornell had done the killing and she’d finally figured it out. My heart began to bang and a cloud of fear, like indigestion, burned in my chest. I tried to get my bearings, noting two nearby Joshua trees and a clump of sagebrush on my left that formed a mound the size of a pup tent. Directly across the road, there was a massive flowering shrub where white moths the size of hummingbirds had gathered to feed. Their wings beat audibly in the still night air, like the far-off thrumming of helicopter blades.

I turned back, suddenly aware that the chunking sound had stopped. I looked again. Cornell was on his knees, reaching into the hole. He hauled out the tire iron and wrapped it in a fold of cloth. The two of them started kicking soil back in the hole, intent on eradicating any evidence of their work. Justine picked up the spade and used the flat of the blade like a spatula, smoothing the sand like frosting. He bent and picked up the flashlight and gave a cursory sweep to make sure they hadn’t left anything behind. They headed toward me.

I pivoted and ducked, silently retracing my steps, hoping to gain the bend in the road before the two reached Cornell’s truck. If they climbed into their respective vehicles and returned to the highway, their two sets of headlights were going to pick me out of the dark like a startled bunny rabbit. I heard the slamming of two doors. I left the pavement and scurried out into the dark. I spotted a furrow in the earth, a channel where flash flooding had cut a shallow trench. I dropped flat and propelled myself on my elbows, belly-crawling, until I reached the shallow ditch and rolled into it. I put my head down, my arms folded under me, and waited. Only one engine sparked to life. I expected the flash of passing headlights, but none appeared. Cautiously, I lifted my head and peered in time to see the taillights of the pickup truck. One or both of them were on their way to the Tuley-Belle. I scrambled to my feet and ran. If I was mistaken and she’d been left behind, posted by the sedan, I was in bigger trouble than I thought. I slowed my pace as I rounded the bend. The Ford was still parked by the side of the road and there was no sign of her.