by C. J. Box
But that wasn’t all. Rubberbanded around the phone was a scrap of paper with the printed words:
PLEASE RETURN THIS TO HELEN. THANKS, AND ADIOS.
Murphy stared at it silently for a minute or more, ignoring the looks of his fellow cops and a confused-looking elderly couple standing in the now open doorway of Room 12.
Detective Ellington and Mr. Gonzales were both peering over Murphy’s shoulder to study the message. Ellington looked at Murphy and asked, “Adios?”
“Sí,” Gonzales said.
* * *
A hundred yards away, on the other side of Lancaster Street, the Felsons stood at the back window of Room 7 at the tiny Hamilton Inn, watching the festivities across the road. The room’s curtains had been pulled back and the lights switched off so no one could see in from outside. Rhonda had brought Clyde the binoculars he’d placed on the bedside table an hour ago, and he was smiling as he watched the policemen in the Traildrive Motel’s parking lot mill around, disperse, and leave the scene. When all activity had died down he closed the curtains, switched the lights back on, and returned the field glasses to Rhonda’s travel bag.
She stood there staring at him. “That was stupid. You know that, don’t you? Stupid and risky. We should be miles away from here by now.”
He gave her a smug look. “It was necessary. I wanted to know how safe we are.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they sent the big guns after us. State troopers, suits, everybody at once. That tells me that pinpointing her phone with that app you saw on her screen—that was all they had. They know nothing else about us.”
Rhonda didn’t respond, but she did seem to relax a little.
“They’ll never catch us now,” he added. “We’re home free.”
“It was still stupid,” Rhonda murmured.
He sat on the bed, put his shoes on, and laced them up. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Thank God. I was afraid you’d want to stay the night.”
“I’ve seen what I needed to see.” He looked up at her. “We’ll double back and be in Canada by tomorrow. Then, the world.”
“Why’d you write adios on the note?”
“Misdirection never hurts,” he said. “Whether they’re after us or not.”
Within two minutes they’d gathered their belongings. Rhonda handed Clyde her travel bag, then turned to leave the room key on the dresser. He looped the straps of the two casino bags over his shoulders, took his car keys from his pocket, and pulled open the door.
The gray Honda Accord was parked nose out in the space directly in front of the room. Clyde pushed the button to pop the trunk even as he stepped out onto the sidewalk, his wife right behind him in the doorway. Head down and intent on his task, he loaded the two bags into the trunk, tucked Rhonda’s bag in beside them, and closed the trunk lid.
And saw, for the first time, that he wasn’t alone.
Two uniformed policemen, a man and a woman, were standing against the motel wall, ten feet from the door. The lady cop had a sheriff’s badge, and her gun was drawn and pointed.
“Guess I don’t have to ask if this is your car,” she said.
* * *
For a long moment the two suspects stood there, staring. Their expressions weren’t scared, or angry, or even disappointed. Mostly they looked stunned.
Marcie Ingalls said, in a level voice, “Turn around, both of you. Slowly. Hands behind your backs.” She kept her automatic aimed and ready while Pearson cuffed them.
When they turned again to face her, the man—Clyde Felson, Marcie assumed—said, “How’d you know?”
She shook her head. “We didn’t at first. My deputy and I arrived at the other motel long before the cavalry did, and when we found that you weren’t there we looked around to see where else you might be. In case you decided to hide and watch from a distance.”
“Watch? What made you think we might do that?”
“Nothing. But it happens sometimes, and it was worth a try.” Without turning, she asked Deputy Pearson—who had already taken the car keys from Clyde—to check the bags. He opened the trunk and unzipped the two duffels.
“The money’s here,” he said.
“Main thing is,” Marcie continued, “we knew you weren’t at the other motel because your car wasn’t in the lot. All we did then was check possible vantage points until we found it.” She nodded toward the still-open doorway to Room 7. “The lady in the office confirmed that this was the room that went with the car.”
“But—you had no way to know about our car.”
Marcie smiled, took the parking ticket from her pocket, and held it up. “Yes, we did—not only the make and model, but the license plate number. Thanks to my deputy here, who wrote a citation for your Honda earlier today, in an alley beside the bank building. An alley with the only outside access to the roof.” She smiled, watching their faces. “That was smart, disabling the heating system. Everything you did was smart, except for parking in the wrong place this morning and hanging around here too long now. Which, by the way, was downright foolish.”
“I told you,” the woman growled.
Clyde’s jaw tightened. “Shut up, Ronnie.”
Marcie took out her cell and called dispatch while Pearson finished checking the cab of the getaway vehicle. “Wanda? It’s me,” she said into the phone. “Do me a favor. Track down Detective Murphy and tell him he might want to turn himself and his vast resources around and head back here to Florence. We have the two suspects in custody, along with the stolen cash. Yep, that’s right. Tell him we’re across the street from the red dot. He’ll know what I mean.”
She disconnected and turned to Pearson. “Find anything interesting?”
“A couple things.” To the Felsons he said, “What kind of people steal a woman’s crutches?”
Rhonda snorted. “Good old Helen. Guess she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I agree,” Pearson said. “And she was wrong about something else too.”
“What’s that?”
“She told us you were prettier than she is.”
Rhonda glared at him.
“Okay,” Marcie said. “Let’s go.” Pearson gripped Clyde’s elbow and steered him and his wife toward the cruiser.
“Ronnie and Clyde,” Marcie added, walking behind them. “What are your real names?”
The man turned and gave her an even darker look. “Thelma and Louise.”
Marcie smiled.
“They didn’t end well either,” she said.
* * *
Two days later things were back to normal. Around 9 a.m. Sheriff Ingalls was sitting at her desk, sending an email to the mayor regarding his highly publicized but understaffed Pothole Prevention Program. For some reason, complaints about the poor condition of town streets were finding their way to the county sheriff instead of the city Public Works Department, and Marcie considered it her duty to place that particular monkey on the correct back.
Aside from the usual administrative headaches, though, all was going well. The quick arrest of the bank-heist suspects and the recovery of the stolen loot had put smiles on the faces of everyone except the two robbers and egg on the face of one Detective Michael Murphy. An additional but unexpected result of the incident was that the injured but wiser Helen Wilson now had an upcoming dinner date with Detective Scott Ellington. Proof positive, in Marcie’s view, that clouds do have silver linings.
She had sent the mayor’s email and was scrolling through the others when Wanda Stalworth ambled in from the other room. Marcie looked up, then turned back to her computer and said, “For what reason has the Wanda Woman abandoned her post?”
“Business is slow. Where’s Pearson?”
“Out front, trying to fix our flagpole,” Marcie said, eyes on her screen. A windstorm last night had snapped it off, along with three trees and the steeple of a nearby church.
Wanda, never one to be distracted
from the important things in life, said, “Is that a box of doughnuts on his desk?”
“Half chocolate, half cream-filled. Help yourself.”
“You want one too?”
Marcie shook her head. “One of my rules: I only eat sugar when I hear good news.”
“Why’s that?”
“You got any good news?”
“I guess not.”
Marcie nodded. “Well, there you go. It helps me stay skinny.”
Wanda picked out a doughnut and took a bite. Chewing, she said, “I do have some gossip. I heard you told the bank folks that Jerry Pearson caught the robbers the other day.”
“That’s not gossip. It’s a fact.”
Wanda stared at her. “But he didn’t, Sheriff. You solved the case—I was standing right here when you linked the criminals to the car that was parked beside the bank that morning.”
“I didn’t say Pearson solved it,” Marcie corrected. “I said his actions led directly to their capture. If he hadn’t ticketed that parked Honda, there would’ve been no record of the license plate, and we couldn’t have found them.” She leaned back in her chair, holding Wanda’s gaze. “If law officers were eligible for such things, I’d have made sure Pearson got that reward the bank offered. And I’ll tell you something else: if it’d been me, I wouldn’t even have written that ticket. Pearson did what he felt was right, and it turned out to be the only thing that pointed us to the guilty party.”
Wanda finished her doughnut and wiped her mouth with a napkin. When her hand came away, Marcie saw that she was smiling.
“What’s so funny?”
“I seem to remember you hinting that morning that Pearson should change his way of thinking.”
“Well, I take it back,” Marcie said. “I’m not sure I want him to change.”
Wanda seemed to consider that, then said, “You might be a little late.”
“Why?”
“Because of the reward.” Wanda tossed the wadded-up napkin into a trashcan and sat down on the edge of Pearson’s desk. “Do you recall telling us yesterday that the bank had withdrawn the reward offer because no one had come forward with information leading to the arrest and capture, blah blah blah?”
“Yes,” Marcie said. “What about it?”
“Libby Anders, the head teller at the bank, called me this morning. She said Deputy Pearson told the bank manager last night that the reward would have to be paid. Said that he—Jerry Pearson—was informed by two alert citizens early Monday morning that a strange car was parked in the alley beside the bank. Said he wouldn’t have noticed it otherwise. Since information from that ticket, as you said, later led to the apprehension of the two suspects, Pearson insisted that those two people should be given the full reward. Ten grand, divided between them.”
“Who were these two observant citizens?”
“Roscoe Three Bears and Maude Jessup.”
Marcie blinked. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Pearson said they mentioned the illegally parked car to him on his way to the office that day. Then he walked over and wrote the ticket.”
“But . . .” Marcie stared into the distance, thinking. “Roscoe was working on Maude’s house at the time. Repairing her porch steps. To even talk to them on his route to work, Pearson would’ve had to climb three fences and cross two yards.”
Wanda narrowed her eyes. “Are you wondering if that’s what really happened?”
“Well . . . I’m wondering what Roscoe and Maude would say if asked about it.”
“Pearson said they shouldn’t have to be contacted.”
“What?”
“He said Roscoe doesn’t speak much English and Ms. Jessup forgets things sometimes.”
Marcie thought that over, and felt a smile spread across her face. Slowly she rose from her chair and crossed the room to the front window. On the snow-covered lawn between the office and the street, a man in a furry brown coat stood surrounded by tools, his fists on his hips and his eyes on a new brace that had been bolted to the pole supporting the Stars and Stripes.
Marcie stared out the window at her deputy for a long moment. Flagpoles aren’t the only things you can fix, are they, Jerry? She was surprised at the sudden warmth she felt in her heart.
“That sounds reasonable to me,” she murmured.
“What?” Wanda said.
Before Marcie could reply, she caught a glimpse of Helen Wilson’s maroon Ford. She saw it putter its way up the snow-cleared street and pull into a parking spot, saw Helen climb out and limp on her recovered crutches to the front door of the bank. Spence Spencer appeared then, as if he’d been waiting for her to arrive. Marcie watched as he held the door open for Helen, bowed theatrically, and followed her inside. First, though, Spencer turned and stared directly down the street at the sheriff’s office. Directly at her. Marcie knew he probably couldn’t see her from that distance, but he raised a hand anyway, and so did she. She thought she saw a grin on his face.
“What was it you just said?” Wanda asked again.
Marcie blinked and turned from the window. “I said I think I’ll have a doughnut after all.”
“Chocolate or cream-filled?”
Once more Marcie felt herself smile. “One of each.”
TOM FRANKLIN
On Little Terry Road
FROM From Sea to Stormy Sea
Bad days begin with phone calls, so when his cell rang at 4 a.m., Dibbs rolled over with dread. He felt in the sheets for the phone. He didn’t remember getting into bed but knew it had to have been after two, when the bars closed. He also didn’t remember driving home. The phone rang again, and he found it. “Yeah?”
“Lolo?”
Jesus. “Ferriday?”
“I’m in trouble,” she said.
He swung his feet off the bed. “Where are you?”
“That Indian motel.”
“Are you alone? Are you hurt?”
“Yeah. Alone but not hurt.”
He stood, glad he’d slept in his clothes. The curtains were bright with moonlight and the room so cold he could see the captions of his breath. She was apologizing, saying she didn’t know how late it was.
“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Don’t move or call anybody.”
He hung up. He lived alone in this old hunting cabin in the woods, the fireplace in the den the only heat, and not too long ago it had occurred to him that not one other person had been here since he’d moved in three years before. His job—he was a deputy sheriff—kept him in plenty of contact with lowlifes, which went a long way in lowering his estimation of his fellow human beings, and besides the other deputies and police officers he worked with, there really wasn’t anybody else.
Except Ferriday.
* * *
He killed his lights as he pulled around the back of the motel. As usual, the parking lot was nearly empty, a couple of junky cars, probably migrant workers. He hoped Fouad, the owner, was asleep and wouldn’t see his lights. Dibbs eased past a green El Camino and parked in front of Room 12. He got out of the pickup and wiped his palms on his jeans and went to the door.
She opened it before he knocked, wearing a Star Wars T-shirt and panties. She had mascara smudged below her eyes and a thumbnail bruise on her cheek, and her long, wet red hair was a rat’s nest.
She said, “Hey.”
He came in, and she closed the door. The room smelled like cigarettes. When he turned, she was hugging him, saying his name over and over. His own hands he kept in the air, unsure what to do with them, aware of her breasts against his stomach, gradually letting his arms fall to her back.
“What happened?” His voice was thick in her hair, which smelled of motel strawberry shampoo.
“I was out at Little Terry’s—”
“Jesus, Fer. What were you doing there?” Though he knew. It was the kind of place you went looking for trouble. Residence of a fuckhead dealer named Terry Little that everybody called Little
Terry. Usually with him was his cousin Spike, who Dibbs had arrested more than once. Last time, couple of months back, Spike was “spiked up,” as he liked to say, and clocked Dibbs in the jaw, resisting arrest. Dibbs had tuned him up a bit after that while his partner turned away. Took it a little too far, couple of broken ribs. The sheriff didn’t say it in words, but Dibbs knew he had to pull back.
“Where you been staying?” he asked. “When’d you get back?”
“I don’t know. Couple of weeks?”
So long. Last he’d heard she was living in Santa Fe. She was into photography. This a year ago. And now she was back? How had he not felt her in his bones?
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
“I kept meaning to call you, but I needed to get myself sober first. I just wanted to go out there and get a little weed, you know?”
“What happened?”
She began to cry and pushed away from him and sat on the bed. He went and sat next to her and covered her long legs with a sheet and put his arm around her and began to untangle her hair. “Tell me.”
She did, between bouts of crying. She wanted pot, but they told her they had some exceptionally clean crank and they wouldn’t take no for an answer. They drank pink wine, smoked some pot. Then somehow she found herself in their dirty little kitchen, and they were snorting this yellow shit with rolled-up dollar bills. Then they were leading her into the bedroom and taking off her clothes. “I tried to stop them,” she said, crying again.
“What happened?”
She took a breath. “They threw me on the bed, and then they started to argue about who went first.”
“Spike and Terry?”
“Yeah.” She said Spike pushed Little Terry, who was saying since it was his house, he got to go first, but Spike pushed him again and said Bullshit. Ferriday had looked on the nightstand and seen a pistol and began to scooch toward it while Spike had Terry in a headlock and Terry was pounding Spike’s back with his fist.
