I swung around. Barlow had slipped over to the door; it was just closing behind him. I snapped at the kid to watch Chalfont and ran outside after Barlow.
He was getting into the Buick parked at the gas pumps. He slammed the door, but I got there fast enough to yank it open before he could lock it.
"You're not going anywhere, Barlow."
"You can't keep me here-"
"The hell I can't."
I ducked my head and leaned inside. He tried to fight me. I jammed him back against the seat with my forearm, reached over with the other hand and pulled the keys out of the ignition. No more struggle then. I released him, backed clear.
"Get out of the car."
He came out in loose, shaky segments. Leaned against the open door, looking at me with fear-soaked eyes.
"Why the hurry to leave? Why so afraid of me?"
"I'm not afraid of you…"
"Sure you are. As much as you were of Chalfont and his gun. Maybe more. It was in your face when I said I was a cop; it's there now. And you're still sweating like a pig. Why?"
That floppy headshake again. He still wasn't making eye contact.
"Why'd you come here tonight? This particular place?"
"I needed gas…"
"Chalfont said he followed you for twenty miles. There must be an open service station closer to your house than this one. Late at night, rainy-why drive this far?"
Headshake.
"Has to be you didn't realize you were almost out of gas until you got on the road," I said. "Too distracted, maybe. Other things on your mind. Like something that happened tonight at your house, something you were afraid Chalfont might have seen if he'd been spying through windows."
I opened the Buick's back door. Seat and floor were both empty. Around to the rear, then, where I slid one of his keys into the trunk lock.
"No!" Barlow came stumbling back there, pawed at me, tried to push me away. I shouldered him aside instead, got the key turned and the trunk lid up.
The body stuffed inside was wrapped in a plastic sheet.
One pale arm lay exposed, the fingers bent and hooked. I pulled some of the sheet away, just enough for a brief look at the dead woman's face. Mottled, the tongue protruding and blackened. Strangled.
"Noreen Chalfont," I said. "Where were you taking her, Barlow? Some remote spot in the mountains for burial?"
He made a keening, hurt-animal sound. "Oh God, I didn't mean to kill her… we had an argument about the money and I lost my head, I didn't know what I was doing… I didn't mean to kill her…"
His legs quit supporting him; he sat down hard on the pavement with legs splayed out and head down. He didn't move after that, except for the heaving of his chest. His face was wetter than ever, a mingling now of sweat and drizzle and tears.
I looked over at the misted store window. That poor bastard in there, I thought. He wanted to make his wife pay for what she did, but he'll go to pieces when he finds out Barlow did the job for him.
I closed the trunk lid and stood there in the cold, waiting for the law.
Sometimes it happens like this, too.
You're in the wrong place at the wrong time, and still things work out all right. For some of the people involved, anyway.
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Document creation date: 22.09.2012
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Scenarios nd-29 Page 25
