He walked up the four wooden stairs to the lodge’s porch, afraid that the floorboards might give way beneath him at any second. He hurried through the double front doors, and headed straight for a dusty counter, which he assumed to be the reception desk, off to the left.
“’Mornin’,” he said to the woman sitting behind it.
She plopped the last bite of a powdered sugar doughnut into her mouth. Ballard figured from the fine coating of sugar on her large chest that she must’ve finished off a dozen. “What can I do for you?” the ample woman asked.
“I’m looking for a man named Pendergast. Peter Pendergast. He’s about five foot—”
“He checked out about an hour ago,” she said, then noticed her dark blouse was covered in sugar. She began patting it away.
“Checked out?”
“That’s normal.” The woman shrugged. “We get mostly one-nighters around here.”
Ballard bit his lip to keep him from laughing. The place was a pigsty. “Did he say where he was going?”
The woman shrugged. “He didn’t say, I didn’t ask. I just took his money.”
“Did he ask for directions to anywhere?” Ballard pressed.
“Nope. But he had a map up on his phone.”
Ballard debated whether to press her further, then decided against it. He took his wallet from his pocket and pulled out a business card and a twenty dollar bill. “If he comes back, you give me a call.”
The twenty disappeared into the woman’s bosom in less than a second, but she studied the card. Her eyes went wide. “You’re a deputy marshal?”
“Yes, ma’am. I suggest you do as I say—and don’t tip Pendergast off that I’m looking for him. I’d hate to charge you with aiding and abetting an escaped felon.”
“An escaped felon?” The woman grabbed at her chest.
“Yes, ma’am. And don’t say a word to anyone about this. He might have people watching you. I know I will be.”
“Yes, sir.” The woman nodded her head so hard he was afraid it would come loose. He turned on his heel and headed for the door. Before leaving he gave her one last look. “Call me if you see even him walking down the street. Right away. He’s a dangerous man. I’ll do my best to protect you.”
He closed the door after him and walked back to his car. “Shit,” he muttered. “Where next?”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Body’s in the Bag
Schoener’s Bakery in Columbus was known for its good German food and large portions. After spending a night in the rat hole called Dannerton, Peter Pendergast decided there was no way he’d find any decent food in that podunk town.
Dannerton was a perfect haunt for scum like Tom Gibbons, not Peter Pendergast.
Per usual, the kid wasn’t picking up his phone. Peter’d been trying all morning to get a hold of the delinquent. In the process he’d probably drunk a gallon of coffee and eaten a half-dozen sticky buns. Now the sun blazed its cloudless high noon heat overhead, forcing him to stay inside. Should he order lunch?
He picked up his cell phone and pulled up Gibbon’s number, then hit call, expecting no result.
To his surprise, the kid picked up. “Yeah?”
“Pendergast here,” Peter said. “Thought I’d check in on how you’re doin’.”
“Bullshit, man. You don’t call unless you want something.”
“Simply a follow up on the stuff you gave me earlier. About the preacher and the federal witness protection program.”
“What about it?”
Peter considered. How much info should he give up to whet the kid’s curiosity? Gibbons had responded best to wanting revenge on the preacher and sheriff for the death of his father. He nodded, knowing the card he needed to play.
“Looks like the sheriff’s hustled Hayden out of the hospital. My guess is James W. has to protect the preacher ‘cuz the man knows too much about the Novak family shenanigans. You got any ideas where a good hiding place might be?”
Peter listened for the reply, but the only sound that came across the line was a tab being pulled on a can. Peter doubted it was soda pop.
“Why wouldn’t the sheriff just kill Hayden?” Tom finally asked.
“The feds are involved.” Peter sipped his tepid coffee and figured what the hell. “My story’s going to be on tomorrow’s front page of the Dallas Daily News. I’d wager Sheriff Novak will wait until this becomes old news before he kills Hayden. He’ll probably make it look like this Rutledge guy did it.”
Tom didn’t reply, but Peter could hear him gulping down the can of whatever.
Frustrated, the reporter tried again. “Looks like your preacher is about to go AWOL, and the Novaks are going to come out of this clean as a whistle. You gonna stand for that?”
“Hell, no,” Tom spat out. This time Peter heard the can slam down on a surface.
Gotcha. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
“None of your business,” Tom said, but Peter wasn’t offended. He knew the kid was mean enough to come through. Peter was about to get the scoop of the century.
“I’ll call you when I’ve got something,” Gibbons was saying.
“Make it fast, kid. This whole thing’s about to slip through your fingers.”
The line went dead, but Peter allowed a feline smile to creep across his face. Lombardi would regret the day he fired Peter Pendergast. I’m going to make a mint on this story.
***
Mike woke to the sounds of pots and pans clattering in the farmhouse kitchen. Pearl’s front room was small, but comfortable. He’d dozed off in the recliner between the front door and the kitchen archway. Centered on the wall to his right was a well-stuffed, paisley-upholstered couch. Across the room a wooden rocker, half-covered by a flowered quilt, sat by a sash window. In the corner was the TV and then another single sash window on the same wall as the front door.
This house looked like something out of the fifties with its delicately flowered wallpaper and cross-stitched wall art. He wondered if Pearl had done all the handiwork.
“Finally decided to wake up?” Angie called from the kitchen.
He leaned around the arched doorway and watched as she placed a skillet on the stove, kicked the cupboard door shut, then moved to the refrigerator.
She smiled at him. “I was wondering if I should wake you up for a real breakfast.”
Mike considered. He was hungry. “What time is it?”
“Eleven o’clock. Warren still hasn’t shown up with the groceries, but I found some eggs and bacon in the fridge. Doughnuts were well and good for breakfast, but you need to get some protein. Are you interested?”
“Sounds good. Scrambled?”
She smiled. “Excellent choice.” She grabbed a carton of eggs from the fridge along with a wrapper of bacon.
Mike calculated in his head. “I’ve been out for four hours?”
Angie shrugged. “The doctor said that rest was the best thing for you today with all the moving we’ve done.” She pulled a bowl from the cupboard above and began cracking eggs.
Mike touched the recliner button that lowered the footrest, then pulled his walker closer. He didn’t need it so much to walk, but he appreciated its help when it came to standing up. “Have you heard from James W.?”
“Not a peep. I suppose he’s busy with the exhumation. If Diane’s there, that is.” She laid out four strips of bacon into the skillet.
Mike took a step and was pleased to find his balance was getting better. He moved toward the small, round kitchen table then saw index cards and pens scattered over the top. “What are you up to?” he asked.
She smiled. “Thought I’d help out with your crime board. You asked me to look through the list of folks who visited you on Sunday. Make notes on the ones who’ve come to town since you’ve arrived.”
He picked up the first card. “Who is Efficient Eleanor?” he asked.
“That’s what Bo calls the accountant he hired while I was in Ireland. She’s on the tri
via team.”
Mike looked around the room. “Do we have any Sharpies?”
Angie nodded to the closed pencil box. “Pick your color.”
He opened it, pulled out a thick-tipped blue and wrote “TT” on the card.
Angie’s eyebrow arched.
“Trivia team.” Mike looked at the kitchen wall above the table. Except for a wooden plaque inscribed with a dinner prayer, the space was empty. He took down the plaque, then taped Eleanor’s card to the wall. “Man-Bun?” he asked, picking up the next card.
“Again, Bo calls him that. Ben hired him over at the Hardware and Feed Store a few months back. Never saw him before that.”
“Trivia team?”
When she nodded, he marked it with a blue TT and taped it to the wall. “Aaron Rodriguez,” he read off the next card. “That’s the Sinclair Station owner, right?”
Angie nodded as she flipped the bacon in the skillet. “He’s the one who always smells like gasoline.” At his questioning look, she nodded. “Yep. Trivia team.”
“Came after I moved to Wilks?”
She squinted, then looked at the ceiling. “Two, maybe three months after.”
He taped the card to the wall, then picked up the next. “I know this one,” he said, studying it. “Mandy Culver. She’s the child care director at the church. She’s the one that brought that ‘get well’ banner the Sunday school kids made.”
“And the mastermind behind forming the trivia team.”
“What’s her story?”
“Young widow. Her husband was killed while serving in Afghanistan. She’s from Bastrop.”
Mike nodded. “She came after I arrived?”
Angie smiled. “Grace Lutheran didn’t have any younger families with kids before you arrived.” She removed the bacon from the pan and laid the strips on paper toweling. “While you’re doing the trivia team, you need to make a card for Ben and Warren Yeck—they’ve been here since before I was born—and Sarah Fullenweider. She’s James W.’s secretary.”
“Duly noted.” He wrote up the cards, then taped them all to the wall.
He looked at Sunday’s visitor’s list. “No one else on here arrived since I came to town?”
“Most of ‘em are members of Grace Lutheran, although I’d feel better if you had James W. confirm that. I don’t attend Grace.” She gave the eggs one last stir and poured them into the hot, bacon-greased skillet.
“Do you go to church?” It occurred to Mike they’d never discussed her beliefs before.
She turned and gave him a challenging grin. “I’m Roman Catholic.”
Mike burst out laughing. “Not only are you a bar owner, but you’re an R.C.? I bet that really burns Elsbeth’s hind end.”
Angie allowed a smile to snake across her face. “I hope it drives her crazy.” She turned back to the eggs and stirred them. “You want toast with this?”
“Sounds good.” Mike studied the wall. “Now the list of people who have died since I came to town.”
He pulled a blank card from the stack and pulled a red pen from the pencil box. He looked up at her expectantly.
“Zach Gibbons,” she said. “Just over two weeks ago. He was shot the same night as you.”
He wrote down the information and reached for the next card.
“Chelsea.” Angie’s voice caught on that. “Last Saturday night. In my kitchen.”
“You liked her,” Mike said as he wrote down her name.
“Didn’t start out that way, but she was smart. Bar business smart, anyway. I don’t know diddly about her private life. Bo might know more. I think they talked sometimes.”
Mike scribbled the info on a card, then put it aside. “Who else has died since I’ve lived in Wilks? Suspicious deaths, I mean.”
Angie popped the bread into the toaster. “Well, Owen Seegler, but you already figured that one out. And those two girls’ bodies were found, but you figured those out as well.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well, there was Pearl’s husband, Ernie Masterson. You solved that one, too.”
“Damn, I’m good.” Mike’s smile was crooked. “Maybe I should’ve been a cop.”
She stirred the eggs. “I’m glad you became a pastor. That’s what brought you to Wilks.”
“Lucky you,” Mike said.
“Yes. I am.” Angie turned back to the stove. “Eggs are done.”
“We’re not finished with the victims’ list.”
“Yeah, we are.” She turned off the flame on the gas stove.
“One more.” He wrote on a note card, then lined up all the victim cards on the wall.
Angie divided the scrambled eggs between two plates, topped them with bacon and carried them to the table. She studied the last card he put up. “Benedict County explosion victims,” she read. She turned to him. “You still think that’s related?”
“I know it is. I know Rutledge.” Mike looked out the window. “He’ll find us. What did James W. say about the security he’s set up?”
“He deputized Warren and Ben Yeck and got the Benedict County Sheriff to loan him some officers—none hired for less than twenty years. James W. figured they have a stake in finding the culprit who set that bomb too. And he’s rotating his deputies, of course.”
“I want a gun,” Mike said.
Angie’s head jerked up. “I’m packing.” She put her hand under her t-shirt and pulled the 9 mm from her armpit. “It’s called a bra holster. Get over it.”
Impressed, Mike smiled. “But I still want a gun.”
“Remember what Dr. Ryan said? No excitement. Besides, nobody’s sneaking up on us, Matt. James W. has cameras operating on the road and around the house. We’ll see ‘em coming.”
“Good,” Matt nodded. “Because I promise you. They’re coming.”
***
Frank Ballard plopped an Alka Seltzer into a glass of water and did his best to down it in one gulp. His attempt was unsuccessful, however, and the bubbling brew streamed down his jowls, over his shirt and onto the laminated desk of his Bastrop motel room. “Damn,” he said, but did nothing to clean up the mess. He picked up his cell phone, willing it to ring.
What was the good of having the full force of the U.S. government’s federal marshal program behind you when the department was staffed with idiots?
First the G-Men had let Hogan slip between their fingers. Now, they couldn’t complete a simple search of someone’s house. All they had to do was serve the search warrant to get in Pendergast’s home and find out who the reporter’s mole was. They’d gone in over an hour ago. Why didn’t they call?
His work cell phone dinged, and he answered immediately. “Ballard. How’d the search go?”
The voice on the other end did not belong to Clive Engels, his boss, but some underling who told him they hadn’t found out anything in the search, except that the wife was a lush.
“We may have caught a break,” said the flunky after five minutes of his non-report.
“You found something?” Frank sat up straighter. “Why the devil didn’t you tell me this first?”
“You asked how the search went,” came the reply. “This doesn’t apply to the search.”
“Then what the hell does it apply to?” Frank wanted to reach across the line and strangle the peon.
“Pendergast made a purchase at a restaurant. About a half hour ago?”
“Don’t ask me! Tell me!”
“Oh, sorry. Pendergast used his credit card.”
“Where?” Frank swore he was about to have the big one, right then and there.
“Columbus. Texas.”
“I know which state Columbus is in,” Frank bellowed. “Where in Columbus?”
“Schoener’s Bakery.”
The minion rattled off the address and Frank wrote it down. “I’m on my way.” He hung up the phone, then glanced at his watch. Columbus was a small German town that sat at the corner of Highway 71 and Interstate 10. He was almost an hour away. He strapped on
his gun, threw on his wrinkled blazer and headed for the door.
***
The backyard of Sheriff Novak’s sprawling ranch house looked like a war zone. Dr. Joan Fortner, the forensic anthropologist from Texas State University, had used some tricky-looking equipment to identify the location of the remains of the missing girl.
After the spa the jackhammering had begun. James W. had watched Dr. Fortner’s team systematically examine each chunk as it was dislodged from the whole. By eleven a.m., they had gotten within two feet of what they hoped would be Diane Turpin’s remains.
James W. watched the doctor head to a table to get some water bottles. Time for an update. He walked over to join her. “How’s it going, Doctor?”
“Joan, remember?” The wiry woman with gaunt jaws and short gray hair twisted the top off a bottle and chugged it down. “We’re getting close,” she answered after draining half the bottle. “Another foot or so, and we’ll have to start taking it slow.”
James W. fought to conceal his disappointment. “How late you gonna work tonight?”
“We’re gonna go for another couple of hours, probably take a break around four. Get some food. Wash up. We’ll be back around nine tonight. The tedious stuff’s easier to do when we’re fresh. And cooler.” She wiped the sweat from her brow with her forearm.
James W. nodded. He hadn’t expected them to work through the night. “Let me pay for y’all’s supper at Angie’s Fire and Ice House tonight. I’m mighty grateful for all the work you’re puttin’ in.”
Joan nodded toward her crew. “The students are really into it. We don’t often have this kind of opportunity to work in the field.”
“I’ll call the Ice House and let them know to expect you.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.” The woman grabbed a few more water bottles and returned to her workers.
James W.’s cell phone buzzed with Elsbeth’s ring tone, and he hurried into the house to accept her call. The last thing he wanted her to hear was the jackhammers pounding away in their backyard.
Murder on the Third Try Page 26
