Survival Clause, стр. 16

“Sure. But doesn’t it make more sense that he’s from somewhere not too far from I-65, or he wouldn’t have taken a job driving up and down I-65? I mean, if he lives in Memphis, say, it would make more sense to drive I-40, and kill women there instead.”

“Or he’s like Samuel Little,” Rafe said, “just driving around for his own pleasure, getting rid of people he comes across.”

Maybe so. “You think he’s a trucker, though. Don’t you?”

“It makes the most sense. Anybody who ain’t a trucker stands out at a truck stop. Several of the women were picked up from, or dumped at, truck stops. It’s most likely he’s someone who fits in there.”

Carrie indicated that she’d had enough to eat for the time being, and I lifted her up to my shoulder and patted her back. She emitted an unladylike belch, and Rafe grinned.

“So that’s what we’re doing,” he added. “Starting with companies that run trucks up and down the interstate.”

“How many of them are there?” I handed him Carrie so I could get my clothing in order before going out.

He put her up against his own shoulder, with one hand on her tiny, ruffled butt. “Too many to count. Bob’s got a wet-behind-the-ears deputy sitting over at the sheriff’s office making cold calls. I’m not sure anything’s gonna come of it, but I guess it’s gotta be done.”

“Unless you can find something else to narrow it down. Someone who saw him, or something.”

“That’s my job,” Rafe said, swaying gently back and forth with the baby. “And now I guess I oughta get to it. You ready?”

I was ready. Or as ready as I ever am, without makeup. I got to my feet, still adjusting my blouse. “Let’s go.”

“After you,” Rafe said, and nodded toward the door.

The trip into Columbia was short and uneventful. I went first, and found myself a parking spot near the police station, where I could see the door and the parking spaces up front. Rafe doesn’t park in the lot behind the building, since he’s in and out all day, and gone more than he’s inside. When he pulled up, I started scanning the surrounding area.

Last night’s video had been taken from the vantage point of where I was sitting, more or less. This side of the building, anyway. I’d seen the outline of City Hall in the background when Rafe got into his car. So I’d parked myself down here, in the same vicinity, thinking Jessica Rabbit might choose to do her filming from the same spot this morning.

The engine of the Chevy shut off, and the door opened. I kept my eyes peeled as Rafe got out.

And I’ll admit I held my breath, too. I wasn’t really worried that anyone was going to take a potshot at him—there was no reason to think Jessica Rabbit was out for blood—but it’s a habit that’s hard to break, especially when I know someone’s watching.

Rafe stood for a second, looking around, before he shut the car door. I knew he’d seen me—he doesn’t miss much, and besides, he knew I’d be nearby—but he didn’t acknowledge the car in any way. Nor would I expect him to. He knows better than that.

When nobody called out, and nothing else happened, he headed up the steps to the front door. Two seconds later he was inside. If anyone had been filming, they’d been doing it from somewhere they weren’t immediately visible.

I stayed where I was, scanning the surrounding area. Wondering whether Rafe was doing the same, inside the building, behind the tinted windows.

Nothing happened. The seconds ticked by in silence, and turned into minutes. I started thinking about leaving.

A car engine started up nearby. I looked around, and saw a light-colored compact roll out of a parking spot farther up the street.

It had been parked rear in and was coming toward me, so I couldn’t see the license plate. And speaking of tinted windows, I couldn’t get a good look at the driver through the windshield, either. I got the impression of a pale oval surrounded by darkness, but that was all. I couldn’t even, honestly, swear to whether it was a male or a female.

And then it—or he or she—was past me, and on its way down the street. I wrestled the Volvo out of the parking space I was in—not a compact, my Volvo—and got it turned around, in time to see the tail end of the car I was chasing zip around a corner a couple of blocks down the road.

I leaned over the steering wheel and lowered my foot on the gas pedal. The last few blocks of Columbia went by in a blur. But even so, by the time I got to the corner and around it, there was no sign of the compact. The street was open and empty, with not a car in sight.

I looked, of course. Left and right as I navigated slowly down the street. Up and down the cross streets. Into the driveways along the road. There was no sign of the tan car. After a couple of minutes I gave up, and went around the block and back to the police station.

This time I parked legitimately out front, because I wasn’t trying to hide. And I grabbed Carrie from the backseat, and hung my bag over my shoulder, and headed up the stairs and through the doors into the lobby.

Up until a few weeks ago, the front desk at the police station had been manned by a young officer named Felicia Robinson. She’d had something of a crush on Rafe, and as a result, she hadn’t always been polite to me. It had been an annoyance every time I’d walked through the doors into the police station, looking for him.

Then, a few weeks back, Felicia had gotten shot by the neo-Nazis. Now, still, it always came as a shock every time I walked through the door and she wasn’t there.

This morning, that feeling was mitigated