“Well, then, come on in,” Ernie says, clapping the big man on the shoulder. “Let’s see what’s shaking.”
Quite a lot, as it turns out.
Dale finds he is able to think quickly and clearly. His earlier fear has left him, partly because the fuckup has already happened and the case—the official case, anyway—has been taken away from him. Mostly because he knows he can now call on Jack if he needs to, and Jack will answer. Jack’s his safety net.
He listens to Railsback’s description of the Polaroids—mostly letting the old fella vent and settle a bit—and then asks a single question about the two photos of the boy.
“Yellow,” Railsback replies with no hesitation. “The shirt was yellow. I could read the word Kiwanis on it. Nothing else. The . . . the blood . . .”
Dale says he understands, and tells Railsback an officer will join them shortly.
There is the sound of the phone shifting hands, and then Fine is in his ear—a fellow Dale knows and doesn’t much care for. “What if he comes back, Chief? What if Potter comes back here to the hotel?”
“Can you see the lobby from where you are?”
“No.” Petulant. “We’re in the office. I told you that.”
“Then go out front. Look busy. If he comes in—”
“I don’t want to do that. If you’d seen those pitchers, you wouldn’t want to do it, either.”
“You don’t have to say boo to him,” Dale says. “Just call if he goes by.”
“But—”
“Hang up the telephone, sir. I’ve got a lot to do.”
Sarah has put her hand on her husband’s shoulder. Dale puts his free one over hers. There is a click in his ear, loud enough to sound disgruntled.
“Bobby, are you on?”
“Right here, Chief. Debbi, too, and Dit. Oh, and Ernie just walked in.” He lowers his voice. “He’s got one of those motorcycle boys with him. The one who calls himself Doc.”
Dale thinks furiously. Ernie, Debbi, Dit, and Bobby: all in uniform. Not good for what he wants. He comes to a sudden decision and says, “Put the hogger on.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
A moment later he’s talking to Doc Amberson. “You want to help bust the fucker who killed Armand St. Pierre’s little girl?”
“Hell, yes.” No hesitation.
“All right: don’t ask questions and don’t make me repeat myself.”
“I’m listening,” Doc says crisply.
“Tell Officer Dulac to give you the blue cell phone in evidence storage, the one we took off the doper who skipped. He’ll know the one I mean.” If anyone tries to star-69 a call originating from that phone, Dale knows, they won’t be able to trace it back to his shop, and that’s just as well. He is, after all, supposed to be off the case.
“Blue cell phone.”
“Then walk down to Lucky’s Tavern, next to the Nelson Hotel.”
“I got my bike—”
“No. Walk. Go inside. Buy a lottery ticket. You’ll be looking for a tall man, skinny, salt-and-pepper hair, about seventy, khaki pants, maybe a khaki shirt, too. Most likely alone. His favorite roost is between the jukebox and the little hall that goes to the johns. If he’s there, call the station. Just hit 911. Got all that?”
“Yeah.”
“Go. Really shuck your buns, Doctor.”
Doc doesn’t even bother to say good-bye. A moment later, Bobby’s back on the phone. “What are we gonna do, Dale?”
“If he’s there, we’re gonna take the son of a bitch,” Dale says. He’s still under control, but he can feel his heartbeat accelerating, really starting to crank. The world stands out before him with a brilliance that hasn’t been there since the first murder. He can feel every finger of his wife’s hand on his shoulder. He can smell her makeup and her hairspray. “Get Tom Lund. And lay out three of the Kevlar vests.” He thinks that over, then says: “Make it four.”
“You’re going to call Hollywood?”
“Yeah,” he says, “but we’re not gonna wait for him.” On that he hangs up. Because he wants to bolt, he makes himself stand still for a moment. Takes a deep breath. Lets it out, then takes another.
Sarah grasps his hands. “Be careful.”
“Oh yeah,” Dale says. “You can take that to the bank.” He starts for the door.
“What about Jack?” she calls.
“I’ll get him from the car,” he says without slowing. “If God’s on our side, we’ll have the guy in lockup before he makes it halfway to the station.”
Five minutes later, Doc is standing at the bar in Lucky’s, listening to Trace Adkins sing “I Left Something Turned On at Home” and scratching a Wisconsin instant-winner ticket. It actually is a winner—ten bucks—but most of Doc’s attention is focused in the direction of the juke. He bops his shaggy head a little bit, as if he’s really getting off on this particular example of Shitkicker Deluxe.
Sitting at the table in the corner with a plate of spaghetti in front of him (the sauce as red as a nosebleed) and a pitcher of beer close at hand is the man he’s looking for: tall even sitting down, skinny, lines grooving his tanned hound dog’s face, salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back. Doc can’t really see the shirt, because the guy’s got a napkin tucked into the collar, but the long leg sticking out from under the table is dressed in khaki.
If Doc was entirely sure this was the baby-killing puke who did Amy, he’d make a citizen’s arrest right now—an extremely rough one. Fuck the cops and their Miranda shit. But maybe the guy’s only a witness, or an accomplice, or something.
He takes his ten-spot from the bartender, turns down the suggestion that he stay for a beer, and strolls back out into the fog. Ten steps up the hill, he takes the blue cell phone from his pocket and dials 911. This time it’s Debbi who answers.
“He’s there,” Doc says. “What next?”
“Bring the phone back,” she says, and hangs up.
“Well, fuck you very much,” Doc says mildly. But he’ll be a good boy. He’ll play by their rules. Only first—
He dials another number on the blue phone (which has one more chore to do before it passes out of our tale forever) and Bear Girl answers. “Put him on, sweetness,” he says, hoping she won’t tell him that Beezer’s gone down to the Sand Bar. If the Beez ever goes down there alone, it’ll be because he’s after one thing. A bad thing.
But a moment later Beezer’s voice is in his ear—rough, as if he’s been crying. “Yeah? What?”
“Round ’em up and get your heavyset ass down to the police station parking lot,” Doc tells him. “I’m not a hunnert percent certain, but I think they might be getting ready to nail the motherfucker done it. I might even have seen—”
Beezer is gone before Doc can get the phone off his ear and push the OFF button. He stands in the fog, looking up at the bleary lights of the French Landing cop shop, wondering why he didn’t tell Beezer and the boys to meet him outside of Lucky’s. He supposes he knows the answer. If Beezer got to that old guy before the cops, spaghetti might turn out to be the old guy’s last meal.
Better to wait, maybe.
Wait and see.
There’s nothing but a fine mist on Herman Street, but the soup thickens almost as soon as Dale turns toward downtown. He turns on his parking lights, but they’re not enough. He goes to low beams, then calls Jack’s. He hears the recorded announcement start, kills the call, and dials Uncle Henry’s. And Uncle Henry answers. In the background, Dale can hear a howling fuzz-tone guitar and someone growling “Gimme back my dog!” over and over.
“Yes, he’s just arrived,” Henry allows. “We’re currently in the Musical Appreciation phase of our evening. Literature to follow. We’ve reached a critical juncture in Bleak House—Chesney Wold, the Ghost’s Walk, Mrs. Rouncewell, all of that—and so unless your need is actually urgent—”
“It is. Put him on now, Unc.”
Henry sighs. “Oui, mon capitaine.”
A moment later he’s talking to Jack, who of course agrees to come at once. This is good, but French Landing’s police chief finds some of his friend’s reactions a trifle puzzling. No, Jack doesn’t want Dale to hold the arrest until he arrives. Very considerate of him to ask, also very considerate of Dale to have saved him a Kevlar vest (part of the law enforcement booty showered on the FLPD and thousands of other small police departments during the Reagan years), but Jack believes Dale and his men can nab George Potter without much trouble.
The truth is, Jack Sawyer seems only slightly interested in George Potter. Ditto the horrific photos, although they must certainly be authentic; Railsback has I.D.’d Johnny Irkenham’s yellow Kiwanis Little League shirt, a detail never given to the press. Even the loathsome Wendell Green never ferreted out that particular fact.