The van was as difficult to handle as a stubborn cow. After half an
hour of constant struggle, Leland got the wheels blocked and the jack
pumped up enough to remove the punctured tire.
The wind coming across the sand flats made the Chevy sway lightly on its
metal crutch. And if the furniture in the cargo hold shifted without
warning . . .
An hour after he had begun, Leland tightened the last nut on the spare
and let the van down again. When he heaved the ruined tire into the
truck, he realized he should stop at the first service station to get it
repaired. But . . .
Doyle and the kid had gotten too much of a head start already.
Though it was true that he could pick them up again tonight in Salt Lake
City, he did not want to lose the chance of finishing them out here on
the open road. The closer they got to San Francisco, the less sure he
was of himself and his ability to dispose of them.
And if he didn’t get them out of the picture, what would Courtney think?
Courtney was depending on him. if he didn’t take care of those two,
then he and Courtney could never be together like they wanted.
Therefore, the tire could wait.
He closed the rear doors of the van, locked them, and went around to the
cab. Five minutes later he was doing ninety-five on the flat,
deserted highway.
Detective Ernie Hoval of the Ohio State Police ate supper in an
interchange diner which most of the cops in the area favored. The
atmosphere was pretty bad, but the food was good. And policemen were
given a twenty percent discount.
He was halfway through his club sandwich and French fries when the
sallow, smart-ass lab technician sat down in the other half of the
booth, facing him. “Do you mind some company?” the man said.
Hoval winced. He did mind, but he shrugged.
“I didn’t know a man like you took advantage of thinly disguised bribes
like restaurant discounts,” the technician said, opening the menu which
the waitress brought him.
“I didn’t when I first started,” Hoval said surprised to find that he
actually wanted to talk to this man. “But everyone else does . .
. And there’s not much else you can take advantage of-if you want to
keep being a good cop.”
“Ah you’re just like all the rest of us,” the technician said,
dismissing Hoval with a brisk wave of the hand.
“Poor.”
The other man’s pale face crinkled in a grin, and he even allowed
himself a soft laugh. “How’s the club sandwich?”
“Fine,” Hoval said, around a mouthful of it.
The technician ordered one, without French fries, and a coffee.
When the girl had gone, he said, “What about the Pulham investigation?
” I’m not on it full time now,” Hoval said.
“Oh?” “Not much I can do,” Hoval explained. “If the killer was going
to California in an Automover, he’s way out of my territory. The FBI is
checking on the names they got from Automover’s central records.
They’ve narrowed it down to a few dozen. Looks like maybe a couple of
weeks until they find our guy. if The technician frowned, picked up the
salt shaker and turned it around and around in his bony hands. “A
couple of weeks could be too late. When a fruitcake starts to go, he
goes fast.”
“You still on that kick?” Hoval asked, putting down his sandwich.
“I think we’re dealing with a psychotic. And if we are, he’ll add a few
more murders to his record in the next week or two. Maybe even kill
himself.”
“This isn’t any nut,” Hoval insisted. “It’s one of your political
cases. He won’t kill anyone else-not until he gets a chance to set up
another cop.”
“You’re wrong about him,” the technician said.
Hoval shook his head, took a long drink of his lemon blend. “You
bleeding-heart liberals astound me. Can’t stop looking for simple
answers. ” FRIDAY The waitress brought the pale man’s coffee.
When she went away, he said, “I haven’t noticed any blood on my shirt in