impact with the sound. And, abruptly, the Chevrolet lost speed, fell
behind them.
“What’s he doing?” Colin asked.
It was too good to be true, Doyle thought.
“One of his tires blew.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding.”
The boy slumped back against the seat, pale and shaking, limp, wrung
out. in a thick, almost whispered voice, he said, “Jesus!”
Seventeen The town survived despite the inhospitable land in which it
stood. The low buildings-whether they were of wood, brick, or stone had
all turned a dull yellow-brown in order to coexist with the merciless
sun and the wind-blown sand. Here and there, alkaline encrustations
limed the edges of walls, but that was the only variation in the
drabness. The main highway-which became the borough’s most important
street-had been a hgostly gray-black line through the desert ever since
they had crossed over from Colorado; but now it succumbed to the
influence of the town, became dun and dusty. Out on the open land, the
wind had scoured the road clean; but here, the buildings blocked the
wind and let the dust collect. A soft powder filmed the automobiles,
taking the shine out of them. The dust seemed like the hands of the
living desert, gradually stealing back this meager plot which men had
taken from it.
The police station, three blocks west along the main street, was as
dreary as everything else, a one-story building that was losing the
mortar between its mustard-colored stones.
The officer in charge of the station, a man who called himself Captain
Ackridge, wore a brown uniform that fit in with his town and a hard,
experienced face which did not. He was six-foot, two hundred pounds,
perhaps ten years older than Doyle but with a body ten years younger.
His close-cropped hair was black, his eyes darker than that.
He held himself like a soldier on parade, stiff and proud.
He came out and looked at the Thunderbird. He walked the whole way
around it and seemed to be as interested in the undamaged angles as he
was in the long scars down the driver’s side. He leaned close to the
tinted windshield and peered in at Colin as if the boy were a fish in an
aquarium. Then he looked at the damage on the car’s left side again and
was satisfied with his inspection.
“Come on back inside,” he told Doyle. His voice was crisp and precise
in spite of the underlying Southwest accent.
“We’ll talk about it.”
They returned to the station, crossed the public room where two
secretaries were pounding on typewriters and one uniformed, overweight
cop was taking a coffee break and munching on an eclair. They went
through the door to Ackridge’s off ice, and the big man closed it behind
them.
“What do you think can be done?” Alex asked as Ackridge went around
behind his neatly ordered desk.
“Have a seat.”
Doyle went to the chair that faced the scarred metal desk, but he did
not sit down. “Look, that flat tire won’t slow the bastard up for long.
And if he-”
“Please sit down, Mr. Doyle,” the policeman said, sitting down himself.
His wellworn spring-backed chair squeaked as if there were a live mouse
in the cushion.
Somewhat irritated, Doyle sat down. “I think-”
“Let’s just do this my way,” Ackridge said, smiling briefly. it was an
imitation smile, utterly false. The policeman seemed to understand that
it was a bad copy, for he gave it up right away. “You have some
identification?
”
“Me?
“It was you I asked.”
The officer’s voice contained no real malice, yet it chilled Doyle. He
got his wallet from his hip pocket, withdrew his driver’s license from
one of the plastic windows, and pushed it across the desk.
The policeman studied it. “Doyle.”
“That’s right.”
“Philadelphia?”
“Yes, but we’re moving to San Francisco. Of course, I don’t have my
California license yet.” He knew he was on the verge of babbling, his
tongue loosened not so much by the residual fear of their encounter with
the madman in the van as by Ackridge’s penitrating black eyes.
“You have an owner’s card for that TBird?
Doyle found it, held the wallet open to the proper plastic envelope, and