“Dunno,” Hobson said. “I never know where Dalton goes.”
“Where is Cammie?”
Hobson told him.
David leaned back in his chair. He liked the smell of the burning wood, the heat from the fire. He found the atmosphere comforting, relaxing. “Did you like my parents, Dewey?”
“Your mother was nice. A little shy, but nice. Nobody really liked your father, though. He was a real jerk.”
“It’s not nice to say mean things like that, to speak ill of the dead.”
Hobson said nothing.
David tilted his head. “Do you think I’m a good-looking guy, Dewey?”
“No.”
The answer stung, but David had heard it before. More times than he cared to count. He glanced down at the shotgun…almost time. “I’m a beautiful man. Probably the best-looking man you’ve ever seen or will see.”
“You’re a beautiful man, David Pickford.”
“That’s better.”
David stood and hunted through the books on the table until he foundThe Murder of Roger Ackroyd. A fine first edition, bound in leather with gold leaf on the edges. “This is your favorite book? The best one here?”
Hobson nodded.
David tossed the book through the open door of the wood stove. The topmost log crackled and split under the new weight. Flames crawled around the sides and began to chew at the leather. “Go ahead and put the shotgun back into your mouth, Dewey.”
Hobson did.
David planned to watch the man kill himself. He rarely got the opportunity to watch, but then he got an idea.
A much better idea.
4
Eastern Airlines flight 5091 touched down in Reno, Nevada, at twenty-three minutes past six on the night of August 8, 1998. Detective Joy Fogel sat at the window in row eighteen, with an elderly woman knitting in the seat beside her and a business man buried in notes at the aisle.
At Reno Airport, she rented a Toyota Camry at the counter, retrieved her gun and shoulder rig from her checked bag before stowing the suitcase in the trunk, then followed the signs to I-80 East, then US-50, arriving in Fallon, Nevada, at a little after eight.
The temperature was insanely hot. Even with the sun down and the air conditioning at full, her back was soaked with sweat, sticking to the leather car seat. She made a mental note never to return to the state of Nevada in the summer.
Never.
Like most small towns in Nevada, Fallon grew out of the desert and looked like it could return to the sand if someone broke the tap or shut off the water for more than an hour. Alfalfa fields surrounded the outskirts of town, adding to the “carved out” feel. The main street (aptly named Main Street) was a series of one and two-story buildings that might easily double for the set of a Wild West movie, had the road not been paved.
She found a small diner at the center of the town proper, took a booth near the back, and ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a large Coke. From her purse, she retrieved the Nokia cell phone Stack had given her before she left Pittsburgh, and powered the contraption on. She tried calling him twice from the road, and both times she had no signal. Since the battery didn’t last long, it seemed best to keep it powered off. When the display came to life, she had two bars. She hit number one on the presets. Twenty seconds passed before the call connected.
“Stack.”
“Are you sure about this?” Fogel said. “There’s not much out here.”
“Where are you now?”
She told him.
“Did you ever see the movieTop Gunwith Tom Cruise and Kelly something?”
