“No, you don’t play back there? Or no, you’ve never been in that alley?”
“Either, neither, I mean…I’ve never been in that alley. I don’t play back there.”
Lurline Waldrip pushed through the door at the kitchen and dropped a white towel on the counter. “Sorry about that, I was in the back. Need a menu?”
When the detective turned to face her, Dunk and I bolted through the door, retrieved our bikes from the lamp post in front of Krendal’s, and raced up the hill. Neither of us looked back. I don’t think I ever pedaled faster in my life.
We raced up the hill and over, then turned left on Maytide Street, rode two more blocks and made a quick right on Klaus, another left on Newburn, my bike chain squeaking with each hurried rotation. Over the next twenty minutes, we circled the entire neighborhood twice, certain the detective’s Crown Vic would either come up from behind or appear somewhere up ahead. The car didn’t, though. At the top of Gorman’s Hill, I locked my brakes and skidded to a stop. Dunk slid in the gravel beside me and dropped his feet to the ground, huffing so loud I could barely hear my own labored breaths. Sweat dripped down my temple, and the back of my shirt was soaked. “We should get off the road,” I finally managed.
“Where?”
I knew exactly where, though. I’d been avoiding the place since Saturday. “Come on.”
It took us a little under ten more minutes to reach the cemetery. With the gate open, we continued riding inside, I didn’t brake again until I reached the mausoleums, there I slowed and pulled between two of the larger ones: Polanski and Nowy. I climbed off my bike and leaned it against the wall and tried to catch my breath as Dunk maneuvered his bike next to mine.
“That guy is like a bloodhound,” Dunk finally said between gasps. “He was all over me back there, did you see that?”
“I don’t think he knows anything.”
“Maybe I’m the one who needs to run. I might need to borrow some of your money.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Lots of innocent men in prison, Thatch. I wouldn’t be the first. Haven’t you ever watched that old show on TBS,The Fugitive? It’s about a doctor, Dr. Richard Kimble, he gets convicted of killing his wife even though he didn’t do it. He goes to jail, escapes, and tries to find the real killer.” Dunk paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “I can’t go to jail, Thatch. I most definitely can’t escape from jail, and I don’t have time to search for the real killer even if I did. I’ve got shit to do in my life, and that ain’t it.”
I rolled my eyes. “The detective saw you in the crowd yesterday and asked a few questions. He’s just fishing, that’s all.”
For the next ten minutes, we caught our breath, taking turns peering around the corner for a Crown Vic that never came.
“Is that it?” Dunk eventually asked, breaking the silence.
I followed his gaze to the black metal bench about ten yards away, empty, perched atop the hill. “Yeah.”
“There’s nobody there.”
“It’s not August 8. She only comes on August 8.”
Dunk smacked my shoulder. “I get that, dummy. I mean there’s nobody sitting there, we should take a look. You said she wrote something.”
Help me
I wasn’t sure I wanted to see those words again. Seeing them would make them real. Seeing her words would mean Stella pleaded for my help two days ago, and I had done nothing other than try to forget.
“Columbo’s not coming,” Dunk said, taking one last look for the detective’s car. “Come on.” He started for the bench.
We could see most of the cemetery from up here, and if the detective did come, we’d have time to run. Like I told Dunk, though, I didn’t think he would. He could have stopped us back at the diner if he really wanted to.
I chased after Dunk.
The seat of the bench was still damp with morning dew. The cemetery was deserted, not another person in sight, unbelievably quiet, the shuffle of our feet deafening.
Dunk was hunched over the bench, studying the metal frame.
“Is this where it was?”
“Yeah, that was it.”
“Somebody scratched it out.”
