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“Looks like nobody has been there for a while,” Clete said. “Surrette might have taken this wrecker because he knew it wouldn’t be missed. Maybe he’s holed up not far away.”
I thought Clete was right. The problem was, I couldn’t stop thinking about Molly and Albert. I didn’t have Albert’s cell number; I wasn’t sure he had one. I tried Molly again. No luck. Clete knew what I was thinking.
“Dave, Gretchen can’t be sure that was Jack Boyd in the Cherokee,” he said. “Besides, what are the chances of Boyd recognizing Albert and Molly on the highway?”
“Then where did they go?”
“Maybe they saw something on a side road and pulled off.”
“Why would she turn off her cell phone?”
“She probably lost service. This is a lousy area for cell phones.”
We were on the shoulder of the road, looking down over the tops of cherry trees at the shadows playing on the cottage and the mechanic’s shed. The moon had come out from behind the clouds, and farther down the shore, I could see a two-story house constructed of what appeared to be yellowish-gray stone. There was a marina by the lake and a number of sailboats rocking in their berths. I looked in the rearview mirror. Gretchen and Alafair were parked behind us, the engine running.
“I’ve got to find Molly,” I said.
“Okay, big mon,” he said. “Let’s go do that.”
ASA SURRETTE CLIMBED the stairs to the first floor and looked out the side window at the driveway. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He jerked open the side door. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” he said.
Jack Boyd and one of Caspian Younger’s security men were herding Albert and a woman inside. “They were onto you, Asa,” Boyd said.
“What do you mean, they were ‘onto’ me?”
“Why else would they be here?”
“A thousand reasons, you stupid shit. Do you realize what you’ve done?”
“It was a judgment call,” Boyd said.
“What happened to her?” Surrette said.
“She fell on the gravel when Terry was helping her out of their truck.”
“That’s your name? Terry?”
“It was when I woke up this morning.”
“Who am I?” Surrette said.
Terry flexed his neck. “I’m not big on names. I hear you’re a guy who leaves a big footprint.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Surrette said.
“Where do you want these two?” Terry said.
Surrette could hardly contain himself. “Where do I want them? I want them on the moon. But that can’t happen, because you’ve brought them into my house.” He looked into Albert Hollister’s face. “Remember me? Wichita State University, 1979?”
“Hard to say. I remember a pervert in my seminar who wrote a short story that was artless and filled with misspellings. Was that your work?”
“Love Younger is dead,” Boyd said.
Surrette looked at him, blinking, not sure what he’d heard.
“Somebody cut off his head. It was probably Wyatt Dixon,” Boyd said. “It was on the news.”
“Where’s Caspian?”
