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Beck offered her best smile. “No, not you. This man.”
The clerk took the sketch, shifted from foot to foot. “That’s funny. Sort of.”
“What is?”
“He kind of looks like this fella who was in here about an hour ago. Around the eyes, he does. And yeah, the mouth, I guess. I didn’t like him.”
“No?” Beck leaned in, just a little. “Why?”
“Okay, he bought enough stock I could’ve closed the door for the day, and my brother—he owns the place—wouldn’t have known because the daily take would be more than it ever is. But he had mean all over him—the vibe, right? And he bought so much I just said how it looked like he was having a party. He gave me a look made me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I think this is him, with shorter hair. What’d he do?”
“Did you see what he was driving?”
“I looked out, saw him loading the boxes of booze in a pickup. Old Chevy, rusted-out red.
“Hey, what did he do?”
But they were already out the door.
“It’s him, Quentin. I swear I feel it in my guts.”
“Let’s bring the sheriff in on it. He’s got a place. You don’t buy all that food and booze for a damn road trip or when you’re in a motel.”
“He could have hostages—not his style—but there are homes and small ranches within a half hour’s drive of Two Springs. Or maybe there’s a place that’s been abandoned. Frozen food means he has refrigeration and a stove or a microwave. Coming into town, making at least two stops means he feels safe.”
As they moved, fast, to the sheriff’s office, they scanned the streets.
“He could still be here,” Morrison said. “But that’s unlikely. Frozen food.”
“Is going to melt pretty quick in this heat. He has to be close.”
The sheriff’s office had an outer room with a dispatch desk, and two more for the pair of deputies who both worked part-time. In the back, it held two cells, a unisex bathroom, and a makeshift counter for a hot plate and the coffeepot on it.
The AC whirled madly, and sent the smell of bad coffee everywhere.
Sheriff Neederman, a rawboned, sunbaked man of about forty-five, had his own office—with the door open.
“Well, FBI.” He stood from his desk. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Lucy Wigg from Two Springs Market and Kyle Givens from Givens Liquors and Beer just identified Gavin Rozwell from our sketch. He was in both places this morning.”
“Well, hell. Are they sure of that?”
“Sure enough. He stocked up on food—including frozen products—and alcohol, which indicates he’s found a hole close by. Close enough. We need to start a search.”
“We’ll sure help with that. I’ve got one deputy out on a call, and I’ll bring the other one in. I’ll notify state, have some head in here.”
“He’s driving a red Chevy pickup. Older model, from what we’re told. You know the area, Sheriff. Let’s have some best guesses.”
“Let me make those calls and think on it.”
When he had, he spread out a map. “These houses here, here? Few and far between maybe, but people’ll notice a stranger. Different story when you move out here, or into the mountains. Hardscrabble ranches, hardscrabble people who live that life because they don’t want people around. And you’ll have your preppers, survivalists, anti-every-fucking-thing types. They wouldn’t set out the welcome mat for him—or us, come to it.”
“Leaning to that, who lives alone? No family—too much trouble,” Beck said to her partner. “Easier to take down one person. He’d want privacy if he decided to dig a hole.”
“There’s Riley—former marine—piss and vinegar in one package.” Neederman tapped on the map. “His place is a damn fortress. And there’s Jane Boot—her husband passed awhile back, but she stuck. Comes in, sells eggs, goat’s milk about once a month. Tough as nails, prepping for war or the Rapture, whichever comes first.”
“The woman,” Morrison said. “He’d go for the woman before he’d take on a marine.”
