Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

killed during a race down our way. Jack found the body.”
    “So I heard.”
    “We finally identified him and it turns out they,” nodding toward Max and Jack, “had met the victim’s wife some time before. She had given them, more specifically Max, a quilt. She thought that she had given Max an old worthless quilt, but it turned out she had grabbed the wrong bag. She actually gave Max a more valuable quilt instead. Her husband, the victim, was supposed to pick it up after the race, only he never did. Alfred Whitson, the man I am looking for, was here last night. Max told me it was his second time, and he is interested in that quilt. I’d like to know why.”
    While Malloy was filling Tom in on his investigation, Max pulled Jack aside. “What are you doing here, and why did you bring Tom?”
    “I’m concerned.”
    “Concerned? You weren’t so ‘concerned’ last night.”
    “I was, I …”
    He began to protest, but she cut him off. “So you’re telling me that all of a sudden this morning you had a change of heart and you believe me now.”
    “I didn’t say that. That guy last night was pretty weird and when I got up this morning, well I, uh, decided that maybe it would be good for Tom to know what was going on.”
    “And you didn’t feel that this was, say maybe, important enough to discuss with me first.”
    Jack was losing. It was only the interruption by the two policemen that saved him.
    “Max, could you come repeat for Tom what you told me about this guy?” asked Lieutenant Malloy.
    Jack followed her over and listened as she repeated the entire story, from the first time Alfred had stopped by, several days ago, right through last night.
    Then turning to Jack, he asked, “While Max was up on the phone with me last night, what happened down here?”
    Jack then recounted his own story, apologizing that he wasn’t able to offer more.
    When he finished, it felt like a very long time went by before anyone said anything, even though the silence lasted only a few seconds.
    Malloy was the first to speak. “Max, thank you. You did the right thing calling me last night. I’m more convinced than ever that I need to talk with our friend Alfred. There’s probably a good chance that he’ll be back in touch with you since it seems that this quilt is really important to him. Tom, any help you can offer would be appreciated, and Jack, listen to her. She has good instincts and I―no, we―don’t want anything to happen to her.”

CHAPTER 82
The ship burned all night and by morning, it was gone. All that remained were some charred timbers floating in the harbor. A man standing beside him rested a hand on his shoulder. He tried to turn his head to see who it was, but he couldn’t move. Then he heard the man speak. “She’s gone. Those fools have destroyed everything. We are ruined.”
Again he tried to turn toward the voice but couldn’t. “Why …” Before he could finish his question, a group of men approached and took the man away. He ran after them, but they were always a few steps ahead no matter how hard he ran. He called out. The man tried to turn back, but he was forced forward. Time blurred. Then he was in the courthouse and the magistrate pronounced the sentence. “Guilty.” Despite his protestations, the defendant was whisked away.
    Alfred sat up, shaking and sweating, the rage and frustration still coursing through his body. The dream was the same one he had experienced so many times before. It took several minutes before his eyes adjusted to the dim light in the dingy motel room, hundreds of years removed from where he had just been, then a few more for him to fully remember where he was and why. He lay back down and thought about what he could, or would, do. She had the quilt. He had to have it. It was the key. As he played through in his mind different scenarios, he gradually drifted back to sleep, and this time there were no more dreams.
    The day was still gray and overcast as he pulled the door to the room closed. A strong gust of cold air forced itself through his jacket, pressed under his hat, and threatened to unwrap the scarf that he had wound around his neck. He could feel his truck being rocked by the wind, and he shivered as he started the engine. Even though he knew it would be several miles before there would be heat, he still felt warmer as he drove away from the motel.
    Driving east toward the ocean in search of some breakfast, he let his mind wander. The jumble of