Jack Beale 00 - Killer Run

him that she would not be in today because she was going to a funeral, adding that Sunday was her day off. Two days. Two whole days before he would be able to see her and convince her how important it was that she give the quilt to him. That was too long. He couldn’t wait. His family couldn’t wait.
    He paced back and forth and as he paced, he listened. Soon it was quiet again outside. He looked out the window. The men and horses were gone. It was time for him to go.
    * * *
    Lieutenant Malloy took another sip from the extra-large coffee as he drove toward the station. Normally he wouldn’t go in on the weekend, but ever since he had begun his search for Alfred Whitson, he hadn’t slept well. He knew sleep would be elusive until he found him. Malloy’s need for caffeine had also increased proportionally to his frustration.
    “Where are you, Alfred Whitson? And who are you?” he said to himself as he pulled into the station. On the way in he had driven by the antiques store on the chance that Alfred would be there. He wasn’t, which didn’t surprise him. Somehow he knew Alfred wouldn’t be there.
    Malloy sat at his desk, swallowed the last of his coffee, and reviewed his notes for the umpteenth time. Today was Malcom’s funeral. What was he missing? With each passing day, he was more and more convinced that Alfred was the murderer, despite the fact that there was no evidence to confirm that. He just knew it. He had to find him.
    He picked up his phone and dialed the number Tom Scott in Rye had given him.
    “Hey Tom. Mark Malloy … I’m fine … The B.O.L.O. is out on Whitson. No sign of him down here and his shop is still closed. Something tells me that he won’t be found here and I’m even more convinced that he probably did kill Malcom Christian …”
    They talked for more than thirty minutes, tossing about ideas, impressions, and theories. By the time their conversation ended, Tom was as convinced as Mark that Alfred was the man they wanted. Now they just had to find him.
    * * *
    “That was a lovely service. I wish that I had had the opportunity to know Malcom. He was a remarkable man,” said Jack as Polly held his hand.
    “I know you would have been friends. Thank you for finding him.”
    Max gave her a long hug and promised that they’d see her later, at the reception at the Inn.
    Neither Max nor Jack spoke on the ride over to the Inn. They were among the early arrivals and were greeted by Polly’s friend Anne.
    “Since we’re a little early, would there be any problem if we went for a walk out in the woods?” asked Jack.
    “Of course not. Everyone else will be arriving soon. You know where you are going?”
    “I do.”
    Jack and Max walked across the backyard toward the beginning of the trails that Malcom had made through the woods. The ground was still wet and their feet left impressions in the grass. Max pulled her coat close and leaned against Jack for warmth as a cool November breeze began to gently blow through the treetops, rustling the few remaining leaves.
    “It’s so senseless and unfair. Why do things like this happen to good people?”
    Jack had no answer. All he could say was, “Don’t know.”
    They followed the trail, silent, each lost in their own thoughts. Several days of hard rain had soaked and flattened the leaves that covered the trail, leaving a mat of dirty yellows, reds, and browns. It was nature’s version of a floor cloth. There was no light crunch of dry leaves underfoot, but rather a more soggy squish. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the denuded trees, revealing what had been hidden from view all summer. It wasn’t long before the trail widened, and Jack remembered that it became an old fire road that would take them to the main road. They hadn’t realized how close to the end they were until they saw an old pickup truck parked just off the pavement.
    “We should get back,” said Jack. Then nodding toward the truck he added, “It’s probably hunting season and we are not exactly dressed for visibility.”
    Max gripped his arm more tightly and tugged him toward the road. “Let’s walk back along the road,” she said in a louder than normal voice.
    “Sure.”
    As they broke out of the woods, Max kept looking about nervously. As they headed toward the Inn, another pair of eyes watched as they walked up the road.

CHAPTER 87
    ALFRED LEFT HIS HIDING PLACE shortly after Max and Jack passed him. Glancing back up the road to make sure the coast was