KnockOut

CAROLINA
    It was late afternoon when the black FBI Bell helicopter landed at the small airstrip two miles west of Winnett. The mountains were thick around them, and yet it was so hot and humid when Savich stepped out of the helicopter, he wished he could strip down and find a hose. He helped Sherlock out, and both of them stood there a moment, even the hot gush of air from the helicopter blades better than the still, dead air.
    Holding hands, they ducked down and ran toward a small tin building thirty feet away. They turned to see the helicopter lift off. The pilot, Curly Hames, waved to them. They veered off into the shade of the buildings to where a dark green Subaru sat next to a banged-up truck and a rotted-out SUV.
    The keys were in the ignition. Savich gave the interior a tolerant look and turned the key.
    Sherlock sniffed. “The car smells new; that’s big of the field office. Okay, we’re going to meet Cully at the Chevron gas station on Market Street, only about half a mile from Victor Nesser’s apartment on Pulitzer Prize Road. Then we’ll go to Victor’s apartment, meet up with Bernie Benton, and wait until Lissy and Victor show.” She grinned. “Weird name. Turns out that Winnett native Marvin Hemlick won a Pulitzer some forty years ago for writing about a nasty Ku Klux Klan chapter here. Anyway, when last I spoke to Cully, he said he and Bernie had Victor’s place covered, but nothing was happening, and time was moving slow as molasses in this heat and both he and Bernie were getting antsy.”
    She pulled out her cell and dialed Cully’s number. There was no answer, only voice mail. Sherlock frowned, dialed again, got voice mail again. “Why doesn’t he pick up? I told him I’d call the minute we were here. Cully’s known for being so type A, his shoes nearly walk by themselves. What could he be doing?”
    “Do you have Bernie’s cell phone number?” Savich asked as he negotiated a left turn onto Market Street.
    She shook her head. “Let’s get to the Chevron station, see if Cully’s there. Maybe his phone’s dead.” Like either of them believed that, Sherlock thought, and tightened her seat belt. Even the seat belt smelled new.
    “We’ll be there in a minute; hang on, sweetheart.”
    She noticed the countryside was quite pretty as they drove by— tree-covered hills rising slowly to higher hills, and finally they saw the mountains behind them. Pine and oak trees crammed the slopes, enough for a thousand houses, Sherlock thought, without making a dent.
    Savich slowed through Winnett’s small downtown. The three-block center was set squarely on flat land; the townspeople must have long ago taken a bulldozer to smooth it out. Red brick and wooden buildings crowded together along Market Street, and wherever there weren’t buildings, there were trees crowding in. It was quite lovely, really, but it was so hot even in the late afternoon, Savich imagined you could fry spit on the sidewalk.
    The downtown was quiet, dead, only a couple of teenagers milling around outside. Dinnertime, he thought, and escape from the oppressive heat, maybe some hoses going to cool off in the backyards.
    The Chevron sign appeared ahead on a right-hand corner. An old man stood in the doorway of the Quik Mart, arms folded over his chest, watching a young guy pump gas into a white Mustang convertible. There were a couple of cars waiting to be serviced, but there was no sign of Agent Cully Gwyn.
    Savich didn’t pause. “Let’s go over to Pulitzer Prize Road, take a look at Victor’s apartment building. Maybe they’re there, watching, forgot the time, whatever.”
    Sherlock didn’t say anything, but she didn’t like it. She was tense, on edge. She punched her cell phone’s GPS on, and a dulcet female voice told them to turn right in point-five miles. A minute later, they pulled onto Victor’s street in a neighborhood of the small ranch-style houses set back from the road on big yards with pine and oak trees cozied up to the houses. They were lucky it rained here a lot, or the town would never have survived forest fires for so long.
    Pulitzer Prize Road was unexpectedly long. Finally the houses began to peter out, and at the very end of the street, on the very edge of Winnett, stood Victor’s apartment building. It wasn’t much, a two-story brick building with maybe six apartments. But the yard was big and green, like all the other yards, and there was a red brick walkway that led up to the door.