Mad River

and they’d come back and pick me up. When they came back, they were driving this other car, and, man, I didn’t know what they done until the next day when Jimmy shot his old man.”
    “It’s all Jimmy?”
    “It’s all Jimmy . . . but Becky is his girlfriend, and they’re gonna kill me. I can’t get away from them. I know they’re gonna kill me. I got the Box kids down the basement, I think they’re all right, Jimmy wanted to kill them, too.”
    The Box kids remembered Becky pushing them down the stairs, so McCall was probably lying about that.
    “Where are you?” Virgil asked.
    “I don’t know. Becky was driving when we left the Boxes’, and they made me sit in the backseat. Becky’s in a Shell station, we’re getting gas and groceries. I’m sitting low in the seat, but Jimmy’s out walking around, smoking. . . . They think I’m sleeping, but they don’t know I got this phone. I’m scared to run. You gotta get me out, man. They’re both crazier than bug shit. You gotta get me out.”
    “You’re in a Shell station. Are they gonna hold it up?”
    “No, no. I don’t think so. We’re in some town, but not Marshall. I don’t know my way around so good. . . . But listen, I’m innocent. I didn’t do any of this shit. I can tell you something that nobody knows. When we were in Bigham, we had NO money. NO money. So Jimmy went over to this girl’s house in Bigham, and when he came back, he had a thousand dollars in cold cash. He didn’t say so exactly, and I’m afraid to ask, but I think he was paid to kill her. He and Becky talk— I think Jimmy’s coming back. Get me out, man, get me out.”
    Virgil shouted, “Call me back.”
    Maybe too late: McCall was gone.
    •   •   •
    VIRGIL PUNCHED UP the number of the BCA duty officer and at the same time brought up his computer; the duty officer said, “Sorry, Virgil, he was on AT&T and I still don’t have anybody who can help me out. I got the phone number and your number and maybe we’ll get something out of that.”
    Virgil told him to call anytime he had anything of substance, and then did a search for Shell stations in Minnesota. There was one at Springfield, probably fifty or sixty miles away, but there was no way that one would be open at four o’clock in the morning; the other one was at Luverne, just off I-90. That one was a possibility.
    Another minute of digging on the ’net got him a phone number, and he called it, but there was no answer. Luverne didn’t have a police department, but was covered by the Rock County sheriff. Virgil had that number in his database, called it. The duty officer said, “Tell you what—they aren’t open. If he told you he was calling from the Shell station in Luverne, he was pulling your weenie.”
    “Could you send a car by?”
    “I’ll have one there in two minutes.”
    “If you see them, don’t try to go one-on-one—for one thing, there are three of them, and they are killers. Get everybody you can find to help out.”
    Then Virgil sat on his bed and stared at his telephone. Ten minutes later, Rock County called back and the duty officer said, “Virgil, there’s nobody there. The station’s closed. There’s nothing moving downtown, nothing at all. If they were here, they’re gone—but I got people looking anyway.”
    Virgil thanked him and hung up. He called the duty officer at the BCA and told him to get set on Nina Box’s cell phone. “If he calls again, I want to know where he is, and I want to know
right now
. I want them all over that phone. If they want a warrant, get one. Call when you find out, and call me whatever time it is.”
    Then he called Springfield, wound up tracking down a police sergeant, who confirmed that the Shell station was closed and had been for hours. He told the cop why he was calling, and the cop said they’d keep their eyes open, “but they weren’t buying any groceries here.”
    Virgil thought about that for a while, and wondered why McCall had specified a Shell station. Was it possible that he’d been at a Shell station earlier? If they were going to Los Angeles, they wouldn’t be going out I-90. On the other hand, I-90 did go west, and everybody said Jimmy Sharp was a little dumb.
    •   •   •
    HE DIDN’T THINK he would sleep, but there wasn’t much of an alternative—nothing to do but think—so he finished undressing, lay down, and opened his eyes at seven-thirty with a good solid four hours of sleep behind