More Twisted

upset about it,” Agnes offered.
    The sheriff reflected: And Sloan was about the same age and build as the killer. Dark hair too.
    Damn, he thought to himself: I didn’t even look at his driver’s license, only his business card. He might’ve killed the real Sloan and stolen his car.
    “And that was another thing. He said his car overheated,” Bill pointed out. “You’d think a salesman’d be in a new car. And you ever hear about cars overheating nowadays? Hardly ever happens. And at night?”
    “Mary, Mother of God,” Agnes said, crossing herself, apparently finding an exception to the rule about blasphemy. “He was right here, in our house.”
    But the sheriff’s mind continued further along this troubling path. Sloan, he now understood, had known there’d be a roadblock. So he’d disabled his car himself, called Triple A and waltzed right through the roadblock. Hell, he even walked right up to me, ballsy as could be and spun that story about Greg—to lead the law off.
    And we let him get away. He could be—
    No!
    And then he felt the punch in his gut. He’d sent Sloan to police headquarters. Where there was only one other person at the moment. Clara. Twenty-one years old. Beautiful.
    And whom the sheriff referred to as “his girl” not out of any vestigial chauvinism but because she was, in fact, his daughter, working for him on summer vacation from college.
    He grabbed the Willises’ phone and called the station. There was no answer.
    Sheriff Mills ran from the house, climbed into his car. “Oh, Lord, please no . . .”
    The deputy with him offered a prayer too. But thesheriff didn’t hear it. He dropped into the seat and slammed the door. Ten seconds later the Crown Vic hit sixty as it cut through the night air, hot as soup and dotted with the lights from a thousand edgy fireflies.

    No reconnaissance this time.
    On Elm Street downtown the sheriff skidded to a stop against a trash can, knocking it over and scattering the street with empty soda bottles and Good Humor sticks and wrappers.
    His deputy was beside him, carting the stubby scattergun, a shell chambered and the safety off.
    “What’s the plan?” the deputy asked.
    “This,” Sheriff Mills snapped and slammed into the door with his shoulder, leveling the gun as he rushed inside, the deputy on his heels.
    Both men stopped fast, staring at the two people in the room, caught in the act of sipping Arizona iced teas. Dave Sloan and the sheriff’s daughter, both blinking in shock at the hostile entrance.
    The officers lowered their weapons.
    “Dad!”
    “What’s the matter, Sheriff?” Sloan asked.
    “I—” he stammered. “Mr. Sloan, could I see some ID?”
    Sloan showed his driver’s license to the sheriff, who examined the picture—it was clearly Sloan. Then Mills shamefacedly told them what he’d suspected after his conversation with the Willises.
    Sloan took the news good-naturedly. “Probably should’ve asked for that license up front, Sheriff.”
    “I probably should have. Right you are. It was just thatthings seemed a little suspicious. Like you told them that you’d just come from Durrant—”
    “My company installs and services the prison computers. It’s one of my big accounts.” He fished in his jacket pocket and showed the sheriff a work order. “These blackouts from the heat are hell on computers. If you don’t shut them down properly it causes all kinds of problems.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry, sir. You have to understand—”
    “That you got a killer on the loose.” Sloan laughed again. “So they thought I was the killer . . . . Only fair, I suppose, since I thought Greg was.”
    “I called before,” the sheriff said to his daughter. “There was no answer. Where were you?”
    “Oh, the AC went out. Mr. Sloan here and I went out back to see if we could get it going.”
    A moment later the fax machine began churning out a piece of paper. It contained a picture of a young man, bearded, with trim, dark hair: the two-angle mug shot of the escapee.
    The sheriff showed it to Sloan and Clara. He read from the prison’s bulletin. “Name’s Tony Windham. Rich kid from Ann Arbor. Worth millions, trust funds, prep school. Honors grad. But he’s got something loose somewhere. Killed six women and never showed a gnat of regret at the trial. Well, he’s not getting through Hatfield. Route 202 and 17’re the only ways to the interstate and we’re checking every car.” He then said to the deputy,