No Immunity

reputation, and now word was the guy was desperate. Maybe the truth was Adcock was just wacko. This time he says the baby dick’s headed up 93, but the guy wasn’t even going toward the freeway.
    Wacko or not, Adcock had paid pronto. The Weasel closed the space between the ‘Cuda and the Jeep.

CHAPTER 27

    Outside the funeral home Kiernan turned uphill and ran, cutting into the alley, up the covered stairs. Her rubber-soled shoes were quiet but not silent. At the landing she looked around. No deputies in sight. Probably still in the mortuary, checking more carefully behind all the doors she had rejected. She followed the path to the street and turned left, uphill. It wasn’t till the street ended two blocks farther on that she found herself in open field and felt momentarily safer.
    There was no real safety, she knew that. She could hide out all night and Fox would be at the bus stop in the morning. If by some sleight of hand she managed to get on the bus, he’d be waiting in Las Vegas. If she got on the plane, he’d be on her doorstep. The dead woman hadn’t been her case, but it definitely was her case now.
    What she needed was that car Connie’s friend might be willing to part with. He was one guy about to make an easy sale.
    The wind was stronger now, spraying her with sand. The dusty smell of the arid street was stronger. The air had to be colder, but she no longer felt it. Inside her thin jacket she was roasting. Below her the commercial portion of First Street ended and it veered left, becoming residential. She made a wide loop, crossed First, and cut down the narrow street behind it. First Street lay between two hills, and from her position she could see headlights coming from both directions, the cars moving fast. Otherwise the street was empty. She waited till both vehicles had passed, then clambered down a slide-and-jerk path to the back of the saloon.
    It was the most dangerous place. But she had no choice. She took a breath and walked in.
    The heat of the saloon seemed equatorial, the crowd triple the size it was an hour ago. Now Waylon Jennings’s notes of remorse were almost lost beneath the buzz of conversations flowing over one another. As she walked in, conversation stopped for a second, then picked right up. They’d all have heard about her of course. Even without the break-in, she’d be front-page gossip for a month. She tried to read the eyes of the one or two who glanced around now, but no one indicated a sheriff’s warning.
    She made straight for the bar. More carefully now she surveyed the room. No sheriff, no deputies. Also no Connie. Connie said she’d be here; where was she? Time to wait was something she did not have.
    “Hey there, lady.” Milo smiled a welcome. “Another Dickel and water?”
    “Easy on the water, Milo. Connie here?”
    He nodded to his left.
    Kiernan heard herself sigh out loud. Connie was there all right, half shielded by a paper fern. She was sitting at a table alone. Kiernan started to slide in next to her, but Connie pointed to a chair across the table instead. “Where’s the guy with the car?” Kiernan asked.
    Connie cocked her head toward the next table, where five men in jeans sat, four drinking beer, one a Coke. “Jesse,” she called to the Coke drinker.
    The short, sallow man’s shoulder rose protectively, lifting a faded shirt that hung loose on narrow ribs. He glared at his glass, at Connie, and finally at Kiernan. He looked, Kiernan thought, like the poster boy for Losers. This far out in the country, with the bus a once-a-day event, selling a car was a drastic step, and from Jesse’s face he understood that only too well. He made no effort to shift out of his chair. At his table, conversation had stopped.
    “Jesse,” Connie repeated. There was no edge to her voice, but this time Jesse hoisted his thin frame and moved to the empty seat between Connie and Kiernan.
    “What’s your car and what are you asking?” Kiernan said.
    “No hello, how are you, nice to meet you, Jesse? What am I, too low-life for that?”
    Milo put down the Dickel. She handed him a bill and took a grateful swallow of the bourbon. At the best of times she was no diplomat. Tchernak would have no problem with Jesse. Tchernak wouldn’t be downing bourbon and impatience, he’d be chatting up all five guys at the table, them and Connie and Milo too. A couple of straight-from-the-gridiron stories and they’d be ready to sell him Jesse’s car, and Jesse in the