Shattered

that.”
        “ Why are you following them?” she asked, changing the subject as ordered.
        Perspiration ran off his brow in several steady streams, fat crystal droplets that tickled his cheeks and neck. “Didn't I just tell you? I want to find out where you'll be living. I want to be near you.”
        “But if you copied the addresses in Alex's book, you have our new home address in San Francisco. You don't have to follow them to find me. You already know where I am, George.
        “Well…”
        “George, why are you following Alex and Colin?
        “I told you.”
        “You did not.”
        “Shut up!” he said. “I don't like what you're implying. I won't listen to any more of this. I'm healthy. I'm not sick. There's nothing at all wrong with me. So just go away. Leave me alone. I don't want to have to look at you.”
        The next time he looked, she was gone. She had vanished.
        Although he had been momentarily confused by her unexpected and unexplained appearance, he was not at all surprised by her disappearance. He had told her to go away. Toward the end of their affair, just before she broke off with him two years ago, Courtney had said that he frightened her, that these recent black moods of his made her uneasy. She was still scared of him. When he said “Go,” she went. She knew better than to argue. The thoughtless bitch had betrayed him by marrying this Doyle, and now she would do anything to stay in his good graces.
        He smiled at the darkening highway.
        
        In the last light of day, with the land drenched in almost eerie orange radiance, Ohio State Police officer Eric lames Coffey drove off Interstate 70 into a picnic and rest area on the right-hand side of the road. He went up the slight incline to the pine-shielded clearing, and he saw the empty squad car at once. The dome light still swiveled, transmitting a red pulse to the trees on all sides.
        Since four o'clock, when Lieutenant Richard Pulham had been one hour late returning his cruiser to the division garage at the end of his shift, more than twenty of his fellow troopers had been scouring the Interstate and all the secondary access roads leading to and from it. And now Coffey had found the car-identified it by the numerals on the front door-at the extreme west end of Lieutenant Pulham's patrol circuit.
        Coffey wished he had not been the one to find it, for he suspected what he would discover. A dead cop. So far as Coffey could see, there was no other possibility.
        He picked up the microphone, thumbed the button. “This is 166, Coffey. I've found our cruiser.” He repeated the message and gave his position to the dispatcher. His voice was thick and quavery.
        Reluctantly he shut off the engine and got out of his own car.
        The evening air was chilly. A wind had sprung up from the northwest.
        “Lieutenant Pulham! Rich Pulham!” he shouted. The name came back to him in whispered imitations of his own voice. He received no other answer.
        Resignedly Coffey went to Pulham's cruiser, bent and stared into the passenger's window. With the sun down, the car was full of shadows.
        He opened the door. The interior light came on, weak and insufficient because the dome flasher had nearly drained the battery. Still, dim as it was, it illuminated the blackening blood and the body jammed rudely into the space before the front seat.
        “Bastards,” Coffey said quietly. “Bastards, bastards, bastards.” His voice rose with each repetition. “Cop killers,” he told the onrushing darkness. “We'll get the sons of bitches.”
        
        Their room at the Lazy Time Motel was large and comfortable. The walls were an off-white color, the ceiling a couple of feet higher than it would be in any motel built since the end of the fifties. The furniture was heavy and utilitarian, though not spartan by any means. The two easy chairs were well padded and upholstered, and the desk, if surfaced with plastic, gave plenty of knee room and working space. The two double beds were firm, the sheets crisp and redolent of soap and softener. The scarred mahogany nightstand between the beds held a Gideon Bible and a telephone.
        Doyle and Colin sat on separate beds, facing each other across the narrow walk space between them. By mutual agreement, Colin was the first to talk to his sister. He held the receiver in both hands. His thick eyeglasses