Shattered

already. Though it was true that he could pick them up again tonight in Salt Lake City, he did not want to lose the chance of finishing them out here on the open road. The closer they got to San Francisco, the less sure he was of himself and his ability to dispose of them.
        And if he didn't get them out of the picture, what would Courtney think? Courtney was depending on him. If he didn't take care of those two, then he and Courtney could never be together like they wanted.
        Therefore, the tire could wait.
        He closed the rear doors of the van, locked them, and went around to the cab. Five minutes later he was doing ninety-five on the flat, deserted highway.
        
        Detective Ernie Hoval of the Ohio State Police ate supper in an interchange diner which most of the cops in the area favored. The atmosphere was pretty bad, but the food was good. And policemen were given a twenty percent discount.
        He was halfway through his club sandwich and French fries when the sallow, smart-ass lab technician sat down in the other half of the booth, facing him. “Do you mind some company?” the man said.
        Hoval winced. He did mind, but he shrugged.
        “I didn't know a man like you took advantage of thinly disguised bribes like restaurant discounts,” the technician said, opening the menu which the waitress brought him.
        “I didn't when I first started,” Hoval said surprised to find that he actually wanted to talk to this man. “But everyone else does… And there's not much else you can take advantage of-if you want to keep being a good cop.”
        “Ah you're just like all the rest of us,” the technician said, dismissing Hoval with a brisk wave of the hand.
        “Poor.”
        The other man's pale face crinkled in a grin, and he even allowed himself a soft laugh. “How's the club sandwich?”
        “Fine,” Hoval said, around a mouthful of it.
        The technician ordered one, without French fries, and a coffee. When the girl had gone, he said, “What about the Pulham investigation?
        “I'm not on it full time now,” Hoval said.
        “Oh?”
        “Not much I can do,” Hoval explained. “If the killer was going to California in an Automover, he's way out of my territory. The FBI is checking on the names they got from Automover's central records. They've narrowed it down to a few dozen. Looks like maybe a couple of weeks until they find our guy.”
        The technician frowned, picked up the salt shaker and turned it around and around in his bony hands. “A couple of weeks could be too late. When a fruitcake starts to go, he goes fast.”
        “You still on that kick?” Hoval asked, putting down his sandwich.
        “I think we're dealing with a psychotic. And if we are, he'll add a few more murders to his record in the next week or two. Maybe even kill himself.”
        “This isn't any nut,” Hoval insisted. “It's one of your political cases. He won't kill anyone else-not until he gets a chance to set up another cop.”
        “You're wrong about him,” the technician said.
        Hoval shook his head, took a long drink of his lemon blend. “You bleeding-heart liberals astound me. Can't stop looking for simple answers.”
        The waitress brought the pale man's coffee. When she went away, he said, “I haven't noticed any blood on my shirt in the vicinity of my heart. And I am not a political liberal. And I think your answer is more simplistic than mine.”
        “The country's going to hell in a handbasket, and you're blaming it all on psychotics and fruitcakes.”
        “Well,” the technician said, finally putting down the salt shaker, “I almost hope you're right. Because if this guy is a nut, and if he is loose another week or two…”

----

    FRIDAY
        

    Eighteen
        
        By two o'clock Friday morning, sixteen hours after they had left Denver, Alex felt as if he belonged in a hospital ward for terminally ill patients. His legs were cramped and heavy. His buttocks pinched and burned as if they were jammed full of needles, and his back ached all the way from the base of his spine to the back of his skull. And these were only the first in a long list of complaints: he was sweat-damp, rumpled, and unclean from having missed last night's shower; his eyes were bloodshot, grainy, and sore; the crisp black stubble of his one-day beard itched badly; his mouth was fuzzy and dry and tasted like sour