Spencerville

beeping got louder and steadier.
    Baxter looked up ahead and saw it. “Well, I’ll be… hey, Blake, where do you hide a needle?”
    “In a haystack.”
    “No, in a box of needles. Pull in there.”
     
    *  *  *
     
    It took them a few minutes to locate the dark green Blazer, and even then they couldn’t be sure it was the right one because it had no license plates. Baxter reached under the right rear fender and pulled off the magnetic transmitter. He looked at the rectangular device, about the size of a pack of cigarettes with a short antenna projecting from it, and smiled. “Well, well, well…” He shut it off, and the beeping from the car’s receiver stopped. “How about that?”
    Blake was beaming, and Krug and Ward stood looking at their chief with admiration. Everyone would have been a lot happier, of course, if the Blazer had been found at a motel, a rooming house, or a restaurant. Obviously, Keith Landry and Annie Baxter were not at the Chevy dealership. Blake was the first one to point this out and asked his chief, “Where do you think they went?”
    Baxter looked around, up and down the highway, and said, “Not far.”
    Blake pointed out, “They could have stolen a car here, Chief.”
    “They could have… but they took the plates off this one. Now, why’d they do that if they was in another car hightailing it to Cleveland or someplace? No… I think they’re close by, walking distance, and they didn’t want this car connected to them.” He looked at his three men. “Anybody got any other ideas?”
    Krug said, “They could’ve gotten a taxi or bus from here, Chief. Could be in Toledo.”
    Baxter nodded. “Could be.” He looked around again at the immediate area. “Taxi or bus. Could be. But I don’t think so. I think they got a motel, one of them fuck places, dumped their shit, then went out to dump the car. The guy got lucky and smart when he saw this Chevy place. Yeah. They’re a little walk from here. Maybe campin’ out, but most likely a fuck place, or a roomin’ house, where they don’t need to use a credit card. Yeah. Okay, Krug, you and Ward take this side of the highway and start checkin’ the motels back toward the airport. Blake and I’ll start back near the airport and do the eastbound side of the highway. If you get anything, you call me and nobody else. Use the mobile phone. Let’s roll.”
     
    *  *  *
     
    Blake and Baxter began at the airport, drove past the Sheraton, and approached a Holiday Inn. Baxter said, “Keep goin’. We’re only gonna stop at the small ram-it-inns.”
    “Right.”
    They continued on.
    Baxter thought about things. Keith Landry was an asshole, but a lot smarter asshole than Baxter had figured. But maybe not smart enough. Baxter realized that he’d been out of touch with real police work for too long, but after almost three decades on the force, he’d learned a lot, remembered some, and recognized, grudgingly, that he was dealing with a pro. He wondered what Landry had done for the government and decided it had nothing to do with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. But what Landry hadn’t reckoned with was Chief Baxter’s innate predatory instincts. What Baxter lacked in formal training, he made up for in intuition. Out in the woods of Michigan, Cliff Baxter was the best hunter of any of his friends. He had a sixth sense for locating an animal, for smelling its blood and reading its mind, for guessing if it was going to break and run, go to ground, turn and fight, or simply stand frozen, waiting for its fate. Humans, he’d decided, were not much different.
    He thought next about his wife, and tried to figure out how she’d pulled this off without him really knowing about it. He had suspicions, but he always had suspicions. Somehow, she’d completely outfoxed the fox. And he knew, deep down inside, that she had an understanding of him, a result of twenty years of living with him and having to survive on her wits. When he complained about her to other women, one of the things he never said was, “My wife doesn’t understand me.”
    He didn’t want to think about his wife and Keith Landry, but in a way, he did. He sometimes pictured Annie—Miss Perfect, Miss Choir Lady, Miss Goody-Goody—having sex with another man. This had always been his worst nightmare, and it was happening now—Landry and his wife were somewhere close by, naked, in bed, laughing, having sex. Landry was on top of her, and she had her legs wrapped