Spencerville

With any luck, he’d get there, though he didn’t know what he’d find when he did.
    Keith had encouraged Officer Ward to radio headquarters and give a situation report, and Sergeant Blake had reprimanded Ward for being away from the car so long. Ward, with his own revolver being held to his head, his hands cuffed behind his back, his groin somewhat achy, and his sergeant chewing him out, was a truly unhappy man. He was less happy now, Keith suspected, bouncing around in the trunk. But that was Officer Ward’s own fault and was the least of Ward’s problems and the least of Keith’s problems.
    The farm road ended at the T-intersection of Route 8, and Keith turned onto it.
    As he approached the Cowley farm, Keith saw five mounted men with rifles and dogs coming out of a tree line and onto the road in front of him. Keith slowed down as the troop crossed the road, and everyone waved. Keith waved back. One of the mounted posse reined his horse around and came toward him. Keith didn’t know if the horseman would know every cop on the force by sight, but he did know that the blue Armani trousers weren’t going to pass inspection, not to mention the problem of Officer Ward, who now and then kicked and shouted.
    As the horseman approached, Keith waved again and accelerated past him as if Keith didn’t understand that the man wanted to speak to him. Keith looked in his rearview mirror and watched the horseman looking at him.
    Keith passed the Cowley farm and noticed Billy Marlon’s blue pickup truck near the house. He continued on a mile up the road, then made a U-turn and came back.
    The mounted posse was in the far distance now, and Keith swung the police car into the driveway of the farmhouse, then veered off, avoiding the pickup truck, and headed straight for an old cowshed. He hit the double doors, and they burst inward. He slammed on the brakes, but not in time to avoid hitting a pile of milk cans, which toppled over with a deafening crash.
    Ward shouted something from the trunk.
    Keith shut off the ignition, then took off Ward’s hat and shirt and strapped on Ward’s gun belt. He gathered his M-16 rifle and the rack-mounted police shotgun, then went around to the trunk and rapped on it. “You okay?”
    “Yeah. Let me out.”
    “Later.” Keith walked out of the cowshed and met Billy Marlon coming toward him.
    Marlon looked at the police car in the shed, then at Keith and said, “Jesus Christ.”
    “Not even close. Are you alone?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Let’s get in the house.” He gave Marlon the shotgun to carry.
    Billy Marlon was understandably agitated and confused, but he followed Keith into the farmhouse. Marlon said, “Hey, they’re lookin’ for you.”
    “Who was here?”
    “That bastard Krug. Asked me if I seen you, and I told him I didn’t even know who the fuck you were.”
    “He buy it?”
    “Sort of. He reminded me that you helped me out of a scrape with the law—hey, thanks for the money. I found it. I thought you was gone.”
    “I came back. You sober?”
    “Sure. I’m broke, I’m sober.” Billy looked at Keith. “What the hell happened to you?”
    “I got drunk and fell down the stairs.”
    “No shit? Hey, something else, there was a guy here yesterday, can’t remember his name, says he was a friend of yours and that the Porters told him you might be here—”
    “Charlie?”
    “Yeah… kinda all spiffed-up, light hair, wiseass—”
    “Charlie.”
    “Yeah. Lookin ’ for you. I showed him that note you left me and told him you was gone, but he said you might be around. What the hell’s goin’ on? What’s all the hardware for?”
    “I don’t have a lot of time, Billy. I need your help.”
    “Anything you want, you got it, if I got it to give.”
    “Good. I need your pickup truck and a pair of boots. Do you have camouflage fatigues?”
    “Sure do.”
    “Binoculars, compass?”
    “You got it. You goin’ huntin’?”
    “Yup. Got to get moving.”
    “Come on upstairs.”
    They went up the stairs of the tidy farmhouse and into a small bedroom.
    Billy pulled his hunting gear out of a closet, and Keith took off his suit pants and shoes, saying to Marlon, “Burn these.”
    “Burn…?”
    “Burn everything I leave here.”
    Keith tried on the tiger fatigue pants, which were a little snug and less than clean, but for a man who hadn’t bathed since Sunday morning, it was okay. The boots fit fine, and so did the camouflage shirt. Billy gave him a bright orange