Spencerville

in the passenger seat. He looked at Keith, and they both understood that Billy Marlon was a man who was used to being tricked, snubbed, and left behind. Billy said, “Thanks.”
    Keith got back onto Route 127.
    The farms thinned out, and the hills became higher and more thickly wooded. The oaks and maples had lost most of their leaves, and the birch and aspen were almost bare. There were more evergreens, too, Keith noticed, white and red pines and hemlock, some of them reaching towering heights. The sign at the last county line they’d crossed had announced a population of 6,200, about one-tenth the population of Spencer County, which was considered rural. Truly, he thought, this place was remote and nearly uninhabited, bypassed by the great wave of westward pioneers.
    The daylight was starting to fade, and the trees cast long shadows over the hills. It was very still outside the truck, and except for an occasional small herd of cattle on a hillside, nothing moved.
    Billy asked, “You think she’s okay?”
    Keith didn’t reply.
    “He wouldn’t hurt her, would he?”
    “No. He loves her.”
    Billy stayed silent for a minute, then commented, “I can’t think about him lovin’ nobody but himself.”
    “Yeah, well, maybe love isn’t the right word. Whatever it is, he needs her.”
    “Yeah. I think I know what you mean.” Billy added, “She’s okay.”
    At Gaylord, in Otsego County, Keith turned east onto Route 32, and twenty minutes later, at seven-fifteen P.M. , they reached Atlanta, the principal town in the area, with a population of about six hundred souls. Keith said to Billy, “We’ll stop for gas. Don’t mention Grey Lake.”
    Keith pulled into the only service station and topped off the tank on the assumption that he would be leaving Grey Lake at some late hour, with no known destination.
    The attendant made small talk, and Billy spun a yarn about going up to Presque Isle to shoot duck.
    Keith went to the pay phone and dialed the Baxter house in Spencerville. As Terry had said, the call was automatically forwarded, and a voice answered, “Spencerville police, Sergeant Blake speaking.”
    Keith said, “Blake, this is your old pal Keith Landry. Your missing car and man are sitting in a cornfield off Route 8, north side, about a mile west of the city line.”
    “What—?”
    Keith hung up. He felt obliged to make the call, to get Ward out of the trunk before the harvesters found him dead. Keith doubted if his call from Michigan to the Baxter house, forwarded to the police headquarters, would be displayed on any caller ID that the Spencerville P.D. had. Normally, he wouldn’t have done anything so charitable if it had even the slightest element of risk to himself, but he didn’t want Ward to die, and when the police found Ward, Ward would tell them that Landry was heading to Daytona. The Spencerville police would alert the Ohio state police to look for their fugitive witness at nearby airports or in Florida. There was no reason why they would think of Grey Lake, or of Billy Marlon, or the pickup truck. He hoped not.
    Keith had also wanted to see if anyone answered the phone at the Baxter house. Keith believed, based on what Terry had said and Annie’s clue about Atlanta
—this
Atlanta—that Baxter was at Grey Lake. On the other hand, Keith had the nagging thought that this was a setup. But if it was, it was a very elaborate setup and probably too sophisticated for Cliff Baxter. Keith’s problem, he knew, was that he’d lived too long in that wilderness of mirrors where thousands of bright boys played the most elaborate and sophisticated tricks on one another. This was not the case here. Baxter was in the only place he could be—his lodge at Grey Lake; and he was alone, except for Annie, and he didn’t know Keith Landry was on his way. Reassured, Keith put this out of his mind and thought about the immediate problem at hand.
    Keith went into the small office and said to the attendant, “I’m looking to buy a good crossbow.”
    The attendant said, “Feller named Neil Johnson sells sporting equipment. Some used, some new. Cash. He’s closed now, but I’ll give him a call if you want.”
    “Good.”
    The man made the call and spoke to Neil Johnson, who was apparently having dinner and wanted to know if the gentleman could wait awhile.
    Keith said to the attendant, “I’d really like to get on the road. I won’t take much of his time.”
    The attendant passed this on to Mr.