Strange Highways

wearing a rumpled white linen suit and a pale-yellow shirt, looking even heavier than he had appeared the previous night, he was friendly and willing to chat.
     "I'm looking for a guy who used to come here," Chase said.
     Blentz overwhelmed a bar stool and ordered a beer. He listened to the description but claimed that he didn't know anyone who fit it.
     "He might not have been a customer. Maybe an employee."
     "Not here, he wasn't. What do you want him for, anyway? He owe you some money?"
     "Just the opposite," Chase said. "I owe him."
     "Yeah? How much?"
     "Two hundred bucks," Chase lied. "You still don't know him?"
     "Nope. Sorry."
     Disappointed, Chase got up. "Thanks anyway."
     Blentz turned on his stool. "How did you go about borrowing two hundred bucks from a guy without learning his name?"
     Chase said, "We were both drunk. If I'd been half sober, I'd have remembered it."
     Blentz smiled. "And if he'd been half sober, he wouldn't have made the loan."
     "Probably not."
     Blentz raised his glass and took a swallow of beer. Light sparkled on the polished edges of his silver ring. A double lightning bolt.
     As Chase walked across the tavern and out the door into the mall, he knew that Eric Blentz was still twisted away from the bar, watching.
     Aryan Alliance. Some sort of club, like the Elks Club or the Moose Lodge, for God's sake, but for a bunch of white supremacists who had perhaps grown tired of running around the countryside in hooded white sheets and were looking for a more modern, urban image.
     But why the hell would they want to kill a high-school boy like Michael Karnes? Why would one of these fanatics - Judge - be engaged in a campaign against promiscuous teenagers, ranting on the phone about sin and judgment? What did that have to do with making the world safe for the white race? Michael Karnes had been a white-bread boy - not a natural target for something like the Aryan Alliance but a potential recruit.
     The blacktop in the parking lot was soft in places.
     The summer sky was gas-flame blue. And as blind as a dead television screen, offering no answers.
     Chase started the car and drove home.
     No one shot at him.
     In his room, he turned on the television, watched it for fifteen minutes, and turned it off before the program was finished. He opened a paperback book, but he couldn't concentrate on the story.
     He paced, instinctively staying away from his window.

     At six o'clock he left the house to keep his date with Glenda Kleaver.
     To avoid leading Judge to the woman and perhaps endangering her,
Chase drove aimlessly for half an hour, turning at random from street to street, watching his rearview mirror. But no tail stayed with him along his circuitous route.
     Glenda lived in an inexpensive but well-kept garden-apartment complex on St. John's Circle, on the third floor of a three-floor building. There was a peephole in her door, and she took the time to use it before answering his knock. She was wearing white shorts and a dark blue blouse.
     "You're punctual," she said. "Come in. Can I get you something to drink?"
     As he stepped inside, he said, "What're you having?"
     "Iced tea. But I've got beer, wine, gin, vodka."
     "Iced tea sounds good."
     "Be right back."
     He watched her as she crossed the room and disappeared down a short corridor that evidently led to the dining room and kitchen. She moved like sunlight on water.
     The living room was sparely furnished but cozy. Four armchairs, a coffee table, a couple of end tables with lamps. No sofa. There were no paintings because all the walls without windows were covered with bookshelves, and every shelf was crammed full of paperbacks and book-club hardbacks.
     He was reading the titles on the spines of the books when she returned with two glasses of iced tea. "You're a reader," he said.
     "I confess."
     "Me too."
     "See any shared interests?"
     "Quite a few," he said, accepting the tea. He pulled a volume off one shelf. "What did you think of this?"
     "It reeked."
     "Didn't it?"
     "All the publicity, but it's empty."
     He returned the book to the shelf, and they adjourned to two of the armchairs.
     "I