Triple Threat

hall.
    A sign announced that people could learn about the relationship between carbon dioxide and “our green friends” next Tuesday at 6:30 p.m. Pellam supposed the audience would be local. He didn’t know who’d drive from Mosby, the next town north, let alone Denver, three hours away, for entertainment like this.
    “No troopers. That’s the good news.” Pellam was looking over the three cars parked in the employee lot. None of them were hybrids; that was one of the ironies about the eco movement. Even many people in the field couldn’t afford to practice what they preached. He counted four bicycles, though.
    Inside, at the desk, he found the woman who’d been bicycling along Route 14 when Pellam had slugged the rear of Hannah’s truck. Lis, of Lis and Chris.
    She looked up with her official visitor-greeting grin. Then blinked as a wave of recognition descended over her. “Today… the accident… Hey.”
    And no other reaction. Pellam looked to Hannah and the meaning was, so Werther hasn’t been in touch asking her to report a kidnapper and kidnappee.
    “Sorry, I forgot your names.”
    “John and Hannah,” Pellam offered.
    “Sure. What can I do for you? Is this about the insurance?”
    “No, actually,” Hannah said, delivering the spiel they’d come up with in the car. “We’re trying to find that friend of mine? Was in the diner with me?”
    “With the crew-cut?”
    “Right. He was talking about camping out, maybe around some caverns in the area. But my truck got fixed up sooner than I thought. I want to get back to Hamlin now. He’ll want to come with me.”
    “Camping, hm? Hope he brought his long underwear. Gets cold there.”
    “So there’s a place you think he might be?”
    Lis pulled a map out of a rack on the edge of her desk. She consulted it and pointed. “Here, I’d bet. Just past the old quarry.”
    It was about three miles or so from where they were.
    “Appreciate that. Thanks.”
    Pellam took the map. He noted the price was two dollars. He gave her a ten. “Consider the rest a donation.”
    “Hey, thanks.” She gave him a button that said “Earth Lover.”
    This time Pellam drove, fast and just a bit recklessly. Hannah didn’t mind one bit. If anything, she seemed bored. She fished under the seat and found a small bottle of screw-top wine, the sort they give you on airplanes. She untwisted the lid with a cracking sound. She drank half. “You want some?”
    Pellam wouldn’t have minded a hit of whiskey, but his Knob Creek was history and there was nothing worse than airplane wine. “Pass.”
    She finished it.
    In ten minutes they were at the quarry. A chain-link fence attempted to seal it off but even a sumo wrestler could have squeezed in through the gaps.
    Pellam looked at his watch. It was nearly six-thirty. He checked the gun once more. Thinking he should’ve brought more shells. But too late for that.
    “You head on back. Tell ‘em you escaped.”
    “How’ll you get out?”
    “I’ll have to call our friend Werther, whatever happens. Whether I find Taylor or not I’m going to get busted. The only difference’ll be how long it takes to recite the charges against me.”
    # # #
    Eerie as hell.
    Devil’s Playground had been plenty spooky but the Gurney Quarry at dusk on a windy day ran a very close second.
    Of course some of that might have to do with the fact that there was possibly a killer wandering around here. There’d been one at the Playground, too, it seemed, but Pellam hadn’t known it. That made a big difference. In the failing light he could just make out the austere beauty of the place, the chalky bone-white cliffs, the turquoise water at the base of the quarry going from azure to gray, the sensual curves of the black shadows of the hills.
    Soon, in the dark, it would just be a maze of hiding places and traps, the wind howled mournfully over the landscape.
    Thinking about Taylor. Sheriff Werther. And about Hannah. He thought about Ed some, too. He moved forward slowly, nervously thumbing the hammer of the Colt and not hearing a single boot on rock as a killer snuck up behind him.
    An owl swooped low and snagged something--mouse or chipmunk--then veered off into the sky. The squeak had been loud and brief.
    For half an hour, he tracked along the ground here, looking for suitable hiding places. With the cowboy gun and the ambiance here, he was thinking of his ancestor. Wild Bill Hickok—James Butler; no “William” was involved in any part