?Could I have the key, please??
?Are you supposed to do that, go in somebody?s room when they ain?t there??
?If you give us permission, it?s okay,? Hackberry said.
?You sure??
?She could be sick in there and need help.?
?I?ll open it for you,? the Mexican woman said.
The three of them took the elevator upstairs. When the Mexican woman inserted the key in the door and started to turn it, Hackberry put his hand on hers. ?We?ll take it from here,? he said, his voice almost a whisper.
Before the woman could respond, Pam fitted her hands on the woman?s shoulders and moved her away from the door. ?It?s okay,? she said, slipping a revolver from under her shirt. ?We appreciate what you?ve done. Just stay back.?
Hackberry turned the key and pushed the door open, staying slightly behind the jamb.
The room had been vacated, the closet cleaned out, the drawers in the dresser hanging open and empty. Pam stood in the middle of the room and bit on a thumbnail. She put her revolver back inside the clip-on holster on her belt and pulled her shirt over the handles. ?What a waste of time,? she said.
Hackberry went into the bathroom and came back out. In the shadows between a small writing table and the bed, he saw a wastebasket crammed full of newspaper and fast-food wrappers and soiled paper towels. He picked up the can and dumped it on the bedspread. Used Q-tips and balls of hair and dust and wads of Kleenex fell out on the bedspread with the other trash. After Hackberry sorted it all out, he washed his hands in the bathroom. When he came out, Pam was standing over the writing desk, studying the cover of a Time magazine she had positioned under the desk lamp.
?This was stuck under the pillow. Take a look,? she said.
The magazine was two months old, and on the mailing label was the name and address of a beauty parlor. At least a half-dozen phone numbers were inked on the cover. Pam tapped her finger on a notation at the bottom of the cover, one that someone had circled twice for emphasis. ??PJC, Traveler?s Rest two-oh-nine,?? she read aloud.
?Preacher Jack Collins,? Hackberry said.
?The one and only. Maybe we?ve got the sonofabitch,? she said.
She dialed information and asked for both the phone number and the street address of a Traveler?s Rest motel. She wrote both down in her notebook and hung up. ?It?s not more than two miles away,? she said.
?Good work, Pam. Let?s go,? he said.
?What about Clawson??
?What about him??
?We?re supposed to coordinate, right??
Hackberry didn?t reply.
?Right, Hack?? she said.
?I?m not totally confident about Clawson.?
?After you get all over my case about this guy, you suddenly have reservations??
?One of his colleagues told me Clawson works alone. I took that to mean he operates under a black flag. We don?t do business that way.?
?The guy could have ruined my career and sent me to jail on top of it. If you?re going to stiff him now, I won?t be party to it.?
Hackberry opened his cell phone and punched in Clawson?s number. ?It?s Sheriff Holland,? he said. ?We think we?ve got Jack Collins located. We just got lucky. A bartender knew the woman Eriksson was with at the car-title place. We?re at her hotel now. It looks like she?s blown town.? Hackberry gave Clawson the room number and the address of the motel where he thought Preacher Jack Collins might be staying.
?You?re fairly certain he?s there?? Clawson said.
?No, not at all. We found a notation on a magazine cover. There?s no telling how long ago it was written there.?
?I?m on the River Walk,? Clawson said. ?I thought I had a lead on Eriksson, but it didn?t work out. I?ll need to arrange backup. Don?t do anything till I get back to you.?