?You the pastor?? Hackberry called up.
?I was when I got up this morning.?
?I?m looking for a young man named Pete Flores. Maybe he attended an A.A. meeting here.?
?I wouldn?t know,? the man said.
?Why not?? Hackberry said.
?They don?t use last names.?
?I?ve got a picture of him. Mind if I come up??
?Doubt if it?ll do any good.?
?Why not??
?I let them use the building, but I don?t go to their meetings, so I?m not real sure who attends them.?
?Give me the picture, Hack. I?ll take it up,? Pam said.
?I?m fine,? Hackberry said. He mounted the ladder and climbed steadily up the rungs, his neutral expression held carefully in place as a bright red fire blossomed in the small of his back. He worked the photo Ethan Riser had given him out of his pocket and handed it to the pastor. The pastor studied it, his uncut hair stuck like wet black points on the back of his neck.
?No, sir, I never saw this fellow at my church. What?d he do?? said the pastor.
?He?s a witness to a crime and may be in danger.?
The pastor looked at the photo again, then handed it back to Hackberry without comment.
?You said you never saw him at your church.?
?No, sir, I haven?t.?
?But maybe you saw him somewhere else.?
The pastor took the photo back, his face starting to show the strain of squatting on the roof?s slant. ?Maybe I saw a kid in a filling station or up at the café. He wasn?t in uniform, though. He had a scar on his face. It looked like a long drop of pink wax running down his skin. That?s why I remember him. But the soldier in this picture don?t have a scar.?
?Think hard, Reverend. Where?d you see him??
?I just don?t recall. I?m sorry.?
?You ever hear of a woman here?bouts who likes to sing country spirituals in nightclubs or beer joints??
?No, sir. But you must do mighty interesting work. Let me know if you ever want to trade jobs.?
BOBBY LEE?S FRUSTRATION with events and with Liam?s weather-vane personality was starting to reach critical mass. It was Liam?s truck that had broken down on the state highway, forcing them to call for a tow to a shithole with one restaurant and one mechanic?s shop. It was Liam who had left vinyl garbage bags spread all over the bottom of his camper shell, causing the mechanic to ask if they were trying to get a jump on deer season. It was Liam who had droned on and on about how Bobby Lee had screwed up at the convenience store, his eyes as self-righteous and mindless as a moron?s, his tombstone teeth too large for his mouth.
They were in a booth at the back of the restaurant, Liam?s gym bag by his foot, a change of clothes and a shaving kit and the cut-down shotgun zipped inside. They were waiting for the mechanic?s brother-in-law to drive them forty-five miles to the motel where Bobby Lee?s SUV was parked under the porte cochere.
?If you hadn?t pulled your piece on a nerd in a convenience store, we wouldn?t be having this problem,? Liam said. ?We co
uld be using your vehicle instead of mine. I told you I had transmission trouble last week. You can?t get information out of a nerd without sticking a gun up his nose??
?I didn?t pull my piece. You got that? It fell out of my belt. But I didn?t pull it deliberately, Liam. How about giving it a rest??
The waitress brought their food and poured more water in their glasses. They stopped speaking while she tended to the table. She set a basket with packaged crackers between them, then retrieved salt and pepper shakers from another table and set them by the basket. Bobby Lee and Liam waited. She loomed over them, her big shoulders and wide hips and industrial-strength perfume somehow shrinking the space around them.
?You guys want anything else?? she asked.