good.”
She made the coffee and poured it out in two mugs. They carried it outside and sat on the swing in the backyard. She took off her heels and rubbed her feet.
“No mosquitoes. I’m surprised,” he said.
“I spray,” she said. “And one benefit of the mining up here is that the skeeters don’t seem to like the coal dust and other by-products any more than we do. Plus they’ve filled in so many sources of water that it’s cut down on the breeding grounds.”
They drank their coffee.
“I appreciate you letting me vent tonight about my family.”
“No problem with venting. Helps to clear the mind.”
“But we have seven homicides and a bombing to solve. And to think just last week the biggest problems I had were drunk and disorderlies, a few moonshine stills, and a burglary involving a microwave and a set of false teeth.”
“Part of my brain has been working it all through dinner and right up to now.”
“And what does your brain say?”
“That we’re making progress.”
“How do you know that?”
“Somebody tried to kill us.”
“So what next?”
“Keep digging. But I have to go back to D.C. tomorrow.”
Her face fell. “What? Why?”
“Reynolds worked for DIA. I’ve got interviews set up there. Angle I have to cover.”
“Can’t somebody up there do that? Army must have lots of agents.”
“They do. They’ve just decided not to deploy them on this case.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“It is what it is, Cole. But I’ll be back soon.”
Her cell phone rang. She answered it. Listened and asked a few questions. Then she clicked off.
“That was Sheriff Lindemann.”
“And what did he have to say?”
“He’s not happy that his peaceful hamlet is now the scene of murders and bombings.”
“I can understand that.”
“They put the fire out. The house where you were going to has been abandoned for years. No prints on the letter slipped under your door. The explosive used was dynamite and the ATF guy said the detonators on both devices were professional jobs.”
“Good. I hate going up against amateurs. They’re too unpredictable.”
“I’m glad you can pull some good news from all that.”
“So no clues? No leads?”
“Not right now.”
“Seems hard to believe that someone could get the necessary elements and set two bombs in a place like this and no one notices.”
“Lots of explosives up here, Puller. And lots of people who know how to use them.”
He finished his coffee and set the cup down on the arm of the swing. He stood. “I better get going.”
“Yeah, I guess you better.”
“Thanks for the primer on coal country.”
“You’re welcome. Still beating yourself up about that trip wire?”
He didn’t answer.
“You’re a strange man.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I actually meant it as a compliment.”
She looked over at the door to her house and then back at him. “It’s late. You can stay the night, if you want.” She kept looking at him.
Reading her mind, he said, “You know, sometimes the timing on things really stinks.”
She smiled weakly and said, “You’re right, it does.” She rose, took his cup. “Get going. It’s late. What time do you want to meet tomorrow? I’ll buy breakfast.”
“Let’s sleep in. Zero-eight-hundred at the Crib.”
She smiled. “Juliet.”
“Not time for Romeo yet.”
She went up on her tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek, her hand pressing lightly against his chest. “Famous last words again.”
He climbed into his car and drove off. She waved at him from the front porch and then went inside.
He eyed her in the rearview mirror until he couldn’t see her anymore.
He steered his car in the direction of Annie’s Motel.
CHAPTER
42
PULLER KILLED HIS HEADLIGHTS and slid his M11 out.
The lights were on in the motel office. A pickup truck was parked out front. He had planned to check on Louisa’s cat. But someone else was in there now.
He crept forward, keeping his weight balanced and his gaze swiveling. It might be nothing, but after nearly being blown up Puller was taking nothing for granted. The bomber obviously knew he was staying here. Maybe he was back for another try.
He reached the truck and made sure it was empty. He opened the passenger door, checked the glove box, and read off the name on the registration.
Cletus Cousins.
The name meant nothing to him.
He left the truck and moved to the little porch in front of the office and peered in the window. The man was short, in his twenties, and carrying a large cardboard box.
Puller tried the doorknob. Not locked. He opened it, his gun pointed at the man’s head.
The young man dropped the box.
“Please, God, don’t shoot. Please.”
His head was shaven. He had a flabby gut, a trim goatee, and looked ready to crap in his dirty jeans.
“Who the hell are you?” asked Puller.
The man was shaking so badly, Puller finally lowered his gun a notch. He flipped out his creds. “Army investigator,” said Puller. “I’m not going to shoot you unless you give me good reason. What are you doing here?”
“My granny told me to come.”
“Who’s your granny? Not Louisa. She said she didn’t have any family in the area.”
“She don’t. But my granny is her best friend.”
“What’s your name?”
“Wally Cousins. My granny is Nelly Cousins. We been in Drake our whole lives. Everybody knows us.”
“Truck registration says Cletus Cousins.”
“That’s my daddy. My truck’s in the shop, so’s I took his.”
“Okay, Wally, one more time, why are you here and what are you taking?”
The young man pointed at the box on the floor. It had fallen open and its contents had spilled out. Puller could see some clothes, a Bible, some books, a few framed photographs, and some knitting needles and balls of colored yarn.
“To get this stuff,” he said.
“Why? Are you taking it to Louisa at the hospital?”