Blood Hunt (24 page)

With his interest being blood, not exercise, he set off with an empty bottle hidden in his jacket and stayed on Kansas Avenue after it narrowed to two lanes on the west side of the railroad tracks, passed the railroad station and the stock pens Violet mentioned, then crossed the Saline River and became Country Road 16. The countryside, which had dropped from the plateau Bellamy sat on into the river valley around Baumen, rose again to rolling hills, pastureland lit by the waxing moon and divided by barb wire fences.

He kept following the highway, jogging leisurely, noting the location of farm houses and sections where cattle grazed...square-built beef, black or red-and-white. The number pleased him...cattle enough to avoid preying on one group too much.

After what he judged to be four or five miles, he stopped to catch his breath, then started back. At a pasture dotted with red-and-white cattle and no farm houses visible, Garreth checked up and down the highway for headlights that might be patrolling sheriff deputies. None showed so he vaulted the metal gate. Keeping the other night’s bull in mind, he approached a trio of animals with caution, though all were smaller than the Charolais. They lifted their heads and regarded him placidly. After a few moments, two returned to grazing. The third ambled toward him.

Garreth grinned. A volunteer. How convenient. “Hi there, fellow.”

Like the bull, the steer obediently lay down for him, and this time he hit the vein first try. After drinking a little to make sure he had a good stick, he sat back holding a finger over one puncture, letting the other continue bleeding, filling his bottle — pre-treated with anti-coagulant.

He watched with satisfaction. Okay, this worked. He had his blood supply secured.

Then one of the other steers snorted. Garreth tensed, ready to jump up and run...but the steer stared at something behind him. He looked around to see a pair of glowing eyes some twenty or so feet away.

The animal looked like a scrawny German Shepherd. A coyote?

The creature eyed him and the supine cow. Did coyotes attack cattle? Garreth waved an arm at it. “Get out of here. Scram!”

The coyote stayed put, eyes gleaming. Garreth stared back, holding the animal’s gaze while he capped the bottle, the puncture quit bleeding, and the steer had safely regained its feet. Only then did he turn away, and after giving the steer a pat of thanks, headed back for town.

With another jolt of alarm he found the coyote following about ten feet off to the side. Son of a bitch. Was there always going to be something threatening him out here? He turned to face the coyote, braced for an attack, but it came no closer...just resumed following when he finally continued on toward town. Garreth broke into a run and so did the coyote. It paced him like a shadow. Not a threat, he decided finally. The cock of its ears looked more like curiosity. Puzzled by Garreth’s not-quite-human scent? He relaxed.

The coyote stayed with him most of the way to town, until Garreth vaulted the fence onto the country road. Then it faded into the darkness of the prairie. Garreth jogged on into town alone.

After he crossed the bridge, a car came out of a road following the river and over the tracks to fall in behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he identified a light bar and stuck up a hand in greeting.

The engine revved. A tan Crown Vic with POLICE on the door shot past and swung across his path to a tire-screeching halt.

“
In a hurry to go somewhere, friend?”

A question without a trace of friendliness in it. Damn! And he carried a bottle of blood. “I’m just jogging.” Garreth knelt unhurriedly, as though to check a shoe, and slid the bottle from under his jacket into brush growing along the railroad right of way.

“
In the middle of the night? Sure. Stand up and come over here! Put your hands on the car and spread your feet!”

Arrogant sounding son of a bitch. Angrily, Garreth spread-eagled against the car.

Moving up behind Garreth, the cop began frisking him, a cloying sweetness of aftershave almost masking the blood scent. Garreth also noted biceps straining at the tan shirt, knife creases in dark brown trousers, and a gear belt with a mirror shine.

“
You do this like someone with lots of experience at it, friend.”

Which was more than could be said for Barney Fife here...never asking whether he had anything sharp or dangerous in his pockets, no hand on Garreth’s back to keep him against the car or detect the tension of someone about to move. The clown ran hands down both sides of him at once, then leaned down to check his legs with both hands...a perfect target for a kick backward, or a knee in his face if Garreth spun around. Any scumbag back home would have him on the ground in seconds, despite the bulging biceps. The frisk missed half the places a weapon might be hidden, too.

“
You don’t carry identification?” Asked as if it were a felony.

Garreth kept his voice polite. “It’s back in my room at the Driscoll, but the name is Garreth Mikaelian.”

“
Oh...that kid from California.”

The officer stepped back and let him turn around. The name tag on Barney’s shirt read:
Duncan
, and Garreth noticed Duncan bore a faint resemblance to Robert Redford. From the way the cop wore his hair, he thought so, too, and wanted to enhance the likeness.

“
Sorry about the frisk.” Not sounding at all apologetic. “But you got to understand we can’t be too careful with strangers. There’s a lot of drug traffic through the state.”

Garreth understood Duncan had probably been bored out of his skull and used the first opportunity to create some activity. He resented being used for it.

The car radio sputtered. Duncan climbed in and picked up the mike. “Big number Five here as always, doll. What do you need?” He had the car rolling away even before listening to the response.

Garreth let him pass the railroad station before retrieving the blood. That had been close. He would have to be more careful in the future. Though it gave him a hollow feeling thinking of fellow officers as “them” rather than “us” and made the next two months look miserable. All this could not be over soon enough.

3

Being able to sleep most of the day felt so good that being dragged awake a couple of hours before sunset by the alarm clock he took with him did not feel as annoying as it might have. Six o’clock seemed the reasonable time he would return if he were who he pretended to be. It almost took effort to wear a no-luck-today face back to the hotel.

Behind the desk, Violet sighed. “So that girl wasn’t your Mary?”

She had looked so hopeful as he came in, then crestfallen, that his conscience twitched for lying to her and prompted him to soften her disappointment. “I don’t know if they didn’t recognize her or it’s a case of ‘She dishonored this family so she’s dead to us.’”

Violet sniffed. “Yes, that’s the attitude some family patriarchs around here take. Don’t don’t let them put you off. Keep asking around.”

Garreth had to smile. “Thanks for the encouragement.” He glanced back toward the door. “There’s more traffic tonight than last night.”

She nodded. “It’s Thursday.”

“
Thursday is special?”

“
Oh, of course you wouldn’t know,” she said. “The stores stay open late, until ten.”

A whole different idea of late from San Francisco.

“
A lot of families do their weekly shopping, farmers and when both parents work days.”

That made sense, and more than one night a week was probably not profitable with a population this size.

He strolled to the front window and stared out at the parked cars and pickups. Lots of pickups, many with stock racks. Parking spaces at the curb and along the tracks on both sides of the street had seemed overkill last night and the day he visited the high school. No longer.

“
If you think there’s traffic now,” Violent said, “wait until tomorrow and Saturday night. The teenagers from town and the farms all come downtown and cruise Kansas...driving up one side and back down the other half the night.”

Kids really did that?

It might make tomorrow entertaining , a live
American Graffiti
. Right now, well rested and wide awake, with no need for more blood, the evening looked good for working on making himself a familiar enough figure to become part of the landscape. The question was finding the place to start?

“
Violet, where in town can I play pool?”

Despite having learned the game under the lash of Grandpa Mikaelian’s tongue and the occasional crack of a cue across his knuckles, he enjoyed pool. A few games with locals would introduce him and might make some acquaintances. If he were careful not to win too often or too decisively.

“
There are a couple of tables at the bowling alley — it’s east of town on 282 — but I wouldn’t go there. When my women’s league bowls, I see mostly kids and teenagers and they’re always cutting up and trying to push players into finishing their game so
they
can play. If my husband wasn’t in Hays tonight, I’d have him take you to the VFW. It and the American Legion both have game rooms.”

So, no pool tonight. What about the restaurant on the far side of the street? Garreth pictured himself telling his story to a chatty waitress and other customers. “What’s the Main Street Café like?”

“
Wonderful,” Violet began, then hesitated. “If you like home-style cooking. Their fried chicken and meatloaf are as good as my mother’s and you can’t beat their homemade pies and sourdough bread. The starter for the bread came west with Verl’s great-great-grandmother in the 1880's. But the Pioneer Grill down the street is where to go for barbeque, Chinese, and Italian food.”

Yes...he thought he caught the whiff of garlic as he headed out of town last night. “Home-style sounds good to me.”

Once in the Main Street, however, he saw no chance to chat up a waitress. They had just one... attractive, about his age, sweaty tendrils of hair escaping from her topknot as she rushed between their eight tables.

No one sat at the counter. He took one of those seats, and waved her off when she glanced his direction. “I’m in no hurry.”

She sent him a grateful smile as she hurried past behind the counter to put up another order and spin the wheel into the kitchen. “I swear I’m going to
kill
Irene!” she snarled at someone in the kitchen visible only as a male head wearing a white cap. “Of all the nights not to show up!”

“
Stand in line,” the head said. “I’m killing her first.”

The waitress turned — Sharon, according to her name tag — and forced a smile. “Can I get you coffee?”

There were more ways than one to become less a stranger. “Since the people at that table are leaving and I see an order going up on the counter, how about getting me one of the tubs you use for dirty dishes and let me clear their table for you. Save you one job.”

She stared at him. “You want to bus the table? Why?”

He gave her a hopefully winning smile. “Because I’m a nice guy with nothing better to do and you’re a maiden in distress.”

She stared a moment longer, then spun away to call into the kitchen, “Verl!” After a whispered conference over the counter with the head, and a hard stare at him by the head, she said, “Come around this way.” and led him into an alcove with a three-shelf cart of plastic tubs and more on a shelf under a counter. “Just bring everything back here and pile up the tubs.”

So he tied the apron she gave him over his t-shirt and jeans and bussed tables, handing Sharon the tips. Then he helped carry orders to tables Sharon pointed out. In passing snatches, he managed to chat her up after all...introducing himself, learning her full name, Sharon Haas; the head’s last name, Hamilton; their hours this evening, until ten-thirty.

“
You’re such a sweetie to do this.”

“
Well I didn’t want to see you wig out and attack customers with the silverware.”

Which made her laugh.

“
I guess people come in to eat when they do their shopping?”

“
Yes, some before, some after,” she said. “Verl says Violet Showalter says you’re looking for your grandmother’s family that you didn’t know you had.”

“
Yes.” Good going, Violet.

Most of the customers were couples or families, so the single male who came in about seven-thirty immediately caught Garreth’s attention. Attention that sharpened when the man sat at the counter with his back to the counter and stared at Sharon with an intensity that turned his handsome face threatening. And clearly made Sharon uncomfortable.

Verl came out of the kitchen, turning from a head into a stocky man in his fifties. He leaned across the counter toward the starer and in a low voice said, “Wayne, you’re not welcome here.”

Wayne never took his eyes from Sharon, just flexed shoulders that looked built by tossing hay bales. “So throw me out!”

Nearer diners looked around. At a corner table, a man in police uniform, minus gun and gear belt, started to stand.

Garreth had seen him come in earlier with a woman and two boys about eight or nine. Long, lanky...someone easy to picture leading a posse on horseback rather than steering a patrol car. Now Garreth pictured the disruption as the cop tried to strong-arm Wayne out the door, or maybe flatten him over the counter.