The traffic coming down Highway 22 was a caravan of Mon-teros, Subaru wagons, and Jeep Wagoneers, punctuated by the odd log truck. Some of the SUVs were hauling speedboats. Some had three or four bikes on the grille. But Susan noticed other cars, too, that were packed for more than a recreational holiday, with Hefty bags and boxes roped to the tops of their roofs.
Susan surveyed the line of cars, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand.
Big Charlie took off his baseball cap, dabbed at his forehead with a rag, and put the cap back on. “They’re evacuating,” he said. His gray eyes flicked down to Susan’s burning American Spirit. “Some jackass tossed a cigarette,” he said. “Happens every summer.”
Susan glanced down at her cigarette and rotated it behind her thigh. “What?” she said, looking between Big Charlie and Henry. “It wasn’t me.”
The gas attendant jammed his thumb toward a NO SMOKING sign affixed to the gas pump.
“Sorry,” Susan said. She took one more quick drag and ground the cigarette out in a steel trash can filled with empty soda bottles, urine-soaked diapers, and other crap people stored up in the back of their cars on road trips.
Henry flipped open his badge and showed it to Big Charlie. “You saw a silver Jaguar?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Big Charlie said. The bus’s tank was full and he pulled the nozzle out, hung it back on the pump, and gave the bus a friendly pat on the windshield as it pulled away. “Nice car. Came through last night. I filled the tank with plus.”
“You remember who was driving?” Henry asked.
“A woman. I told the fellow on the phone, I mostly remember the car.”
“Can I show you a photograph?” Henry asked, holding Gretchen’s mug shot out.
Big Charlie tipped his head up so he could see the picture under the bill of his cap. “Might have been her.” He glanced up at Susan. “Might have been you. What’d she do?”
“She’s Gretchen Lowell,” Susan said.
Big Charlie greeted this with a blank stare.
“The Beauty Killer,” Susan said.
The woman in the Honda Element honked her horn again. Big Charlie didn’t flinch. And didn’t rush. “I’m more of a John Wayne Gacy man myself,” he said. He squinted at Susan. “You should put some ice on that.”
CHAPTER
60
It was easier than he thought it would be. Maybe it was because his body was used to it. Maybe it was because his mind was ready to let go. He’d taken two bottles of pills now. He’d done it methodically. Three pills at a time. Washing each mouthful down with three swallows of Scotch. You got into a rhythm after a while. And he’d grown to like the taste of the Scotch. The heat of it filled him like bathwater. He wished he’d appreciated it more while he was alive. The thought made him smile. He probably couldn’t have afforded Scotch this good on his salary anyway.
“Please,” Gretchen said. “Stop.”
The remaining pills were on the counter. Archie arranged them into a little wagon train. Then lifted them, one by one. When he’d taken all the pills, he turned back to Gretchen.
She stood frozen, staring at him, her lips parted, her head slightly tilted. Her eyes were large, the whites pink from crying. She looked distraught, like a child who didn’t understand why she was being punished. Her desperation almost made him feel sorry for her.
“Sorry,” he said. “Commitment issues.”
“Uncuff me,” she said.
He shook his head.
Her entire face was red now, tears streaming down both cheeks. “I’ll tell them everything.”
“No you won’t,” Archie said. “I don’t know why.” He rubbed his eyes, which were feeling heavier by the minute. “But you won’t.”
“I’ll tell them everything,” Gretchen said, louder. “It will ruin your career, your marriage, your family, your legacy. Free me.”
“You can’t be free,” Archie said simply. “You’ll hurt people.”
“I won’t. I have control over it. I do.”
Archie walked over to Gretchen. She straightened hopefully, pushing her hair behind her ears and wiping the smeared makeup from under her eyes. He pulled the folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out to her along with a pen.
Her eyebrows furrowed.
“It’s a confession stating that you killed Heather Gerber,” Archie said. “Sign it.”
She took the paper and pen, sat back down, and, using the floor as a writing pad, signed the paper and held it up for him. He took it and the pen and walked back toward the bar.
“The key,” she said, rattling the handcuffs. “The fire,” she reminded him.
“No,” Archie said.
“This isn’t what’s supposed to happen.”
Archie fumbled around behind the bar until he found another bottle of Scotch, then came around and sank to the floor, his back against the bar. He opened the bottle and lifted it to his mouth. Not much longer.
His heart was beating too slowly again. He unbuttoned his shirt and placed his hand on his chest to see if he could feel the rhythm under his skin.
“You’ll have to make a new deal. Give them something more. Or they’ll make sure you get the needle. . .”
“Bring me my purse,” she said.