Chapter One

The monitor showed rain pounding dark storefronts. I tapped a combination of keys and zoomed in on the corner pub. An overhead light cast a yellow smear inside the pub’s recessed entrance.

“Having fun?” asked Webb, from his side of the booth.

I turned the laptop in his direction, with the screen now on a close-up of a brass door handle. I punched more keys and zeroed in on the head of a screw. “That’s one powerful camera we got.”

Webb stood. “It’s time.”

“Don’t go and get drunk on me,” I said.

“You okay with what we’re about to do?” he asked.

“Sort of.”

“If I was younger, I’d trade places.”

“Can’t let you have all the fun,” I said.

Webb smiled, only other thoughts seemed to seep in and spoil the effect. Old demons alive and kicking.

I said, “Get out of here, or we’ll miss our chance.”

“You see me exit, we abort.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“At any time. Even after we’re both inside. I leave, you leave.”

“I know, Webb.”

“Once you’ve made contact, we’re committed. We won’t have a second chance.”

“I know that, too.”

I thumbed him toward the front of the van. He reached the cab and ducked. Don’t know why, as short as he was, he could cruise the length of our home on wheels and still not connect with the ceiling. Me, I had to do the monkey walk to keep from being clobbered.

The van door slammed. Using the keyboard to adjust the camera, I watched Webb cross the street. For all appearances, just a short skinny nobody off to quench a thirst. The rain had stopped. At least we had that in our favor. Webb reached the bar and disappeared.

I maneuvered the camera skyward and got a view of one gray-black mess of clouds. I tooled around looking for a star, grateful to the client who’d provided the camera and gave a new meaning to “private eye”. His way of thanking us for doing what the police couldn’t – find his son. He even paid for the installation of a false roof on the van, and one-way glass, and tracks that allowed the camera to move in any direction.

Nine-forty p.m. Almost time. I aimed the camera at the store fronts, switched on the video recorder in the cabinet overhead, and then trudged to the rear of the van to get my jacket. The spread on the bed was wrinkled from Webb’s recent nap. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately--napping, recovering from something or other. Forty winks were turning into four times forty, and whatever malady was in season, he got.

Even his enthusiasm for the job seemed to have taken on the vitality of a corpse.

I smiled, recalling a recent rare few days when he turned super-sleuth. Looking for a song, of all things, one he’d heard on the radio. In a way, I was sorry he’d found a copy of it on cassette. Because now he was playing it nonstop. I mean, how many times do you need to hear about little lambs that had lost their way? To quote the song, baa-baa-baa was right. Or rather ba-humbug. I needed to buy Webb a pair of headphones so he could keep his listening pleasures private.

Putting on my sport jacket, I glanced at the toy truck on the small stand nearby. The thing that Webb never left home without. He’d probably had it from childhood, judging from its antique appearance. The engine was shaped like a radiator turned sideways. The tires were skinny and white and between them stretched running boards that arched up to form fenders. Webb kept his pills in the truck’s bed. Trinkets of youth and old age keeping company.

My head low, I scooted down the narrow aisle and exited from the passenger door. I locked up, and in imitation of Webb, patted Charlie’s metal flank for good luck. Charlie being the name we gave our van. Webb’s way of honoring Charlie McMunn, deceased founder of our little detective agency, and Webb’s savior, mentor and surrogate parent.

The air was misty and threatening more rain. Perfect setting for my mood. Getting cozy with evil was how Webb had described what I was about to do. This was it; the next few hours would be the culmination of three long months of investigation. And there would be no take-two.

I crossed the road feeling as nervous as a naked man in a pit full of snakes. I stopped at the curb and looked back at the van. The magnetic sign on the side was barely visible. A & W MOVING... and a phone number. Our cover this time out. Plain script, gray on black, nothing to attract attention or inspire confidence. I took a deep breath and headed for the entrance.

The Nightcap wasn’t much of a place, even for a bar. Single story brown brick, fronted with a weed-sprouting sidewalk and sharing space with a boarded up clinic. I moved into the recessed entrance, caught a whiff of urine. I grabbed the door handle, thought better about taking a final deep breath, and went in. A gray darkness met me--cut with tobacco clouds and pale lights struggling through dirty glass fixtures.

An old man at a table on my right snored into what remained of a beer. His gray hair was long like a girl’s and tied in a tail with a strip of black cloth. Webb was parked in the far corner nursing a tall glass of something, his eyes downcast, and his balding crown shiny in the dim glow of a ceiling light.

I took in the rest of the room, counted heads. Thirteen in all. Including Ted Munslow. He was at the counter, his features reflected in the beveled mirror behind the bar. Friendly looking type, lined chubby face, thick mane going silver with a lock of curls front and center. A typical aging gramps to anyone with no conflicting info to factor in.

The stool on his right was empty. I slid onto it with ease, my long legs allowing me that. I shrugged out of my threadbare sport coat, dropped it across my lap, then rubbed my face with both hands and muttered something inaudible. I sensed Munslow turning, giving me the once-over. I yawned, swinging my head as though that would chase away the weariness.

I turned in his direction and yawned again. “Sorry,” I slurred. I covered my opened mouth, did some more head shaking.

“Long day?” he asked.

“Long hour,” I answered.

The bartender lumbered over and I ordered a Bud. He fished one out from a tank of ice, set it on the counter, and waited, giving me a lazy stare, his hand still holding to the neck of the bottle. When I didn’t provide what he wanted, he pointed to a hand-written sign by the register. No Cash, No Splash. I hauled a fat wallet out of my jeans pocket, freed a twenty and slapped it on the table. “Don’t keep the change,” I said.

He walked away, wiping his hand across an apron that rode his belly like the skirt of a pregnant woman. I closed the wallet, left it on the counter. I uncapped the beer, raised it to Munslow and drank greedily.

“Those are some pretty bad scratches you have on your hands,” Munslow said.

“Yard work.” I downed more beer, aware of Webb’s familiar, hacking cough coming from the back of the bar. Worn-out lungs putting in their two cents. Something they did a lot, lately.

The bartender brought my change. “Any motels around that don’t take you to the cleaners or put you in a sty?” I asked.

He looked me over, probably pricing my pullover and factoring in my need for a haircut. I gave him back in kind. The man was homely as hell, middle-aged and had more hair shading his eyes than warming his head. Which wouldn’t have been all that bad had it come in a less belligerent package. I shoved a couple of singles in his direction. He picked them up and stuffed them into a hip pocket.

“The Clemson Motel down the road should do you.” He started to walk away.

“Think maybe that tip could buy me better directions?” I called out.

My neighbor chuckled. The bartender lifted a finger and after a long pause with it pointed straight up, hooked it to his left.

I faced Munslow. “What’s with him?”

“He’s not big on strangers. Been held up a couple of times by people passing through.”

“Can’t be big on repeat business, either,” I mumbled. I worked what remained of the twenty into my wallet, singles with singles, fives with fives. A pair of photos fell out onto the counter. Polaroids. Both were of young boys at play. I snatched them up and shoved them back in with the bills.

“Your sons?” asked Munslow.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Handsome boy, that black one.”

I turned a hard look on the man. Our eyes met. He laughed, put out a hand, “Ted Munslow.”

“Acey Tapp.” We shook, turned back to face our drinks.

“Where you from, Acey?”

“No place nice.”

“Popular spot.”

“Not by choice.”

“What brings you to our little corner of Ohio?”

“Is that where I am?”

He laughed, ordered himself another whiskey and bought me a beer. I could feel his eyes studying me in the mirror; hard eyes, deep-set as though in shadows. I played with the wallet, turning it, toying with an edge, setting it up like a tent, reading in the shape an inverted V--as in victims... vigilance... maybe even victory. After a long silence, Munslow asked, “That black boy in the photo, you a kind of big brother to him?”

I laughed.

He said, “Well, it’s either that or you’re married to a black gal and the kid ended up with all her genes.”

I laughed again, halfheartedly this time. I shouted a question at the bartender, asking if the Clemson was within walking distance.

He didn’t answer.

“No wheels?” Munslow asked.

“I’m between wheels, between towns... between a lot of stuff.” I finished my beer.

“Yeah, you can get there on foot,” Munslow offered. “Take you about twenty minutes. Just keep walking south along Summit. When you see a schoolyard you’re about a block and a half away.”

I looked up in a sudden show of interest. Again, our eyes met, this time in the mirror. I worked the wallet into my back pocket, said something about needing to put a long day to bed, grabbed my jacket and began to ease off the stool.

A hand grabbed my arm. I didn’t pull away. Munslow said, “If you wait a minute, I’ll give you a ride.”

“For a ride I can wait a bunch of minutes.” I stayed half on, half off the stool. Munslow finished his drink. We headed for the door. I sensed Webb taking us in, worrying. He wasn’t alone.

The clouds had lifted a little and a few stars quivered in one corner of the night sky. I glanced at the van parked across the street. Inside on a small screen would be an image of me and Munslow exiting the bar. Machine memory collecting evidence of time, place and present company. I wished myself back in the van behind the wheel, heading home, with Megan at the end of the road. The two of us creating another moment of grace.

Munslow started down the street at a quick clip. I turned and followed. We approached a shiny black Infiniti I30 parked near a lamppost. I whistled. “You drive that and drink there?” I turned in the direction of the bar, saw Charlie’s dome light blink on, saw Webb’s bent form just before the door closed and darkness swallowed him.

Munslow ignored my question and unlocked the car with a remote. He opened the passenger door and stepped back. The leather sighed as it took all two hundred and thirty odd pounds of me. I pulled my legs in.

“No luggage?” said Munslow.

“Damn snazzy,” I said, running a hand along the dash.

“Luggage?” repeated Munslow.

“In a locker at the bus station,” I answered.

He remained by the passenger door, hand in his pocket. Holding on to something? Or just making a fist? My gut tightened. “You leave your things at the bus station and come all the way over to the Nightcap for a drink? Why’s that?” he asked.

“I was chasing down a job, and didn’t want to give the impression of passing through. That okay with your highness?”

He slammed the passenger door, came around and got in behind the wheel. “You get the job?”

“I’m supposed to call back.”

“Doing what?”

“Shoe salesman.”

“Shoe salesman. You don’t look the type.”

“It’s more for the perks,” I replied. “Last time I tweaked female toes I ended up with free lodging and some pretty good meals.”

He laughed, started the engine and we pulled away. Minutes later, I could make out the Clemson sign. I sat a little straighter, my attention bouncing from one side of the road to the other. We came within a few yards of the rundown motel. “Didn’t see no school,” I said, looking back over my shoulder.

“Oh, that’s right. The school’s south of the motel.” Munslow’s voice carried a hint of amusement.

A vacancy plaque hung beneath the Clemson sign, and a few nondescript vehicles were parked near closed doors. I kept the motel in sight as we drove past.

“Was I supposed to jump?” I asked.

“I thought you might like a second option. Better quality. Cheaper.”

“I’m not looking for a handout.”

“You can work it off.”

I shrugged.

“But first we’ll get your things.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I protested.

“Bus station’s not that far out of the way.”

“Wish you wouldn’t bother.”

“A man needs his things.” Munslow switched on the stereo--Bette Midler singing Megan’s favorite, The Wind Beneath My Wings. Seemed almost sacrilegious hearing it now, in present company. I hit the CD button on the dash and a child’s silly little song took over. Munslow punched the power off and a hard silence settled. I wondered if I had just bought a one way ticket out of the car and off the case.

“You got kids?” I asked.

Munslow glanced my way. Then with his attention back on the road, he chuckled softly and said, “None I’ll admit to.”

Up ahead, a neon sign flashed BUS STATION. We eased up to the glass fronted entrance and stopped. I didn’t move. At the side of the building, a bus spewed a gray stream of exhaust.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Munslow.

I got out, slammed the door, jingled something in my pocket for a few seconds then went inside. Four luckless pilgrims occupied the waiting area, all seated as far from each other as one could get without going outside. Beyond the benches were the rest rooms, vending machines, and a bank of lockers. The ticket clerk eyed me as I passed his cage, his hands out of sight, body language unfriendly. Best bet, he didn’t like my looks or the size they came in.

Inside the men’s john, I parked in front of a chipped, stained sink and stared into the mirror. Time stared back, relentless, unstoppable, definitive. Twenty-four hours and all would be history. Thank God. For Webb’s sake. This case was stirring up too many of his old unwanted memories.

I felt for the padded vest under my shirt and mentally reviewed my instructions.

When I came out of the rest room, I noticed Munslow fish-bowled in a phone kiosk across the street. The ticket clerk resumed his wariness. I turned toward the lockers and slipped a key into the one at the top left corner. The door opened and I pulled out a dirty black duffel.

I came out just as a bus was pulling away. The Infiniti’s trunk popped open. I dropped in the bag and slammed it.