Lark by Richard; Forrest Page B

“I’m not surprised. She was wild as hell, school dropout, work dropout and roundheels.”
    â€œThat’s some character reference.”
    â€œShe was a disaster waiting for an accident.”
    â€œI just talked to a kid named Lawton who works at a gas station. He was going around with the Stanton girl.”
    â€œThe wipeouts attract each other like flies.”
    â€œWhat do you have on Lawton?”
    â€œIf you’re serious about him, I’ll get you a full written report, but off the top of my head, how about shoplifting, auto theft, breaking the peace, and God only knows how many vehicle charges?”
    â€œEver done time?”
    â€œSo far, the only thing serious we had on him was as a juvenile. The next time he steps out of line he goes adult and does time … maybe.”
    â€œYou’ll never get his juvenile record unsealed,” Lark said.
    â€œHell, Lark, I’m as mean as you are when it comes to my town. I’ll damn well make sure that the sentencing judge hears the right rumors about our little boy blue.”
    â€œTell me about breaking the peace?”
    â€œMake that plural. The kid’s got a temper. Pump a couple beers into him and he goes after people … usually with a bottle or anything else handy. Luckily for his victims, he’s not too big or well-coordinated.”
    â€œThen he’s capable of murder?”
    Black Jack tilted back his chair and considered the question before answering. “Murder? The girl? Maybe in a fit of rage, if he let himself get out of hand.”
    â€œShe was tortured first,” Lark said.
    â€œTortured? Christ! How do you mean?”
    Lark recounted certain portions of the tape and described the autopsy.
    â€œHell, you’re not even sure if it’s the same girl. The tape could be a phony.”
    â€œI don’t believe in coincidences, but I do know that most victims know their killers.”
    â€œGod, Lawton is mean, but I’m not sure he’s that mean. I can figure him for snuffing the Stanton girl in a drunken rage or even for the hell of it, but not doing it like you tell it.”
    Lark glanced down at his watch. “I’ll have a better idea after I interview him again. He’s got a relief coming to the station at noon and then I’ll get another crack at him.”
    â€œWhere are you picking him up?”
    â€œHe’s going to wait for me at the station.”
    Black Jack’s mouth gaped open. “You’ve got to be kidding? Do you really think that creep’s going to wait for you? How long have you been off the street?”
    â€œA couple of days.”
    â€œThen you’ve gone soft in the head. If you expect him to be there at noon, you’re crazy. He’ll leave at eleven-thirty.”
    â€œThen I’ll find him,” Lark said noncommittally.
    â€œAnd tear up half my town doing it.” The trooper heaved himself to his feet and snatched his broad-brimmed hat from a nearby coat rack. “Come on. I know where he’ll go.”
    â€œGot it down pat, huh?”
    â€œHell, it’s my town.”
    They took a state police car and drove past the Warren city limits and out Route 79 to where it narrowed to a winding, double-lane country road. The houses were spaced farther and farther apart until few appeared and they were in rural farmland surrounded by second-growth timber. The dark-complexioned trooper swerved the cruiser into a right-angle turn and jounced up a rutted dirt road, making another turn onto an even more rustic road until it came to an abrupt stop at a barnlike building nestled under the shadows of large trees. The Kawasaki motorcycle was parked near one corner of the building.
    Black jack stepped from the car and signaled to Lark. As the trooper walked toward a tack-room door, he brushed his hand lightly against his holstered pistol. Lark unzipped his jacket.
    â€œYou might call it a clubhouse,” Black