ought to be, but his brain wasn’t functioning.
He’d catch himself daydreaming about Meesh and suddenly discover he was on the shoulder of the road. Afraid he would doze off and end up in a ditch, he rolled his head around on his neck and slapped his cheeks.
In every direction, for as far as he could see, there were green fields of corn and soybeans dotted with clusters of trees and red or white farm buildings.
It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and U.S. 61 was only two undivided lanes now, an unending ribbon of concrete running straight ahead.
There were few cars or trucks on the road. He hadn’t seen an airplane in two hours. But behind him was a red car that made him nervous.
As straight as the road was, it didn’t try to pass him. It stayed about three-hundred feet behind him. It had been behind him for at least fifteen minutes. The driver was an old man. Beside him was a white-haired woman. When Denny sped up, they sped up. When he reduced his speed, so did they. What the hell was wrong with them? Was this some crazy Iowa version of tailgating?
It was getting on his nerves. Maybe they knew he wasn’t just a farmer in an undershirt and old baseball cap. Maybe they’d heard reports about the stolen truck.
He drove past cluster after cluster of farm buildings, all set well back from the highway and surrounded by vast, rolling green hills. Here and there he saw black cows clustered around a lone tree, bunched together in the shade, head to head, as if they were holding a meeting.
When he came upon a sign for a town named Hutchins, he turned onto the exit road and checked his rearview mirror. The red car was gone. It had continued up the highway
Maybe he could find a place in Hutchins where he could buy a cup of coffee and use the rest room. Maybe even take a nice, peaceful nap.
It was not exactly the Big Apple.
Downtown Hutchins was a feed store, a grocery store, a drab brick American Legion hall, a small tavern with blackened windows, and a corner cafe.
Denny parked on a side street next to the cafe. Inside, there were a half-dozen old-timers. He took a seat at a table near the rear. On the wall near him was an odd plaque, a dozen short strands of barbed wire, each carefully identified by weight and type.
The crudely printed menu was intriguing. Each of the luncheon choices was less than three dollars.
He’d intended to order coffee, use the rest room, and get out, but the menu choices were too tempting. He ordered the chicken cold plate and went to the rest room.
When he came back, two police officers in tan shirts and dark trousers were sliding into chairs only ten feet from his table.
THIRTY-SIX
They were county cops, smartly dressed, their short-sleeved shirts still creased.
The older officer, brawny and blue-eyed with thinning brown hair, glanced at Denny and turned to the waitress as she greeted them.
The other man, dark-haired with a red complexion, clutched a small, black two-way radio. The silver badge on his chest and the dark pistol in his holster looked huge.
Denny buttered his roll and busied himself with his chicken and coleslaw. His heart was pounding.
The waitress brought the two officers coffee and huge slices of blueberry pie.
Denny watched them out of the corner of his eye. They looked bored with each other’s company. The older officer’s arms and shoulders were bigger than any Denny had seen in his days as a wrestler.
When he finished eating, he couldn’t leave without passing right in front of them. One wrong look, one casual question from either cop, and he could be in deep trouble.
Denny got to his feet slowly, picked up his check, and kept his eyes fastened on it as he started towards the cash register.
“Nobody could throw like Nolan Ryan,” the older cop said.
“Yeah,” the other one said, “but Clements threw a lot harder.”
Denny gave the woman at the cash register a five-dollar bill and glanced behind him. Neither cop was paying any attention to
He’d catch himself daydreaming about Meesh and suddenly discover he was on the shoulder of the road. Afraid he would doze off and end up in a ditch, he rolled his head around on his neck and slapped his cheeks.
In every direction, for as far as he could see, there were green fields of corn and soybeans dotted with clusters of trees and red or white farm buildings.
It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and U.S. 61 was only two undivided lanes now, an unending ribbon of concrete running straight ahead.
There were few cars or trucks on the road. He hadn’t seen an airplane in two hours. But behind him was a red car that made him nervous.
As straight as the road was, it didn’t try to pass him. It stayed about three-hundred feet behind him. It had been behind him for at least fifteen minutes. The driver was an old man. Beside him was a white-haired woman. When Denny sped up, they sped up. When he reduced his speed, so did they. What the hell was wrong with them? Was this some crazy Iowa version of tailgating?
It was getting on his nerves. Maybe they knew he wasn’t just a farmer in an undershirt and old baseball cap. Maybe they’d heard reports about the stolen truck.
He drove past cluster after cluster of farm buildings, all set well back from the highway and surrounded by vast, rolling green hills. Here and there he saw black cows clustered around a lone tree, bunched together in the shade, head to head, as if they were holding a meeting.
When he came upon a sign for a town named Hutchins, he turned onto the exit road and checked his rearview mirror. The red car was gone. It had continued up the highway
Maybe he could find a place in Hutchins where he could buy a cup of coffee and use the rest room. Maybe even take a nice, peaceful nap.
It was not exactly the Big Apple.
Downtown Hutchins was a feed store, a grocery store, a drab brick American Legion hall, a small tavern with blackened windows, and a corner cafe.
Denny parked on a side street next to the cafe. Inside, there were a half-dozen old-timers. He took a seat at a table near the rear. On the wall near him was an odd plaque, a dozen short strands of barbed wire, each carefully identified by weight and type.
The crudely printed menu was intriguing. Each of the luncheon choices was less than three dollars.
He’d intended to order coffee, use the rest room, and get out, but the menu choices were too tempting. He ordered the chicken cold plate and went to the rest room.
When he came back, two police officers in tan shirts and dark trousers were sliding into chairs only ten feet from his table.
THIRTY-SIX
They were county cops, smartly dressed, their short-sleeved shirts still creased.
The older officer, brawny and blue-eyed with thinning brown hair, glanced at Denny and turned to the waitress as she greeted them.
The other man, dark-haired with a red complexion, clutched a small, black two-way radio. The silver badge on his chest and the dark pistol in his holster looked huge.
Denny buttered his roll and busied himself with his chicken and coleslaw. His heart was pounding.
The waitress brought the two officers coffee and huge slices of blueberry pie.
Denny watched them out of the corner of his eye. They looked bored with each other’s company. The older officer’s arms and shoulders were bigger than any Denny had seen in his days as a wrestler.
When he finished eating, he couldn’t leave without passing right in front of them. One wrong look, one casual question from either cop, and he could be in deep trouble.
Denny got to his feet slowly, picked up his check, and kept his eyes fastened on it as he started towards the cash register.
“Nobody could throw like Nolan Ryan,” the older cop said.
“Yeah,” the other one said, “but Clements threw a lot harder.”
Denny gave the woman at the cash register a five-dollar bill and glanced behind him. Neither cop was paying any attention to
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