Panzer
Panzer used his sleeve to mop the sweat from his brow as he and Broyles looked down into the ditch. Federal agents were swarming over Henry Sunday's white sedan, tossing aside the corn stalks that camouflaged it and searching for evidence. The sun was just starting to turn red and sink behind the horizon.
“That car was faster than a greased weasel,” Panzer muttered. “So why the hell did he get rid of it so soon after grabbing it?”
“You don't get many thieves around here, do you, Sheriff?” Harbaugh sneered.
“Virgil Mendlow's grandson once stole a couple candy bars from Pembleton's Pop Shop 'bout two, three years ago?” Broyles offered.
“Jesus, Broyles,” Panzer sighed.
“He ditched the car to throw us off, you banjo-plucking nimrod,” said Harbaugh. Despite his harsh words, his tone was distant and contemplative as he mulled this over. “He rode it just far enough to be sure we were still looking for Ms. Rosewood's red coupe, and once he figured enough time had passed for us to discover that Mr. Sunday's car had been stolen, he rolled it down there and continued with her on foot.”
“They couldn't keep going like that for long, though,” Panzer pointed out. “They'd have to either steal another ride or find someplace nearby to hole up.”
“There's no way they'd go to ground anywhere near here,” Harbaugh said, shaking his head. “Based on their patterns of behavior after their previous robberies, they'll want to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the scene of their last crime. Still, the fact that they were willing to split up during their escape tells me that they must have arranged a place to meet up afterward, just in case they got separated. Are there any motels nearby?”
“Sure,” Panzer replied, pointing toward each one as he listed them. “There's The Whippoorwill Motor Lodge and The Canasta Inn over that way, and in the opposite direction there's The Red Rider Motel.”
“Shit,” Harbaugh snapped. “I guess our best option is to have your deputy call each motel to see if they've had bikers check in, or if any cars have been reported stolen from their parking lots. That's if he isn't too busy filling out his application for Mensa.”
“Naw, I got plenty of time,” Broyles said, taking his cell phone from his pocket and walking a few feet away.
“You shouldn't keep makin' fun of him like that,” Panzer mumbled. He could feel his face turning red again, but he didn't care. Broyles may not have been a brain trust, but he still didn't like seeing him get publicly belittled by some grouchy fed from out of town.
“Sheriff, you're absolutely right,” Harbaugh retorted. “There's nothing to be gained from that kind of behavior, and I apologize. If anything, I should be saving all of my derision for you, since it'd be so much easier for us to figure out which motel they checked into if you'd bothered to get reliable descriptions of them in the bar.”
“Look, maybe I didn't memorize every tiny detail about these guys,” Panzer huffed. “But I'm not blind either, okay? I got the basics. Not that you bothered to ask earlier when you were too busy callin' us all hicks an' such.”
“Sure. The basics…that they were breathing air and wearing pants?”
Panzer fumed, but remained silent.
“If only we could lift one goddamned usable print,” Harbaugh grumbled, more to himself than anyone else. “At least then we'd probably have a rap sheet to circulate, and known associates to look into. But based on the zilch we were able to collect from the red coupe, he must be wearing gloves, and there's no reason to believe he'd have taken them off in this car.”
Broyles returned, tucking his cell phone back in his pocket. “I spoke with them managers?” he began. “Ain't no one checked into The Canasta all day, but The Whippoorwill an' The Red Rider both had new people come in an' reserve rooms, includin' two or three who looked like they could be biker types. None of 'em had any of the vee-hickles reported stolen from their parkin' lots, but they're gonna go double-check just in case they ain't been noticed missin' yet.”
“So now we've narrowed it down to two places, in opposite directions from each other,” Harbaugh said. “Swell. By the time we rule one of them out and focus on the other one, these jokers will probably have a massive head start on us.”
“Agent Harbaugh!” one of the feds called out from the ditch. “You oughtta come look at this.”
Harbaugh smiled, tossing the cigarette away and carefully stepping down to the side of the ditch. “What is it, Mulcahey?” he asked. “Please, tell me there's a God and you found some prints after all.”
“No fingerprints,” Mulcahey said, “but there's a big, dusty bootprint from where he must have kicked the dashboard.” He pointed out the dirty tread pattern stamped on it.
“Better than nothing,” Harbaugh admitted, peering at it. “Can we match it to any of the prints in the mud around the car? That would tell us which way they headed, at least.”
Mulcahey and the other agents examined the mud for a few moments as Harbaugh looked on.
“Looks like they went toward The Whippoorwill,” Harbaugh observed. “We may as well send out people over there to check out the rooms, even though they're most likely long gone by now.”
Broyles' cell phone buzzed and he answered it. “Yeah, Clem? Really? Okay, thanks fer lettin' us know.” He hung up again. “The manager at the Whippoorwill said a couple motorcycles went missin' from their parkin' lot. No way of knowin' when they were taken exactly, since their owners was takin' a nap in their room durin' the theft.”
“Only two motorcycles,” Harbaugh mused. “So they must have decided to split up again. Two went ahead on the bikes, while the third went a different way, presumably with Ms. Rosewood.”
“Who was dragged along under duress, no doubt,” Panzer said.
“You keep peddling that theory,” said Harbaugh, “and I'll keep telling you it's bullshit. If she's really being held against her will, then I'm the Lone fucking Ranger.”
“Even assuming you're right about that—and I'm still sure you're not—how the hell could they keep moving without stealing anything to ride?” asked Panzer. “There aren't any other stores or parking lots over in that direction. There's just farms, and beyond that, there's too much desert to cross on foot without burning to a crisp or dying of thirst.”
Harbaugh frowned. “Farms? What kinds of farms?”
“Well, there's Pete Crabtree's soybean field,” Panzer said. “And there's Red Hawley. He grows corn, mostly. But other than those boys, and Old Man Tiller's horse farm…”
“A horse farm,” Harbaugh said slowly. “Sheriff, I think we should get over there as fast as we can.”
“You mean you don't wanna check out The Whippoorwill after all?” Broyles asked, scratching his head.
“They wouldn't be stupid enough to still be there,” said Harbaugh. “And if I'm right, this Tiller fellow might have been the victim of a crime, too. One he hasn't even found out about yet. Now come on, let's roll.”
Harbaugh walked toward his car. Panzer followed, wondering what the fed was talking about and hoping like hell he could find a way to bring Billie home safely.