TWENTY-ONE

They had an early dinner at the Dairy Queen, Danny picking at his hamburger, pushing fries around his plate. It was his favorite place to eat, and seeing him like this worried her. She reached across the table, put the back of her hand to his forehead. It was warm.

“You okay, little guy?”

He nodded, broke off a piece of hamburger, chewed it. The tyrannosaurus model was on his lap. He’d been carrying it all day.

She took another bite from her hamburger, realized she had no appetite. Her right hand was stiff, the knuckles still red.

She looked around the restaurant. Late Saturday afternoon and mainly teenagers in here, an elderly couple near the front window, the woman cutting up the man’s food for him. There were decorations on the windows. Cutout jack-o’-lanterns, witches.

“Maybe a pirate,” Danny said.

She looked at him. “I miss something?”

“For Halloween. I could be a pirate.”

“Danny…”

“I know.” He looked down at his food. “I was just thinking about it, that’s all.”

“You feel like you have a fever?”

He shook his head.

“Your hamburger okay?” she said.

He nodded.

“You have room for ice cream?”

He looked up. “Can I?”

“Try to eat a little more of that for me first, all right?”

He broke off another piece, chewed it. Her own hamburger was cold to the touch now.

When he’d eaten some more, she said, “That’s okay, you don’t have to finish it. Go on up, see what you want.”

When he went to the counter, she cleared the table, dumped the uneaten food in the trash bin, and stacked their trays on top. They ordered small chocolate sundaes, and took them outside to the plastic tables near the parking lot. The sky was blue and clear. She watched a plane pass by far overhead.

“How would you like to go by the garage?” she said. “See Howard and Reno?”

“Can we?”

“You think you can handle it? It’s pretty hot today.”

“Sure. I’m okay.”

He scooped ice cream with the yellow plastic spoon, ladled into his mouth.

“How’s your stomach?” she said. “You feel like you’re going to be sick?”

He shook his head.

“Let me know if you are.”

They finished their sundaes. She got rid of their trash, unlocked the Blazer, and opened the front and back doors to let the trapped heat out. As she helped him into the booster seat, he said, “I’m too old for this.”

“Not yet. But soon.”

When she had him secured, she got behind the wheel, started the engine, and cranked up the air-conditioning. He was playing with the tyrannosaurus, making growling noises, off in his own world.

Ten minutes later, they pulled into the lot at the Sunoco station that served as the Hopedale Municipal Garage. The flatbed was parked out front, along with two cruisers waiting to be repaired or picked up. Both bay doors were open, and she could see Howie Twelvetrees inside, standing under one of the lifts, looking up at the undercarriage of an EMT van.

He saw them, waved. A German shepherd/mutt mix trotted out of the bay, ran a circle around the Blazer.

“Reno!” Danny said.

She shut the engine off, reached back, and got Danny unstrapped. He let himself out the side door, and the dog reared up, planted paws on his chest, almost knocking him back. He laughed, the dog licking at his face.

“Reno!” Howie said, coming out of the bay. “Easy.”

The dog got down, flopped at Danny’s feet. He scratched behind its ears, under its chain collar.

“Hey, Howie,” she said as she got out.

He wiped his hands on a rag, slung it over the shoulder of his jumpsuit.

“Sara,” he said. “So easy to look at, so hard to define.”

He was in his late forties, she guessed, his complexion weathered by sun and wind. His jet black hair was lank and fell over one eye, his expression impassive. He could have been sixty for all she knew. She had never asked.

Reno had run back into the bay, come out with a cowhide pull toy, and dropped it at Danny’s feet. He picked it up, hefted it over his shoulder, and tossed it across the blacktop. The dog spun, streaked at it, caught it on the ground and carried it back, dropped it again.

“What can I do you for, Sara? Don’t usually expect to see you on a Saturday.”

“I was wondering if I could have a look at that Accord. The one from the shooting.”

He looked at her, rubbed his hands on the rag. “Sheriff send you?”

She shook her head.

“I didn’t think so,” he said.

“Just curious about a couple things.”

“Curious.”

She waited.

“No harm in it, I guess,” he said. He whistled sharply. “Reno! Back!”

The dog wheeled to face him, the toy in its mouth. It trotted up the short driveway and through the gate that led to the wrecking yard behind.

Howie led the way. The yard was high-fenced on three sides, chain link and barbed wire. There was a plywood doghouse against the back of the building. Reno dropped the toy, drank noisily from a plastic water dish.

There were three cars in the yard. A Ford station wagon with a crushed grille that Moss Harmon, the town’s director of public works, had run into a cedarpost fence last month, half drunk. A VW Jetta that had been abandoned in Libertyville and impounded. Near the back fence was the gray Accord.

Danny squatted beside Reno. The dog finished drinking, picked up the toy again.

Sara walked around the Accord, remembering it that night, bathed in the light from their rollers. There were traces of white fingerprint powder on the doors, trunk, and hood.

“Locked?” she said.

Howie shook his head.

She opened the passenger side door. The rocker panels had been removed, dumped in the back. The safety seat was facedown on the floor, the back of it gone. She opened the door wider, saw the inside panels had been loosened. Wiring hung from beneath the dashboard.

“We took the whole thing apart,” Howie said. “Sheriff’s orders.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me and Sam Elwood. Sheriff dropped by to supervise for part of it.”

“Find anything?”

“Where you going with this, Sara?”

“Like I said, just curious.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you worried about?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I don’t want to put you on the spot. I’ll ask the sheriff.”

“Nothing personal, Sara.”

She went around to the driver’s side, pulled open the door. The console between the seats had been dismantled. She knelt on the seat, leaned over and opened the glovebox. Empty.

“They took all that stuff,” he said. “Registration, insurance, whatever else was in there. Sheriff’s got it all.”

“I guessed.”

She backed out of the car.

“You looking for something specific?” he said.

“I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”

“You have to be careful about what you’re not looking for. Sometimes you find it.”

“Don’t go getting all Indian on me, Howie.”

“One thing we did find, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Reach in and pop that trunk.”

She looked at him a moment, then leaned back into the car and felt around under the left side of the seat. She found the trunk latch, pulled, heard the click.

“Come have a look at this,” he said.

She followed him around to the trunk. He lifted the lid. It was empty inside, the carpet sagging in the middle.

“Where’s the spare?” she said.

“We took it out, cut it open. What’s left of it is in the shop. Nothing in it, though. Feel around behind that left taillight.”

She did, tracing the wires to where they disappeared into the taillight mount.

“Up on the left,” he said.

Her fingers found the small lever there.

“Pull it?” she said.

“Uh-huh.”

She heard a click.

“Now lift up the carpet.”

She did. A section of trunk bottom to the left of the spare well, about two feet across, had risen slightly.