Sophie hurried out of work early and picked up Nyland after he posted bail. Marquez watched her lean over from the driver’s seat, wrap her arms tight around his neck, and kiss him hard while the lawyer stood impatiently outside Nyland’s window. From the courthouse they drove straight to a bar in Pollock Pines, and with the GPS unit in place it was unnecessary to follow closely. Marquez and Roberts hung back, waited, and it was almost two hours later in dusty gold late afternoon light that Nyland and Sophie walked side by side across the parking lot to her pickup. As Nyland looked around, Marquez spoke to Roberts. “He knows he’s not alone, but let’s hope he leads us to Durham.”
When Sophie’s pickup pulled away Marquez parked alongside Roberts. She had a laptop balanced on the edge her passenger seat and read the progress of the GPS unit on Sophie’s pickup. The readout put them at a rest stop up the road.
“Alcohol,” Roberts said. “Maybe she needs to use the rest room.”
But they were there too long, and at the half-hour mark Marquez decided he’d drive by and make sure they hadn’t switched vehicles or, worst case, been picked up by Durham. He drove up there, didn’t see the pickup, and phoned Roberts.
“The readout is coming from there still,” she said, and Marquez cruised back past again, checked for anyone positioned to watch the rest stop, then brought Roberts up. Took them another hour to determine that the twenty-thousand-dollar GPS unit had been dropped in one of the chemical toilets. Frustration boiled up in him. It was his mistake. They could have stayed with them and shouldn’t have lost Nyland, shouldn’t have lost their best lead to Durham.
Nyland and Sophie could have driven any direction. Marquez checked out Six Mile Road and drove through Placerville and Pollock Pines, past the place Sophie was house-sitting before finally giving up. Roberts drove down to the Sacramento safehouse, and Marquez returned to the room at the Gold Nugget in Placerville. He talked a long time to Kath and left another message for Maria on her grandmother’s answering machine. He went into town and picked up half a roast chicken, some string beans, and potatoes. After he ate, he checked Nyland’s trailers again and drove back to Placerville, sat in the Creekview, drank a beer, and asked the bartender if he’d seen Sophie that night. He was still at the Creekview when Kendall called and he let it ring, then phoned Kendall back after he was outside in the cold wind.
“We lost Nyland,” Marquez said. “Are you tracking him?”
“No.”
“Petroni turn up?”
“No, but I got the report back on Stella Petroni today. Her face was kicked in after she was on the floor of the kitchen. Repeatedly kicked. Over and Over. Probably with steel-toed boots of the same type we found in Petroni’s duffel bag. I remember a murder in LA where a young Latina was killed by her ex-boyfriend. He stabbed her one hundred fourteen times in the abdomen. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. He’s going to hike out of the woods somewhere with a big sad question mark on his face about what’s happened to his lovely Stella. He didn’t need any money from you that afternoon because he already had a plan.”
“I don’t need this tonight. Why don’t you tell it to your girlfriend or Hawse?”
When Marquez hung up he drove back to the motel. It was 10:30. He couldn’t understand Kendall hammering at the same theme without any more evidence unless it was personal. Or maybe he does have more and still thinks I know where Petroni is, trying to get under my skin. The thought only aggravated him more. He tried turning on the TV, couldn’t begin to watch it or sit in the small room. He left the motel and drove back to the rest stop where the transponder was lost, cruised slowly past there, and drove into the Crystal Basin, parked near the edge of Weber Mill, and after ten minutes sitting there, drove up to Big Top, where he had a broad view of the basin. He looked out at the flat, nearoily blackness of Union Valley Reservoir and the dark forests beyond. Whoever had shot at him escaped into the basin. Late that afternoon, Durham had communicated with Fish and Game via his lawyer. At the appropriate time Durham would make himself available for questioning, but because he hadn’t been charged with anything he’d pick the date and time. His lawyer made it clear that his client broke no laws, did nothing wrong. In a written statement the lawyer faxed, Durham denied any involvement in poaching and pointed to his long-standing record with Ducks Unlimited and other organizations. If his young partner in Placerville had broken the law, then Durham was willing to voluntarily shut down Sierra Guides. He’d be the first to agree the business should be closed down and the appropriate fines paid. The lawyer reported Durham was willing to pay double the maximum penalty, up to two thousand dollars a bear, to make restitution, a total of four thousand dollars.
Marquez thought of taking Maria out of school, hurting her college chances, Katherine’s making the best of a guest bedroom in the house an old college friend rented from her, and for what? A system that let Sweeney walk and would slap Durham’s wrists before turning to thank him for his cooperation. He couldn’t get around it tonight the way he usually could. He left Big Top and drove the dark forested roads past Union Valley, heading out the back route, then stopping on the graveled road near the bar where the Broussards drank.
As soon as he pulled into the parking lot he knew he should leave. Instead, he took a place standing alone at the bar and was ignored by the bartender, a smirking pimply-faced kid, basking in the approval of the men gathered at the far end. Troy Broussard was there, wearing a dirty canvas jacket and standing with his back to him, a whiskey in his right hand, holding court. Alongside Troy a stout man with a black beard stood and glowered at Marquez.
The bartender finally came down, sloppily opened a beer bottle, and slid it over. Marquez laid a bill down and drank, his throat tickling with the cold wash of beer. Have a beer and leave. There are no answers here tonight, no value in confronting Troy. Fall back, take it to another day. Durham isn’t here. Let it go. But instead, he ordered another beer and looked at the bearded man, nodded in a way that said, stare somewhere else, you malevolent fuck. He watched the bartender bring his change and toss it down, a coin rolling and falling, and the bearded man started toward him.
“Troy says you’re with Fish and Game.”
“He does all the thinking around here. What’ll happen when he dies?”
“Last night we had a couple of niggers come in here and now you.”
“Shove it up your ass.”
The man backhanded the beer, and the bottle blew foam as it went end over end and bounced hard on the floor. A big hand gripped Marquez’s shirt.
“Get the fuck out of here.”
But the words came from a great distance and the roaring in his ears was like breakers rolling in. The man’s face haloed with red light, and Marquez felt a hard blow to his shoulder, a stinging blow at his chin that knocked him back and stunned him. Then he stepped forward and drove his fist through, felt chin hair mat against his knuckles and the man’s head snap back. Hit him again and the man staggered, his fist deep into soft gut. When the man fell Marquez stood over him, catching his breath, waiting to see if anyone else moved. Then he walked out.
He didn’t see anyone pull out behind him. But a set of headlights sat behind him now, hung there past Georgetown, and shadowed him as he drove through Placerville toward the motel. Let them come, he thought, let them try.