Tapocketa tapocketa ka-chunk.
Open lid, turn page of book, place book facedown on glass, push down lid to flatten book, press big green button.
Tapocketa tapocketa ka-chunk.
Open lid, turn page…place book…flatten book…green button.
Tapocketa tapocketa ka-chunk…
Pender and Epstein were in a rhythm now, slaving over a hot photocopier in the windowless room in the back of the Marshall County sheriff’s station, where they kept the office equipment. Laura Baldinger had agreed to let Pender enlarge Luke Sweet’s Pocket Pal diary for the purposes of the investigation, on the condition that he return it to her at the crime scene as soon as they’d finished.
“Here’s you,” Pender exclaimed, reading from a floppy, still-warm sheet of copier paper. “A skinny guy with fading reddish brown hair.…Skip Epstein. …Bounty hunter.” Pender glanced up at him. “Bounty hunter?”
Skip reddened-with his fair complexion, he’d always blushed easily-then flipped back through his copy of the sheets. “And here’s you. A huge fat guy wearing a loud sport coat and one of those stupid little checked hats with feathers in the brim.”
Pender took off his trusty hat and turned it around a few times. “Looks fine to me,” he said, just as his cell phone began playing “Moon River” in his pants pocket.
A practiced hand by now, Pender flipped the phone open with a flourish while Skip continued to work the copier. “Pender here. …Uh-huh. …Uh-huh. …That didn’t take long. …Yeah, I understand. Okay, shoot. …Really?…That explains the smell. …Thanks, Doc, I-No, nothing from Cal-ID yet. I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything. …You bet. Thanks again. …Bye.”
He keyed the End Call button, snapped the phone closed, turned to Skip. “That was Dr. Flemm, the M.E. He’s reasonably convinced he’s got the cause of death for our deceased friend-provisional of course, pending blood work and toxicology, but he says so far, everything points to gangrene from a crushed ankle.”
The phone, still in his hand, went off again. Pender, who was heartily sick of “Moon River” by this time, gave Skip the upraised, sorry-gotta-take-this forefinger. “Pender here. …Oh, hi. …Tell me you have good news for- No kidding? Out-standing! Fast work! Hold on just a second. …Okay, shoot,” he said, notebook at the ready, pencil stub poised, cell phone jammed between his shoulder and his ear. But a puzzled look crossed his face at what must have been the caller’s first words, and the pencil didn’t move.
“Wait a minute, there must be some kind of mistake. Are we talking about a match from the card I sent you, or are we talking about the latent prints from the barn?…Oh, you haven’t? How good is the match?…That good…? Thanks, I guess.” He snapped the phone shut, then dropped it back into the side pocket of his jacket.
“What is it?” said Skip. “What’s going on?”
Dazedly: “That was Cal-ID. They got a ten-by-ten match on the dead guy.”
“And?”
“It was him, it was Sweet.”
Stunned didn’t quite cover Skip’s response; flabbergasted was closer. “Luke Sweet?” he said, his mind flashing back to last night’s dream.
“Little Luke himself, dead and in person. Ten-point match on all ten fingers-that makes the probability somewhere around ninety-nine point nine percent.”
“What’s the point one percent?” was all Skip’s muddled brain could come up with.
“Clerical error,” said Pender, as his phone began chirping yet again. “Pender here. …Oh, hi, Laurel. We’re just about finished with- You did? Can we- Okay, yeah, sure.” He checked his watch: it was straight-up noon. “See you in about half an hour.”
“What now?” Skip asked.
“One of the CS techs found a second journal buried in the dirt in the back of the barn. Luke again, but the new one’s only ten pages or so, in regular-size handwriting. Laurel says we can look it over as soon as they’re done dusting it.”
“I can hardly wait,” murmured Skip, glancing over the last page of the Pocket Pal. “Maybe it’ll help us make some sense out of this,” he added, then read the final entry, which was hand-printed in capital letters, aloud to Pender:
“To Asmador: Your mission, by order of the Infernal Council, is to exact revenge for all slights and injustices visited upon Luke Sweet, Jr., by the traitors named herein. You will know neither peace nor rest until vultures have feasted on their remains.”
“What the fuck?” said Pender.
“My sentiments exactly,” said Skip.