Damnation Street

17.

There it was. A block away, at a corner, at a red light. Bathed in the white glow from the Shell station on one side and the car dealership on the other. Weiss got a quick glimpse of the license plate but couldn't read the number. Then the big car turned right off the four-lane onto a side street.

Weiss never slowed, kept his foot on the pedal. Raced to the corner. Swung around it, the old Ford's tires giving a short, sharp scream.

The navy blue rental was up ahead, cruising past a long, low building. Weiss recognized the place: the elementary school he'd passed coming into town. The rental's red brake lights flashed as it turned again, vanished again around another corner.

Weiss barreled after it, barreled past the school, past a stop sign. He streaked through an intersection, trying to reach the spot where the other car had just disappeared. His heart was going like a cop pounding on a junkie's door. Sweat was breaking out clammy at his temples. This was the guy, the killer. He knew it. He felt it. Only yards away behind the rental's wheel. Invisible all this time, silent as cancer all this time, and now there he was, within striking distance. A mistake. That business with the cars and the lighted windows. The killer had made a mistake after all this time.

It was all Weiss needed. He could get him now. He could end it here.

And then the dark blue rental was gone. That quick.

Weiss sped to a second stop sign, past the school. Braked not to stop but to take the corner. Took the corner and came around onto a dark street of houses. House light after house light glowed yellow in the shadows.

But the red taillights of the navy blue car were nowhere to be seen.

Weiss kept his foot on the brake, bore down. The Taurus moved slower and slower. It had happened too fast, he told himself. The car had disappeared too fast. It couldn't have reached the far corner before he'd made the turn behind it. Which meant it was still here. Somewhere. Somewhere on this street. That's what he told himself.

The cold sweat trickled down Weiss's temples and fell. His eyes searched the shadowy block, left side, right side. Small houses, small lawns. Cars in garages and in driveways, cars parked nose to tail along the curb. Weiss's eyes went over all of them, one by one, looking for the navy blue rental in the dark.

It was no good. Too hard to see. Weiss finally pulled the Taurus up against the line of parked cars. He opened the glove compartment. His. 38 was in there, in its holster. He worked the gun out of the leather, slipped it into his jacket pocket.

He left the engine running and stepped out into the street. The block was quiet. Above the hoarse whisper of the Ford's motor, he could hear the occasional car, the occasional truck going past on the nearby four-lane. Other than that, there was nothing, silence, not even a cricket in the night.

Then-suddenly: a metallic clang behind him. Weiss caught his breath, spun around. His hand slapped against his gun pocket.

But no, it was just a guy, some guy, a home owner, closing the lid of the trash can at the end of his driveway after tossing the bag in.

"Hey," Weiss said. He walked toward him.

The home-owner guy hesitated, wary as the big detective approached him in the darkness.

"You see a car just now, a blue car?" Weiss asked him. He got closer to the man, closer until he could make out his face in the dim light from the houses. The killer-his killer-had been in prison only once, in North Wilderness, a supermax, impossible to escape. The killer had escaped, but because he'd been there, there was a mug shot of him. Weiss had seen it. Seen the face. This wasn't that face. This was just a guy. Just a home owner in a brown suede windbreaker. Medium height, round head, dark hair. Weiss asked him again: "You see a blue car just now?"

"What, you mean go by?"

"Pull over, park somewhere on the street. A navy blue car, a big one."

The guy looked up along the street as if he thought he might spot it even now. He slipped his hands into the wind-breaker's pockets. He frowned, shook his head. "I just came out to take out the garbage. I didn't see anything."

Weiss nodded but went on standing there, looking the guy over. Just a home owner in a brown suede windbreaker.

The guy shrugged. "Sorry."

Finally, Weiss nodded. "Thanks."

"Sorry I couldn't help you."

The guy turned and walked up the path to his house, his hands in the windbreaker's pockets. Weiss turned away. He looked up the street. He scanned the driveways and the garages and the parked cars. It would be easy to miss the blue car here. Easy for the blue car to hide. Or maybe he'd been wrong-maybe the rental really had had enough time to reach the next corner, to get away. He wasn't sure anymore.

Weiss walked back to the Taurus idling in the street. He climbed back in and popped it into drive. He cruised slowly along the street, reluctant to leave it, still turning his head back and forth, back and forth, scanning every driveway, every parked car, every open garage. It was a working-class neighborhood. The cars were family four-doors and pickup trucks and aging American sports models. The new American rental would've stood out, he told himself. Or maybe it wouldn't have. In this light, with all these models. He just couldn't be sure.

He cruised to the next corner, stopped at the sign. He considered turning around, going over the block again. But it was no good. The killer was gone. He'd lost him. He eased down the gas and turned right. He headed back toward the four-lane.

Later, about an hour later, with the dark at every window, with the desert all around him in the dark, Weiss started to wonder about the home owner at the trash can. Does a guy put on a windbreaker just to take the garbage to the end of the driveway? And how come he hadn't heard the door to the house open when the guy came out or close when the guy went back inside? Had the guy gone back inside at all? He hadn't seen it. He didn't know.

He wondered about these things later, when his heart had slowed and his sweat had dried and the dark was at the windows.

But by then he was long gone from Hannock. He was well on his way to Nevada.