Summer Cool

8

Of all the airports Paine hated to fly into, which was all of them, he hated Dallas-Fort Worth the least. There was something about the wide openness of it that inspired confidence. Whenever he came into LaGuardia Airport in New York, he felt as if the pilot were dropping straight down into New York City. If they came in too short they'd be in the water_; too long, they'd be on a sidewalk on Fifth Avenue, slamming into the front of Tiffany's. But in Dallas there was prairie to spare; for miles around everything was flat and runway-like, and, to Paine's mind, the pilot had plenty of room for plenty of errors.

Which wasn't the case, of course; Billy Rader had gleefully informed Paine that Dallas-Fort Worth has a terrible wind shear problem; tornado swirls can rise up out of nowhere, and thunderstorm clouds have a way of rising like tall black walls up to God and slamming rain and hail and wind into everything.

But so far Paine had seen none of this, and today it was high and blue and hot when the plane touched down.

Billy Rader was waiting for him at the gate, smiling through his full beard as he took Paine's bag.

"See the wreck on the way in?" he asked in his pleasant drawl.

Rader continued to smile. "A 737 buckled its right landing gear yesterday. Slammed into a parked L10-11. Last week we had a near miss between a Delta and Texas Air. Last week an American flight, might have been yours, nearly flipped in the wind." His grin widened. "I know how much you like this airport."

"Did I say that?"

Rader laughed, moving them to a pair of empty gray padded seats in the waiting area. He sat down, stretched his legs. "Okay, Jack, what's up?"

"Remember Bob Petty?"

"Sure. Couldn't get him to look through the telescope, but he was a good fisherman."

"I'm trying to find him. He took a one-way here two days ago. Left his wife and kids and job."

"Jesus. Didn't seem like the type."

"He isn't. Thing is, I don't have any idea why he came to Texas. As far as I know, the only time he's ever been here was that one time with me. He's never mentioned anything about the state, except you and those fucking catfish."

Rader smiled, slapped Paine on the shoulder. "We can't all be good at everything, Jack. If I remember correctly, you did have a nibble."

Paine said nothing.

"Well," said Rader, laughing, "if we get some work done, maybe we can get some viewing in tonight."

"Fine," Paine said. "You still got all those friends in this town you're always talking about?"

"Follow me," Rader said, handing Paine his bag and stretching to get up.

Paine waited on a red plastic seat while Billy Rader talked at the Avis counter. He was there a longtime. Whenever Paine looked at him, Rader seemed to be laughing, and the young woman he was talking to laughed back. Finally, the young woman left the counter and Rader followed her into an office. The door closed.

A half hour passed. When the door opened, Billy went back to the counter with the young woman. He leaned on it casually, laughed, and the young woman laughed.

Finally, Billy left the counter and came to where Paine was sitting.

"He didn't rent from Avis," Rader said.

Paine was about to say something when Billy held his hand up. "But he did from Budget. I had to wait for her to access the big computer in the back, with all the insurance stuff in it. The big companies share it. He rented a blue Chevy Cavalier and is staying at a Best Western in Fort Worth. We can get there in a half hour!'

Paine smiled in admiration.

"I told you we'd get to use the scope tonight," Rader said.

It was nearly 100 degrees outside the terminal. Paine looked at his watch. Six o'clock. Which meant it was five in Dallas. And 100 degrees.

"Humid, too," Rader said. "Been dripping like a pig for days. I told you it was hot last night. Seventy-five at three in the morning."

"It wasn't even this bad in Yonkers."

"Welcome to Texas!" Rader laughed.

They got into Billy's Ford Galaxy_; air conditioning shot out at Paine as Rader gunned the engine.

"Jesus!" Paine said, relishing the cool.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Billy said. "Let's hope the air conditioner in your friend's room is on."

They reached the motel in almost exactly half an hour, still arguing about what to listen to on the radio. Laughing, Rader won out, threatening to kick Paine out into the hot air unless Dwight Yokum stayed.

"Back in a minute," Rader smiled. He left the keys in the ignition so the radio would stay on.

Paine turned the knob off as soon as Rader was gone. Billy was back almost immediately. Bending to get into the car, he smiled, reaching over to snap the radio back on. "Room 414," he said.

They parked in front of the right stack of rooms, looked for the rented blue Cavalier, which wasn't there. When they had trudged the stairs to the fourth level, stopped before room 414 and knocked to no answer, Paine said, "He's not here."

"He didn't checkout of the motel," Rader said, producing a room key from his pocket, slipping it smoothly into the lock and snapping it open, "so who cares if he's here or not?"

"Is there anybody in Texas you don't know?" Paine asked, as they entered the room.

"Just the border guards," Rader answered, laughing, "because I've never left."

Paine snapped on the light.

The room looked recently lived-in. The sheets on one side of the double bed were rumpled; a pair of chinos was draped over the back of the desk chair. A new-looking gym bag was open next to the desk; inside were white socks, boxer shorts, a couple of open-necked shirts, one of them still in its plastic wrapping. The waste basket next to the desk had other opened wrappings in it: a toothbrush box, six-pack of white crew socks, underarm deodorant. The writing pad on the desk was unused.

Paine was checking the night table next to the bed when Rader called to him from the bathroom doorway.

"Don't think you're gonna like this, buddy."

Paine joined him.

Inside the bathroom was a lot of blood. It brightened the white tile around the tub like fresh paint; one smeared section at the back wall resembled a modernist painting, bold downward finger strokes ending in a nearly perfect bloody handprint. The hand that had made it was nearby, cocked away from the wall at a frozen angle. The rest of the body was attached to it except for the head, which was missing.

Rader flipped up the bloody toilet seat with the toe of his boot; inside, staring up at them dolefully from a pool of bloody water, was the missing head.

"Jesus Christ," Billy Rader said.

Paine said, "It's not Bobby Petty."