Chapter Three

                                               Montana

                                               

Wind-blown dust greeted Lennox as he crossed the North Dakota-Montana state line. A board rocking in the wind showed Welcome To Montana. Lennox harboured no bad feelings toward Montana but cursed the worsening weather conditions. "To hell with this," he said aloud. "If I get no news of Amy at the next stop then I'll call the whole thing off." He whistled several bars of the song and listened to the wipers screeching against the windscreen.
     Through the night, the drone of the Pontiac engine had almost lulled him to sleep. Eventually, he pulled in to a small gas station at Levin, early Tuesday morning. An alarm bell pinged. Lennox got out and stretched, noting the few run-down houses huddled together down the street. And that was it - apart from wind hustling the trees - there was nothing more. Lennox shrugged, maybe nobody was around at this hour.
     The station door squeaked open and a fair-haired boy, about twelve, came out. "Hi there, mister, shall I fill her up?"

     Lennox took off his Stetson and brushed sand from its brim. "Yeah, and if you have a spare gasoline can then fill that too."

     The boy grinned, took off the car fuel tank cap, shoved a pipe nozzle into the tank and squeezed the trigger.

     "Going far, mister?"

     "Seattle."

     "Hey, that's a great city. I went there last year."

     "Did you like it?"

     The boy replaced the tank cap and opened the top of a gasoline can. "Yes, I loved it. Dad took me for a boat trip round the coastline. Then we used the trolley cars. I wanted to stay but Dad said we had to come home and I've been here ever since." He shut the can lid and checked the sale. "That will be twelve dollars and thirty-five cents." Lennox gave him a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change. The boy's eyes shone. "Hey - thanks, mister. Could you handle breakfast? My ma fixes great bacon and eggs over easy and she don't charge much."

     The thought of bacon and eggs appealed to Lennox. "Isn't it too early for your ma to be fixing breakfast?"

     The boy shook his head. "Time doesn't mean much here, mister. It gets light and then it goes dark. That's the way this place is."

     Lennox shoved the gasoline can into the car boot. "What's your name, son?"

     The boy looked up at Lennox' taciturn face. "Charlie, I'm Charlie Dean. Maybe we should exchange names."

     Lennox smiled to himself. Charlie had an old head for a young age. "I'm Jim Lennox from New York."

     "Okay, Jim Lennox from New York, it's this way for breakfast." Charlie headed for the cluster of shacks nestling between trees. He stopped outside the first shack, a mixture of timber, tin sheets and mud and looked again at Lennox. "What's it like in New York - does it have bright lights?"

     "Sure, it has every coloured light you can imagine. The brightest lights on Broadway shine stronger than any star."

     "Is that right!" Charlie's jaw dropped. "I've seen Broadway and Grand Central Station in magazines."

     A face appeared behind the veranda door screen. The door swung open to reveal an attractive woman in her early thirties with short cut dark hair. A pleasant smile puckered her left cheek. She stepped onto the veranda.

     "Who have you caught this time, Charlie?"

     "This is Mister Jim Lennox from New York, Ma. He loves bacon and eggs."

     "It's early, ma'am and I don't want to put you out, but I sure could manage breakfast."

     She grinned. "Call me Holly. If you want breakfast then step right in."

     Lennox thanked her and glanced down the street at the scorched homesteads standing in the wind as the sun rose to bake them for another day. She stepped aside to let him pass. "Kitchen is on the left. My husband is asleep and he won't rise yet."

     The kitchen, smelling of lavender, was long and large with an iron cooking range stuffed into a corner. The whole set-up was hygienic and tidy. Charlie pulled back a wicker chair from the unladen table. "Sit here, Jim, it's my chair but you can use it."

     Lennox nodded thanks, and Holly, preparing breakfast and making coffee, asked Lennox to where he was travelling. He sat back and explained briefly about Amy. Holly frowned. "'59 and '60?" she whispered to herself, turning over eggs in the skillet. Lennox waited. She said over her shoulder, "I was seventeen in '60 and I should  remember her because few folks stop here unless it's for gas."

     "Amy was twenty and her boyfriend twenty-one."

     Holly placed a breakfast of eggs, sausages, bacon strips and fried tomatoes in front of Lennox, then gave him a full mug of coffee. "How did Amy look?"

     "I have her photograph; it's on my car front seat with one of John Benson, her travelling partner."

     Charlie jumped. "I'll get them!" He hurried out the door.

     Holly studied Lennox as he started on fried eggs. His features showed years of working in sun. He must be six and a half feet tall. She wondered how good he was in bed for her husband's early ardour had long faded to no interest of her body.

     Charlie came galloping back with the bounding strides of youth. They saw him pass the window. Holly smoothed back her hair as Charlie clattered up the veranda steps and swept tornado-like into the kitchen. He placed two photographs on the table. Lennox thanked him and watched Holly pick them up.

     She looked at Lennox with certainty. "I remember this girl - I've definitely seen her before."

     Lennox experienced rising hope. "When did you see her?"

     "Well before Charlie was born - and he's almost thirteen now."

     "Can you give me the year you saw her?"

     Holly brushed back a curl of dark hair. "It would be '60."

     "Are you sure?"

     "I am, because I hadn't met my husband until that year. He bought the station in '60 and I started hanging around with him then."

     "Tell me about Amy. Did you speak to her? Did she say something that made you remember her?"

     "I recall this car stopping at the station for gas. It was heading west. I was in the station office and went out through curiosity. There were three people in the car; it was old and clapped out. One of the doors was twisted and they had difficulty closing it. They must have travelled plenty for the car was filthy. The driver - a man - got out and asked my husband, Joe to fill her up. Then the girl got out and said something about feeling stiff. I noticed her in particular because of her clothes and how they contrasted with her hair."

     "Why was that?"

     "She was wearing a light blue silk blouse and also a headband of the same colour. It so happened I was wearing a sky-blue sleeveless tee shirt. We commented on both of us wearing the same colour. I thought the shade went well with her blond hair. Actually, her hair had a strawberry tinge to it."
 
     "Did you get a look at the other passenger?"

     "No - I could see he was a young man but I didn't get a good look at him."

     "Did they stay over?"

     "No, the older man paid for the gas and then drove off."

     "How old was he?" Lennox chewed a bacon strip.

     "Around fifty. I can't recall anything else about him."

     "Has anyone else queried about Amy since then?"

     "They might have done, but I don't recall it."

     Lennox finished breakfast and put twenty dollars on the table. "Thanks Holly, that's for the breakfast and your information." He picked up the photographs and stopped at the door. "If you were happy with a boyfriend would you leave home without telling your folks?"

     Holly's eyebrows rose. "I don't know. My parents split when I was ten so I never had that situation. It's possible Amy and her friend had an accident - maybe that's why they didn't return home. But think of it the other way round and put yourself in the young man's place. Would you leave home without telling your family?"

     Charlie followed Lennox to the Pontiac. "Will I see you again, Jim?"

     Lennox switched on the engine. "I don't think so."

     "Will you write and let me know how you are?"

     "Sure, what's your address?"

     "Just put 'Charlie Dean, Levin, Montana'. That will reach me."

     Lennox smiled. "Okay, Charlie, I'll do that."

     He drove off and waved to Holly standing on the veranda.



                                                  Tacoma
                                                Washington
                                                  
Tommy Wade, surviving on scraps, had lived for seven years in the same shabby flat on the outskirts of Tacoma, stealing what he could steal to exist, and praying that Frank Rickard would remain a distant nightmare. A knock on Tommy's front door shattered that dream. He arose slowly from an armchair, for arthritis was striking him early. He ached worse when he opened the door and found Rickard standing on the doorstep with that snake-smile on his lean face and cold chilling steel in his gaze. He pushed past ashen-faced Tommy and swung round to study his erstwhile friend.

     "How are things, pal? It's been long times no see."

     "I'm okay, Frank." Tommy closed the door, sidled past Rickard's tall, angular figure and sat back on the unmade bed where he could stare through the bay window out to the beach. It was obvious that years of Leavenworth prison life had toughened Rickard for Tommy remembered him as being mentally strong, but now there was a clenching of the jaw as though he had much angst to work off against Society. Maybe the working-off was starting right now.

     Rickard opened the fridge door, found a single can of beer, pulled open the metal tab and drank thirstily. He noted teenage girls frolicking on the sand and glanced at Wade. "Good view from here, Tommy. Some lovely young flesh for you to drool over, huh?"

     Wade smiled weakly with a face not washed in a month. "Oh, I take little notice of the girls. You get used to seeing them after a while."

     Rickard finished the beer, crushed the tin and tossed it into a cracked washbasin.
He sat in a chair facing Tommy and hunched forward, forearms resting on thighs.

     "Don't give me that crap, pal. You can't handle girls. You want them but you lose out. You've always been the same so don't spout shit to your old pal, huh?"

     Tommy shuddered inside. In four years, maybe five, he had not seen Rickard for Frank had been sent down for abusing a local thirteen-year-old girl. Rickard was like that: seldom chancing his luck with a hard man, much preferring to pray on wayward girls and commit armed hold-ups. They were his specialities.

     Rickard went to the window, rubbed away dirt from a pane to give him better view.
     "Still doing the same things, Tommy? Stealing what you can, where you can, yet still wishing you could make big bucks?" He snickered at the troubled look on Tommy's face. "Don't look so damned shocked. I'm not here to hurt you. We were pals once - isn't that right?"

     "Yeah, that's right." The words croaked from Tommy's dry throat. Dry from fear, and a foreboding of what was to come.

     Rickard glanced round the room and noted the painted walls where the once lemon-colours had aged to jaded puce. The gray ceiling lampshade, busted on one side, was hanging close to the bulb.

     "Is living in this dump the best you can do?"

     "It's okay for me because I don't need much: just a place to lay my head."

     Rickard returned to the chair. "You know I did time?"

     "Yeah, I heard."

     "Why didn't you visit me?"

     Tommy shrugged skeletal shoulders. "I hate being near a slammer, Frank. If I went inside I feel I would never get out. I wanted to see you but I couldn't bring myself to call, and I can't write so you got no letter."

     Rickard's smile did not reach his slate grey eyes. "I know what you mean, pal. It's easy when you're inside to think you'll never get out. Every minute of every day seems an hour and hours seem longer than days. I felt hemmed in, but I was lucky: I did four and a half years instead of ten. And you can get longer than that when you molest girls. Hell, I did not molest the lying little bitch! She got what she wanted and when I refused to pay for it she squealed to her pa. I was shopped, see?" Rickard's face turned sour. "I spent over four lousy years behind bars for something I wasn't guilty of. That's why I hate teenage girls. But one day soon I'll find a young dish and I'll make her pay for my time inside." His gaze went back to the window, then to Wade. "However, I won't be looking for a girl here because too many people know I'm out. I've taken a chance coming here but when I heard you were still around I thought I'd give you a call."

     "Why come see me? There's nothing I can do for you."

     Rickard laughed, a weird clucking sound as though he were choking on water. "On the contrary, there's plenty you can do. Remember the old days when we hit gas stations?" He nodded when he saw Wade did remember. "We made bucks and we had us excitement. I chose the hits and you drove the car - and we were never caught." Rickard smiled, his mouth curling downward to the left. "You know what? I never met a guy who could handle a car like you can. You're an ace when it comes to stealing cars and driving them."

     Wade's hands clenched. He knew what Rickard had in mind, had guessed it the moment he saw Rickard at the door. "I can't do stickups anymore, Frank. I don't have the nerve."

     "You don't need nerve. I do the job - you do the driving."

     Rickard saw Tommy had slipped fast downhill; he would have trouble weighing one hundred and twenty pounds for his ribs were showing against his tee shirt. Tommy needed convincing and Rickard knew exactly what was required. He brought out a small wad of bills from his coat inner pocket and saw Wade's eyebrows twitch.

     "What do you say to a handful of dough? Maybe you could use some, huh?"

     Tommy nodded, and shoved a hand through his thick sand-coloured hair."Yeah, I could sure use some."

     Rickard peeled off ten five-dollar bills and dropped them on the bed. His nose wrinkled at the foul smell of the bedsheets. "There's fifty bucks. For that fifty you snatch a car then we head east and do some living."

     "I don't have the..."

     "Are you dumb enough to turn down fifty bucks? No, I don't think you are. We can get more, so much more. Where do you think I got this dough from, huh? You think I got it from a printing machine?"

     "You got it playing poker."

     Rickard grinned. "That's right, I was so good that they banned me from the casinos. Huh, the guys wouldn't even play against me in the slammer." He glanced round the decrepit apartment. "Do you owe rent?"

     Wade eyed the notes. "Yeah, I owe two weeks but I can't pay it because I'm having a run of bad luck."

     Rickard leaned forward. "I'll pay the rent to put you in front for one month. In return, you grab a car and we leave town. We pull a few jobs and see how things go. Come on, what do you say?"

     Tommy Wade licked his lips, thought of his own impossible financial position, hesitated, and reached for the money.

     Frank Rickard smiled. Tommy and he were partners again.



                                                  Allenby
                                                   Idaho
                                                       
                    
Deputy Sheriff Joe Gabriel was taking it easy in the crowded town centre with thumbs tucked in his gun belt, glad his shift was ending. The afternoon sun was blistering hot and Gabriel sought shade under the blue canopy outside Morgans' Beer Parlor. To Gabriel, every working day was the same as the last one: slow, desultory and wholly uninteresting. Mostly, his duty consisted of giving warnings to the odd drunk or picking up a dropped parcel for an elderly person.
     He sighed - nothing exciting happened in Allenby - well, not since the bank robbery. His eyebrows rose at the memory of that hold-up. Three hundred thousand dollars taken and the hold-up man escaped. That robbery sure shook the local police force. Personnel transferred out and the county governors cursed that such a heinous crime had defiled their territory.
     Gabriel sighed again at the thought of having three hundred grand. He stared at the worn sidewalk boards beneath his boots. If he had that much money he would never wear a police uniform again. He would sit back and let some other officer patrol the baking hot streets. And there would be no more listening to the abrupt tones of Sheriff Webster. Gabriel thought again of that robbery. Webster had taken the brunt of the blame, although it was not his fault, and since that infamous day the sheriff had run his department with a fist of iron.

     "How are you, Deputy Gabriel?"

     Gabriel turned to see ninety-five-year-old Clem Lee, who still had the capacity to drink whisky as if it were water. "Howdy, Clem. Ain't it time for your siesta?"

     Clem's weather-beaten face crinkled in a smile, showing a mouth with no teeth. "I'm calling into Morgan's for a drop of Jack Daniels whisky." Clem chuckled. "I have to admit that Jack and I have been drinking partners for a long time."

     Gabriel watched Clem shuffle into the parlor. Clem was indeed proof that a man could be pickled one hundred percent alcohol and still live. Gabriel sniffed at pleasant beer odours seeping from the bar. He realised suddenly he was thirsty. He turned away and spotted Deputy Sheriff Ganford Raynes ambling along the sidewalk in his direction. Raynes, a newcomer to Allenby had impressed his fellow officers and Gabriel subscribed to that assessment. Raynes was young; he was single; he was smart, with no air of smugness, and most noticeable of all - Raynes was black.

     "Black as hell!" said another officer, "yet with a manner that's pure gold."

     "Howdy Ganford, kinda hot ain't it?"

     Raynes smiled, showing white teeth. "It is warm."

     "Warm?" Gabriel wondered how Raynes could look so cool in scorching weather. There was no bead of sweat on him. Tall - around six feet three and weighing two hundred and thirty pounds, Ganford stood as though astride an Alaskan peak. He glanced at his own wristwatch. "It's almost four o'clock, Joe. I'll take over now."
 
     Gabriel nodded thanks and idled back to police headquarters.



                                            Parson Crossing
                                                  Idaho
                                                  

After leaving Levin, Lennox spent more time in Montana calling at towns on his list but finding no further news of Amy. He knew the trail was fading in the Montana dust and he motored into Idaho and reached his junction of decision at Parson Crossing.
     Did he follow the trail west and head for Seattle or did he swing south and head for Allenby? There was solid reason for his taking the latter route for the ink stamped marks on the photos of Amy and Johnny showed the date, 1959, and the letters 'Al' with the rest of the mark being illegible. The letters could could be part of Allenby.   
There was no point driving west if the answer to Amy's disappearance lay closer at hand.

     Lennox studied his map again and tried to put himself in the shoes of the couple he was trailing. Did they travel south to Allenby or did they head for Seattle? He pulled over to the side of the highway and rested, taking in the distant blue-grey humps of the Carlton Mountains as they intermingled and danced in a heat haze. He studied the map again. The route to Allenby littered with fizzled out mining towns. From here, he could see a far-off river gushing and sparkling in the sun.

     Should he try Allenby or should he head west? The heat got to him and for some minutes he dozed, then jerked awake having dreamt of a lost Amy calling for his help.
 
     Lennox rubbed his eyes, switched on the engine and drove off.

                                            End of Chapter Three