Chapter 11
IN Boise Police Headquarters it had been a quiet day. Sergeant John McKay was idly shifting papers on his desk, awaiting the six o'clock shift change. Bill Tentchoff had left his radio in the corner to fetch two coffees. A breaking and entering on Tenth Street and a drug-peddling incident on the University of Idaho's campus had provided the only excitement. There were some days when John thought he didn't earn his money, and this was one of them.
Bill returned with the coffee and put one of the white plastic cups on John's desk.
"Anything happening?" he asked.
"Not a thing. The whole state's given up crime. By next year we'll be out of a job."
Bill laughed. "No such luck. We'd be put on traffic duty. There will always be a need there." He returned to his seat by the radio.
McKay scratched idly at his left arm, pushing his rolled-up sleeve back to get at the itch. The Boise climate was so dry that some days he itched all over. He had moved to Boise eight years ago and had never got used to it. On his desk was a list of the numbers and descriptions of the week's stolen cars, which Tentchoff had relayed to all stations twenty minutes before. Just routine. Ninety percent of his job was just that—routine. He and Marg had been pleased at his promotion to sergeant two years ago, but now he half regretted the move. Longer hours and less exercise. Already he was developing a policeman's paunch. McKay furtively patted his stomach, feeling its roundness and hoping that Bill would not notice. He had become increasingly sensitive over the last few months. Marg had been ill with a bladder infection in the summer, and he had foregone his customary fishing trip to look after Paul.
The only real exercise he had had in the last few months, apart from walking to the station in the morning, was when he had had a call, two hours after he had gone off duty, to join in the hunt for the group who had taken that airline for a quarter of a million. He had cursed when he got the call. There had been a good movie on television, and he was just settling down in front of it with a beer. Secretly, he had been glad. Boise, though a fair-sized city, was generally law- abiding, and any excitement was worth having. So he had gone off into the wilds to set up a roadblock on some God-forsaken back road. Where it was he couldn't remember now. Still it had been good to get out and moving. Not that they'd achieved much. The only person he'd questioned that night had been a rather drunk logger. He had considered giving him a ticket, but it would have just meant getting a doctor and blood samples. Anyway, he had been after bigger game. But whoever it was had slipped through the net. Everyone had been very jumpy for about a week, then interest had died away. Sure, the entire Idaho force was still supposed to be on the alert, but McKay knew what that meant. About the same as the week's stolen car list. If it bumps into you—book it. About ten "suspicious character" calls had been dealt with, but to the locals out there in the boondocks a suspicious character was someone from the next village.
McKay looked across at Tentchoff and smiled. Standards were changing. Eight years ago if he'd looked like young Bill, mustache and sideburns, he would have been told to go back to Oregon. Five years from now the super would probably have hair to his shoulders. But not me, thought McKay, not me.
"Car five-oh to HQ." The radio roared into life, filling the small room.
"Come in five-oh," Tentchoff replied into the mike, flipping a switch with his right hand.
"I'm on Route 80 going north, three miles from Parma, blue sixty-seven or sixty-eight Ford station wagon, license plate Utah B 6705, speeding. Have just pulled him over and am going to investigate. There are three occupants. Over."
"Roger. Will await your clear." Routine, twenty times a day. Ever since three years ago, when a patrolman had been gunned down when he stopped a car, the rule was that patrols had to report when they stopped anyone.
McKay ran his eye down the stolen-vehicle list. Nothing on the car. He sipped at his coffee and looked at the wall clock over above the radio. Five forty. Twenty minutes more and he could return to Marg and Paul and a decent meal. Perhaps there was a good movie at the new Plaza out by the interstate.
"Car five-oh to HQ. Everything OK. Gave the driver an on-the-spot fine. Proceeding to Nyassa."
"Roger, five-oh. Good night."
Bill flipped the switch and turned to McKay. "Can I have a cigarette, John? I'm all out."
McKay tossed the pack of Marlboros over to him.
Tentchoff was lighting a cigarette when the radio crackled.
"Lowman to Headquarters. Lowman to Headquarters."
"Come in, Lowman." Bill's radio voice had certain distinct differences from his normal speaking voice. It assumed a crispness and a calculated calmness that was normally absent.
"Yeh, hi. This is Travers here at Lowman." McKay could see Tentchoff pull a face. The police out of the city had no sense of radio procedure.
"Go ahead. We're receiving you clear."
"Well, there's this guy who has set off up the Payette about two hours ago. Dick Rogers, the forest warden at South Fork, saw him pass. He looked as though he was going camping. A tall guy, about five eleven, maybe a hundred and eighty pounds. Dick said he was definitely alone. Anyway, what I want to know is, well, what should I do?"
"Roger, Lowman. Please await instructions." Bill turned to McKay. "Well, Sergeant, what should he do?"
John pondered. He knew that Lowman had only one policeman, and to ask him to set off up the Payette at this time of day would not be popular. Still, it was unusual to find anyone setting off into the Sawtooths in October, and especially alone. He couldn't just ignore it. Sure as hell it would be another idiot whose idea of fun was to shiver alone in the mountains.
"Ask him how soon he could get a group together to follow the guy. He probably won't go very far, and if they can take horses, they might meet up before he breaks camp tomorrow."
Tentchoff relayed the question.
"Well, I guess we could get on the trail at daybreak tomorrow." McKay could hear the reluctance in Travers' voice.
"How many deputies can you muster?" Tentchoff asked.
"Oh, three, or maybe four. I guess we could get horses, though they're more trouble than they're worth in the upper Payette. Dick Rogers can guide us."
"Okay, let us know—" started Tentchoff, his radio manner breaking down under Travers' influence.
"Hey, wait a minute, Bill," McKay broke in. "Ask him if he has a list of the people who were in the area when the money was dropped."
Travers' reply was in the affirmative.
"OK. Tell him that if he meets up with the guy to ask him for identification and check it out. If the name tallies with one on the list, do nothing. Go back down the trail, wait up a bit, and then follow him. We've no proof if we don't get the money."
Tentchoff passed the instructions.
McKay was not finished. He moved over to the radio and took the microphone.
"Sergeant McKay here. If you don't meet up with him, keep looking. If he's just a walker, he won't go too fast, and he won't be trying to evade you."
"Do you want us to stay out overnight?" Travers was obviously not too happy.
"Yes. Make sure of him before you return. Any chance of your getting out tonight?"
"None at all. It'll take us at least a couple of hours to get our gear together. And we could walk past him in the dark."
That made sense, thought McKay. He had an intuition that this walker was more than he appeared.
"OK. Well, be careful. Don't arouse his suspicions, if possible. Make out like a hunting party. That's all." He left the radio and returned to his desk.
Tentchoff signed Lowman Station off and entered the call in the log.
"Poor bastard," he said. "Now he's got to get his ass in motion and chase off into the wilderness."
"You know, Bill, I envy him. Underneath, he probably enjoys it. Get a few of the boys together, take along a couple of bottles of rye, and head up the hills."
McKay stretched and yawned. The atmosphere in the small office
was smoky. Through the only window he could just see the hills of the Boise River Valley. The first settlers had come that way, dropping down out of the lower slopes into the fertile plain, tired and dusty, eager to build and settle. Deep inside, though, they had not wanted to stop and grow fat, and some of them never had. They had continued west on the Oregon Trail. And I've come back East, thought McKay, looking for something. But it sure isn't here.
The clock said five to six. Another shift over. Back tomorrow at ten. Paul would be home from school and dinner would be waiting. Perhaps he would take the family out to Lucky Peak Reservoir for the weekend.
It was time he started getting out more. McKay lit another cigarette. Life was shitty at times. You get into something, and by the time you realize that it's not for you, you're trapped.
Tentchoff had finished his writing. He went to the door and took his coat off the peg.
"Aren't you going home tonight, John?" He laughed. "You look stuck to that desk."
McKay eased himself up. He smiled. "I thought I'd begun to grow roots." He could hear Evans, his replacement, in the outer office chatting to the stenographer.
He came in smiling cheerily.
"Hi, John. Hey, Bill. Well, you guys had a busy day? Lots of excitement?"
"It's all there," said McKay, pointing to his desk. "Just routine. I'll be glad when the students get back and we get a bit more trouble on the campus." He picked up his hat. He stood in the doorway, half in and half out, about to mention the call from Lowman, then decided against it. It was all in the notes. "Just another routine day," he said, and with a wave he left the office. Passing the stenographer, who was powdering her face, he came out into the dull, tiled corridor leading to the exit.