Harry Dolan Read Online Free PDF Page A

sleeves of his white shirt rolled up.
    “I suppose you’ve already been shopping,” he said to Loogan. “You found a good shovel.”
    “Yes.”
    “I’ve got three in the garage, but all of them have handles that are five feet long. They’d be useless in a . . . narrow space.”
    “This one should work.”
    “We’ll have blisters before we’re through. I should have had you buy gloves.”
    “I did,” Loogan said. “Also water and sandwiches. And some potting soil and a bottle of weed-killer.”
    “What for?”
    “Camouflage. The cashier wanted to know if I was a gardener.”
    Kristoll laughed quietly, a single exhalation. “I made the right choice, calling you.”
    “We’ll see,” said Loogan. “For now, we need to think about the plan. You mentioned a field, but I don’t like the sound of that. Too exposed. A wooded area would be better.”
    “Not around here.”
    “No. Somewhere across town. Let’s give it some thought. In the meantime there’s one thing you’ll need to do for me.”
    Kristoll made a puzzled face. Loogan touched the sleeve of his dress shirt.
    “You’ll need to change your clothes.”
     
     
     
    The curtains of the study were closed, but when Kristoll was gone Loogan switched on a reading lamp beside one of the chairs and switched off the overhead light. He brought the lamp closer to the body and got down on one knee. He patted the man’s pockets, felt coins, no keys—Kristoll would have taken them in order to move the car. He shifted the body slightly so he could reach the back pockets. Found a handkerchief, no wallet.
    On impulse he held the back of his hand close before the man’s nose and mouth. No breath reached his skin. He laid two fingers on the inside of the man’s wrist. The flesh was neither warm nor cold. There was, of course, no pulse. Gingerly he picked up the man’s right hand and peered at the fingertips. There was red beneath the white of the nails. He lowered the hand to the floor and stood up. Realized he was trembling, his heart was racing.
    He scanned the body again, thinking there should be something more to look for. The man’s sock had fallen down around his right ankle. A patch of pale skin showed beneath the cuff of his pant leg. Loogan knelt and lifted the cuff. There was an indentation in the skin, a line that wound around the man’s calf, too deep and sharp to have been made by a sock.
    Loogan stood. He heard footsteps on the stairs—Kristoll had put on a pair of heavy hiking boots. He appeared now in the doorway of the study, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, unbuttoned, a white T-shirt underneath, a denim jacket open at the front.
    “I’ve thought of a place,” he said.

Chapter 4
    THE THIEF’S CAR WAS A SKY BLUE HONDA CIVIC WITH A HATCHBACK. IT had rust on the fenders and a crack in the windshield, but the suspension was good and the engine ran smoothly. Loogan drove it east and south toward the city, winding along beside the river. The rain had stopped.
    He reached the edge of the city and crossed the river and pointed the car northeast. Soon there were lights around him, shopping centers, gas stations. He could still change his mind, he thought. He owed nothing to Tom Kristoll. He could pull into any one of those parking lots. Abandon the car. Find a pay phone, call a cab, let it take him to the history professor’s house. Gather everything he needed—it would fit into a single suitcase. Another cab to the airport, the first flight out. In the morning he could be in a new city.
    He drove on, leaving the lights behind. Eventually he turned north, slowed, watched for a break in the trees. There were two wooden posts, a gravel drive between. After a short distance the drive widened out into a lot. Railroad ties marked the edges.
    He cut the engine, doused the headlights. The supplies were beside him on the passenger seat, and in the back were the shovel and a rake he had brought from Kristoll’s garage. He broke out a bottle of