It was late in the morning when he found the service station. It was a
small, lonely, isolated place that sported two pumps and cramped looking
lube rack. Through the open door of the washroom, Nick could see the
shoes and coverall legs of the attendant as they stuck out from under a
Ford. Nick found a dime in his pocket and treated himself to a cold
drink, while he tried to figure out where he was.

Across the highway a marker told him that he was on Route 87. He pulled
a Pennsylvania map – not entirely sure he was in Pennsylvania – from the
rack inside the door and, unfolding it, found Everett. The route 87 ran
through the town, but it was difficult to puzzle out whether he was
north or south of the place. He refolded the map and stuffed it into his
pocket for further reference, and glanced around. On the far side of the
office was a door marked “MEN”, that was just what he wanted. His
clothes, his hair and his face needed a few emergency repairs before he
could confront the population of Everett.

He went in.

In a mirror, with most of the backing peeling away, he discovered that
Nick Danson was rather good looking, if you overlooked the damage. His
blocky, rugged face was smeared with dirt and dried blood, with a slight
stubble shadowing his lean cheeks. The mop of tangled black hair had a
lot of red splotches in it from the blood he’d lost. He filled the bowl
with tepid water and began soaping his face and hands vigorously, even
though it hurt. After washing most of the blood from his hair, he found
a comb in a pocket and whipped some order into the matted, dark mass.

The attendant was standing at the counter when Nick came out of the
restroom. He was an elderly man with receding grey hair, a hawk nose and
grizzled features set firmly into a face that looked like a dried apple.
He grinned and the gold cap on an eye tooth flashed dully.

“Thought I heard someone in here,” he said around the chew that pouched
his cheek. “Car break down on ye?”

“I’m walking,” Nick told him.

“Yer a long way from any kind ‘o town, son … say,” he said suddenly
noticing the scratch marks. “Y’ been fightin’ a bobcat?”

Nick shook his head and fished for a lie. “Got drunk last night and into
a brawl. My friends pitched me out of the car in a moment of
playfulness.” He hoped he had put enough bitterness into the explanation
to make it ring true.

The old man chuckled softly. “Durned shame, son. Y’from around here?”

“New York,” Nick lied. “I’m stayin’ in Everett.”

“Everett,” the old man cackled. “Hell, that’s fifteen miles south
o’here, or better.” He paused, swiveled his bird-like head and spat a
jet of brown juice through the open door. “Tell y’what, son, seein’s how
you’ll have t’walk it down there. Ain’t no one goin’ that way, I know
of. S’pose y’could thumb it, but it’d be hard. Lonely road, y’see. If
y’don’t mind waitin’ till after supper, I’ll run y’down to town. Drop
y’off where y’want to go.”

“Hadn’t thought of waiting so long,” Nick told him. “What would I do?
Just sit here?”

“Hell no! In th’ back room there’s a cot. Been sleepin’ there myself
sometimes, since m’wife passed along back in ’53. December of ’53 it
was. I’ll wake ye, come supper.”

“Thanks.”

With the hunger gnawing at his stomach, Nick took a cellophane wrapped
pie from the counter and began eating it. He handed the old man a
quarter.

“S’funny,” the old man said, ringing up the sale, “ye don’t smell like a
drunk. Ought t’be some likker smell to y’son.”

“I was drinking vodka,” Nick countered, wondering how he had pulled that
from a mind that could not remember his past. He took another bite of
the pie as the old man gave him his change.

“Bad stuff, vodka. That’s th’ slop them Russian hassocks drink, ain’t
it?”

“I think so.”

“Well, it ain’t for Andy Hocum. Them hassocks can have it.”

Nick was saved from further conversation by a new station wagon pulling
into the pumps. A young woman, dressed in a suit, cut the engine and
honked the horn briefly. Andy waved and headed for the door.

“Get some shut eye, son. I’ll wake y’ later.”

“Thanks, Andy.”

He finished the last of the pie and watched Andy stick a hose into the
wagon’s gas tank, then go around front to wipe off the windshield.

Nick cleared the pie wrapper off the small counter and tossed it into a
box as he headed for the backroom. After closing the door, he fell onto
the bed and a moment later into the well of sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Detective Lieutenant Nolan Brice braked the Fairlane at 2312 Weisman
Drive and got out quickly. For a moment, he wasn’t sure whether Beth
Danson would be awake, but it was a long drive into headquarters and he
didn’t want to go back to a dismal office, or even a lonely bachelor
apartment. He glanced at his watch. 9:30. He shrugged and decided to try
it.

She answered his knock almost at once, smiling him into the front room.
For a moment, he allowed his eyes to finger her body, letting them spear
through the wrap around robe and the flimsy nightgown to where warm
flesh ebbed and flowed against the sigh of silk. Her brown hair was
bed-tangled and most of the makeup was gone from her face, but Beth
Danson was a woman who had the unconscious ability to look beautiful
under any circumstances. Nolan felt a thunder in his veins as he tossed
his hat on the sofa.

“Coffee, Nolan?” she asked.

He nodded and they went into the kitchen. “We found the Peters’ kid, so
that ends another case.” He dropped to a chair and watched her fixing
the coffee. “You’re up early, Beth.”

A shadow crossed her face momentarily. “I had a dream, Nolan. A bad
dream.”

“About Nick?”

She nodded and set a cup of coffee before him. The tears were close
again, but Brice hadn’t seen them fall over Nick for a long while. It
was ridiculous the way she mooned over the guy, but there was no
understanding women.

“You ought to stop dwelling on him, honey,” Nolan told her. “It doesn’t
do any good.”

“He’s alive,” she said, softly.