Farley’s mouth formed a grim line as he took out a hunting knife that would have made Rambo proud and began cleaning his nails with the tip of the blade. Like Rambo might have had needed a manicure. The move was very effective. My first thought was how much it would hurt when the blade slid into my abdomen, pushing easily past the muscle tissue and through those ovaries with which I had no intention of procreating. Then Farley looked past me and stilled. With the reluctance of a man who forgot to take his Viagra before his weekly visit with his favorite prostitute, he slipped the blade back into its sheath.
He must have seen Garrett parked in the distance, not that I dared take my eyes off him to check. He reached over and grabbed a jacket.
“I don’t have anything else to say.”
“’Cause you’re a big fat liar?” I asked. It was a fair question. That scum-of-the-universe Earl Walker was alive.
A wave of anger washed over him. He probably didn’t like to be called fat. I giggled, but because I wasn’t stupid, I did it on the inside. On the outside, I raised my brows, waiting for an answer.
“No, because Earl Walker is dead.”
I nodded in understanding. “Possibly. Or it could be you’re just a big fat liar.”
His free hand curled into a white-knuckled fist, but his face remained neutral. All things considered, he was pretty good. Probably played a lot of poker. “I have a meeting.”
He forced his way past me even though I was blocking the door, his shoulder hitting mine in a desperate act of machismo.
I called out to him as he stalked to his truck. “Is it the weekly Big Fat Liars Anonymous meeting?” Nothing. He climbed in and slammed the door, but his window was down, so I took another pot shot. Mostly because I could. “Big Fat Liars bridge club?”
He glared as his engine roared to life.
“A Big Fat Liars Tea and Recognition Ceremony?” When he pulled the gearshift into drive, I shouted, “Don’t forget to stick out your pinkie!” Teas were so tedious.
After he drove off, I glanced over at Garrett. He’d exited his vehicle and was leaning against it, his legs crossed at the ankles. For once, I was glad he was there, but I refused to let him know that. I climbed into Misery and called Cook.
“Are you still alive?” she asked.
“Barely. This one liked big knives.”
Her startled gasp sounded in the phone. “Like Rambo’s?”
“Exactly.” Either she was getting better at this, or we really did have ESPN. “And even though he wouldn’t give me the time of day if my life depended on it, he knew one thing for certain.”
“Big knives are scary?”
“Earl Walker is alive.”
The phone was silent for a moment; then she said, “Wow, I’m not sure what to say. I mean, Reyes said he was, but—”
“I know. I don’t know what to think either.”
“So, Earl’s girlfriend, the dental assistant, switches dental records so the cops think it’s really him,” she said, thinking out loud.
“Yes, and Earl picks someone with the same general facial structure and build, murders him, puts him in the trunk of his car and burns it.”
“And he makes sure Reyes is arrested for his murder,” she said.
“Then kills his girlfriend one week after Reyes is convicted.”
“So, was this Farley Scanlon with the big knife an accessory?”
“That part’s not quite as clear,” I said, sliding my key into the ignition, “but he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt Earl Walker is still alive.”
“Well, we have to find him. We have to get Reyes out of jail. Well, really out of jail. Not just escaped out of jail.”
“I agree. I’m going to grab something to eat at this little café—”
“Oh, you love small-town cafés.”
“I do. I’ll be back in a couple.”
“You know, I had a thought about that,” she said, her voice hesitant.
“Yeah?” I pulled out of Farley’s dirt drive. Circling back around, I missed dismembering Garrett by a hairsbreadth as he jumped back into his truck, then offered me a questioning glare in my rearview. It made me smile.
“Yeah. Why don’t you ride with Garrett and we can pick up Misery tomorrow?”
“Why would I do that?” I asked, appalled.
“Because you haven’t slept in fourteen days.”
“I’m good, Cook. I just need a little coffee.”
“Just make sure he stays close. And make sure Rambo doesn’t come after you. They always come after you.”
I tried to be offended, but just couldn’t muster the energy. “Okay.”
“How was your visit with Kim?”
After a long, labored sigh, I said, “She was really happy when I got there. I’m pretty sure she was suicidal when I left.”
“You do have that effect on people.”
* * *
I pulled into the lot of a small café with about two customers to its name. Garrett pulled into the other side of the lot, turned out his lights, and waited. He had to be hungry, but no way was I inviting him in. He could bite my sexy tailed ass.
“Sit wherever, honey,” a round waitress in jeans and a country blouse said when I walked in.
A bell overhead sounded as I closed the door. The café had all the country charm I loved with none of the commercialism. Antique kitchen items together with farming equipment hung on the walls and sat perched on barn wood shelves. Vintage tins punctuated the décor, everything from saltine crackers to sewing oil, and the nostalgia brought back memories from my childhood. Or it would have, had I been born in the thirties.
It did bring back the memories I’d gleaned off a man who’d crossed through me when I was a child. He’d raised sheep in Scotland, and castrating sheep is a big part of that occupation. Unfortunately, once something is seen, it cannot be unseen.
After a few minutes, the bell sounded again and a tall bond enforcement agent with a fetish for midget porn strolled in like he owned the place.
“Hello, handsome,” the woman said, making me grin. “Sit wherever you’d like.”
Garrett nodded, strolled to a corner table at the opposite side of the diner, and sat facing me.
“What can I get you, hon?” the waitress asked, holding pen and pad at the ready.