Free Bonegrinder by John Lutz Page B

whole north shore. I got us reservations farther south, near a place called Colver.”

TWELVE
    C OLVER WAS QUIET NEAR midnight. Wintone was sitting at his desk, dressed only in pants and a T-shirt, sipping a glass of ice water and wishing he could feel like sleeping. Only minutes after he’d lain on the cot in the back room, the familiar uneasiness had made him rise, pad barefoot about the office as if seeking something.
    Finally he’d decided to forget about going back to bed for the time being, and he tried to do some paperwork at his desk.
    That didn’t work either. He was too tired to concentrate, yet his eyes refused to close on their dry weariness. So in the shadowed soft light from the desk lamp, he’d paced about the office for a while, tending to small things that needed no tending; then he sat back down at his desk to wish for exhaustion.
    Automatically, he had tuned his citizens’ band radio to emergency channel nine, and he was seated at his desk with his face buried in his large hands when the call came through.
    “Breaker ten seventeen!” the voice said loudly, a surprise from the barely hissing speaker. “This is Molasses. I’m on the lake road an’ there’s somethin’ movin’ out in the water!”
    An operator named Rag Man asked excitedly what the something looked like. Wintone stretched an arm and adjusted the squelch control for better reception.
    “It’s dark an’ big, movin’ some hundred feet out along the bank. I’m followin’, but the road curves an’ sometimes I lose sight through the trees. Ten twenty-three.”
    Wintone was sitting at his desk attentively now, leaning forward. He knew who Molasses was: Cal Horton, a sawmill employee who drove an old tan pickup truck equipped with a CB radio. Horton was a reliable sort, a big, redheaded man, practical as he had to be with a wife and five kids.
    The speaker crackled. Wintone wished he had a transmitter so he could talk to Horton, but he had only the receiver and no CB unit in the patrol car. All he could do was sit, listen and agonize.
    “Breaker,” a new voice, a tenor, said. “Give us your ten twenty, Molasses.”
    “I’m on the lake road a half-mile or so south of Lynn Cove, headed away from the cove.”
    “Ten four, Molasses. This is Lancelot—we’ll try to join you.”
    “I’m tryin’ to stay with this thing, truckin’ along on this lovin’ bumpy road …”
    “Breaker, this is Rag Man—”
    “Ten six, Rag Man, I’m busy right now tryin’ to keep this buckin’ truck on the road while I take a hill. I lost sight of the blasted thing … if it weren’t for the moonlight … there it is!”
    Wintone stood up from the desk chair, inserted the tips of his fingers into his hip pockets and began to pace. He was glad Molasses was the type to use good sense. Horton would consider his wife and kids before rushing into anything. At least Wintone hoped he would.
    “I wish to Hades I could make out what it looked like,” Horton said. “It’s too far out, but it’s movin’ in a line right along the bank. Lost it again! Damn wheel went off the road—back on now.”
    “Breaker, Lancelot here. What’s your exact location now, Molasses? Ten twenty-three.”
    “I ain’t sure now. I been fightin’ to keep this heap on the road an’ not lose sight—”
    “Breaker, this is Rag Man. I’m on the lake road, Molasses—”
    “Ten six, Rag Man. Stand by, stand by, I’m busy …”
    Through the speaker Wintone could hear the roar and rattle of Horton’s ancient, laboring pickup truck.
    “The road bends away from the lake here,” Horton said. “I’m gonna lose sight of the thing behind a rise … can’t see it now. I’m parkin’ where the road starts to curve away an’ I’m gonna cut through the trees on foot to get closer. Ten twenty-three.”
    “Ten four, Molasses. You be careful, hear?”
    Don’t leave your truck, Wintone almost said aloud. He stood over the radio, rested a hand on it. The speaker was