Free Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 08 - Winning Can Be Murder by Bill Crider

by the jail to tell Hack to get on his computer and see whether anyone in the county had bought a .32 pistol recently.
    “Say, within the last couple of weeks.  That might give us a place to start.”
    “Ever’body in Clearview already has a gun,” Lawton pointed out.  “Don’t you watch TV?  This is Texas.”
    Hack said, “Besides, people don’t all buy their guns at Wal-Mart.  They buy ’em at flea markets.  If I was goin’ to buy one, that’s where I’d get it.”
    “I thought you liked using that computer of yours,” Rhodes said.  “And while you’re at it, since everybody already has a gun, you might as well check that out, too.  Check everyone who’s got a .32 pistol registered.”
    “I’ll check it out.  I never said I wouldn’t.  You want me to send Ruth out there to the Gottschalk place to back you up?  You always get in trouble when you don’t get back-up.”
    “You can send her if she’s not busy,” Rhodes said, but he didn’t really think he’d need her.  He didn’t even plan to get out of his car.  How much trouble could he get in?
     
    M rs. Wilkie lived in a little brick house in Milsby, a tiny community that had once been a town with its own school and post office and businesses.  There was hardly a trace of it left now, just a few homes and some vacant buildings.  The school was used as a community center when it was used at all.
    Rhodes switched on his headlights as he drove by Mrs. Wilkie’s house in the rain.  It was only the middle of the afternoon, but the combination of the clouds and the rain made the day as dark as early evening.  Rhodes thought that if Rapper were really camping out down by the lake, he’d be pretty wet by now.
    Rhodes didn’t like camping himself.  He preferred the comforts of a real bed and central heat and air to sleeping on an inflatable mattress in the weather provided by nature.  But if you were in Rapper’s line of work, you didn’t necessarily want to check into the nearest motel.
    Rhodes turned off on an unpaved dirt road made slick by the rain.  He drove slowly and carefully; it wouldn’t do to slide off into the ditch that ran alongside the road.  If he did, he wouldn’t be able to get out by himself.
    The turn into the Gottschalk property was marked by a cattle guard.  There was no gate, and the cattle guard ratcheted under the tires as Rhodes drove across it.
    He didn’t relish the idea of driving down the rutted road that led to the lake.  It was dangerously muddy and the rain was still falling.  Even more embarrassing than sliding into the ditch would be getting stuck in the mud.  However, he’d said he’d check on things, and it was too late to back out now.  Besides, there was no place to turn around.  That would mean getting off the road, and getting off the road, such as it was, would be even worse than staying on it.
    So Rhodes kept on.  The trick to driving in the mud was to keep going, slowly but steadily.  If you stopped, you couldn’t get any traction, and you were likely to dig yourself a hole that you couldn’t get out of. 
    At the top of a little hill, Rhodes looked out over the lake, which of course wasn’t really a lake at all but simply a large stock tank.
    Because there hadn’t been much rain for several months, the lake was not as large as it sometimes was.  There was a large muddy margin between the bank and the water, which was being dimpled by the rain and riffled by the wind.
    Down at the bottom of the hill near the lake, Rhodes saw the tents, two cheap one-man jobs probably bought at a discount store.  The motorcycles were beside the tents with canvas covers thrown over them.
     Sure enough, Rhodes thought.  Rapper was back in town.
     

Chapter Seven
     
    R hodes started down the hill.  He was sorry that Mrs. Wilkie had been right about the motorcycles, since the presence of Rapper was going to complicate things considerably.
    Or maybe not.  Maybe he could tie the whole