Free Bloody River Blues by Jeffery Deaver Page A

Threaten him. Scare him a little.”
    “Would that work?”
    “It usually does. But I don’t want to do it. It’s a lot riskier than just, you know, taking care of him.”
    “You want more money. Is that what you’re saying?”
    “Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. It’s just a question of risk. Ten thousand and he’s dead. Twenty thousand and I find him, put pressure on him.”
    “Twenty?”
    “What do you want me to say? Nineteen ninety-five?”
    Lombro did not speak for a moment. He gazed at the newspaper, then closed his eyes and flipped his hand forward in a gesture of frustration. “All right.” He looked at Ralph Bales. “But I want your word that you won’t hurt him.”
    Ralph Bales frowned. “You didn’t say you didn’t want him hurt.”
    “I mean,” Lombro said, “you won’t kill him, will you?”
    Ralph Bales nodded and, looking straight at Lombro, said, “Of course not. I told you I wouldn’t.” He had found that when you look somebody in the eye, they will believe anything you tell them.
    THE CAR CRUISED past the camper slowly. By the time Pellam was out of the kitchenette and at the window it had turned off of River Road and was gone. He remained at the window, looking out through the blinds, which he now noticed could use a good cleaning.
    Maddox offered no night parking and Pellam was forced to keep the camper in this pathetic trailer park. The owners, Annie and Fred Bell, advertised fifty hookups and during some prior vacation seasons they might all have been used. But that would have been before the cement plant went in next door and gouged out five hundred yards of idyllic riverfront grassland, replacing it with bunkers and steel docks. The Bide-A-Wee trailer park was currently occupied by John Pellam’s Winnebago and two clusters of tenters who were obviously—and understandably—tiredof the picturesque view of Ochner Cement & Stone and were packing to leave.
    At first Pellam had not much cared about the emptiness. But that was before he was a witness in a murder case. Well, a sort-of witness. Now he wished for a little more anonymity. He looked at his watch. It was only 11:00 A.M. but he had already seen or heard four—no, make that five—cars slow as they cruised past the trailer court. He suspected the occupants were not checking out the Bide-A-Wee for upcoming vacation sojourns in Maddox but were more interested in him.
    Another car now stopped directly in front of the trailer. It was a beat-up old sedan, its fenders attached with gaffer tape. The driver was a shadowy form behind a grease-stained window. The condition of the car told him that this was not the cops come a-calling again.
    Pellam, who had been hacking away at the impossible crust of burnt chili, dried his hands and walked to the front of the Winnebago. He opened a map compartment beside the front door. This tiny space did contain maps, probably thirty of them, all limp and seam-torn. It also contained a Colt Peacemaker .45-caliber pistol. It had a steel barrel and rosewood grips. He lifted the gun out and thumbed open the cylinder cover.
    Pellam put the pistol on half-cock, loaded five of the six chambers, then eased the hammer down on the empty slot. He slipped the gun into his waistband, pulled on his bomber jacket and left the camper, striding toward the car.
    Why did everybody in Maddox have somber cars?
    The driver—Pellam did not recognize him—was a man of about forty with a square face, eyes staring evenly at him. Pellam had hoped that he would see Pellam coming to confront him and burn rubber to escape.
    The man shut off the engine and got out.
    Pellam’s hand casually went to the zipper of his jacket.
    The intruder was huge. He slammed the door with a loud bang. He kept staring at Pellam. Then he started across the street. He had a crew cut and folds of skin hung over his eyes.
    Pellam unzipped his jacket and stood by the roadside. His hand rested on his belt and he rubbed the buckle. With an index