Chapter 42

After I'd made my phone calls, I sat in the parking lot staring at the door of the library. Charnock was still in there, doing whatever he was doing. I wasn't going to confront him in there, not with all those people around. For that matter I'd as soon not mess up the books – so many people today make it a point not to read, but I've got a great reverence for the printed word. I had to formulate a plan of some sort.

But I had time for that. I'd gotten Davey and her family out of the way, I'd put a watch on her house, and I had Charnock in my sights. There wasn't much he could do to her now, and I suspected it would take him a little while to figure out that she wasn't a sitting duck anymore. But I didn't have unlimited time. When he did realize it, he could just shift targets – most of the people who worked at the abortion mill were women, and vulnerable to a guy like him.

I hadn't had any bright ideas by the time Charnock came out and got into his truck. It was getting toward evening and I was beginning to think about eating again, but I had to put that idea on hold while he drove south on San Mateo. He worked his way south and east, and I guessed that he was heading home. I was right – before too long I was parked a few houses away on Buena Ventura, wondering what he was doing in his house.

While I wondered I got out and got my fixings, and finished off the rolls and the sausage, and the second bottle of Coke. It was good, and I knew it would carry me for a while. It began to get dark, and after a bit I knew that I wouldn't be able to see him if he came out – the nearest streetlight was too far away from his house. His interior lights had already come on, but I didn't see him moving around – nor did I expect to. Occasionally you can see someone's shadow against the blinds at night, but it's not as common in real life as it is in the Sherlock Holmes stories. Certainly I've never happened to be watching when the shadow showed someone using a knife on his victim.

Finally the light in the living room went out. I couldn't see the bedroom from where I was parked – it was on the other side of the house, toward the back – but I figured that if the living room light was out he'd be going to bed. I angled my watch to catch the faint light coming in the windshield, and saw that it was just after 8. I waited a few minutes, then got out of the Blazer.

One of the first things I'd done when I bought it was to disconnect the door switches, so the dome light didn't come on when I opened the door. That's an old cop trick, to keep people from seeing the sudden flare of light when a cop's trying to be stealthy. I closed the door softly, to avoid the usual thump, and headed for Charnock's driveway. Usually my boot heels knock on the pavement when I walk, but I learned as a kid how to be nearly silent in boots, and even I could barely hear my footsteps as I walked carefully along. I had to watch for pieces of glass in the road, and stray pebbles, but I was able to keep an eye on Charnock's house – if he suddenly came out, I could act as though I were just walking along rather than sneaking up on him.

When I got to his driveway I sidled up to his pickup. I looked into the camper shell but it was too dark to make anything out, and I hadn't brought my Maglite from the Blazer. Working along the side of the truck away from the front door, I went around to the passenger door and looked in. It was again too dark to see much, but the seat looked empty. If there was anything in the floor I couldn't tell. I'd have to find a chance the next day and look in again when it was daylight. I looked for a moment at the garage door. I hadn't had time yesterday to look in the garage, and I wondered what was in there. Without any windows to allow prying eyes, he could have pretty much anything in there – the stereotypical meth lab, a torture chamber, a printing press, bales of weed, stacks of porn magazines, stolen computers, cases of Coke, pretty much anything.

I walked quietly back to the Blazer and climbed back in. Sitting in my seat I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, and came to a decision. I fired up the engine and drove off.

The Marriott hotel is on I-40 just west of Louisiana. I pulled into the parking lot, went inside, and stood at the front desk. When the desk clerk came up I asked for Davey's room, using her name. "But she might have registered as Mrs. Joseph McCullough."

Hotels aren't government agencies – they deal with ordinary people who aren't hiding from visitors. The clerk told me the room number and I rode the elevator up. Davey's protection wasn't going to be a reticent desk clerk, but the fact that Charnock had no idea where she'd gone. For all he knew, she might have gone on vacation to San Francisco, or to Santa Fe to visit a friend, or on a trip with Habitat for Humanity to build houses in France. Even if he thought to check hotels and motels, the chance that he'd find Davey before I nailed him was very small.

I knocked on Davey's door, standing in front of the peephole so she could recognize me. I heard muffled voices on the other side of the door. I couldn't make out the words, but it sounded like a man and a woman's. No doubt Davey was reassuring her husband. It really wasn't long before the door opened, and Davey invited me in.

I took my hat off as I entered, and set it on the round table that sat in the middle of the "living room." Davey waited while I did that, and then said, "Darvin, I'd like you to meet my husband Joseph. This is Darvin Carpenter, the man who's taking care of us."

"Good to meet you," he said. He was taller than I am by an inch or two, and thin – he was a contrast to Davey, with her short rounded softness. I shook his hand, noting that he was a bit wary – good for him.

"And this is our son Ernie," Davey said.

"Hey, Ernie," I said, shaking his hand. "How old are you?"