Son of the Morning

One of the county scanners crackled to life. "Ah, attendant atBrasher’s service station reports a vagrant who refused to leave the premises and attacked him when he tried to make her leave."

Her? Conrad’s attention perked. After a moment, a county deputy somewhere in the night clicked his radio. "This is one-twelve, I’m in the area. Is the vagrant still there?"

"Negative. The guy isn’t hurt much, didn’t want any medics. "

"Ah, did he give a description?" "Female, dark-haired, approximate age twenty-five. Dark pants, blue shirt. Height five-ten, weight one-eighty,"

"Big woman," the deputy commented. "I’ll swing byBrasher’s and take his statement, but it’s probably nothing more than a scuffle."

And the attendant had probably lied, Conrad thought, throwing back the sheet and getting out of bed. He switched on a lamp, the light mellow and soothing, and unhurriedly began dressing. He wanted to give the deputy plenty of time to dutifully take the attendant’s statement and leave.

Five-ten, one-eighty? Possible, but it was equally likely the attendant had been the loser in the encounter, and he didn’t want to admit he’d been bested by a woman who wasn’t quite five-foot-four, and who weighed a hundred thirty-five pounds. It looked better if he added six inches and forty-five pounds to her size. The hair, the age, the clothes, were about right, so it was worth checking out.

He arrived at the service station an hour later. It was quiet, well aftermidnight , no other customers. Conrad pulled up to the gas pump with the sign "Pay Before Pumping" posted on the side, and walked toward the small, well-lit office. The attendant was on his feet, watching, the expression on his thin, ferrety face an incongruous mixture of suspicion and anticipation. He didn’t like Conrad’s looks, few people did, but at the same time he wanted an audience to listen to a retelling of his adventure.

Conrad took out his wallet as he walked, fishing out a twenty. He wanted information, not gas.

Seeing the money come out, the attendant relaxed. Conrad stepped inside and laid the twenty on the counter, but kept his hand on the bill when the attendant reached for it. "A woman was here tonight," he said. "The twenty is for answers to a few questions."

The attendant eyed the bill, then darted a glance back up at Conrad. "A twentyain’t much."

"Neither are my questions." Another glance, and the attendant decided it wouldn’t be smart to try to get more out of this ape. "What about her?" he mumbled sullenly, -"Describe her hair."

"Her hair?" He shrugged. "It was dark. I already told the deputy all this."

"How long?" "About an hour ago, I guess." Conrad controlled an impulse to crush another trachea. Unfortunately, this idiot wasn’t street trash; if he were killed, questions would definitely be asked, and Conrad didn’t want to lead the cops in Grace St. John’s direction. "Her hair. How long was her hair?"

"Oh. Well, it was in one of them twisted things, you know,whaddaya call it?"

"A braid?" Conrad offered helpfully. "Yeah, that’s the word."

"Thank you." Taking his hand off the twenty, Conrad left the office and walked calmly back to his car. No other questions were needed. The woman had definitely been Grace St. John. She needed to get out ofMinneapolis , out of the state. She was headed east, probably toEau Claire . It was the next city of any size in that direction. She would feel more anonymous in a city, attract less attention.

He might be able to find her en route, but at night she would have the advantage of being better able to hide when a car approached. Perhaps she was moving during the day, but he thought not. She had to rest, and she would be afraid to go out in the daylight. Would she try to hitch a ride toEau Claire ? Again, he didn’t think so. She was middleclass, suburban cautious, taught from childhood how dangerous it was to pick up a hitcher or thumb a ride herself. She was also smart; a hitcher was noticeable, and being noticed was the last thing she would want.

The gas station attendant must have hassled her in some way, or she would never have risked drawing attention by scuffling with him. She would be cold, upset, possibly hurt. Perhaps she had gone to ground somewhere nearby, trying to get warm, crying a little, too discouraged to go on. She was close, he knew, but he had no way of finding her right now short of bringing in tracking dogs, and wouldn’tthat draw attention! He wanted this kept as quiet as she did. It would be better all around if no cops or media were involved beyond the present level. He estimated how long it would take her to reachEau Claire . At least two more days, and that was if nothing else happened to her. She was staying off the interstate highway, and secondary roads would give her more points of entry into the city. That made his job more difficult, but not impossible. He could narrow down her most likely routes to two, and two was a very manageable number. He would need backup, though. He wanted someone who wasn’t trigger-happy, someone who could adjust without panic if things didn’t go according to plan. He thought over the men who were available, and settled on Paglione. He could be a bit thickheaded, but he was steady, and Conrad would be doing all the thinking anyway.

Poor Ms. St. John. Poor little woman.

Chapter 5

BY THE TIME SHE REACHED THE OUTSKIRTS OF EAU CLAIRE, Grace knew she had to find something to eat. She wasn’t hungry, hadn’t been hungry, but she could feel herself getting increasingly weaker.

The cold wasn’t helping. Spring had flipped her skirts to show her petticoats of flowers and greenery, luring everyone into a giddy hope they had seen the last of winter, but as usual she had just been teasing, the bitch. Grace couldn’t look at weather’s vagaries with her usual complacency. She shivered constantly, though now her shivers were weakening, another indication of her body’s need for fuel. At least it wasn’t snowing. She had fought off hypothermia the way all the street people did, with newspapers and plastic bags, anything to hold in her lessening output of body heat. Evidently the pitiful measures weren’t so pitiful, because they had worked; she was still alive.