Just Cause

Cowart locked the door behind him and sat on the side of the bed. For a few seconds he looked down at the telephone, half as if he expected it to ring. Finally he reached down and seized the receiver. He pushed button number eight to receive a long-distance line, then started to punch in his ex-wife and daughter's number in Tampa. He touched nine of the eleven digits, then stopped.

He could think of nothing to say. He had nothing to add to what he'd told them in the early morning hours. He did not want to learn that they had not taken his advice and were still exposed and vulnerable, sitting in their fancy subdivision home. It was safer to imagine his daughter resting safely up in Michigan.

He disco

'Miami Journal,' said a woman's voice.

He didn't reply.

'Miami Journal,' she said again, irritated. 'Hello?'

The operator hung up abruptly, leaving him holding a silent telephone in his hands.

He thought of Vernon Hawkins and wondered for a moment how to dial heaven. Or maybe hell, he thought, trying to make a joke with himself. What would Hawkins say? He'd tell me to make it right, and then get on with life. The old detective had no time for fools.

Cowart looked at the telephone again. Shaking his head, as if refusing some order that had not been given, he held it back to his ear and dialed the number for the motel's front desk.

'This is Mr. Cowart in room one-oh-one. I'd like to have a wake-up call at five A.M.'

'Yes, sir. Rising early?'

'That's right.'

'Room one-oh-one at five A.M. Yes, sir.'

He hung up the phone and sat back on the bed. He felt a sickening amusement at the thought that in the entire world, the only person he could think of to talk with was the night clerk at a sterile motel. He put his head down and waited for the appointed hour to arrive.

The night draped itself around him like an ill-fitting suit. A cashmere heat and humidity filled the black air. Occasional streaks of lightning burst through the distant sky, as a big thunderstorm worked out in the Gulf, miles away, beyond the Pensacola shoreline. Ta

This is where it all started. It was right here she got into the car. Why did she do that? Why couldn't she have seen the danger and run hard, back to safety? Or called out for help?

It was the age, he realized, the same for his own daughter. Old enough to be vulnerable to all the terrors of the world, but still young enough not to know about them. He thought of all the times he'd sat across from his daughter and Joanie Shriver and considered telling them the truth about what lurked out in the world, only to bite back the horrors that echoed in his head, preferring to give them another day, another hour, another minute or two of i

You lose something when you know, he thought.

He remembered the first time someone had spat the word 'nigger' at him, and the lesson that had gone with it. He'd been five years old and he'd gone home in tears. He'd been comforted by his mother, who'd made him feel better, but she hadn't been able to tell him that it would never happen again. He had known something was lost for him, from that moment on. You learn about evil slowly but surely, he thought. Prejudice. Hatred. Compulsion. Murder. Each lesson tears away a bit of the hopefulness of youth.

He put the car in gear and drove the few blocks to the Shriver house. There were lights on in the kitchen and living room and for an instant, he considered walking up to the front door and going inside. He would be welcomed, he knew. They would offer him coffee, perhaps something to eat. Once we were friends, but no longer. Now I am nothing to them except a reminder of terrible things. They would show him to a seat in the living room, then they would politely wait for him to tell them why he had come by, and he would be forced to concoct something vaguely official-sounding. He would be unable to tell them anything real about what had taken place because he was unsure himself what the reality was.

And finally, he realized, they would get to talking about their daughter, and they would say that they missed seeing his own child come around, and this would be too hard to hear. It would all be too hard to hear.

But he waited outside, simply watching the house until the lights blinked off and whatever fitful sleep the Shrivers found late at night arrived.

He felt an odd invisibility, a liquid co

The uniformed officer jumped instantly from behind the wheel, hand on his weapon, the other wielding a flashlight which he shone in Ta

He got out of his car. 'It's me, Lieutenant Brown,' he said quietly.

The young officer approached him. 'Jesus, Lieutenant, you scared the hell out of me.'

'Sorry. Just checking.'

'You heading inside, sir? Want me to take off?'

'No. Stay. I have some other business to attend to.'

'No problem.'

'See anything unusual?'

'No, sir. Well, yes, sir, one thing, but probably nothing. Late-model dark Ford. Out-of-state plates. Rolled by twice about an hour ago. Slow-like, as if he was watching me. Shoulda got the plate numbers, but missed them. Thought I'd go after him, but he didn't come by again. That's all. No big deal.'

'You see the driver?'

'No, sir. First time, I didn't really notice. Just paid attention, like, the second time he rolled on by. That's what got my attention. Probably nothing to it. Somebody down visiting relatives got lost, more'n likely.'

Ta

'Yes. More than likely. But you stay alert, all right?'

'Yes, sir. I'm go

Ta