What’s his name, Sheriff? Alan Dyson. From Virginia. I was gonna call his employer and verify. No need to do that, Sheriff. I know him, and he’s harmless. Let him go. You know him? About him. Met him the other day, thought he was a birder too, just passing through. Just another nut case, though, really. Said he was looking for UFOs. I didn’t believe him either. In the field behind the Shell station I zigged and zagged through the neck-high corn for ten minutes before I got lucky. Then I added the gun I’d tossed the night before to my collection of binoculars and camera, and walked back to confront Wally once again. But Wally was gone. Ditto, my rented car. The car under which the fake legs had been rolled was an Escort, not a Taurus. Same color, though. There was half a glass of iced tea on Wally’s desk in the office. I stared at the melting ice for a moment, considering the ramifications, then I picked up the phone. That was dead too. No dial tone. Nothing. Searching the desk drawers, I found bullets instead of keys. So I reloaded the revolver, then went out back to look at Wally’s tow truck. Of course I knew less about hot-wiring than I knew about women. Or Walter Mills. Experiencing a wave of hypertensive frustration, I craved more Xanax, or even Halcion, which in turn reminded me of Darryl’s advice. Wake up and smell the dark roast, buddy. Break outta this jail you’re in, find a woman, get a life.
