Waiting. He’d gotten off work early, the last few days; he was trying to figure out what Colville was doing. And here the man came, walking quickly, not even glancing at the house. The way he walked—he lifted his feet higher than was necessary, his spine rigidly straight despite the heavy frame pack he wore. Wells went out the side door, onto the driveway, then into his truck. He drove slowly, staying a half block back. The orange pack made the following easier. He knew where Colville was going—first to Jackson’s, to pick up some food, and then to some motel, where he’d get a room. Wells had learned, in the last few days, that Colville shuttled between motels; he’d stay two or three nights in a place, or sometimes only one. He’d double back, sleep one place on Monday, someplace else on Tuesday and Wednesday, then return to the first place again on Thursday. Today was Friday, and Colville came out of the store with a bunch of bananas in his hand. He ate them as he walked, that orange pack bobbing along, swaying slightly from side to side.
