Apologies to those with the patience still to be here...I had a much needed holiday. Thanks as always for your support.
The steak was as good as Gerry had promised it would be. Bob had made an effort to smarten himself up for the meal. Gone was the baseball cap, T-shirt and scruffy jeans. In their place was an old looking suit; the buttons on the jacket looking as though they were straining a little with the pressure they were being put under. It was obvious that it had been a while since Bob had enjoyed the company of someone new – he was at a loss for conversation, and had seemed to sigh with relief when Kris had asked him about football, and his views on what the coming season would bring.
Kris politely thanked Bob as he refilled her wine glass, waiting for him to order another beer for himself, before asking her next question.
"You knew Henry Sullivan?"
Bob nodded and stabbed at the vegetables on his plate with his fork. "Uh huh. Between you and me he wasn't quite the man the media made him out to be."
"In what way?"
Bob chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds. "If I was in trouble, I wouldn't want to rely on Sullivan to save me ... unless of course you had the money to pay him off."
Kris' ears pricked up. This was the first time that anyone had said anything that wasn't complimentary about the man. "Sullivan had money problems?"
Bob nodded. "He was the sort of man who'd get paid on a Friday and blow the whole lot on the same night ...don't know how his wife put up with him."
"So he'd spend all his money in the bar?" Kris guessed.
"If there was a card game, or a dog fight, or anything that he could bet on, then Sullivan would be there." Bob broke off as the waitress returned with a fresh glass of beer. Kris waited impatiently as Bob took a large mouthful. He wiped his hand across the back of his mouth and regarded her. "What was I saying?"
"You were telling me about Henry Sullivan's gambling habits," she prompted.
Bob nodded in acknowledgement. "The army weren't real keen that the information got out," he told her conspiratorially. "They had an image of Sullivan that they were pushing, and they let me know that his betting habits were of no interest to anyone."
"Was he in a lot of debt?"
Bob shrugged his shoulders. "Wouldn't surprise me. Found himself on the end of a beating more than once because of outstanding debt."
"You ever have to bring him in?"
Bob smiled. "Nope. He was the army's problem, not mine." He noted the way that she'd stopped eating and gestured towards her plate with his knife. "Everything ok there for you?"
"What?' Kris was momentarily thrown by the question. She then glanced down at her own half-finished meal. "Everything is fine." She shrugged. "I'm sorry; I guess I was just surprised to hear you talk about Sullivan in that way."
"How so?"
Kris glanced around. "Gladys at the flower shop wasn't keen to talk to me, and most of the other shop owners in town clammed up the moment that I mentioned the crash."
Bob nodded sagely. "That's not surprising really. They're just protecting their investments." He watched as Kris raised an eyebrow. "Local journalist type appeared here a couple of months back. He's paid everyone for exclusive rights to their story. They're all scared that if they talk to anyone else they'll lose the money they were promised."
Kris smiled. "But you're not worried about that?"
She watched as the old man shrugged his shoulders, chewing down another forkful of steak before replying. "One man doesn't own information," he told her sincerely. "No-one should try and put a price on the truth."
"So you're not selling your version of what happened?"
Bob muttered something beneath his breath that Kris didn't catch. Abruptly he placed his cutlery down on his plate and then dabbed at his mouth with his napkin before speaking. "Young man comes into town and turns everyone's head with the money that he's flashing around. He thinks that that's the only way of getting the truth. When I was younger if you wanted the truth you asked somebody."
"...And I take it that this ...this man didn't ask?"
Bob shook his head. "He'd been here two days before he came knocking at my door. Sent him away with a flea in his ear I can tell you." Bob paused and took a long swig of his beer. "Told him that the past wasn't for sale, and that digging around in a man's life wasn't an honourable way of earning a living."
Kris watched as Bob became noticeably agitated. She had a sneaking suspicion that a lot of his anger had to do with the fact that the journalist hadn't come straight to see him. Long in the tooth he may be, but Bob obviously still liked to think of himself as head of the town.
"Did the journalist take your advice?" she asked gently.
Bob nodded. "Headed out that day." He shook his head. "Comes to something when you have to pay a man to hear his story. Back when the crash investigation was going on, the place was crawling with people trying to grab a word with the folks who knew Sullivan. No-one said anything then, no-one should say anything now."
Kris picked up her glass and took a sip of wine, trying to make her next question sound casual. "Were there many folks trying to claim that the government were involved?"
Bob let out a snort of derision. "None of that was going on here. We saw the papers later; saw what they'd been saying." He looked levelly at Kris. "But honestly... the folks here. There was no talk of CIA back then. It was an accident and folks we thought of as neighbours had been killed. They weren't all fine upstanding men like; but they were army...they were trying to do what was right, and then something like that happens to them." Bob shook his head. "It's just not right to go round making up stories about them. Not right at all."
Kris had the feeling that there was more to come and so she remained quiet, her eyes focussed on her glass. Finally Bob sat back in his chair. "So many brave men out there and yet the only one people seem to remember is Sullivan."
"Why do you think that the press picked on Henry to be the hero?"
"It's that damn photograph isn't it. One split-second shot and that's what people see of the whole event. They don't care enough to scratch beyond the surface and find out that he's a regular guy with more than his fair share of problems. It's not right that folks put so much store by a single act."
"You sound as though you don't have any time for him," Kris tried to keep her voice conversational.
Bob shrugged his shoulders. "I only knew the guy who'd come into town and blow all his money on the first bet going. You want to talk to someone who really knew Sullivan then you should probably have a word with his ex-wife."
Kris' ears pricked up with interest. "She lives locally?"
Bob nodded. "She's a local girl. Married Sullivan and thought that she'd get to see the world. As it goes, she's seen nothing but the same four walls for the past fifteen years." Bob nodded knowingly. "Not what I'd call a real love-match if you know what I mean. If Sullivan hadn't proposed when he did I reckon he'd have ended up looking down the business end of a shotgun."
"Ahh," Kris realised what Bob was getting at. She shot him a smile. "How d'you think she'll take me asking her about Sullivan?"
Bob returned his attention to his steak. "I'll give her a call in the morning; let her know that you're on your way. That way you're less likely to get short shrift... but I can't promise that she'll be civil."
The conversation stopped as Gerry arrived at the table, a blue checked dishcloth slung over one arm. "Everything good for you?" he asked with a smile on his face.
Kris placed her own napkin down on the table and sighed contentedly. "I don't think I could eat another mouthful. Great steak Gerry, you were right about this being the best place in town."
Gerry nodded in Bob's direction. "He been filling your head with stories of the past?"
Kris smiled. "He's been charming company."
"Well you be sure to call me over if he doesn't change the subject soon. I swear he only knows one record, and I'm not real certain that it's not scratched!"
Bob shot his friend a look of mock offence. "You make enough trade out of the folks who come round here looking for information."
"Hey, I'm supposed to engage the passing trade; that's how I make money." He turned his attention back to Kris. "Well if you need me to rescue you, just let me know. Drop your napkin on the floor, or ask for more water when the carafe is still half-full and I'll save you from having to hear the end of another long story."
Kris smiled at the easy banter between the two men. "I'm fine," she assured Gerry. "Bob's been a great host."
"You hear that?" Bob chimed in. "Great host."
The corners of Gerry's mouth twitched. "It was you or limited cable channels at the hotel," he brought his friend back down to earth. "Ma'am, if you don't mind me saying, you may want to reconsider how you spend the rest of your time here... unless you like having the same conversation over every meal."
As the door finally swung closed behind Kris, Gerry turned and headed down to the far end of the bar, lifting the phone from its cradle and waiting for the dialtone. He punched in a number and wasn't unduly surprised when the call was answered on the second ring. "You told me to call you if anyone came sniffing around asking after Sullivan…" He was cut off by the response from the other end. "No, not the journalist…young woman, name of Kris Munroe. Flown in from LA…no, seems to have learnt what she wanted. Said that she was heading back to the airport tomorrow." He paused and listened again to the voice on the other end of the line. "Sheriff Bob seemed to have a lot to say to her … certainly more than he said to that journalist fella. No sir, can be rightly sure exactly what he said…probably letting her sweet smile and big blue eyes get the better of him, the old fool." He paused again. "I'll check that sir and I'll get back to you."
The receptionist at the hotel had already retired for the night by the time that Kris reached the front desk. She looked around for a bell, not really wanting to wake anyone, but needing someone to give her access to her room. As her eyes scanned the wooden countertop, she spotted a white envelope with her name written on it.
Its bulky shape made it fairly obvious that her room key was contained within. She picked it up and retrieved the key before heading off towards her room. She shook her head; the lack of security reminded her of the holidays she had spent with her aunt and uncle. Their idea of security had amounted to shutting the screen door at night, and they had never understood why a door needed to be locked.
She opened the door to her room and reached for the light. She wanted nothing more than a good night's sleep after the long drive. There was a report to make to the others in the morning, but that was something that she could think about after she'd slept.
"Leave it."
The voice was deep, gruff and Kris instinctively did as she was told. She peered into the gloom, but the drawn curtains made it impossible to make out anything other than a rough shape of a person seated on the room's only chair.
"If you want money, you're out of luck," she tried to get into a conversation with the man, but he wasn't interested.
"This isn't a robbery," he told her curtly. "This is a warning. Get back in your car and get out of town."
Kris stared down at her feet. "It's no wonder this town isn't making money if this is the way you treat tourists!"
"There's no point in raising your voice," the man warned her. "There's no-one else on this floor to hear you. And whilst you're at it, drop the bag from your shoulder. I didn't find a gun among your possessions, so I'm assuming that you're carrying."
The man gestured in her direction, and Kris caught the glint of metal from the gun that he was holding. She did as she was told and then raised her hands. "I'm not looking for trouble."
"From what I hear that's exactly what you've been doing. Your hire car papers list your residence as LA, and the files in your suitcase seem to show a lot of interest in the crash at Menzies. Makes me wonder what a private detective is doing way out here on her own?"
Kris remained silent, not certain where the conversation was going.
"So who hired you?"
"I can't tell you that."
"I'm the one with the gun lady, you can tell me anything."
Kris shrugged her shoulders. "I'm sorry. I can't..."
"If you're working for Falcone then you can just get back in your car and get out of here. This town doesn't need any more trouble from him."
"I'm not working for...Falcone; whoever he is. I just want to find out who's been trying to intimidate Henry Sullivan and what actually happened here on the night of the crash."
"You government?" there was a change in the tone of voice.
Kris shook her head. "No. But I'm also not looking to make money out of the truth. I just want to find out what really happened and why someone thinks that there's a story that still needs to be told."
"Get over to that wall." The order was barked out without warning. Kris straightened up; her heart rate increasing at the brusque tone in the man's voice.
"Turnaround and put your hands against the wall," the man ordered again. She heard the hammer on the gun being pulled back. "I won't ask again."
Reluctantly, Kris did as she was told. There was little to be gained by arguing with an armed man.
As soon as her hands were pressed against the cold wall of the building, she heard the sound of someone moving past her. The man's intentions were suddenly clear, but by the time she'd turned around, he was gone. She peered out into the corridor; realising as she did so that he could be lying in wait for her. She was somewhat relieved when a bullet didn't come whistling her way. She scanned ahead for him, but she couldn't spot anyone.
It was pointless trying to follow him. He obviously knew the surrounding area better than she did and he'd be long gone before she reached the front desk. She closed the door to her room and then sank down onto the bed. Her palms were slick with perspiration and her breath was coming in quick uneven gasps.
Instinctively she reached for the phone, but then pulled up short. The only way to get a call out of town was to go through the exchange, and that meant waking up whoever ran the place. That call would be monitored and as a consequence the contents of it discussed over every breakfast table. She looked around at the room; her belongings were still neatly packed within her suitcase, but she knew that they'd been searched and the knowledge made her feel uncomfortable. If the night had been cooler, she would have headed straight out to her car and slept there. As it was, she settled for wedging the chair beneath the door as an extra defence and double-checking the locks on the windows. The intruder, whoever he was, wanted her out of town.
She sat on the bed and drew her knees up to her chest. He wasn't going to come back, she was pretty certain of that, but she knew it would be a couple of hours before she felt relaxed enough to sleep.
