Psychlone Read Free Page B

himself.
    “Seventeen stone,” he murmured, turning the corner onto Kelso street. “Damned Crabber is going to make a limey of me yet.” Fenton Crabber owned the Alamogordo Bar and Grill, where Blake went on weekends for a couple of beers and a game of darts. Crabber had been in the RAF, and they liked to lie about their war records.
    Barrett's service station, dark now, stood on the corner of Kelso and Gila Lane. He got out of his car at the curb and walked up to the office to peer inside, making sure no vandals had broken in. The window glass was okay everywhere. Even the pumps were intact. He wondered when the Standard Oil people were going to come in and claim their land. Damned shame, Barrett dying and leaving everything to Michael. Michael wasn't a bad boy, but he had big dreams, and Blake knew instinctively he wasn't smart enough to follow through. He would spend it all on women and dumb business schemes and come back to Lorobu someday, poor, maybe a rummy like Kevin Land.
    As if in answer to the thought, he saw Land coming down Gila Lane, walking steadily and in a straight line. Blake took a last look at the station and strolled across the service lanes to see how Land was doing.
    “Hey, Kevin!” he called. Land turned and goggled at Blake. “How's things?” Blake asked, approaching quickly, then slowing as he saw the expression on the man's face.
    “Carrying the fire,” Land said.
    “What?"
    Land pointed to his right hand, hidden in the pocket of his dirt-mottled jacket.
    “Sure,” Blake said. Land was drunk as usual. “Getting late, Kevin. You'd better get home soon.” Blake was still trying to find out who sold Land liquor. There were only three liquor stores in town, and he knew all the owners personally. One of them was probably feeling obliged to do Land a favor and keep him stewed. When Blake found out who, he would read the riot act to him—or her, if it was Miss Louise—and maybe Land would have a chance to dry out.
    Land turned stiffly and continued walking.
    Blake's car radio crackled back to life as he was crossing Main on the last part of his route. Jason Franz, the senior deputy, told Blake there had been a complaint from Park's Hardware and Sundries.
    “Had a hard time getting you,” Franz said.
    “Radio was on the blink. Must have been jolted back. What happened?” Park's store was at the end of his route.
    “Clerk there—I think it was Beverly—says Kevin Land just walked in and tore up her paperback stand. She's leaving it alone for you to look at."
    “Bloody hell,” Blake said. “I just passed Land. I'll pick him up and go have a look."
    “First time,” Franz said, and signed off. Indeed, Blake thought. Land had never pulled a stunt like that before. He was a damned decent fellow for a drunk. Probably would have been a bright guy if the booze hadn't grabbed him.
    The car spun around on the empty street and Blake backtracked, stopping near Barrett's station to remember which direction Land had gone off in. Down Gila Lane, not swerving, if he was truly drunk. To deviate would be disastrous. That was how some drunks thought. When they drove—those who did drive, the idiots—they would swerve a bit, and then, to compensate and show they weren't filled to the gills, they'd change lanes, sometimes right into another car. There had been a messy accident on 60 near Vaughn like that just yesterday.
    The breeze was starting again, mild this time, when he spotted Land standing where Gila Lane ended at a road block and scrub country. He aimed the car headlights on the man's back and stopped twenty paces from him. Being cautious, even with old customers, was why he had never been wounded on duty. “Kevin,” he said, stepping from the car. Land turned and faced him, quick on his feet, not even lurching.
    “What's up, fellow?” Blake asked. “Feeling rough tonight? Beverly at the Park store says you damaged some merchandise."
    “Justice,” Land said thickly. “Life and death.