The Shadow Man Read Free Page A

told Carla, the waitress, when she approached his table near the window. “And iced tea.”
    “Hot as the Lord makes ’em out there today,” Carla said, commenting as she invariably did on the weather. The temperature outside was still in the eighties, and Larsen wondered if Carla would have remarked on a cold snap if he’d ordered coffee.
    She tucked pad and pencil into the oversized front pocket of her frilly yellow apron, and her long face broke into its horsey yet strangely attractive smile. Her lank, shoulder-length hair added to the impression of total elongation. As she started to leave to deliver the order to the kitchen, she turned.
    Now, Larsen was sure, she would ask whether he wanted baked potato or fries.
    “Fella was in here earlier lookin’ for you,” she said, surprising him.
    Larsen’s hand left the sugar dispenser he’d been toying with. “What fellow?”
    “Didn’t leave a name. But he knew your name.”
    “What did he say?”
    “Just wanted to know if you came in here. I told him you did now an’ then.” She frowned and gazed down her long nose at Larsen. “That’s okay, ain’t it?”
    “... Sure. Is that all he said?”
    “Said he and you would get together, then he left the place.”
    “What did he look like?”
    “Average height, I guess. Husky, with big shoulders. Not exactly fat, though.”
    “What color hair?”
    “Dark. Black, I think. Tell you the truth, I didn’t pay much attention. We was awful busy at the time.” With her loping gait, she walked quickly behind the counter and returned with an overflowing glass of water. Then she hurried away to get Larsen’s order.
    After dinner Larsen had two cups of coffee and read about weddings and funerals in the local paper. Then he returned directly to the Clover Motel, locked his cabin door, and began packing for his morning flight to Washington.
     
    Larsen left the motel at 3 A.M. He had to turn in the car at Kennedy and board his plane by seven. He tossed suitcase and vinyl garment bag into the trunk of the rented Chevy, then walked to open the door on the driver’s side. Gravel crunching beneath the soles of his shoes sounded amazingly loud in the dark, quiet morning. In the moonlight he saw that the cream-colored car was coated glass and all with a faint film of moisture, like fine white dust that had settled over a period of years, of interest to archaeologists. It seemed impossible that the car would actually start, roll over the brittle gravel and take him away from here.
    He unlocked the door and got behind the steering wheel. The car’s interior smelled damp, mildewed. It was difficult to see out through the mist on the windshield.
    Larsen started the engine and switched on the wipers. A double arc of clear glass looking out on a vast black sky appeared before him. He put the car into reverse and turned in the seat to back from his parking slot.
    Even over the sound of the engine, Larsen could hear the shrill, constant scream of insects coming from the woods near the motel cabin. He drove from the parking lot faster than he intended, causing the car’s tires to fling gravel against the inside of the fenders in a mad drumbeat. He glanced at his watch and told himself that he had plenty of time to make his flight.
    In the shadows beneath the trees, a square-shouldered, oddly intense figure stood motionless in the tall, damp grass, facing the receding car. The car’s twin taillights seemed to draw closer together, then appeared to merge and wink out as the car rounded a distant curve and disappeared. But the figure stood for some time longer, staring fixedly in the same direction.

Chapter Three
    Andrews watched from behind his desk as Judy Carnegie showed Dana Larsen into his office. Larsen cast his kindly, professional charm like lamplight on Judy, who was smiling as she left the two men alone.
    “It’s good of you to make time to see me,” Larsen said, as he and Andrews shook hands. Larsen’s hand was moist