CHAPTER THREE

      IF TEXAS was hot, Arizona was the gateway to hell.

      Gray flew into Phoenix in early afternoon. He could have saved time by flying into Flagstaff but he decided that the extra half day it would take him to reach his destination was worth it. He’d get the chance to decompress after the rigors of the trial and to work on the excuse he’d thought of to explain to her husband why he was looking for Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge.

      He picked up his rental car and dumped his bag in the trunk. Desert heat was dry heat, people always said, as if without humidity a temperature of one hundred and six would be no problem. Gray was dressed for comfort in chinos and a white shirt with an open collar and rolled up sleeves but he still felt as if he was standing in front of an open furnace.

      He set the AC on high and headed north on Highway 17.

      After a while, the land opened up into true desert, broken only by occasional roads that seemed to arrow through the scrub and cactus toward the distant mountains. Eventually the highway began to climb. Pines towered overhead; patches of snow glistened on the higher ridges. Gray turned off the air-conditioning, put down the window and drew in deep breaths of cool, clean air.

      The countryside was spectacular, and all that open space coupled with the scent of pine was soothing. He could almost feel his tension starting to drain away. Coming here to see Harman Kitteridge had been the right decision. He could satisfy his curiosity, ask some questions Jack couldn’t because there had been no reason to tell him he was looking into this for his uncle. He didn’t plan on telling Kitteridge, either. It was always best to play your cards close to your chest.

      Gray took one hand off the wheel, dug in his pocket and took out the map his travel agent had faxed him. She’d booked him into a place called the Drop-On Inn for the night. That was the only place available in the vicinity of Queen City, she’d written, and he’d visualized how her elegant eyebrows must have lifted at the news that he was going to such a hole in the wall. She’d also included the names of a couple of resort hotels between Flagstaff and Queen City, along with a polite note saying he might prefer one of them to the Drop-On Inn.

      Gray knew she was probably right but he figured it would be simpler to stay near Queen City for the night. With luck, he’d meet with Kitteridge in the morning, and how long could a conversation with the man possibly take? An hour? Two? After that, he might just check out some of those hotels his agent had mentioned. This was beautiful country, high, rugged and untouched. A little time off here could be just what he needed.

      He turned on the radio, searched for a station that played the kind of cool jazz he liked and settled instead for some guy singing about a love gone wrong. A couple of songs later, he was humming along with the melody. Yessir, making this trip had been a fine idea.

      The Drop-On Inn dimmed his enthusiasm only a little. The sign out front said Motel but it was just ten small rooms strung together like links of sausage. Still, the place was clean, his room had a TV that received two channels, and there was even a caf;aae next door. Gray and a trucker who apparently owned the eighteen-wheeler parked at the other end of the motel were the only customers. He ordered a steak that overflowed the plate and mashed potatoes floating in enough butter to make him feel guilty so he passed on dessert, had a cup of coffee, went back to his room and slept as well as a man could when his feet hung off the end of the mattress.

      He awoke to sunshine but by the time he’d finished off a stack of pancakes and three cups of coffee at the caf;aae, a bank of charcoal clouds had rolled in. Clouds or not, he felt pretty good when he set off for Queen City. He’d definitely make a short vacation out of this trip. If there was a camping equipment store in Queen City, he’d stop there after he finished with Kitteridge, buy himself some boots and some simple gear, use one of the hotels his agent had recommended as a base and head into the mountains. Gray liked the isolation of hiking but he also liked hot tubs, soft beds and the company of beautiful women. A few days in the wilderness, followed by another few days in a luxury resort, would feel just fine.

      He found the station that played country love songs again and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with the music. It was hard to believe he’d wasted time the other night, sitting in his apartment, looking at a picture of a dead woman and speculating about what kind of life she’d have led, or what life she’d have wanted for her granddaughter.

      The first fat drops of rain hit the windshield as he passed a sign welcoming him to Queen City, population 3,400 and home of the Patriots Regional High School Championship Football Team. Jack Ballard had given him a phone number for Harman Kitteridge. Gray had laughed and jokingly expressed surprise that the cabin would have a phone and electricity. Now, slowing for the first of the two traffic lights Ballard had mentioned, he thought the same thing again. This time, he meant it.

      To call this place a city was not just an overstatement, it was a pathetic dream.

      Queen City had seen better times. At least half of the shops on Main Street were vacant. The only living creature in sight was a dog relieving himself on a teetering pile of boxes in front of a boarded-up store. If it was a comment on the town, Gray agreed with it. Even the mountains that ringed Queen City were depressing. Their colors were sullen and their looming presence made him feel claustrophobic.

      He drove into the only gas station in sight and stopped beside a self-service pump. While he gassed up, he dialed Kitteridge on his cell phone. It was Sunday and he figured the odds on finding the man at home were good. He hadn’t called in advance because the less time he gave him to think about this visit, the better. In fact, the less Kitteridge knew about the real purpose of this visit, the better.

      Kitteridge answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”

      “Harman Kitteridge?”

      “What’s it to you?”

      So much for the social niceties. Gray tucked the phone against his shoulder as he pulled the nozzle from the gas tank and hung up the hose.

      “My name is Gray Baron.”

      “I don’t want none.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Whatever it is you’re sellin’, I don’t want it.”

      “I’m not a salesman, mister—”

      Gray winced as the phone slammed in his ear. He got into the car and hit Redial. Again, Kitteridge answered immediately.

      “Mr. Kitteridge,” he said quickly, “don’t hang up. I’m not selling anything.”

      “You think I’m an idiot? Of course you are. What is it? In-surance? Home repairs?” Kitteridge’s voice took on a nasty edge. “Or maybe this is about that there loan you bastards give me last year.”

      “It’s nothing like that. This is about your wife.”

      “My what?”

      “Your wife. Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge.”

      There was a long silence. “Who is this?” Kitteridge finally said, so slowly that Gray could feel his suspicion through the phone.

      “I told you. My name is Baron. Gray Baron.”

      “What do you want with my wife?”