Blake was beaming, and Krug and Ward stood looking at their chief with admiration. Everyone would have been a lot happier, of course, if the Blazer had been found at a motel, a rooming house, or a restaurant. Obviously, Keith Landry and Annie Baxter were not at the Chevy dealership. Blake was the first one to point this out and asked his chief, "Where do you think they went?"

Baxter looked around, up and down the highway, and said, "Not far."

Blake pointed out, "They could have stolen a car here, Chief."

"They could have... but they took the plates off this one. Now, why'd they do that if they was in another car hightailing it to Cleveland or someplace? No... I think they're close by, walking distance, and they didn't want this car connected to them." He looked at his three men. "Anybody got any other ideas?"

Krug said, "They could've gotten a taxi or bus from here, Chief. Could be in Toledo."

Baxter nodded. "Could be." He looked around again at the immediate area. "Taxi or bus. Could be. But I don't think so. I think they got a motel, one of them fuck places, dumped their shit, then went out to dump the car. The guy got lucky and smart when he saw this Chevy place. Yeah. They're a little walk from here. Maybe campin' out, but most likely a fuck place, or a roomin' house, where they don't need to use a credit card. Yeah. Okay, Krug, you and Ward take this side of the highway and start checkin' the motels back toward the airport. Blake and I'll start back near the airport and do the eastbound side of the highway. If you get anything, you call me and nobody else. Use the mobile phone. Let's roll."

Blake and Baxter began at the airport, drove past the Sheraton, and approached a Holiday Inn. Baxter said, "Keep goin'. We're only gonna stop at the small ram-it-inns."

"Right."

They continued on.

Baxter thought about things. Keith Landry was an asshole, but a lot smarter asshole than Baxter had figured. But maybe not smart enough. Baxter realized that he'd been out of touch with real police work for too long, but after almost three decades on the force, he'd learned a lot, remembered some, and recognized, grudgingly, that he was dealing with a pro. He wondered what Landry had done for the government and decided that it had nothing to do with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. But what Landry hadn't reckoned with was Chief Baxter's innate predatory instincts. What Baxter lacked in formal training, he made up for in intuition. Out in the woods of Michigan, Cliff Baxter was the best hunter of any of his friends. He had a sixth sense for locating an animal, for smelling its blood and reading its mind, for guessing if it was going to break and run, go to ground, turn and fight, or simply stand frozen, waiting for its fate. Humans, he'd decided, were not much different.

He thought next about his wife, and tried to figure out how she'd pulled this off without him really knowing about it. He had suspicions, but he always had suspicions. Somehow, she'd completely outfoxed the fox. And he knew, deep down inside, that she had an understanding of him, a result of twenty years of living with him and having to survive on her wits. When he complained about her to other women, one of the things he never said was, "My wife doesn't understand me."

He didn't want to think about his wife and Keith Landry, but in a way, he did. He sometimes pictured Annie — Miss Perfect, Miss Choir Lady, Miss Goody-Goody — having sex with another man. This had always been his worst nightmare, and it was happening now — Landry and his wife were somewhere close by, naked, in bed, laughing, having sex. Landry was on top of her, and she had her legs wrapped around him. It made him crazy to think about it. It also made him hard.

They cruised past the dark sign of the Westway Motel, still traveling east, then Baxter said, "Wait! Slow down. Pull onto the shoulder."

Blake pulled over.

Baxter sat a moment. Something had registered in his mind, but he didn't know what it was. He said, "Back up."

Blake put the cruiser in reverse, and when they came abreast of the dark signboard, Baxter said, "Stop."

Cliff Baxter got out of the car and walked over to the plastic sign with the red plastic letters and read, Westway Motel — $29. He got closer to the sign and saw that the battery plug was disconnected. He plugged it in, and the lights went on. He pulled the plug out, leaving the sign in darkness again.

Baxter got back into the car and said, "Back up to that side road and turn in."

"Right." Blake got onto the narrow lane, and the Spencerville police cruiser pulled up to the Westway Motel at five minutes past midnight.

Baxter said, "Wait here." He took a cardboard file case with him and went into the small lobby.

The young man behind the desk stood. "Yes, sir?"

"Lookin' for somebody, son." He put the file case on the counter. "You hear about an all-points bulletin tonight?"

"No, I didn't."

"What the hell you watchin' on TV?"

"A videotape."

"Yeah? Okay, how long you been on tonight?"

"Since four. Waiting for my relief..."

"Okay, you're my man. Now listen good. I'm lookin' for a guy drivin' a dark green Blazer. He had a woman with him, but I don't reckon she'd come in here. They would've checked in about nine, nine-thirty, maybe later. He's about mid-forties, tall, medium build, light brown hair, kinda gray-green eyes... and I guess not too bad-lookin'. You seen him, didn't you?"

"Well..."

"Come on, son. Man's wanted for kidnapping, and I ain't got all night, and I got fifty bucks for your time."

"Well, I had a guy in here... did this guy have glasses and a mustache?"

"Not the last time I saw him. Give me the registration card."

The clerk flipped through a stack of cards and found the one he thought the police officer wanted. "Here. This guy came in about..."

"Let me read, son." Baxter read the card. "John Westermann of Cincinnati, driving a Ford Escort. You seen his car?"

"Well, after he checked in, I poked my head out the door and there was a Ford Escort there, but that one had been there for a few hours. I'm supposed to take the license numbers..."

"I know how you run a fuck place. Did you see a green Blazer?"

"Don't know... I saw a dark four-wheel-drive outside, but it was hard to see, and it wasn't in front of the room I gave this guy Westermann. I hadn't seen it before, and I was going to go out later and get the license number, but when I went out about ten minutes later, it was gone."

Baxter nodded. "Okay, what room did you give this guy?"

"Room seven."

"He still there?"

"I guess. He took it for the night. I just checked the key drop, and it isn't there."

"Okay..." Baxter rubbed his chin. "Okay... and you never saw a woman?"

"No. Never do."

Baxter opened his file case and took out a book. It was his wife's high school yearbook, one of the few things he'd allowed her to keep, mostly because it had a picture of him in it, in his junior year, at a dance. He turned to the graduation photos and said, "Flip through this, son, and keep in mind it's over twenty years old, and imagine a mustache and glasses on the guys who don't have any. Take your time, but be quick."

The young man flipped through the pages of the small graduating class, then stopped.

"You see him?"

"I..."

Baxter took a pen out of his pocket and gave it to the man. "Draw the glasses and the mustache you saw."

The man took the pen and drew glasses and a mustache on the photograph of Keith Landry. The clerk said, "Yes... that's the guy... I think that's the guy..."

"I think you're right, son. Give me the key."

The clerk hesitated, and Baxter leaned over the counter. "The fucking key."

The clerk gave him the key to room 7.