Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

I’d sent an eastbound driver on ahead to let the folks at the station know we were bringing the old man in. They were waiting as our ad hoc ambulance rolled into the shade of the gas-pump shelter. There were only the two of them, a fading middle-aged woman and a lanky, taciturn teenaged boy. I wondered if they might be the entire population of Devlin, California. It turned out I was wrong.

I bailed out of the ’57 and jogged back to the station wagon to find the woman peering in through its side windows.

“Oh Lord, Teddy! It is Rupe!” Her voice was strange. Soft and flat, but with rags of emotion trailing from it, like she wanted to get excited or hysterical but just didn’t have the energy for it. The kid just grunted and hung back, his hands in his dungaree pockets.

“You know him, ma’am?” I asked, coming up beside her.

“He’s my husband.”

Jesus! I’d have figured him for her father. The woman had the remnants of a baby-doll prettiness left to her and she must have been a good twenty years younger than the unmoving old man in the back of the Buick. She wore a limp nylon waitress’s uniform and a stained apron and she had a dishtowel twisted around her right hand.

“Have you called a doc?” I demanded. Any other questions could come later. Still, my cop’s instinct for putting things in their places made me do a mental comparison between the face of the old man and the pimply features of the teenager. No resemblance. A second marriage and a stepfather-stepson deal? A good chance of.

“Yes, our doctor is driving out from Barstow,” the woman’s hands clenched and twisted on the dishtowel. “I knew this was bound to happen. This place will kill us all!”

“He’s not dead yet, ma’am.”

The tailgate of the station wagon swung down and Lisette scrambled out. She’d ridden in with the old guy, keeping wet compresses on his head.

“How’s he doing, Princess?”

“Better, I think. He’s still out, but his heartbeat’s steadier and his color’s improved.”

It had. There was a nasty bruise developing on his forehead, but the blue-gray tinge had left his face and the rise and fall of his chest was deepening. I had the sense this old coyote still had some mileage left in him.

“Let’s get him inside. Where you want him, ma’am? And don’t worry, I think he’s going to be okay.”

The woman twisted the dishtowel more tightly around her hand. “That’s good,” she said in her washed-out voice. “I think it would be easier to put him in one of the cabins than to take him up the stairs to our room.”

Jeez, lady. Try to control your joy.

We got the old gent into bed in the first of the four tourist cabins. Then I shook the hand of the station wagon’s driver and sent him on his way. He was only a passing tourist with a lousy taste in shirts, but he’d gone out of his way to help a stranger in a jam. I hoped the story would make for a good brag back in Des Moines.

A boxy swamp cooler filled one of the cabin’s windows, precious water dripping onto its burlap panels. Its roaring electric fan didn’t exactly render the room cool, just less hot. The cabin was like the rest of Devlin: clean, barring the perpetual dust haze of the desert, and well maintained by somebody’s hard work. But the furnishings and fixtures were 1930s vintage and wearing down.

The closemouthed boy gave Lisette’s legs a long last study and went out to tend the gas pumps, leaving the three of us to stand awkwardly around the bed.

“Thank you for your help,” the woman said finally. “I’m Sue Kelton and this is my husband Rupert. We own the station here at Devlin.” She gave a brief laugh that didn’t have any real meaning behind it. “Nowadays I suppose we are Devlin.”

“No big deal, ma’am. My name’s Kevin Pulaski and this is Lisette Kingman. We’ve been visiting in Flagstaff and we were heading home to L.A.”

I didn’t mention that my visit had been at the invitation of the Arizona District Court. I’d been giving testimony relating to an interstate car-theft ring.

A big part of my job with Metro Intelligence revolved around me not letting people know what I actually do for a living. I’m pretty good at it, too. Damn few folks ever pick up on the fact that this slouching, jeans-wearing, hot-rod driving kid with too much slicked-back brown hair is actually a Los Angeles County deputy sheriff, and that’s just how it’s supposed to be.

“I don’t know what happened, ma’am. We were following behind your husband when he kinda like blacked out and went off the road. Has he been sick lately or anything?”

“No, nothing like that. He’s just... old.” She stared down at the slack, seamed face on the pillow, her words drifting. “It’s the heat and the work. I’ve told him it’s time we took things easier. I’ve warned him...”

She shook off some thought and looked up at us, her voice growing brisker. “Thank you again. I suppose you’ll want to get back on the road. My son and I can take care of things until the doctor gets here.”