Читать книгу Murder on the Road Less Traveled - Robert W. Gregg - Страница 4

The crowd that had filled Southport’s town square at the beginning of the Gravel Grinder had largely dissipated by 9 am, but it was fast reassembling by the time the clock on the Methodist church tower struck one. Several of the bikers had already completed the course, and were standing around the cooking wagon which had been set up on the square. Others could be seen turning onto Market Street and heading toward the finish line. As usual, some participants had treated the event as if it were a race, or something close to one; not surprisingly, they were among the first to return to the square. Others, a clear majority of those who had signed up for the Gravel Grinder, knew that they were in for a long and demanding morning and felt no need to push themselves to the limit. They would be returning to the square sometime in the next hour, satisfied that they had done what they had set out to do and made their contribution to a worthwhile cause.

Joe Reiger was aware that two of those who had committed to the event had had to withdraw at the last minute, Bill Donovan because his wife had gone into labor and Jenny Flowers because she had awakened with a temperature of 102. Otherwise everyone who had made a commitment had been a part of the closely packed group of cyclists who had left Southport shortly after eight. There would be a few laggards, of course, but eventually all of the rest would cross the finish line and hit the food line (Joe always made sure that there was enough even for those for whom cycling a fair distance was a more challenging task than they had imagined it would be).

Cycling, at least for many of those who participated in the season’s Gravel Grinder, was a community sport, a shared form of exercise, a satisfying opportunity to renew acquaintances. Evidence of this social value of biking was omnipresent in Southport’s town square that afternoon. Rather than head immediately for home, many of the men and women who had just completed roughly 150 miles of cycling found themselves engaged in swapping stories about a particularly rough road, a spectacular view from a hilltop, the occasionally inconsiderate driver, or minor problems that needed fixing and sometimes gave vent to expletives.

Gradually these post-ride conversations petered out and the cyclists and their friends and families went home. One person who didn’t was Connie Eakins. She had expected Ernie by one, or no later than 1:15. After all, he rode, often considerable distances, several times every week, and he prided himself on being in good shape. There would be no trouble spotting him, even in the crowd that would be gathering on the square, or so she had told herself. He always wore a distinctive blue and yellow helmet and stood a ramrod 6’ 5” tall. Unfortunately, she had not spotted him by 1:15. At 1:30 she began making the rounds of the bikers, inquiring as to whether anyone had seen him somewhere on the course. Few had and most of those remembered their encounters as having taken place in the early going on the road toward Watkins. It was not until little more than a corporal’s guard was left in the square that she ran into Lou Coughlin as he was saying good-bye to Reiger.

“Hi, Lou. I’m beginning to worry about Ernie. He should have been back an hour ago. You see him anywhere along the way?”

“Hi, Connie. Long time, no see. Sorry, but I don’t remember seeing Ernie since we took that cut-off above Waneta. I wouldn’t worry. He probably had one of those pesky problems with a tire. Happens all the time. Didn’t he call?”

“That’s what’s bothering me. He had his cell with him, always does. Promised to stay in touch. But no call. And he always carries a spare, so I can’t imagine him stuck somewhere on the course with a bike that won’t perform.”

“Sounds right. Not sure which of his bikes he was riding, but he’s got several good ones and he’s a bear about maintenance. My guess is that he stopped off somewhere to see a friend, just forgot to tell you. Why don’t you call around, give him hell that he stranded you down here on the square?”

“Thanks,” Connie said, making no effort to hide her worry. “You know him better than that. Just about every cyclist we know around the lake was in this race or whatever it is, so I doubt that he stopped to say hello to anybody.”

“Maybe he had a collision with some crazy, irresponsible driver,” Reiger interrupted. “How about checking the hospital over in Yates Center?”

This wasn’t the kind of advice Connie wanted to hear.

“My husband’s an excellent driver, whether in his car or on one of his bikes. He’s never had an accident, or, to the best of my memory, even a close call.”

“I’m sure you’re right, but accidents do happen.” Joe shared Mrs. Eakins’ worry, but he was also anxious to wrap up the Gravel Grinder. “Look, maybe Ernie just decided to go directly home, spare you the need to pick him up down here in Southport.”

“No, we agreed I’d drive him home. Besides, the race would have been over hours ago. If he went straight home, don’t you suppose he’d have thought it strange I wasn’t there?”

Neither Joe nor Lou believed that there wasn’t some perfectly innocent explanation for Ernie Eakins’ failure to meet up with his wife at the end of the day’s big event. But the town square was now largely empty, and Lou, who was anxious to head home, had one more idea.

“If you’re really worried, maybe you should call the sheriff.”

“Call the sheriff?” It was clear that Connie found the suggestion frightening. The only reason for calling the sheriff would be that she feared something terrible had happened to her husband.

“That’s what I would do,” Joe said. “No point making a 411 call. I’ve got the number at my desk. Come on over to my office and we’ll let the sheriff’s office know that Ernie is missing.”

Connie proceeded to sit down on the nearest bench.

“You really think the sheriff should know about this?”

“Just covering the bases,” Joe said. “She’ll be more likely to have an idea about him being missing than I do. Or Lou. Come on, let’s do it.”

“Oh, God. I was worried, and then I was getting mad at him. Now he may be dead. What do I -”

“No point in sitting here. Let’s make that call.” Joe thought that Connie was beginning to sound hysterical. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and they started for the Chamber of Commerce building across the square.

“He’s okay, I’m sure. Probably wondering about you.” For the first time since Connie Eakins had told him that she and Ernie had missed connections at the end of the Gravel Grinder, Joe Reiger had a premonition that something was seriously wrong.