Mrs. Patterson was waiting on her porch.
She eased herself into the passenger seat and smiled.
“You know,” she said, “you already do enough for me. You don’t have to worry about being a few minutes late.”
Somehow that made me feel worse.
Because I hadn’t forgotten her.
Something—or somebody—had interfered.
And I intended to find out what.
Part 2 — The Camera at 1:17 A.M.
The next morning, I drove Earl to Steve, my mechanic.
Steve had been working on the truck for nearly fifteen years.
At this point, I suspected he knew Earl almost as well as I did.
“I think I’ve got a fuel leak,” I told him.
He leaned against the truck.
“You smell gas?”
“No.”
“Anything on the driveway?”
“No.”
“How much are you losing?”
“Several gallons.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Frank, that’s not a leak. That’s an emergency.”
“Thank you for your compassion.”
He laughed and kept the truck for most of the afternoon.
Around four, he called.
“Your truck’s fine.”
I snorted.
“Steve, Earl is thirty years old. Earl has never been fine.”
“You know what I mean. Tank’s good. Lines are good. Fuel system looks fine.”
