Somewhere over Montana, Turner looked at Frank with an amused expression on his face. The red-headed Neanderthal was sitting in his seat, arms folded across his chest, chin resting on his breast bone. Apparently asleep and oblivious to the world. It had been a hectic three or four days. For both of them. A dead cowboy lying in a street. His girlfriend nearly frightened to death, and then almost getting there by someone injecting her with curare poison. A fast trip out to California. And now flying cross country again toward St. Louis.
A furious pace. All of it predicated on finding a dead man. A dead husband who seemed fond of calling up his wife randomly to say nothing of substance.
nothingHe felt the tiredness in his muscles. Closing his eyes, he leaned back in the seat and thought abo
