Chapter 53 midnight tracking

Sunday morning is here again... It's a mournful pop song sung by Rileys about the sadness of a lonely man without a wife or children who doesn't know where to go on a quiet Sunday morning.On this peaceful Sunday morning, I am the man in the song, with nowhere to go and nothing to look forward to. I grab a cup of coffee and walk into the living room.I live in "Pacific Hills" in San Francisco.The weather was fine that day, with no clouds in the sky and a little breeze.From my window I overlooked the bay, the water was dark green, and some yachts were scattered in it, like a map with many little white flags.

I went to my bookshelf, which took up an entire wall, and there were more than six thousand cheap detective and mystery magazines on it.I ran my hands over the backs of some books: Black Mask, The Dirty Detective, Clues, Detective Fiction Weekly.I have been collecting these weekly magazines since 1947, that is to say, they cover thirty years of my life, nearly three-fifths of my time in this world—next Friday, I will be fifty Years old. I took down a copy of "Black Mask" and looked at the cover: Chanler, Martin, Nie Bo, Mike, these are old friends who accompanied me through the silent Sunday.They drive away a lot of my bad, low mood, but not today...

The phone rang, and I went into the bedroom and picked up the receiver. It was old Hubben, a serious and serious detective, and probably my closest friend for thirty years. "Hi," he said, "woke you up?" "No, I've been up for hours." "As I get older, I gradually have to get up early." "That's not true." "How about a game of poker and beer this afternoon? My wife and kids are away in Suriyadaw." "I don't think so, Huben," I said. "I'm not in the mood." "You seem to be suffering from another mood disorder." "Yeah, sort of." "P.E. blues, huh?"

"It's eh—the sadness of a private detective." He let out a laugh. "Isn't it related to the upcoming fiftieth birthday? Fuck you. Fifty is the prime of life. I'm from here. Brother, I'm fifty-two now." "Of course." "Well, at least you change your mind, come and have a drink with me, and I'll leave you a can." Hang up the phone, go back to the living room, finish your coffee and try not to think about anything, preferably not even breathing.I stood up and walked aimlessly for a while. Sunday morning came... Suddenly, the old problem of lung disease broke out again.I started coughing and had to sit down, put a handkerchief over my mouth, and wander around the empty apartment listening to dry, brittle sounds.Cigarettes, damn them, an average of two packs a day for thirty-five years.Thirty-five out of fifty years, I have smoked more than half a million cigarettes, and I have smoked no less than ten million puffs... Forget it, what's the use of thinking about that?I stood up again.meet?Today seems to be just standing and sitting.I didn't go out either, I was really claustrophobic.Find a place to go, find something to do.Maybe driving far alone, I just don't want to see Humben or anyone.

Put on an old cotton jacket, leave the apartment, and get in the car.The closest direction out of town is north, so I drove over the Golden Gate Bridge and headed straight for 101.Two hours later, at Red Carpenter, a few miles north of Collier, I turned and headed straight for the coast, and after 2 p.m. I took Highway 1 and headed south again. The area was shrouded in mist, and the sun could not be seen, but there was a strong, fresh smell of the sea.There are very few vehicles in this area, and not one can be seen for a long time.The waves with white foam, constantly beating the coast, is an attractive scene.As I approached the bay called Anchor Bay, I drove up a cliff.I parked in a deserted parking area and found a path that led to an equally deserted beach.

I walked along the beach, watched the waves come and go, heard the roar of the waves, and heard the cries of seagulls in the fog.It was a silent place, but only the silence is attractive.It's a good place for me on this Sunday. After half an hour, I started to feel cold and cough again.I walked back up the trail, uphill, and as I approached the cliff, I saw another car parked in the parking area, a dusty green pick-up truck.There was also a small, dusty RV hanging in the back.The right rear of the car is leaning a bit, that means a flat tire.There are only two men and a woman nearby, everything is still, only the wind blows their hair and the corners of their clothes.

I walked over to them and walked to my car.My footsteps are louder than the waves lapping on the shore.The three of them raised their heads together, moved their positions, said something to each other, and then started walking towards me.We stopped a few yards apart. "Hi!" said one of them.The man was in his early twenties, and the other two were of the same age. The man who greeted me had long red hair, a drooping mustache, and was wearing a rough trench coat, blue work pants, and short boots.He looked disturbed, and he could see that the smile was forced. The other men and women looked equally nervous.The man has black hair, shorter than the red one, with a dark and square face, a checked lumberjack jacket, trousers, and brown leather shoes.The woman was not pretty, with thin lips and a pale face. She was wearing a long, thick windbreaker, a green bandanna wrapped around her head with a bow like a nun's veil, and reddish-brown hair hanging down her shoulders.All three had their hands in their pockets.I nodded and said, "Hello."

"We have a flat tire," said the redhead. "I see." "We didn't bring a jack." "Well, I have it, and you are welcome to use it." "Thank you." I hesitated and frowned slightly.When you spend most of your life doing detective work, sometimes you have a hunch and you don't believe those hunches.Now I have this hunch that something is wrong here, very wrong.Their uneasiness was part of it, and there was a thick, palpable tension between the three of them, some kind of frivolity, or some kind of dangerous play.Maybe that had nothing to do with me, but the detective's instinct, the detective's natural curiosity, did not allow me to ignore this "wrong" feeling.

I said, "It's a good thing I happen to be here, there doesn't seem to be much traffic in the area today." The red-haired boy took his left hand out of his pocket, pressed his mustache with his fingers unsurely, and said, "Yes, we are really lucky." The girl sniffed loudly, took out a handkerchief, and wiped it vigorously. The dark-haired boy shifted his weight to the other foot, his eyes wandered, and he tightened his jacket tightly, saying, "It's really cold in here." I glanced at the truck. The plates were Oregon.I said, "Going far away?"

"Going on vacation to Montana." "Are you on vacation?" "Something like a vacation." "The three of you must be a bit crowded in that car." "We like to squeeze," said the red-haired boy.He raised his voice, "Borrow the jack, please?" I took out the keys, walked around to the back of the car, and opened the trunk.The three of them stood there, watching me attentively. It occurred to me that they were not in the same group, and that something was wrong.Redheads with mustaches and long hair are trendy, while black hair is more conservative, does that mean anything?One of them may be a "light bulb", an unwanted "third wheel".However, this situation may not just mean that two people are just right, and three people are too many.If my feelings are good, which one is more?The girl never looked at anyone with affection.Her eyes shrunk in the wind, staring straight ahead.

I unhooked the jack, took it out, closed the lid again, turned to them and said, "Maybe it's best for me to do it for you, it's a little tricky thing to do." "We can do it ourselves," said the black-haired man. "It's okay, I'm happy to help." I moved the jack to the back of the pickup where the spare tire was already there.There is a small window in each of the two doors of the car.One is surrounded by coarse cloth, and the other is made of transparent plastic paper.I peeked inside the car from the transparent one. There was a cupboard, a small table, and two bed-shaped benches inside.Everything was clean and tidy, put away and strapped down so it wouldn't roll when the car was in motion. The three of them also came and formed a circle, this time the girl stood in the middle.I squatted down and put the jack under the axle to hold it in place.When I started doing it, both the black hair and the red hair came forward to help, but in my opinion, they might as well not help. It took us fifteen minutes to change the tire.I tried to talk to them to pick up some clues from the conversation as to which one was the "third person", but they didn't say anything.The two men only occasionally answered me with one or two words, and the woman was still clearing her nose without saying a word. I cranked the jack handle and landed the truck on all four wheels.I said, "Well, well, you'd better fix that flat tire as soon as you hit the garage, you don't want to run around without a spare, do you?" "Okay," said the dark-haired boy. I gave a communicative smile, "Do you have any beer or soda in the car? I've had some effort and I'm thirsty." The red hair looked at the girl, then at the black hair, feeling uneasy, he said, "I'm sorry, there's nothing." "Let's hit the road," said the dark-haired boy.He picked up the flat tire, put it in the metal storage rack at the back of the car, and the three of them walked towards the door. I really don't want them to go, but I can't think of a way to keep them.Nothing suspicious, nothing on the seat, on the little shelf behind the seat, on the dashboard, on the floor where the passenger sits. The girl got in second, the dark-haired boy was the driver, they closed the door and started the engine. "Drive slowly, don't panic." I said, raising my hand to say goodbye, but none of them looked at me.The truck sprinted forward, a little too fast, and the tires kicked up some gravel, onto Highway One.They headed south, faster and faster. I stood there until their shadows disappeared before getting back in the car and starting the engine. What now?Driving back to San Francisco and ignoring this little thing - that's the easiest thing to do.But I just can't forget it.One of those young men, or more than one, was not part of a gang.The more I think about it, the more I feel like I should figure out which one it is.More importantly, all three people showed a tense and anxious atmosphere. I have no formal reason or right to play the detective, but I don't want to do it against my will.And I have a strong distaste for empty, lonely dwellings.So I might as well do what I've done for the past thirty years again. I started the car, got on the highway, and headed south.I drove four miles to catch up with them. They were going fast, maybe ten miles over the speed limit, but within safe limits.I adjusted my speed to keep within a few hundred yards of them.It was almost dusk, not a good time for tracking, not to mention there was still a layer of fog.Luckily, the lights on their pick-up truck were on, and that was enough for me to follow them.We walked along the coast, and there were not many vehicles on the road.The fog was getting thicker and thicker, and it kept falling in fine droplets, so I had to turn on the wipers.Slowly, has entered the long cold night.It was getting dark quickly. After continuing for several miles, the pickup entered Montana Bay, which they drove straight through without slowing down.Thus it was proved that the dark-haired boy had lied about their destination.I wondered where their final destination was, and I couldn't help thinking how far I was going to chase them?I decided to follow them until they stopped somewhere, until I somehow got a handle on their relationship.If that means stalking until tomorrow, or even another state, never mind, I have no unsolved cases, no tasks in my hands and in my head, purposeful or not, I know that work is the cure for self-pity and depression. Ford Village, Leiyin Town... The pickup truck drove straight forward.We were maybe thirty miles from the Golden Gate Bridge by then, and I was out of gas, but enough to get me back to San Francisco, not farther. Looks like I'll have to stop somewhere for gas.Just south of Olima Village, the pick-up truck slowed down, its brake lights came on, and then turned west onto a secondary road toward Xueyin National Seashore. Two minutes later, when I reached the intersection, my headlights caught a sign that read: PUBLIC CAMP, THREE MILES AHEAD.So they're going to spend the night here, or have dinner.I looked up at the sky, and although it was dark, the fog was thinner here, and the wind kept blowing it away.The view is good.There were few cars on the secondary road. In order not to attract their attention, I turned on it, turned off the lights, and drove at a speed of twenty miles per hour. The area is unsightly and untidy because it is the St. Anvis fault line.I went on for three miles past a small pond.The campsite is on the left, near the ocean.It has sand dunes to the west, pines and machine trees to the south, and a small management office.It was a wooden building, with some stone grills and some scattered garbage cans.The pick-up truck was in the camp, with the lights still on, parked near the trees. I saw it from a distance, some trees partially blocked my view.I didn't go in directly through the entrance where they might see me or hear me.I headed down a side road and turned off the engine.Ten seconds later, the lights of the pickup truck went out as well. I sat quietly behind the wheel, trying to decide what to do next.But the human mind is really weird: along the way I can't figure out what it is that makes me think that one or two of the three are wrong, and now I am thinking about other things.My memory cells were racing, and suddenly I understood something that had been bugging me—three separate little things that came together to tell me which one was wrong.I felt my brow furrow, I still couldn't figure out what was going on, but what I had just discovered made the whole thing seem weirder and more urgent. I reached over to remove the round plastic shade on the roof and the light bulb inside, and got out of the car and across the road.The wind was blowing hard, cutting my face and hands like little jagged teeth.A wisp of mist flew overhead in the darkness like cold fingers seeking warmth. Cautiously and slowly, I entered the woods, heading south, roughly parallel to where the truck was parked.Through the wind-broken tree branches, I estimated the distance between the car and me was about forty yards. It was dark inside, and there seemed to be no one there. There was a faint light from the caravan behind, and the lightness of the light told me that the curtains on the two windows on the door were drawn down. I strode over to the truck, stopping within ten yards of it to listen, while hiding in the shadow of a large pine tree.I heard nothing but the howling of the wind and the sound of the distant waves.I stared at the RV for a while.Then I looked at the ground next to the truck. There were no hard rocks there, only mud and pine needles, which made a dull sound under people's footsteps. I walked slowly to the truck, and when I got to the RV, I stopped and pressed my ear to the cold metal while I plugged my finger in the other ear to keep the wind out.For the first thirty seconds or so, there was faint movement, but no talking.Then, one of them, the one who wasn't with him, was speaking in a low, indistinct voice. "Get the sandwiches ready." "All right," said another voice timidly. "I'm starving, I don't want to sit around like this, you know?" "This is a public campsite, the administrator will not bother us, if you—" "Shut up, I told you earlier, if you don't want to get bullets, be obedient, don't be wordy, I have to say it again ?" "No." "Then shut up and get your sandwiches done, we're a long way from Mexico." This conversation tells me that their situation is worse than I thought.Kidnapping, and probably other genius-knows-what felonies.This is when I pull away and report to the nearby Highway Patrol.That's the end of a private eye's job, and you'd be an idiot if you didn't want to turn things over to the authorities at this point.I stepped back slightly, turned around, and was about to retreat back into the woods and back to my car. That's how it happens sometimes—unpredictably, so coincidentally, so unsuspectingly—that a gust of wind snaps off a branch from a tree, and the broken branch is blown in front of the truck, where it slams into it with a loud noise. ring. There was an immediate reaction in the RV, and there was a sudden scratching sound with something.I'm still backing away, but there's no time to escape.The RV door slid open and one of them rushed out into my line of sight.He also saw me and shouted, "Stop, give me a blessing." He held a long black thing in one hand, which was a gun. I stopped.That was exactly who I thought was out of league—and that out-of-group was the woman. He stood there with his legs spread apart, the gun in his hands, tense, frightened, and dangerous.Now he doesn't wear a wig or a turban, and his hair is short and light-colored and looks white in the dark.Apart from his pale, womanly face and naturally hairless hands, there was nothing feminine about him. "Come here," he said. I hesitated for a moment, then did as he said.He quickly backed up to a spot where he could face me and the back of the RV.When I was three steps away from him, I saw two other people standing by the open car door, their silhouettes in the light from inside, and their four eyes dart between me and the guy with the gun go. "What are you doing?" said the man with the gun, who recognized me: "You're following us?" I didn't answer. "Why? Who are you?" I stared at him for a while, and then revealed a little truth, because I wanted to see his reaction. I said, "I'm a policeman?" The muscles around his mouth twitched, and the gun wobbled as if he couldn't hold it steady. He wouldn't hesitate to shoot me or the two young men if he felt it necessary. I'm sure of that, you can tell by experience what a person can do.This man, in his panic, would shoot without forcing him. He finally spoke again, "That's your business," he said in a vague, half-smile voice, "I'm not a woman, you don't seem surprised." "Yes" "What made you see through? " "Three things," I said in vain, "one is the way you wipe your nose in the parking lot, the way you force yourself, keep wiping, it's not feminine. The second is the way you walk, Strides, big and heavy, exactly like the other two boys. Third, you don't have a purse or handbag, not in the truck or in the RV, I've never seen a woman without such things." He wiped his nose with his free hand and said, "Very good, you're smart." The red-haired boy said in a trembling voice, "What are you going to do?" The guy with the gun didn't answer right away, he was still staring at me nervously, and the corners of his mouth were still twitching.I saw him think for a while, and then said to the other two, "Do you have anything like a clothesline inside?" "Yes." The black-haired boy said. "Go get it, we have to tie up this policeman and take him with us." Anger burns in my heart.I said to myself, will you just let him tie you up? Am I just standing there, waiting to die indifferently?Let yourself and two children die in a corner of the road like this?I said, "Why don't you kill me now? What's the difference between this place and other places?" His face darkened, "You shut up." I took a step towards him. "Stop," he made a threatening gesture with the gun, "I warn you, old man, if you don't stop, I'm going to shoot." . The bullet was shot about an inch away from my face, and the flames burned my skin, almost blinding me, but I felt the bullet flying past my right cheek, and the gunshot was loud, but I still grabbed his wrist, knocking out his gun before he could fire again.I punched him in the stomach and chest with my right fist.He was breathing out of his mouth, his steps were chaotic, and his body lost his balance.I kicked him again, kicking him to the ground, then mounted him and delivered a series of vicious punches.By the time I felt his whole body go limp, he had passed out. I stood up and grabbed the gun at the same time.My cheeks were stinging, like burning, and my eyes were also stinging, and there were tears, but my injuries were limited to these.Apart from some weakness in my legs, I didn't experience any sluggishness in my reflexes or movements. The red-haired and black-haired boys rushed forward, a pleasant sense of release on their stiff, pale faces. "Okay," I said to them, "now you better get the clothesline out." We drove the guy who wasn't with me to a nearby highway patrol station in my car. That guy's name was Yu Lian.On the way, two other boys, one named Anthony and the other named Ed, told me about the horror of being hijacked for twelve hours. They were students at the College of Agriculture and Forestry in Max City, Oregon, who had left school that morning for a two-day camping trip.However, they make a mistake on the road, stopping and picking up what they thought was a woman.After Yu Lian got into the car, he took out his gun and forced them to drive south along the coast into California.He wanted to go to Mexico, but he couldn't drive, and chose them as drivers. He also said he was a fugitive, incarcerated for armed robbery and two attempted murders. After he escaped from prison and was wanted across the state, he broke into an empty house looking for clothes and money.But that house was obviously occupied by an old girl, because I searched all over and couldn't find anything belonging to a man.But he found two wigs and some feminine clothing that suited him, so he had the idea of ​​dressing up as a man. Yu Lian was still unconscious when we arrived at the highway patrol station.Anthony and Ed recounted the story to Officer Mel there.I spoke briefly about my part.But they, in spite of their gratitude, persisted in making me some kind of hero. When Officer Mel and I were alone in the office, I showed him my private eye license.After reading it, he gave me a vague smile: "A private detective, eh? The way you handed over Yulian's gun is the same as that of a private detective. That's right, just like what was shown on TV." "Of course," I said wearily, "it's like on TV." "All I can say is, you have guts." "No, I'm not some guts. I've never done anything like that in my life, but I can't let those two kids get hurt if I can help. Yulian might kill them, sooner or later. But they His life is like the sun just rising, with a bright future." "He almost killed you, friend," said Officer Mel, rubbing his hands. "Then I don't care," I paused, "I only care about those two children." "Selfless people, right?" "Wrong." "Then why don't you care about your own safety?" Officer Mel asked, stopping to rub his hands. I was silent for a while, and then, I decided to say, because I've kept the reason in my head long enough "Well, I'll tell you, in fact, you were the first to know, and so was my best friend. have no idea." "what do you know?" I go to the window. "The doctor said I only had eighteen months to live, barring some miracle. I have terminal lung cancer."