She’d been watching him watch her since she pulled in. His name was on the sign above the door. Clement J. Taggart. Taggart Fuel and Mart, established 1991. The kind of establishment where the owner’s name was a declaration of ownership in both directions, the property and the county.
He came outside two minutes after she started pumping. “You need help with something?” The question floated across the concrete apron like it meant something friendly. It did not mean something friendly. “I’m fine. Thank you.” She didn’t look at him.
He stopped at the edge of the canopy shadow, eight feet away, thumbs in the waistband of his jeans. His eyes moved from her face to the Explorer. Lingered on the out-of-state plate frame, the rental company decal on the bumper corner. Moved back up. “Rental car,” he said. Not a question. “Yes.” “Where’d you pick it up?”
Tamara pumped her gas. The counter ticked forward. She said nothing. Taggart stood there another moment, as though waiting for the silence to become an answer. Then he turned and went back inside.
She watched him in the window. Watched him pick up his phone. Watched his mouth move. Watched him turn his back toward her. The call lasted under thirty seconds. She wrote the time in her notebook. 3:17 p.m. Taggart, phone call, turned away. Under 30.
Four minutes later, a county cruiser rolled past the pump island at a speed that was not quite a stop and not quite a pass-through. Deputy Ray Edson, badge number visible at fifty feet, looked at her through the passenger window. The cruiser continued. Did not stop. She wrote: 3:21 p.m. Unit 14, Caldwell County, passed east to west. Did not stop. Driver observed subject.
At the corner of the intersection, a second vehicle was already there. And it had been there, she realized, since before she pulled in. A white and brown Caldwell County Sheriff’s cruiser, engine idling, parked against the far curb. The driver had not moved. She wrote the plate number. She capped the pen. She kept pumping.
The cruiser at the corner had not moved in nine minutes. Tamara replaced the nozzle, replaced the gas cap, folded her receipt, put it in her jacket pocket. She was about to open the driver’s side door when the loudspeaker crackled.
“Attention, operator of Georgia plate Tango Hotel Kilo 441.” The voice was unhurried. County-wide authority compressed into a tin speaker. “Remain at your vehicle. This is the Caldwell County Sheriff’s Office. Remain at your vehicle.”
She did not move toward the door. Tamara stood at the side of the Explorer and put both hands where they were visible. Right hand on the roof of the car, left hand at her side, fingers open. The white and brown cruiser pulled forward. Cord Beaumont stepped out.