Malcolm didn't look up right away. He finished the sentence he was reading. Then he removed his glasses, folded them, set them on the table. "Morning, Sheriff."
Crenshaw didn't return the greeting. "I don't know you," he said. "And I know everybody in this town, so I'm going to ask you once. What are you doing here?"
"Having breakfast," Malcolm said. "Passing through."
"Passing through." Krenshaw repeated it like the words tasted bad. "From where?"
"Houston."
"Houston." Krenshaw looked him up and down. Slow. The way you'd inspect something on the bottom of your shoe. "Long way to drive for some eggs."
"I'm visiting family."
"Family." Crenshaw almost laughed. "You got family here in Hadley Springs?"
"My grandmother lived here. Loretta Briggs."
"Never heard of her."
Behind the counter, Darlene flinched. Her hand curled around the dish towel. She'd known Loretta for 40 years. Everybody in this town had known Loretta. Crenshaw included.
Malcolm saw it. He didn't react. He just said, "Well, she's been gone a long time."
Krenshaw leaned forward, both hands flat on the table now, close enough that Malcolm could smell the tobacco and cheap aftershave. "Let me tell you how this works, friend. A stranger shows up in my town, driving a rental. No local ties I can verify. I have every right to ask questions. Now, show me some ID."
Malcolm reached into his jacket slowly, pulled out his Virginia driver's license, placed it on the table. Krenshaw picked it up, held it between two fingers like it was dirty.
"Virginia." Malcolm Briggs. He looked at the photo, looked at Malcolm, looked at the photo again. "You're a long way from home, Malcolm."
"Yes, sir."
Krenshaw walked the license back to Dawson. "Run it."
Dawson keyed the name into her shoulder radio. 30 seconds of static. Then dispatch came back. Clean. No warrants. No record. Nothing. Dawson looked at Crenshaw. "He's clear, Sheriff."
A normal officer would have handed back the ID and walked away. Maybe even apologized. That's what the law required. That's what basic human decency required. Krenshaw did neither. He walked back to the booth, tossed the license onto the table like a losing hand of cards.
"Stand up."
Malcolm looked at him. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Stand up. I need to pat you down."
"On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that I said so."
The diner was frozen, forks down, eyes locked. The AM radio played a Patsy Cline song that nobody heard. Darlene stepped forward. "Wade, the man is just eating. Leave him be."
Krenshaw didn't even turn around. "Darlene, sit down. This doesn't concern you."