Drake’s assistant jumped to his feet, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, inserted it in his lips and held the flame of a match cupped in trembling hands. Drake jerked the canvas back into position, took two uncertain steps toward Mason, veered abruptly, and leaned against the trunk of a tree. His face was a greenish-white.
The car slowed to a stop in front of the traffic officer’s upraised palm. Two men got out. They talked for a few moments. Then the officer nodded and stood to one side.
Mason watched the two men.
“Is it the coroner?” Drake asked, without moving his position.
Mason said, “Move down toward that tow car, Paul, I’m joining you. Let’s keep out of sight.”
“Is it the coroner?” Drake repeated, still standing against the tree.
“It’s Jimmy Driscoll and Rodney Cuff, his lawyer,” Mason said. “Get going.”
The three walked over to the tow car. The pair coming up the road walked with quick, jerky steps. Mason said, “Sort of circle around the hood, boys. Try to make everything you do seem casual. Don’t look over toward them. Keep your eyes on the cable. Act as though we’re part of the salvage crew.”
Someone shouted from below. The man standing by the drums pushed on a lever, and the winches started slowly revolving.
Cuff and Driscoll walked to the edge of the road, peered down the taut line of the wire rope, then stepped back and walked directly to the canvas-covered figure.