In Seconds

8

“Shit, that was close!” Ink muttered as he watched the sheriff leave.

L.J. shoved the gun—which he’d hidden beneath an old shirt—back under the seat. “Good thing I didn’t shoot him. What if I’d blown him away like you told me to?”

Ink didn’t bother opening his eyes. He’d exaggerated his condition to entice the sheriff out of his cruiser and away from his radio sooner rather than later, since they didn’t need any other cops to join him. But he felt pain almost all the time. That was no act. “Then he’d be dead. And there’s nothing wrong with a dead cop. I like that kind better than any other.”

“I wouldn’t cry over it, either. But we can’t be stupid, or we’ll wind up back in prison. I still can’t believe he didn’t bust our asses. I was sure he was planning to.” He adjusted the rearview mirror.

“Tow truck comin’?”

“Not yet.” L.J. started searching for a station that played music to his liking, but Ink couldn’t tolerate the static, which was about all they were getting, so he reached over and turned off the radio. His back pain was giving him a headache. When he’d broken out of prison, it wasn’t as if he could take the nurse and her meds with him. Now he was trying to manage with the recreational drugs he’d gotten from various gang members who’d helped them once they hit the outside, and what he could buy over the counter.

“What do you think changed his mind?” L.J. asked.

“You mean the sheriff?”

“Yeah.”

Wasn’t it obvious? “His computer didn’t have anything to say about us.”

L.J.’s eyebrows slid up. “How could that be? He had us, man.”

“He didn’t even know our real names.”

“What about the plates? We stole this truck a week ago.”

Ink leaned out the window as far as his back would allow. Mild as the summer was here in the mountains of Montana, this was the hottest part of the day. “Guy we stole it from must not have reported it—or this would’ve ended very differently.”

L.J.’s baby face registered a frown. “I can’t imagine the owner hasn’t called the cops.”

“Maybe he hasn’t missed it.”

“How do you not miss your own vehicle?”

Where was the damn tow truck? Sitting here baking in the hot sun was making Ink angrier by the minute. Angrier than he normally was. “By having too many to begin with,” he snapped. “By having one that’s such a hunk of junk you don’t give a shit that it’s gone. Hell, maybe it’s not even his. Maybe he was storing it for his son, who’s in the military or away at school or in rehab. You saw where this baby was parked. Way out on the south forty, mostly hidden by storage. I’ll bet whoever owns that property doesn’t walk there every day. Another week could pass before anyone notices.”

Fidgeting was how L.J. dealt with his nervous energy, but Ink had a hard time tolerating the repetitive movement. Actually, it wasn’t just the movement that drove him nuts. It was the constant questions. L.J. was so damn green. That was the problem with growing old in prison. The fresh fish soon seemed like mere babies, and yet they all wanted to join The Crew. Ink had promised to sponsor L.J. if he helped him break out, but there was no way he’d follow through. L.J. wasn’t worthy.

“So why the hell didn’t he sell it if he didn’t care about it anymore?” L.J. asked.

Ink shot him another glance. This was what he had to work with.

But he’d managed so far. They’d busted out of prison, hadn’t they? Of course, it’d helped that, after four years of good behavior, they’d transferred him to a medium-security facility. No one expected someone as handicapped as he was to cause any trouble. And L.J. had gone to prison for possession. He’d only had a year left. No one expected him to bust out, either. If he wasn’t trying so hard to impress the leaders of The Crew, who wanted to see Laurel and Virgil dead as badly as Ink did, he probably wouldn’t have.

“Are you going to answer?”

The impulse to bash in L.J.’s head nearly overwhelmed him. But he wrestled with it, subdued it. Thanks to his tattoos and his limp, he was too distinctive, too memorable. He needed a front man. So what if this boy had shit for brains? It was probably better that way; he’d never challenge Ink. At least the kid’s body was strong and healthy.

Just like Ink’s used to be—before Rex, Virgil and his bitch of a sister came along.

“Who gives a rat’s ass why he wouldn’t sell it?” Ink said. “Quit with the dumb questions, okay?”

L.J.’s voice was sulky when he responded. “They’re not dumb questions. You think everything’s dumb.”

Ink let his head bump against the back window again. “I think you’re dumb, that’s for sure. You’re like a five-year-old. The owner didn’t report the truck stolen or we would’ve been arrested. It’s that simple. Happy now?”

“No, I’m not happy at all,” L.J. grumbled. “You said if I helped you break out we’d have one hell of a good time. But here we are, after almost a week of camping in the woods with no bathroom or shower, sitting on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere. It’s a miracle we didn’t get arrested by that hick sheriff! If he’d dragged us off, we could’ve been charged with the murder of that guy you killed. If that ever happens, they’ll give us both the death penalty, even though I had nothing to do with it.”

Lowering his eyelids, Ink skewered him with a malevolent glare. “You were there, weren’t you?”

“Unfortunately.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “That Realtor was harmless. He reminded me of my grandpa.”

“The old bastard had it coming.”

“For saying you had to have money before he’d rent you a place?”

Ink heard the deep rumble of a diesel motor. Cautious to avoid causing himself more pain, he twisted around until he could see the tow truck chugging up from behind. “I offered him some money, but it just wasn’t enough. If he wasn’t going to give us a place, he had to give us something. I wasn’t going to come away empty-handed.”

“You think anyone else would’ve let us take the cabin for fifty bucks?” L.J. rolled his eyes. “And you call me dumb.”

“He didn’t have anyone else in there, did he? Fifty bucks would’ve been better than nothing.”

“It wouldn’t even have covered the maid service.”

A blue placard was affixed to one door of the bright yellow tow truck: Harvey’s Tow, 133 North Main, Pineview, Montana. There was a phone number below, then a saying, written in script: “I Will Follow the Good Shepherd.”

Ink rubbed his temples. “Great. A religious fanatic.”

Harvey, or whoever was behind the wheel, came parallel with them and waved before maneuvering his truck in front of theirs.

“How do you know he’s religious?” L.J. asked.

“Just shut up, will ya?”

“What are we gonna do about the gun?”

“What do you think? We can’t leave it in the truck. Stick it down your pants.”

The diesel engine died, ending the vibration humming through the earth, the vehicles, the air.

“Are we going to ride back with him?” L.J. whispered as Harvey’s door opened and two work boots came into view.

“Hell, no. What if someone’s reporting that truck stolen right now? And what if the sheriff gets wind of it and radios Harvey? We’ll be at their mercy.” He shook his head. “Now that we’ve been connected to this truck, we can’t head back with him.”

“Great. So…where do we go from here?”

Ink shifted too fast. He had to clamp his jaw shut to cover a groan. “We just beat it. I’ll figure out what happens later,” he said when he could speak. “Whatever you do—” he drew a ragged breath “—let me handle this.”

A large man with tufts of gray hair sticking out from a greasy ball cap and a nose permanently reddened by years of working outdoors came to L.J.’s window and bent to look in. “You need to get out while I hook up,” he said.

A man of many words… “Right. Of course.” Ink gave L.J. a pointed glance to indicate he should do as the driver asked.

L.J. got out, but it took Ink a bit longer to vacate the cab. He wanted to move without looking like too much of a cripple. He hated the attention his injury drew, which was pretty ironic, considering his tattoos. He used to enjoy the horrified reactions he often inspired. But fear and intimidation were different from pity. Ever since a bullet had damaged his spinal cord, the stares he received made him desperate to stop all gawkers, or punish them, just like when he’d let loose on that Realtor. He’d dismissed the incident at the cabin as if he’d meant to kill the old guy, but Ink still wasn’t sure what had made him snap. The disappointment of being told something he didn’t want to hear, he supposed. These days that was all it took. His mother claimed he’d been like that ever since he was a baby. But he knew he was getting worse. The injury had screwed up his mind as well as his body.

“Can you see the gun?” L.J. whispered as they watched Harvey go to work.

Ink barely looked. “There’s a slight bulge, but it’s not really noticeable. Maybe you’re just well-hung, huh?”

“I am well-hung.” He grinned at the joke but shoved his hands in his pockets to help conceal the weapon. “So…we let him drive away?”

“That’s exactly what we do.”

“Then what?”

“We get the hell out of here.”

“On foot?”

Ink clenched his hands in his own pockets. “Quit whining. Once he’s gone, we can hitchhike.”

L.J. kicked a pebble across the road. “But I thought you had plans in Pineview. I thought that’s why we came here. You were going to take revenge on that bitch that got you shot, remember?”

She’d also spat in his face, which to him was almost as bad. No one spat in his face and got away with it, least of all a woman. “You don’t need to remind me. I haven’t forgotten. I could never forget. It’ll happen. It just needs to happen a certain way.”

“Why?”

“Because if I play this smart, I might get the bastard who shot me—and her brother, too.”

“But hitchhiking? Seriously? Who’s going to pick up someone with lightning bolts for eyebrows? Those tattoos’ll scare everyone who drives by.”

His Crew wannabe was growing too bold for his own welfare. Ink would’ve broken his jaw for less, but they had enough problems right now. He’d deal with L.J. later. “I’ll hang back in the trees until you flag someone down.”

“And then what?”

The tow truck’s winch made a grinding sound as it lifted the Toyota.

“We ask for a ride.”

“What if they refuse after they see you?”

Ink gritted his teeth. “We blow the driver’s head off and take his car. What else?”

L.J. might’ve argued against more violence. He talked tough but it was mostly an act. He’d vomited after Ink had beaten that Realtor to death. But he didn’t have a chance to speak. Finished, the tow truck driver walked over.

“You two need a lift?”

L.J. waited, allowing Ink to respond. “No, thanks.”

The man’s craggy face showed his surprise. They were far enough from town that he’d expected the opposite answer. “You sure?”

“Positive. A friend’s coming to get us.”

His gaze shifted to L.J., then moved back. “Why not meet your friend in town? Save him the trip?”

Refusing to reveal his discomfort, Ink cocked one leg to ease the pain shooting up his distorted spine. “Because he doesn’t live in Pineview, and he’s already on his way.”

The tow truck driver scratched under his cap. “What if he misses you?”

“He won’t.”

He didn’t mention how far it would be if they had to walk. If he’d noticed that Ink was handicapped—or tattooed—he didn’t make an issue of it. Ink appreciated his “live and let live” attitude. This was a man who knew how to mind his own business.

“Fine by me.” He held out a contract fastened to a clipboard. “Just need you to sign this and show up at Reliable Auto this evening or tomorrow morning to see about the repairs.”

“No problem,” Ink said and scribbled Ron Howard’s name.

Harvey—his name was on his shirt—accepted the clipboard and handed him a copy, then started walking away. But Ink called him back. “Hey!”

He turned before reaching his truck. “Yeah?”

“You don’t happen to know a woman who lives in Pineview who’s about five-ten, blond hair, blue eyes and has two kids, do ya?”

His eyebrows came together as he squinted against the sun. “Why do you ask?”

“She’s my sister, adopted out at birth. I’ve been searching for her for years. A P.I. I hired, when I could afford that type of thing,” he added sheepishly, “told me she lived here. I’d sure like to find her. Can’t tell you how much it would mean to me.”

“You don’t have a name?”

“Her birth name was Laurel Hodges. I know that much, of course. But I don’t think she goes by it.”

He took his hat off, shoved a hand through his hair. “What does she look like again?”

Vivian sat in her living room, staring at the windows and doors as if she expected someone to try to break in. Jake hadn’t returned from the lake yet. Mia was in her bedroom, playing dress-up. And Vivian was supposed to be working. But she couldn’t concentrate. Instead, her mind was feverishly developing ways she could defend herself and her children if that became necessary.

But…short of installing iron bars over every point of entry, which was completely impractical given the fact that she had no money, there wasn’t a lot she could do. She felt very vulnerable, living alone with her children in a small community, unable to even voice her fears.

Would The Crew come at night as they had in Colorado? Should she have Mia and Jake start sleeping with her?

That’d worked when they were small, but she wasn’t sure Jake would go along with it at nine. He was so damn independent, so determined to throw off the yoke of her protection.

Remembering that he was at the lake—and she wasn’t fully comfortable with that—she stood and began to pace. Maybe she should see if Nana Vera would keep the children with her for the next couple of weeks until Vivian could determine whether or not she had reason to be worried. She could present it as Nana’s Summer Camp, make it sound like fun and pay Vera a small amount for her trouble. If Vera wouldn’t accept money, she’d get her a gift as she had in the past.

But what would she tell Vera when she asked for this favor? That she was behind on her concepts for fall and needed the time to work?

Possibly. So then…what about her gun? It was still in the trunk of her car. She could carry it in after her children went to sleep, as planned. But where would she hide it at that point? If she put the Sig somewhere safe, like the attic or underneath the porch, she ran the risk of not being able to get to it in an emergency.

If she didn’t put it somewhere safe, however, she could lose the advantage she was trying to give herself.

Maybe Myles would take it away and she wouldn’t have that decision to make.

Pivoting at the window, she glanced at the phone. She’d already picked it up several times, planning to call the sheriff and cancel their plans for the evening. She just hadn’t gone through with it yet. He scared her almost as much as The Crew, but for very different reasons. In her precarious situation, she had no business feeling the way he made her feel. Even if she didn’t have some history to hide, she wasn’t sure she could take an emotional risk at this point in her life. So what if she was lonely? So what if she craved the support of someone who could be with her in body as well as spirit? She didn’t want to get involved with Myles for the wrong reasons. She’d just become healthy again. So had he—if she was right in assuming he was finally over his wife’s death.

Cancel. Do it. Let him deal with his issues while you deal with yours. If he chose to push her about the gun, she’d just tell him she didn’t feel safe without it. That was the truth, wasn’t it?

Certain she’d reached the right decision, she hurried over to the desk, but the phone rang before she could lift the handset. Caller ID couldn’t provide her with a number or a name but she answered, anyway, just in case it was Vera or Jake. “Hello?”

“Laurel?”

Virgil. She tightened her grip on the phone. This was the first time her brother had called since they’d left Washington D.C., but the second time she’d spoken to him today. It had to be important. “You’ve found Rex.”

“No.”

She ducked her head so her voice wouldn’t carry up the stairs. “Something else has happened?”

“Not yet. Maybe it won’t. At least, that’s what I’m hoping.”

An image of Trinity Woods, the young woman who used to babysit for her in Colorado, appeared in Vivian’s mind. Trinity had been shot and killed on Vivian’s doorstep four years ago, a death Vivian felt she could’ve prevented if she’d been more assertive about making sure someone warned Trinity. That was when Virgil had just gotten out of prison and The Crew had entered her life. Back then she hadn’t known them like she did now and she’d had no idea they’d kill someone completely unrelated to the situation and for no reason whatsoever.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why are you calling?”

She couldn’t help the coolness in her voice. The ease with which he seemed to have moved on while she continued to struggle made her angry. Maybe that anger was petty; in fact, she recognized that it was. After what he’d been through, he deserved the happiness he’d found. But in her most difficult hours, when she dragged her isolation around like a ball and chain, she grew too discouraged to be magnanimous and simply wanted to find fault.

“I feel bad about this morning,” he said.

“You don’t have anything to feel bad about.” Despite her rapidly shifting emotions, she knew he’d change things if he could. He was at the same disadvantage she was, merely reacting to forces beyond his control.

“I should’ve been more prepared for your call,” he admitted. “I didn’t respond to it the way I would’ve liked. I was too much of a hard-ass.”

“You said what had to be said. What else could you do?”

“That’s just it. I feel so boxed in, so…helpless. I want to make the past right for you, for Peyton, for all of us. I can’t tell you how much I regret ever joining The Crew—”

“You were only eighteen and fighting for your life inside a maximum-security prison. You had no choice.”

There was a moment of silence before he spoke again. “Still, I wish I could reassure you instead of scaring the hell out of you. But I’m afraid the second you drop your guard it’ll be like two years ago when…”

He didn’t finish, and she knew he couldn’t even speak the words. “I understand.”

He cleared his throat. “Have you heard anything more about Pat Stueben’s murder?”

“No.” But if she kept her date with Myles, she might. And that was why she wouldn’t cancel, despite her earlier determination to do so. “Do you think we should be more proactive about searching for Rex?” she asked. “Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe he needs us, Virgil.”

“That’s just it. The more waves we make, the easier we’ll be to find, and there’re children involved.” He cursed again. “We can’t even be good friends to him.”

“Have you tried calling his family? From a pay phone?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“His father and brothers won’t talk to me. And his mother is dead. Should I go through the rest of his family tree?”

He wasn’t being sarcastic; he was asking a serious question. But contacting any more of Rex’s relations would be a waste of time. The rift with his family had driven Rex into gang life to begin with. “No.”

“So what else?”

“I guess…nothing,” she said. And then she understood. Being helpless was the worst possible experience for a man like Virgil, who tried to take charge of—and fix—every situation. “We just have to wait. And hope for the best.”

“You asked me if I missed Mom.”

He surprised her with the sudden change of subject, and then didn’t give her any time to respond.

“The answer to that question is yes. I’ve missed her every day of my life since she stabbed me in the back. I wish I could hate her. Sometimes I do. But more than anything, I wonder what was wrong with me that she couldn’t love me the way I love my son,” he said, and hung up.

Vivian rubbed her face. She shouldn’t have asked him about Ellen.

“Damn it…” Where could she turn? She had no idea what she could do to help Rex. She hated the thought that her brother was hurting as badly as she was. And she could no longer justify canceling her evening with Myles.

Jake’s voice out in the yard brought her around to face the door. He was home. She could see him charging toward the house and was glad that Vera was behind him, hobbling up to say hello instead of just dropping him off.

“Mom?” Jake flung the door wide only to find her standing about three feet away from him. “Oh, there you are. We had so much fun!”

She wanted to hug him. To hold him close and never let go. But he was wet and didn’t smell all that pleasant. And these days he wouldn’t tolerate more than a short squeeze. “Did you catch anything?”

“Three rainbow trout! They’re in the cooler. But I don’t know how to gut them and neither does Nana. Do you think Sheriff King’s at home?”

Great. Another reason for him to turn to Myles. “Not yet,” she said. “But I can go online and look for a tutorial. Want me to do that?”

“Nah, Sheriff King will know how.” He glanced toward the stairs. “Where’s Mia? I want to show her.”

Vivian propped up her smile with a bit more determination. “In her room.”

He dashed around her, yelling his sister’s name as Nana Vera reached the front door. “He had such a good time,” she said, using the doorjamb to help her get up that final step.

Vivian held out an arm to steady her. “I didn’t realize you knew how to fish.”

She shrugged her bony shoulders. “I don’t. But there was a book on it at the library. I read it last week. Then I went down and bought what it said I’d need. Somehow…it worked. Jake and I both learned something today,” she added with a tired laugh.

Vivian shook her head. “I’m impressed.”

“I’m a better fisherman than I thought. But I don’t have the foggiest idea what to do with those poor creatures now that they’re in my ice chest. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting to catch a thing.”

“Beginner’s luck.” Considering the smell, the mess and the revulsion factor, maybe they should let her son seek Myles’s help. “I’m sure we can get Sheriff King to teach the kids.”

Vera adjusted her wide-brimmed hat. She was also wearing long pants and a lightweight yellow jacket to protect her from the sun. “I doubt he’ll have time,” she mused. “Not today.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s probably at the autopsy. And who knows what he’ll have to do afterward.”

“The autopsy’s today?” Myles hadn’t mentioned it when he stopped by earlier. He was so careful to keep the details of the case to himself.

“According to Lawrence Goebel.”

Goebel was the county coroner. He was also Vera’s ballroom dance partner. They went down to the veterans’ hall once a month and took a few turns around the dance floor, but a decade earlier, they’d entered numerous competitions. Vivian thought they owned every ribbon that could be won in this region. She’d once asked Vera why she’d never gotten romantically involved with Goebel—they made such a handsome couple—and Vera had whispered that she and Goebel were both interested in the same man. To their mutual disappointment, that man had recently married a third party. “What does he have to say about the murder?” Vivian asked.

“Pat was killed by blunt-force trauma.”

Vivian raised a finger to indicate silence. Jake was bringing Mia down to see his prized fish. Although the children would hear about the murder eventually, Vivian didn’t want them to be frightened by the more gruesome details—probably because of the images that still haunted her.

Only after they’d brushed past and run outside did she resume the conversation. “What kind of blunt-force trauma?”

“Who knows? But the killer used something to bash in his head.”

“A rock? A lamp?”

“Could’ve been either, I suppose. It was a furnished rental. But…”

“What?”

She looked around as if double-checking that they were alone. “Gertie had to go through the place this morning and take inventory, poor thing.”

“Was she able to do it?”

“With her sister’s help.”

“Was anything missing?”

“Just an electric can opener.”

Vivian backed up a step. “That’s the murder weapon?”

“Used with enough force, an electric can opener can crush a skull as easily as a bat or a rock, I suppose.”

Sickened by the thought, Vivian bit her lip. Poor Pat. Had The Crew done this to him? If so, would she be able to find out before it was too late?

“Did Larry say if the sheriff has his eye on any particular person?” She needed a hint of reassurance, something to tell her she was overreacting.

But she didn’t get it.

“They have no motive and no witnesses,” Vera said, “which means they have no suspects and very little chance of tracking down the culprit.”