Suck it up. Move on out.
He pulled his hat back on, found another pair of gloves, locked the door, and stomped toward downtown. Half a block from the car, Art noticed two strange dark SUVs parked on either side of the road. This wasn’t tourist season, and no one would consider Barter Valley a great place for a lunch stop three miles off the main highway. After a major blizzard. The SUVs looked too much like the ones on regular visits to the prison—official business from the feds nosing for special prosecution deals. Tinted windows, plain. That’s what made them stand out, besides the government-issue plates on one of them. Most folks around here personalized their cars. He couldn’t put the bumper stickers he really wanted on his Jeep, ’cuz he’d get a reprimand from the boss if they caught him in the parking lot.
He shivered and started walking again to keep warm. But maybe he’d put some of those things on his stepsister’s car and claim he couldn’t control what she did—freedom of speech and all that. Unfortunately, most of what he would put on the car wasn’t her style. Someone on the day shift had a good one that said “Driver Carries Less Than $20 Ammunition.” The edges of the sticker were ragged, like he’d tried and failed to rub it off. All the best ones used his favorite three-letter word combined with the other four-letter-word. Sis used to say in that evil voice of hers, “There are more words in the English language,” when they were hanging out on the rare occasion. He had some choice words for her. So did Berta, when she quit laughing.
He could say he’d lent her his Jeep so she would be safer on the road back to the Cities.
Good Samaritan that he was.
He started jogging in his big boots, but each awkward step only hurt his face. Without being able to breathe through his nose, he missed the usual good smells from Lou’s. A quick, casual glance through the windows proved his theory. Three guys and one mean-looking broad in what they called business-casual black sat at a window booth. No one wore that kind of stuff around this here town, baby.
He kept his head low and sauntered past, unlocked the car, and peeled out, real quiet. Then cussed and pulled over again as Deegan flashed his lights and started the whine behind him. But the cop screeched by. Must be some hot accident. Art let out the breath.
Five minutes later, Art pulled into beyootiful Buenaview Mobile Home Court, past a joker hoofing it out of there, carrying some kind of bag. Hope you don’t have far to go in this cold, mister.
Some kids were building a fort in the open area near the entrance. The snow was so deep it covered the little gate around the sign. He pulled over and rolled down the window after fumbling for a button. This vehicle didn’t even have power windows. Art almost forgot how to crank a window arm.
“Hey! You over there…in the-the whaddya call it? Blue parka. Yeah, you. Over here.”
“Don’t do it!” A little girl in a pink suit jumped up and down. “Stranger danger! Stranger danger!”
“Shut up, kid. I’m not trying anything. Stay over there for all I care. I just wanna know, any of you see Kenny Masters today?”
Some punk kid in a black and red snowmobile suit said, “Who wants to know?”
Smart aleck. “Hiz uncle, that’s who. Now, didja? Where’d he go after his mom got taken away?”
“Don’t tell!”
Pink girl was getting on his nerves.
“Never talk to strangers!” Some other squirt added to pink girl’s chant.
Art opened the door and got out. Three kids scrambled away. The snowmobile kid stayed put and stared back at him. “So?” Art asked.
“So what? We told that other guy we ain’t seen Kenny.”
Art sucked in a breath. “What other guy? When?”
“You missed him.”
“I said, how long ago?” Art took two steps forward.
Punk kid stood his ground. Shifted, pointed toward the road. “Went that way. Coupla minutes.”
“What kind of car was he driving?”
“Dunno. Hey, Jimmers, guys, let’s finish this thing!” Kid dove into the partially completed fort.
Art kicked at one of the rounded boulders making up the base. Solid. He hadn’t passed any cars ’cept the county salt truck. He put his hands on his hips and checked the trailers. The Ramirez place looked hopping, and he decided to ask there again before raiding Berta’s cupboards. He trudged along the road between walls of already dirtying snow. Two cars were in the drive and one out a front. A big guy leaned over the railing on the stoop, smoking, staring toward the woods.
“Hey! Hello, there!”
The guy turned slowly, shifted the cig to the corner of his mouth, and lifted his chin.
Art recognized that stance and sighed. He hated it when work followed him home. “My nephew is a friend of the boy who lives here. Name of Kenny. Know where he might be?”
The big Mexican looked over Art’s shoulder before the squad lights splashed red against the snow. His eyes shone wet as the redhead came rushing outside, clad only in a sweat suit and dirty blue floppy slippers, screaming.
Hunger would have to wait.
THIRTY-THREE
Kingston was taking an awfully long time to make tea. And then she remembered what she’d been doing just before he came—as well as the ridiculous written conversation she’d begun with Cameron before she decided she might as well be vocally articulate. Kingston wouldn’t even need to touch anything. The story, the notes, the diary were all laid out for anyone to see.
What had she actually written about her fears? About needing Kingston? And why?
After limping home last summer, she’d gone to see him a couple of times. Tea and a tour, that sort of thing—that’s all. Shared a recipe, talked websites and brochures. He sold his stuff at natural food stores and online, caught up on the local buzz. Nothing shouted unrequited love or even sparked a dating op, though Kingston admitted he wasn’t involved with anyone, and she’d not had a boyfriend since that disaster in college. What did she know about Kingston now? She wasn’t sure his attitude, his proximity to the Limms, his penchant for genteel hippiness, his seeming lack of concern over Kenny meant he would help.
Had the Limms done something to him? Or for him?
She looked up as he brought a couple of mugs back into the living room, a sly smile on his face. Or was it any different than his usual smirk?
He handed her the mug from his left hand. “What’s got you frowning, Lil? Don’t you trust me?”
She held her face over the cup, basking in the rising moisture. She sipped the earthy tea, stalling, setting her eyes on his. “What do you mean?” Her heart missed a beat, quivered, and resumed thumping. She finally turned her attention on Iago.
Kingston chuckled low, under his breath. “You shouldn’t worry about the boy. He can take care of himself, I’m sure.”
“He’s ten. Making a peanut butter sandwich for supper and getting up in time to get on the bus might be taking care of himself.” She drank more tea. “Beating off kidnappers isn’t something anyone should have to do.”
Kingston settled on the floor near the sofa, sliding his hand toward Iago who sniffed and licked. Kingston petted the dog and then drank deeply from his own mug. “So, tell me, what exactly did you overhear in this kidnapping conversation? It’s not like your sister has anything to give for ransom.”
“It’s not that.”
“But, your brother? The prison guard? Why his own nephew?”
She blinked, frowning at the still, fuzzy form of Iago, and tried to shake off the wobbles. “Not ransom.” Her voice sounded tinny in her ears. “Kingston?”
“Relax. When you asked for me, I told Taylor I’d come. To listen, help you out. That’s allll I’m dooing. Helllllpin….”
THIRTY-FOUR
Art didn’t want to answer the door to Shawn and Maury Limm’s knock that afternoon, but his pipsqueak neighbor Roger would likely make a phone call and by the time the cops came, Art would have been in the back of Limm’s car. Again.
“You have yet to make y
our call to your place of employment,” Shawn said. “Or to visit the bank.”
Shawn narrowed his black eyes when Art tried to hand his paycheck over. Right. No fingerprints. Sweat started in his armpits and neck, making his shirt damp under his coat. He snuffed but got nothing to hack. Mouth-breathing made him headachy. Not to mention the broken pinky. He folded the check and placed it in his billfold, only missing the opening twice.
Maury stood near the landline with his arms crossed.
With the receiver of his phone clutched awkwardly in his left hand, Art dialed into work, praying his voice wouldn’t croak when he explained he wouldn’t be returning. Winnie in HR, whom Art had never met, explained that he’d still have to fill out termination papers or face penalties and that all parts of his uniform had to be accounted for, cleaned, and returned. Or he’d face more penalties, fines, and blah, blah, blah.
The last job Art quit had been his paper route. No one ragged him like Winnie. For a couple of seconds, annoyance replaced the acid of fear. Then Shawn made like he would twist Art’s broken nose. Art backed away, promised his entire wardrobe and his signature on anything they needed, and hung up. His stomach growled.
“The kid,” Maury said, standing much too close, heating Art’s back and breathing on his neck. Art clenched his fists. Shawn laughed low and harsh and gestured in the direction of the bank. “Window three. Annalise is waiting to help you.”
* * *
Late in the afternoon, Cam hiked back to the newspaper office with eighty-three pictures on the camera for Matt to look at. He’d retrieve his phone, call Sven for a ride and a tow, and talk to his guest, whose identity he now possessed thanks to those kids who knew Kenny’s mom’s name, his aunt’s name—Lily—and an Uncle Art, who was a total creep.
Lily. Nice. She was all that, fragrant, dignified. And white. Which would vex Cam’s sister Georgia to no end. Time enough for family ghosts and prejudices later. He still needed supplies. And to make an appointment with Rune. Maybe.
If Matt would loan his car for a half hour.
Cam would prefer to get right down to business back at home.
Red and white strobes and the shrill of a police car waxed and waned as it passed him on the way out of town. Couldn’t be too far, as the trailer park was at the city limits. Matt would probably have heard about it on the police scanner.
Kenny Masters. The ten-year-old was missing, all right, along with his friend and neighbor Thomas Ramirez, who had disappeared. The trailer kids were all growly about not being able to go play in the woods. The disappearance was not news he looked forward to sharing with Kenny’s aunt. It also smacked too close to the bits of conversation about disappearances he’d overheard at the diner from his insurance agent. But what had he been so worked up about? Fraud was too hard to commit nowadays, wasn’t it? Computer records and cross-references and counter checks didn’t let so many folks get away with that kind of stuff.
Matt would help him decide what to say to the police. Ginger Ramirez said she already filed a report after she’d searched the whole trailer park and made sure her son’s father hadn’t picked up the boys. In fact, Juan Ramirez was with her, waiting for news.
Cops were busy today.
He was sweating under the layers of insulation by the time he pushed open the glass door to the newspaper office. Matt held up his hand as the police scanner crackled.
Cam shucked his gloves, untied his hood, and pulled off his face mask, partially paying attention to the scanner. He unzipped the jacket before unplugging his phone. With another flick toward Matt, who was still listening intently, Cam withdrew to a far corner and quietly dialed Sven, arranging for a ride home, and a tow. ’Bout an hour, Sven thought. He’d be waiting.
“Good timing, thanks, man,” Cam said. “You guys must be busier ’n all get-out.”
Sven’s chuckle came back over the line. “Got that right. Later.”
Time enough to show Matt the pictures then go grab some supplies before meeting the boys. He’d type the copy at home, send it in. He slipped the phone in his pocket and approached the editor with the camera.
The scanner went silent. Matt scooted to his feet. “I think I found your missing kid.”
* * *
Window three at Central State Bank was occupied by an exotic-looking woman with long black hair. Art had never seen her before, even though he’d come regularly twice a month to deposit his paycheck and withdraw cash. He’d never wanted to use direct deposit, despite being threatened with a fee over the hassle of issuing him a paper check. It was his money and he wanted to touch it, hold it in his hands, and smell it. Cindy, the usual teller at window one, Lily’s friend, was not there. The only other customer was an old man with a cane, wearing a dirty pair of fleeced overalls and jacket, who stood by the table where they kept all the blank deposit slips and pens on chains.
Annalise was new. He went closer, skittish on the approach, and once he got near enough to greet her, he knew the cause of his nerves. Her dark eyes were the same as Maury’s. Despite the smoothness of her pale skin, high cheekbones, and perfectly outlined pouty lips, her eyes, up close, bore an exact likeness to the business end of the service weapon he was supposed to turn in.
He dry-swallowed and blinked, checked the name on the little plastic plate at the window, and tried hard to turn his numb lips into a smile. Annalise. Too exotic for Barter Valley.
She didn’t change expression at the sight of his face, which he both appreciated and wondered at. He couldn’t feel his nose anymore, but his eyes were getting oozy and sore.
“Good afternoon. Welcome to Central State Bank. How may I be of service?”
Friendly enough. “Yeah. Um, my paycheck.” His brain froze.
“Yes? You need to make a deposit?”
“Right!” Art reached inside his coat and withdrew his billfold and the much-folded check. “Here.”
“You must endorse it, sir.” Annalise handed over a pen with the bank logo on it, black with a silver impression of a ribbon of water meandering through trees.
He hoped he could stop the shaking enough to form the letters of his name. And that he could remember how to spell it.
Annalise didn’t seem to mind. “I believe you’re here about the new account you want to open, sir.”
“Y-yes. That’s right.”
Once he raised the pen, she removed the check, turning away to face her drawer. If Art hadn’t been scrutinizing the situation, he would have entirely missed her sleight-of-hand exchange of one slip of paper for another. He doubted the security cameras caught it. She was very good. She turned back and handed him a folder of paperwork.
“All the information is ready. I’ll need your signature here, and here.”
Art signed every line she pointed to.
“You’ll receive your copy in the mail in a few days.”
He blinked as she removed the pen, like he’d been unconscious for the last five minutes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, and have a nice day.”
He doubted it sincerely. He’d forgotten to get cash, after all.
* * *
Cam loaded a hundred dollars’ worth of supplies, food, and drugstore stuff into Sven’s backseat. “Thanks for the ride.” Already dark, some urgency to head home needled him. Gone all day with no way to contact Lily, he hoped she was all right. It wasn’t like he had to account for himself, but he didn’t expect to get the assignment from Matt and spend so much time in town. Funny how easy it became to use her real name.
“Let’s go,” he told Sven.
“Sure, man.” Sven hit the gas and double-clutched as the big engine of the tow truck rumbled. Tires spewed snow. “You never said how you got into town.”
“Caught a ride.”
They were passing the driveway where he’d stashed the Jeep. Ole was there with the ambulance. Ambulance? Cam hoped he hadn’t caused an accident if someone slowed down to check out his tracks.
He rubber-necked as Sven
approached, taking his time. “Sorry about pulling you away from a call, man,” he said to Sven.
“Ole’s got it. He’s on duty with Bo.” Sven turned his head slightly to watch in the side mirror. “Can’t be working every second.”
Cam watched, too, out the window. What was the black SUV with government plates about? Two sober figures the sum of all secret agent clichés, including dark glasses, stood watch. The area was taped off, and a sheriff’s car with flashing lights guarded the entrance. How could they have found it so fast?
At least he hadn’t left any fingerprints.
“Yo!”
Cam realized Sven had asked him a question. “Sorry. Just checking the action over there. Know anything?”
“Lotta cops.” Sven checked the rearview as the deputy waved them past. “I heard earlier some feds were nosing around.”
“What for?”
Sven shrugged. “Dunno. Frosts are summer people. Maybe there was a break-in. You said you have new tires on hold?”
Cam took a deep breath so he wouldn’t blurt out something about the Jeep. “Right.”
“Any idea who would come around and slash your tires in the middle of a blizzard?”
“Nope.”
Sven pinched his thin lips tight and shifted gears. “Weird things happening. I don’t like it.”
“Me, either.”
When they parked at his garage, Cam stashed his bags near the porch. Lear slunk through the twilight, whining and sniffing. “Hey, boy.”
“Thought you got two dogs,” Sven said as he started to unroll the tackle.
Not wanting to seem itchy to go inside, Cam made himself busy helping, wishing he had a porch light he could turn on. The cabin was dark, though he didn’t think his battery lantern shone much through the drawn shades. Maybe Lily went with Findley. “Iago’s probably chasing rabbits. Here are the keys.”
They pushed his truck up onto the ramps. Sven tied it down, whistling at the sight of the tires. “Confetti. And you ought not to leave your gas cap open. No telling what could happen.”
Cam shivered. “Let me guess. You’ll find the tank dry.”
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