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Valor Lacroix. Everything about the man said he was going to be a problem.
Not mine, though.
I only had one problem, and I was going to take care of that as soon as I got out of here.
It took twenty minutes for someone with a pickup truck to let me hitch a ride. Iowa, I told him, and he promptly agreed he was going there too. Coincidental? Beggars weren’t going to be choosers.
Harry’s Tree Loppingwas advertised on the side, though it was fading, like the red body paint. The windscreen had a crack or three, and the back seat was piled with junk.
I sat in front, put my backpack on the floor, and kept my hand on the top, unfastened flap. Inside, the Ruger had top bunk above my clothes, with the butt upward. It’d take me one second to get it in my palm. If this geezer with the sideburns and face like a chipmunk tried anything, he’d be smoked Swiss cheese.
“The name’s Harry,” he said loudly, and far too cheerfully, as we rattled onto the highway. “Yours?”
“Zara.” Wasn’t much he could do with my name, apart from harassing me with questions. From his smile and open look, Harry looked as if he chewed words as a hobby.
“Iowa. Been there before?”
“Had much luck with getting rides?”
“You ever considered that hitching might be a bad choice for a young woman?”
“Nice boots.”
“They are. Steel-toed.”All the better for kicking the shit out of people who bother me with endless questions.That was not nice, not at all, but I was so tired ever since the C arrived.“I’m not much on small-talk, Harry.”
“Uh-huh.”
The truck grumbled over another mile of road before he decided to say more.
Unfortunately, the quiet was not comforting.
In the silence, I had my thoughts, traitorous things that took me back to Val. I had a glimpse of memory, a thread I couldn’t quite yet grasp, but I was sure that the Cucitrice had seen something in Val. Someone? Did he have a ghost too?
I chewed on and spat out a fingernail.
How many people were out there? Walking around with memories like me? And where was the Paranormal Help Bureau when you needed one?
Maybe I couldn’t get all the answers, but when it came to Val, I could ask Chester for help. The man had mad hacking skills. Once, just once before, he’d managed to get some speeding demerits removed from my driver’s license—back when I was driving a delivery van for a living. That had saved my bacon until I lost the job after swearing at a client when they’d tried to get a BJ from me. Assholes.
Chester liked to help.
And I wanted to ask him. The best way to move past the awkward phone call was to pretend it never happened. And to do it soon. I took a breath and framed the text as chatty.
Chester, could you pretty please see if you can find out anything about a Valor Lacroix? Says he’s government but idk. Is he lying? I know this is likely impossible.
To my surprise, he texted back quickly.
Sure. I love a challenge. Government database? If I get locked up, blame NSA phone surveillance. This could take some days.
However he earned his money, Chester had never said. The man rarely left the run-down apartment building he owned. He used the whole ground floor and had almost no other tenants because he wanted it like that.
The truck jolted me out of my thoughts as we stopped for lunch.
The diner was rife with testosterone and truckers. Harry seemed innocuous, but was an adequate deterrent. Being with him kept other men from hitting on me. I picked at a “famous gourmet burger” made with truffles. It tasted like old shoes. Harry wolfed his down.
Back in the pickup, my thoughts focused in onhome. Iowa. I dreaded seeing the place again. My parents weren’t there. A house filled with strangers was all I would find if I went there. The postcard offered only mystery. Maybe there’d be nothing by that creek. Maybe he’d left me a clue to follow, another card? Some killers liked to taunt the police. This one aimed at me.
Going back to where it’d happened might land me on the psychiatrist’s couch. Already tendrils of evil were trying to snake their way into my heart, not literally, but I was on edge, weighed down by future consequences.
