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Which made no damned sense.
Then again, he was studiously avoiding the real source of his—
Fucking Blade.He just had to be the hero, but only on his terms: In spite of the fact that Daniel had called the bastard three times during the day, there had been no courtesy callback. No acknowledgment, whatsoever. Instead? The bastard had made the big show bringing Gus home—and then ghosted out like all he’d done was leave a newspaper on the front doorstep.
The guy just had to be in control. Even though they could have used a hint about—oh, hey, youknow, where the fuck Gus had been found, who had done this, and whether the perpetrator was still a threat…
Radio silence.
And that meant Daniel was doing something he hated.
Heading down the allée of trees, he stopped at the main gates and waited as they were opened for him. He was glad C.P.—Cathy, sorry—was taking the security shit seriously. He just wasn’t sure whether it was going to be enough.
When the coast was clear, he took a right and meandered down the county road some distance. Then he turned around. Meandered back. Walters was so small, there was only the one way in and out, so it wasn’t like he could vary his route. There was nobody on his tail, however. No one else out on the road as he turned around at trailheads and on scenic parking shoulders by the mountain stream, before once again heading in the direction he’d been coming from.
He did the bait-and-switch with the compass shit four times, or was it five…?
It was like pacing, except in a car. SUV. Whatever.
Putting the burner faceup on his thigh, he glanced down to see whether there were any calls or texts about twice every ten yards of asphalt. Which was stupid. The ringer was on—
Annoyed with himself, he hit the radio, got fuzz, turned on Sirius, which happened to be trained on the blues channel—hated the twangy Muzak, switched to ’70s on 7 in honor of Gus.
Man, that doctor had taken a lickin’ and was still kickin’.
It very easily could have gone the wrong way. But last Daniel had heard, dinner had been ordered and Phalen’s private chef, who had all the personality of that guy with the soup fromSeinfeld, had been making chicken à la king like the entrée was better than a blood transfusion.
Screw the crash cart, eat this, St. Claire.
It was all good, though. Showed how Gus got through everyone’s shell, whether they wanted him to or not.
On that note, he thought of Phalen leaning over that hospital bed. Was she even aware of what emotion was showing on her face? The love?
He didn’t know if she’d even care, actually—
Ding! Ding! Din—
Even though he’d been waiting for his alarm to go off, the sound made him jump, and he slapped at the phone to silence the thing. Perfect timing. Up ahead, the headlights illuminated a break in the pine trees as well as a sign that read “Eagle’s Nest Ridge Trail.” Easing off onto the dirt parking area, he went in far enough to get the long-bodied Suburban well out of the way. The forest providedplenty of cover from the road proper, and again, who the hell was going to be heading up Deer Mountain in November? At night?
Unless you were a fuckingsymphath, that was.
When the dashboard clock read 8:43, and his phone said it was 8:41, he cracked his door and slid down to the ground. His feet were numb as they accepted his weight, but his legs were strong, and after he shut things back up, he zipped his jacket to his throat, hit the remote to lock things, and walked forward. Under his boots, the gravel crackled and made him think of popcorn on a stove, the old school Jiffy Pop stuff. And off to the right, a soft burble of water suggested the riverbed that the road followed was close by.
The path he was looking for, the one that led to the rushing water, presented itself, and he was careful not to slip and fall when the embankment started on a jagged descent. Grabbing on to branches, he kept himself upright and emerged at the rocky shore. Ahead of him, the gently flowing current gleamed as it moved peacefully along, and he looked both ways. There was cloud cover overhead, and he was glad for it. His clothes were dark and he wanted to blend in as much as he could.
Heading to the left, he shambled downstream, wondering how far to go. A rotten picnic table on a flat-backed boulder answered the question, and as he came up to it, he imagined salmon fishermensitting on the gap-toothed top, casting translucent lines into spring-flood rushes. Following the ghost of their example, he planted his bony ass on the upper deck, and rested his boots on the seat panel.
He checked his phone again. “Come on… ring. Fuck—”
As if his impatience had played operator, the burner let out an electronicbrrrrrrrrrrrring, and he snatched the cell right up into position.
“We’re both still alive,” he said roughly, by way of greeting. “Who’da thunk it.”
There was a long silence before a male voice said, “Is this really who I think it is?”
“Yeah, it is.” He brushed a stick off his pants. “How you doing, Rubik?”
“Ah, I’m good.” Another pause. “I’m… well, I’m surprised to hear from you.”
