“Got any saddle clients been buying more zip ties than usual?” Mason asked.
“Funny,” Justin said, then nodded at me. “Heard from Red Hollow this morning. Buddy of mine over there said folks lost a compressor and two generators off a site last week. Security light cut, cameras sprayed. They’re swapping stories with Elm Creek—sounds like the crew knows what they’re doing.”
“Any talk of a mayor in the mix?” Levi asked.
Justin lifted a brow. “Our mayor, or theirs?”
“Either.”
“People whisper. That’s what they do when they don’t have proof yet.” He shrugged. “But they’re whispering near Peterson’s name more than usual.”
I pulled up a county map on the office computer, dragged a triangle between the fairgrounds exit, the Ridge Road complaint, and the south pad where Peterson’s crew is building God-knows-what this week. The lines made a corridor. Trucks could run that in the dark and never meet a patrol if they timed it between shift rotations.
“Pattern,” I said, half to myself. “Ingress here, egress along County 9, staging near the south pad, then south to Red Hollow or west to Elm Creek. If they’re moving stolen equipment, they’re not storing it in barns. They’re short-hauling it between sites.”
Mason watched me draw the path again. “You’re thinking bigger than one truck.”
“I’m thinking logistics,” I said. “A shell company to bid dirt work. Another to provide ‘security.’ A third to shuttle equipment no one questions because it’s wearing a safety vest and a clipboard.”
“Pioneer Facilities. North Fork Aggregate. RidgeLine Logistics,” Levi recited. “Rock, paper, scissors.”
“And whose hand is inside the glove?” Mason asked quietly.
The room went still for a breath we didn’t want to take.
“Don’t jump to the mayor yet,” I said. “But don’t discount him either.” I looked to Levi. “We keep this tight. Dunn knows we’re nosing around. Hayes in Elm Creek is feeding him; he’ll feed us. No social posts. No coffee-shop theories. If this is real, it gets teeth fast.”
Levi nodded. “You want me to put a unit near the south pad tonight?”
“Quietly,” I said. “Unmarked, dark perch, no lights. Just ears.”
He tapped his toothpick against his teeth, thinking. “I’ll take the ridge turnout with binoculars and a sandwich.”
Mason tilted his cup toward me. “And you?”
“Two things,” I said. “I’m going to swing past the south pad this afternoon, daylight look, normal speed. If they’re using removable decals, maybe I spot the residue on a tailgate. And I’m calling Jake again to run ‘Trent’ through contractor databases—see if he’s legit or a borrowed name.”
Mason studied me. “You gonna tell Milly yet?”
The question landed like a weight on the desk.
“I promised I would before I did anything reckless,” I said.
“And this is?” Levi asked.
“Not reckless.” I shook my head. “Careful. Directed. But it’s a slope.”
Mason clapped my shoulder once. “Then we stick together on it. Three’s harder to tip than one.”
Carl reached into the jar of bolts and rattled them like dice. “You boys be careful. Small towns keep secrets like squirrels keep walnuts. Sometimes you don’t want what cracks open.”
“We’re past wanting,” I said. “We’re in the business of needing.”
On the way out, I pocketed a roll of electrical tape, paid for it at the counter, and ignored Carl’s knowing look. Outside, the heat hit like a wave. I stood in it a second, eyes closed, hearing the sound from last night the way musicians hear a note after it’s gone.
Low. Heavy. Wrong.
I opened my eyes to the honest blue of the Everwood sky and the ordinary clatter of a feed-store Wednesday. Then I got in the truck and pointed the nose toward the south pad, where the dirt piles looked like nothing and might be something, and where men who didn’t want to be seen sometimes forget they still cast shadows.
