Page 116 of The Deadly Shallows

She glanced in the side mirror.

The sedan was far enough back that he couldn’t make out much of the man behind the wheel other than he was average size, wearing a dark baseball cap tucked low on his forehead and a pair of sunglasses. Given the cold temp and gray cover blanketing the sky, his attire definitely piqued Caleb’s attention. “It could be a coincidence.”

“Could be, but your gut is saying it’s not?”

Caleb exhaled. “I don’t know, but the odds we’re headed to the same place all the way from Huntington Foam doesn’t sit right with me.”

“What do you suggest?” she asked.

“We lose him, then track back around and see if we can’t get behind him and—”

“Grab his plate number,” she finished.

Once clear of the bridge, Caleb pulled up to the left lane and signaled to the car beside them, asking with hand motions if they could cut in front to make a left at the light. The driver in the yellow VW nodded, and Caleb nosed his Forester toward her. The light changed, and the lady in the VW waved him forward, allowing him to pull fully in front of her and make the quick left. The sedan fell behind, having a harder time finding someone to let them in the turn lane before the light turned red.

Caleb smiled. Perfect. He U-turned and pulled back on the road, going the opposite way. “Grab the number,” he said.

“Got it.” Austin scribbled it down. “I’ll send it to Emmy. See what comes back.”

“Hopefully something other than another stolen plate.”

FIFTY-SIX

Brooke slowed as they drove by the Strasburg Hotel on West Avenue. Hotel was a very generous word. Motel would have been too. What they were looking at was more of a halfway house with rooms rented by the month or hour.

The ick factor, or ishy factor as her grandma always said, slid over her like tar on a briar patch.

Noah surveyed the area, then pointed to their left. “Let’s park over there.”

She followed his outstretched finger to a small paid parking lot, scanned the area as she flipped on her blinker, and turned in. It was the best, and basically only, option if they wanted his Jeep to remain intact.

A guard sat in the metal box, for lack of a better word.

He handed her a ticket, not bothering to glance over. “Put it on your dash. We close at ten.”

“Thank you,” she said, sliding the yellow ticket onto the dash. It slipped down to nestle between the defrost vents and the windshield.

The white bar with red reflectors raised, allowing them passage into the square lot enclosed by a low brick wall.

After she parked and locked the Jeep, Noah held her hand as they crossed West Avenue.

Two men sat on metal folding chairs outside the Strasburg’s office, both drinking from Styrofoam cups. Maybe midfifties, round in the belly with receding hairlines. The only difference between them was the style of their attire. One was in a thick winter coat, the other in a striped shirt and brown argyle sweater vest, but he carried on as if it were a nice fall day.

“Don’t get the likes of you around here much,” the man in the sweater vest said as Noah held the door open for Brooke.

Offering the man a pleasant smile, she stepped through the doorway as Noah placed his hand on the center of her lower back.

Tomato sauce and garlic assaulted her nostrils. Both were normally pleasant, soothing scents, but not now. The stench hung thick in the smoke-filled lobby, a rancid odor imbibing the air.

She leaned back. “I didn’t think you could smoke indoors anymore,” she whispered over her shoulder at Noah, whose body she could feel at a tight three o’clock.

“I don’t think rules apply here.”

She hesitantly stepped forward as she took in the scene. Bicycles lined the right wall, mostly kid-sized, which twinged her heart. Two women in less than modest clothing stood in the alcove by the front door. She smiled at them, but they ignored her, one flicking the ashes off her cigarette, which fluttered to the thin black carpet.

Noah indicated the bank-teller-style front desk down the narrow brown-paneled hall about fifty feet in.

“Hi, ma’am,” Noah greeted the elderly lady behind the Plexiglas.