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SIXTEEN
Chance stood under a dark canopy that protected him from the rain and watched the bar across the street.
After the cab left him, he’d limped along until he found one of the motels with individual cabins at the edge of the forest. His leg needed rest after that, but his mind needed rest too.
So he waited.
All the pain and hard work it had taken to start over and become a new person had brought him back to this one small county that he’d left behind. Had been forced to leave years ago—what seemed like a lifetime now.
Blevins strolled across the street and entered the bar.
Showtime.
Chance shoved from the wall, yanked his cap a little lower, and crossed the street for his impromptu meeting. Just a couple of guys having a few drinks in the dark corner of a western honky-tonk. No, wait. Not anymore. Now it featured Star Wars stuff. Maybe one of the old Star Wars actors had bought a ranch near town. Chance didn’t know and didn’t care, but he was surprised to see the bar was crowded. And glad too. Nobody would pay them any attention.
Today, he called the number on that strip of paper he’d found, and the guy answered. Didn’t give his name. The instant the man said hello, Chance knew who he was. That face he’d wished for earlier in the day when he’d stood in the building at the small airstrip had finally popped into his head.
Chance had taken up residence under the awning two hours ago, mostly because it had taken him all day to walk back and rest his aching leg. And then he’d had to work up the fortitude to walk into town. No more cabs for him on this side of his nightmare.
Chance was taking a huge risk by showing his face, but on a dark and rainy night, along with the fact he was much older and stockier, and had a scraggly beard, he would wager that no one would recognize him.
Except for an old acquaintance who wasn’t expecting him.
Blevins had been a creature of habit for far too many years. Chance could hardly believe the man was actually sitting in the same booth where he’d sat years before. Like church pews were often claimed by the same parishioners, Blevins had claimed his booth in the bar, and everyone knew not to take it.
Chance slid in across from Blevins and peered at him from under his cap.
“Buddy, you’re taking a big risk. This is my booth. My private booth.” The man’s slurred words told Chance he’d already had plenty of beers before he even showed up to the bar.
Peering at his old connection, Chance said nothing. Would Blevins recognize him? Did he even want him to?
“You don’t know me?”
“No. Now get out.”
“I’m your delivery man. Name’s Chance Carter.”
Blevins’s eyes grew wide, then he ducked his head. “We’re not supposed to meet. What are you doing here?”
“My plane crashed.”
“I know. And we’re not supposed to ever meet.”
“You could have at least come to the hospital and asked me about the package.”
“Why would I do that?”
Not the response Chance had expected. Might as well get to the point. “Are you going to kill me like you killed Jim Raymond?”
Chance reasoned that Jim had been waiting at the airstrip. He’d dropped that slip of paper with his contact—the person he would call when he’d retrieved the package. Had he made the call before or after he retrieved the package? Or had he been intercepted?
“I’m going to get up and walk out of here and find another place to nurse a beer in peace. I didn’t kill anyone. I’m only a go-between. I’m not supposed to know who gives and who takes. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll disappear.”
“I already did. Hank, don’t you remember me?”
Blevins lifted his gaze and peered at Chance long and hard. “I’ve been paid to forget.”
