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“Can’t argue there, but it led us to the motel, and it gave us the truck he ditched in the parking lot in Molalla. Still Oregon but clearly heading north. Major airport in Salem, but he doesn’t ditch it there, so we find it pretty damn easy.”
Morrison rubbed his eyes, made the cheaters bounce. “Nothing about this is easy.”
“But look. North.” She began tapping the map. “Clear trail. Yeah, yeah, it winds a bit, but always north. Into Washington, and it sure as hell looks like he might be looking to slip over the border into Canada, or find a way to get to fricking Alaska.”
Morrison took the cheaters off, tapped them on the knee of his faded dad jeans as he studied the map. “We’re not digging up the bread crumbs. We’re just picking them up along the way.”
“That’s right. Has he gotten that sloppy, Quentin? Do we think he’s dropping clues like rose petals for us?”
“Could be. He’s rattled. We know he’s rattled. Staying in dumps, driving pieces of shit. Porking up, too, according to witness statements. He’s rattled and running. But…”
Now Beck nodded. “But.” She sat on the side of the bed, folding her legs under her. “I’ve had this feeling, and it’s getting stronger, he’s playing us. That truck we found yesterday? It’s like a goddamn neon sign pointing north.”
Morrison rose now, stretching his back till it cracked. Oh, how he missed his extra-firm mattress in Baltimore.
“After he missed with Morgan,” Morrison began, “he went essentially a year without a kill.”
“That we know of,” Beck qualified.
“That we know of. Going by what we do know, he hasn’t had a kill since Myrtle Beach. He’d picked up the pace there—Arizona, New Orleans, Myrtle Beach. Three kills inside six months.”
“He had to make up that lost time, that lost year.” She stepped to the big map, tapped Arizona. “He planned this one, took his time, getting back in the swing.”
“But Dressler in New Orleans. That was of the moment, impulse, a loss of control. That was release, so sloppy.”
“He had to follow up, get his rhythm back. He took some time, yes, with the victim in Myrtle Beach, bagged a solid payday. But still, Quentin, without his usual precision. Slipping up on the tracking in the Mercedes, back to sloppy. He lost that precision, what he thinks of as his elegance, with Nina Ramos.”
“And now he’s slowed down again. He lost most of his fancy tools, all the IDs he’d generated, and he’s been on the run since Missouri. So he’s rattled, out of his element, screwing up. But…”
Again, Beck nodded. “He’s also pissed off. And who’s to blame for all of it?”
“Morgan Albright—Nash,” Morrison corrected. “And us.”
“And us. He could get a little payback having us chase the wild goose.”
“Do you think he’s going after Nash?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, not when he knows we’re on his trail. He has to feel us behind him. Do you?”
“No. He is rattled, Tee, so he needs time to settle down, to plan it out. Somewhere in that sick brain of his he knows he’s made mistakes. She’s the big one.”
He picked up the bottle of ginger ale he’d set on the floor by the table, since he didn’t have room on it with his laptop and paperwork. Sipped, winced a little, as it had gone warm.
He sat again, turning the chair to face her. Her room smelled of the travel candle she always burned. They habitually worked in her room, as she claimed his smelled like a gym locker.
She wasn’t wrong.
So he sat, stretched out his legs, let the scent—peonies, he realized, like in his mother’s garden in May back home—quiet his brain.
Because she knew how he worked, Beck sat quiet, said nothing.
“We should contact Chief Dooley and the resort security just so they sharpen their eye.”
“Agreed.”
“But he’s not a subtle guy. It’s black-and-white with him. If he’s leading us north, and the more I think about it, the more I think you’ve got something—”
“He’s going south,” Beck finished.
