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“Yeah, hell. He’d planned on Mexico. We got that from his room in New Orleans. Maybe he’s finessed a passport. But that’s a long way to travel.”
“You’re thinking closer. So am I. Listen to that rain, Quentin. I swear I’d kill for some real sunshine, some heat. I’ll bet your left eye he would, too.”
“Left eye’s my weak one. South then. We’ve got enough coverage up here to follow your nose south. First light?”
She looked toward the curtained window, listened to the rain. “If there is any.”
“We’ll find some.”
“And we’ll find him. He’s not going to slip through, Quentin. And he’s not going to get to Morgan. But I’m worried he’ll get another before we get him.”
She shook her head, her shoulders. “Fuck it. You know what I’m going to do once we have that bastard?”
“What’s that?”
“After I kiss you on the mouth—deal with it—I’m going home to my long-suffering saint of a husband and making a baby.”
“Is that right?”
“Bet your left eye. One thing this case has taught me? Life is for living. Let’s catch this motherfucker and start living.”
“I can get behind that.” He closed his laptop, gathered his things. “I’ll finish this in my room. Let’s get some sleep.”
Gavin Rozwell, now aka Leo Nesser, soaked up the desert sun. He felt renewed, refreshed, rejuvenated. Even the lousy motel room didn’t harsh his buzz.
He’d trimmed his hair—still shaggy, but more careless than unkempt. He’d combed lightener through it, drawn it back in a stubby tail. He’d worked on the beard until it was mostly stubble with a little soul patch. A self-tanner had turned the pallor into a mild glow. He liked the look with green contacts and John Lennon glasses.
Sort of a vagabond artist type with the Birkenstock sandals and frayed jeans.
He’d gone up a full size in the jeans, but he’d soon take care of that.
His head told him a paunch—even a fake belly—would add to the disguise. But he wanted his body back.
He took long walks in the baking heat, carting a sketch pad and a camera.
Vegas called to him like a siren with its swank hotels and crazed nightlife. Even Reno whispered. But he stayed away, hiked sun-blazed canyons—he’d melt those pounds away—and amused himself picturing the feds slogging through the rain and gloom in the north.
He’d left a trail a blind man could follow before he’d pushed the stolen Fiat into a lake, watched it sink.
They’d find it eventually. But eventually would be too late.
At night, he researched. He needed a place, and the canyons and desert would provide.
Plenty of off-the-grids in this wide world, and plenty of asshole prepper types bullshitting online in chat groups. He only needed one.
He took his time. If he intended to spend a few weeks, maybeeven months in some weirdo’s cabin, he had to make sure he found the right one.
Someone without friends or relatives who might check on him. Someone who took prepping seriously enough to have a good supply of food, water laid in. A decent roof overhead.
He joined conversations under the handle “nowhereman,” asked for advice, stayed out of arguments. Advice led him to other groups, and other groups to more local pickings.
He researched the pickings, took the hikes and drives to get closer looks when possible. He ate burritos, greasy fries and hacked. He ate chips—the road had given him a serious addiction to chips he couldn’t shake—and drove to another flop motel.
He invested in a drone, flew it in the canyons, and got some decent aerial videos of a couple of the off-the-grids.
When he had it down to two most likely, he dug up the occupants’ names and researched.
And decided no contest between the forty-seven-year-old retired marine gunny—who looked as if he could eat boulders for breakfast—and the fifty-three-year-old widow with ropey arms who went by the handle “Prep4Jesus.”
