“Mr. Reynard is waiting for you.”
“Let me get my stuff.”
He hesitated for a moment, and she struggled to project the idea that he had to give her a few more minutes here—time to leave a clue for Craig.
Craig turned to see a grizzled old man with a week’s growth of beard, wearing a camouflage shirt, torn blue jeans, and combat boots. He was holding a shotgun pointed at Craig’s chest. He raised his hands above his head.
“Don’t shoot. I need help,” he said.
The guy’s face turned a shade less hostile as he took in Craig’s appearance. “What happened to you?”
“Two guys with guns were chasing me.”
“Yeah, why?”
Craig took a chance and asked, “Have you heard of the Solomon Clinic?”
“You one of the bastards who was runnin’ that place?”
Craig shook his head. “I’m one of the children who was born because of Dr. Solomon’s treatments. Somebody knows about us and is going after us.”
The guy lowered the rifle. “Yeah. My nephew was one of them kids. He’s dead.”
Craig sucked in a sharp breath.
“He was one of the ones who got together with another kid from the clinic—and croaked in bed with her.”
“I think my . . . girlfriend and I lucked out on that part. But somebody’s been chasing us since we met.”
“Where is she?”
“I left her at a B and B outside of town and came here to talk to a police detective who said he had some information for me.”
“Don’t never trust the cops.”
Craig already had bad feelings about Broussard. “You may be right.”
His benefactor said, “You need dry clothes and a ride.”
“I’d surely appreciate it,” Craig allowed.
“I think I got something from my son that you can wear.” He turned and walked toward the shack.
Craig followed, sloshing as he went, then hesitated at the doorway.
“I’ll get your place wet.”
“The water will go through the cracks in the floor. Come on in.
Craig followed the man inside. The interior looked a lot more comfortable than the ramshackle facade suggested. A lantern sat on a wooden table, illuminating a narrow bed, several chairs, and a small kitchen area, all neatly arranged.
The old man opened a chest of drawers and pulled out a shirt like the one he was wearing and another pair of jeans.
Craig shucked off his wet clothing and put on the dry replacements. The pants legs were an inch too short, but they were better than what he’d been wearing. His shoes were still a muddy mess, but there was nothing he could do about that now. His cell phone was ruined, and his wallet was soggy, but the money and credit cards inside would dry out.
“You got a way to get back to your place?” his benefactor asked.
“I left my car on the other side of the river,” Craig answered.
