George extricated herself from the party and headed back into town, to the clinic. To escape, get some work done, maybe some research. She wouldn’t admit to herself that what drove her was an unhealthy curiosity about a six-foot-something man whose sordid story was etched into his skin.
* * *
Clay noticed the tail as soon as he pulled back into town. He couldn’t believe it, actually, had been so sure his new old truck would offer him a sort of force field in a community like this one. Virginia plates and all.
Apparently he’d been wrong, because as soon as he hit Blackwood city limits, he acquired a police escort.
There was nothing wrong with the truck. He’d made sure of that before taking it off the dude’s hands. And there shouldn’t have been anything wrong with his credentials, but that was something he hadn’t wanted to risk—a bumbling country cop plugging him into the system was the last thing he needed at this point. Fuck. The sooner he got rid of Ape’s goddamned gift, the better. He glanced in the mirror, wondering if he wouldn’t have been better off in some anonymous urban setting like Richmond or DC, after all.
No, they knew him there.
As if on cue, the blue lights went on behind him, and the siren bleeped once, twice. Okay, good, at least they were keeping it subtle. He hadn’t thought about the possibility of this happening, hadn’t considered how he’d play it, but he’d been around law enforcement long enough to know how to avoid setting off the worst alarm bells, so he pulled over, rolled down the window, got out his wallet, and waited.
“Afternoon.” The man approached cautiously from behind, kept his distance, clearly eyeing him through his mirrored sunglasses—precisely the same ones Clay wore, although this man was small, wiry, and African American.
“Afternoon, sir.” Well, Clay knew how to play the game too, if he had to. He didn’t want to antagonize, but neither was he going to give the cop the upper hand. He kept his aviators on, wishing he’d asked the doctor for some kind of bandaging. Now would be a great time to hide the 5–0 on his eyes and the DEAD MAN on his knuckles, with their sickly smiling skull.
“License and registration, please.”
Clay lifted his wallet slowly, keeping both hands in sight—palms up in an effort to hide the ink—pulled out Andrew Blane’s license, handed it to the man, and reached for the newly signed title.
“You got insurance for this vehicle?”
“Yes, sir.”
As Clay handed it all over, he pretended not to see the man examining the back of his cab.
“Didn’t you have a different vehicle yesterday, son?”
Son? Jesus, I’m not in Kansas anymore, am I?
“Yes indeed.” He craned his neck just enough to read the name tag pinned to the man’s uniform. “Sheriff Mullen.”
“You just purchased this truck, Mr.…Blane?”
“Just today, Sheriff.”
“Any reason you decided to trade the old one in?”
“It was a rental, sir.”
“What’s your business here in Blackwood?”
“My business?”
“Yes. How long do you plan on staying in our town?”
What was this, the fucking Wild West? “I’m not entirely sure about that, Sheriff. Might be a few months, I suppose.” He looked over his shoulder, then back at the cop. “What was it you pulled me over for, exactly?”
“Flickering taillight.” The man backed up a step, looked the truck over, and returned to the window, looking cocky for such a small guy. This must be the kind of bullshit they used to rid their town of undesirable visitors such as himself.
“Could you remove your sunglasses, please, sir?”
Fuck.
Forcing himself not to hesitate, Clay pulled the shades down, baring his ink to the lawman and sitting through his slow perusal.
“Hmm. You hold tight. Be a few minutes.”
