“If they are foolish enough to show their faces here, they won’t go home in the same condition they arrived in.”
I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s not even making a threat. He’s saying if they keep harassing me, the natural consequence is someone here pulling them up hard. He’s implying if they come here to fuck around, they’re not going to like the find out part when it comes flying their way. It makes a certain kind of sense, if I’m being honest.
While I’m deep in thought about that, Bear asks the question that I never thought to consider.
“Did the description match your foster father?”
“Not really. He always looked more like your typical preacher, but he could be trying to change his appearance, you know?”
“That’s possible. I want you to think back to everyone in your foster parents’ orbit. Did they associate with farmers, anyone who came close to fitting the description? Anyone who wore pinstripe overalls?”
My head snaps up. “Yeah, there was this guy from our church. He isn’t a farmer though. He’s a train operator. The ones from his company wear pinstripe denim overalls.” I can’t believe I didn’t recognize the description.
Bear is saying something about this being a stroke of good luck. But I’m staring out the window as an image of the man’s face rises in my mind. “My foster father never likes to get his hands dirty, he always uses people. He manipulates them into believing they’re doing a good deed.”
Bear’s grip tightens on the wheel. “You’d think a goddamn train operator would be smarter than to take their bullshit at face value.”
“I used to think the same thing. Then one day, I realized it isn’t about intelligence. It’s about his parishioners wanting desperately to please him so they will be seen as good people. They’re true believers who don’t know they are being lied to and manipulated.”
We finish the rest of the urgent deliveries and Bear decides to take me back to the clubhouse. I don’t even argue the point because he’s right to get me out of the way so he can concentrate on making his deliveries.
I’m focused on making sure the information on our clipboard is correct, checking times against the route Bear adjusted earlier. We got a lot done in a couple of hours and are on the home stretch. The clubhouse is about ten miles away.
That’s when I see Bear’s hands tighten on the wheel.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just eases off the gas slightly, eyes flicking to the side mirror and then the rearview. The change is subtle enough that I might have missed it if I wasn’t sitting so close, if I hadn’t learned to read people so well.
“Bear,” I say quietly. “What’s going on?”
He glances quickly in his rearview mirror. “We’ve got a tail.”
My stomach drops, and I have to force myself not to turn around. “How sure are you that someone is following us?”
“He’s turned with us for the last three lights,” he says. “He’s keeping his distance but changes lanes every time I do.”
I glance in the side view mirror. The car behind us is unremarkable, a dull sedan that blends too easily, which is exactly the point. My pulse picks up anyway, old instincts lighting up all at once. “Do you think they followed us from the pharmacy?”
“From there or somewhere nearby.”
“Are we going back to the clubhouse?”
“No,” he says, already turning his signal on. “I’m taking care of this fucker right goddamn now.”
My fear spikes because I don’t know what that means. Taking care of something in my world means something totally different than in his world. I can’t imagine Bear just killing him. He’s a good man, not a killer. I know that much all the way down to my bones. I take a deep breath and decide that I have to trust Bear to know what he’s doing.
He takes a sudden turn onto a less crowded secondary road. It’s industrial and quiet. It looks like the kind of place where businesses close early, and sidewalks go empty right before dusk. The sedan follows without hesitation, and that’s when I brace myself for a confrontation.
Finally, he seems to lose his fear entirely and pulls up close behind us. When I look in the rearview mirror, I recognize the face. “That’s him, Mr. Samson,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I’ve fully processed them. “The man I told you about, the train operator.”
Bear’s jaw tightens. “He’s from your foster father’s church, right?”
“Yeah,” I continue, my heart pounding louder now. “He also plays golf with my foster father. He used to pat the kids on the head and call us God’s little helpers.”
Something about my words sets Bear off. He signals again, and then brakes hard, causing the truck to skid just enough to force the sedan to react in a last-minute attempt to keep from colliding with us. The satisfied look on Bear’s face tells me that’s exactly what he intended. The other driver ends up stalled out with the passenger side of his vehicle flush with the guardrail. Bear throws the truck into reverse and blocks his escape without making contact with his vehicle. The move is very controlled.
Bear is out of the truck and stalking towards Mr. Samson before I can fully get my head around what just happened.
“Stay,” he growls as he walks away from the truck, crossing the pavement in long, quick strides. If I’m being honest, he looks terrifying when he’s angry. Mr. Samson hesitates, then opens his door slowly, his face pale as he straightens.
