“Mr. Ash—”
“No, Durant. The guy didn’t stop after killing KT. He came after me and the girl, too. So there’s no way I’m trusting you or your people to keep Ellie safe. I’ve got her now, and I’m not telling a fucking soul where we’re going. I need you to run interference for me on that. And I need access to the investigation, like you promised KT.”
“Mr. Ash—”
Peter lowered his voice. “Her mother is dead. You said it wasover, Durant, but it wasn’t. Not even close. The threat letter saidWe are Legion, remember?”
A pause, filled with unearthly silence. “I’ll talk to the chief. We’ll work something out. Give me an hour.”
Peter cleared his throat. His eyes burned. “Durant.”
“Yeah.”
“Once I get Ellie somewhere safe, I’m going to find out what this is about. And end it. With or without your help.”
Durant’s voice was quiet. “We’ll talk about that when you come in. I’ll call, okay?”
—
Peter was still soaking wet and barefoot. So was Ellie. She’d stopped sobbing and stared out the side window vacantly. He could only imagine what she was thinking about.
He cranked the heat until it roared. The killer’s Toyota smelled like ten years of cheap cigars. The instrument panel was covered with dust, as if their settings hadn’t been adjusted in years.
He rummaged through the center console but found only the usual crap: loose change, a charging cable, cheap reading glasses, a tire pressure gauge. Nothing that might tell Peter why the guy had targeted KT for death. He should have gone through the guy’s pockets. Although that would have pissed off Durant, and Peter couldn’t afford to do that. Despite Peter’s demand for the captain’s help, there was zero guarantee he’d get it. Durant’s bosses might well override him. In their minds, they’d be right to do so. They’d certainly want to keep the Toyota as evidence. At the very least, Peter needed a new ride.
He also really needed a weapon. He leaned over and popped the glove box. No gun. Just a thick owner’s manual in a cracked vinyl document folder. Below that, held together by a rubber band, lay a thick stack of folding paper maps, the kind that were common in gas stations before the era of smartphones. All the Western states, starting from the Dakotas down to Texas.
Beneath the maps was a small black rectangle. A cheap smartphone. He found the button to turn it on and was rewarded by a prompt for a four-digit passcode. Not Peter’s skill set. He wiped it on his shirt to get the fingerprints off, then dropped it on the center console’s junk pile.
It immediately fell on the floor. He picked it up again. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he was starving. Without thinking about it, he tucked the phone into his cargo pocket. Then put his hand gently on Ellie’s shoulder. “Hey. Can we talk a minute?”
She didn’t turn to look at him. Her voice was flat. “What.”
“I know you’re hurting,” he said. “But we have a few decisions to make. First, food. Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m starving. And pretty soon, you will be, too. But I don’t want to go inside a restaurant. There’s a drive-in burger place just up the road. What do you think?”
“Whatever.”
Her voice was a bottomless pit. Peter was pretty sure he didn’t have the skills for dealing with this poor girl. But right now, he didn’t have a choice. Time to adapt and overcome.
He put some cheer in his voice. “Okay, let’s do that. Maybe a milkshake?”
Burgermaster was a Seattle institution with a broad ketchup-red carport that would shelter two dozen cars from the worst of the weather. Peter found an open spot on the end, out of sight from the road, where they could escape in two different directions.
The drive-in chain had significantly upped its game since Peter had last eaten there, now making their burgers from local grass-fed beef. “Man, this looks good,” he said. “What do you think?” She didn’t respond. She still wasn’t looking at him.
A carhop walked over. Peter ordered bacon burgers, fries, onion rings, milkshakes, and handed over a third of his remaining cash. Then he took out his phone again and punched in a number.
“Jarhead. What up?”
Peter felt his breath come more easily, just hearing Lewis’s voice, slippery as motor oil and twice as dark. “Something’s happened and I need a favor. Like, now.”
“Lay it on me, brother.”
“A good vehicle. Something capable and reliable and relatively invisible. Legally registered, but not in my name or yours. Here’s the hard part. I need it in an hour, two at most, dropped near Fortieth and Aurora in Seattle.” Around the corner from the motel. “And a roll oftinfoil, if you can swing it.” He’d have asked for a gun, but he needed something clean and most of the people Lewis knew wouldn’t be.
