“That’s perfect,” says Clay. “What color?”
“I made you some black ones and olive ones and yellow ones. And a few white ones, too.”
“Those are the best colors,” says Clay. “I appreciate it, bud.”
“Yeah,” says Braedon. “That’s what Carol said. And tomorrow I’ll make you some purple ones because Carol says that’s what the rainbow trout like the best even though there aren’t many rainbows around here. So can I spend another night?”
“Put Sue on, would you?”
Clay hears rustling and muted conversation. He’s waiting to hear Sue’s voice when he notices a pair of headlights in his rearview mirror. They are dim and warmer in color than most headlights. Clay assumes the vehicle is older. Highway 52 is two lanes with a lot of ups and downs as the northern plains transition into the hilly driftless area with its streams and bluffs. A yellow dotted line bifurcates the road. It’s okay to pass here. Clay pulls toward the shoulder and keeps his speed steady.
“Don’t you take him home tonight,” says Sue over the speakers in his F-150. “Carol hasn’t had this much fun in years.”
“All right,” says Clay, “just making sure he’s welcome.”
“Carol’s off carbs,” says Sue. “I haven’t had anyone else to eat cake with. He’s welcome to stay as long as he likes.”
“Thanks for going over to the house to get his stuff.”
“Not a problem,” says Sue. “You have a good night. Maybe go on a date. You’ve been home for months. It’s time you found yourself a girlfriend.”
“All right,” says Clay. “I’ll put it on my list. See you tomorrow.”
Clay ends the call and checks his rearview mirror. The vehicle remains several car lengths back and shows no inclination to pass. They’re about ten minutes north of Riverwood. There are no streetlights. Clay takes his foot off the gas, slowing down without activating his brake lights.
Now he’s going forty miles an hour. The speed limit is fifty-five. The car comes closer then falls back, refusing to pass. Old habits are hard to break. One of those is having access to a gun. This is Minnesota. Clay could get a permit to carry a concealed weapon, something that would have been difficult if not impossible in Europe. Plus it would have attracted the attention of European government officials and law enforcement, and that’s the last thing Clay wanted while moonlighting as an agent.
But in potentially dangerous situations, he always knew a weapon was nearby. That responsibility fell to his colleagues. Usually operatives Clay never had and never would meet. Before every night on the town, Clay would receive a coded message on his phone. To anyone else it would have looked like text spam. A sale on this or that. A request for a political donation. A reminder of an upcoming dentist appointment.
After Clay decoded the message it said there’s a lockbox under the countertop in the men’s bathroom. A lockbox against the wall in the coatroom. A lockbox behind the fire extinguisher in the kitchen. Always a lockbox that Clay could open with his fingerprint. Never an unsecured weapon that anyone might find.
Clay speeds up. The car speeds up with him to keep pace.Clay reaches under the driver’s seat of the Ford truck and removes a safe the size and shape of a cigar box. A digital panel lights up on the front edge. Clay can either enter a PIN or touch his finger on a sensor to the right of the display. He chooses the latter, and then hears the box unlock.
He sets the box on the passenger seat, opens it, and reaches in with his right hand, which he places on a SIG Sauer P226. The gun feels like it wants to be picked up, as if it can change its shape to fit one’s hand perfectly. Clay checks his rearview mirror again. The headlights behind him follow at the same distance. Whether he speeds up or slows down, so does the car behind him, as if Clay and his follower are linked by a pole. The headlights appear to belong to a car, not a truck. Clay makes that deduction based on their relatively low position to the road, and that they appear too close together to belong to a truck.
There are a number of plausible explanations for why the driver of the car has chosen not to pass him, even though Clay is now going thirty-five miles per hour in a fifty-five mile per hour zone. The driver may be frightened to pass at night. The driver may be concerned about a deer leaping from the ditch on the opposite side of the road and having no place to bail out. Then again, maybe the driver has less safety-oriented concerns.
Clay approaches the top of a hill and punches the gas. His truck lurches forward. He crests the hill and flies down, leaving his tail still climbing behind him. There’s an intersection at the bottom. Clay pumps his brakes and takes a hard right off Highway 52. He floors it for a quarter of a mile, then turns up the drive toward a farmhouse. He kills his headlights, does a three-point U-turn, and waits in the dark. A minute later, the car withthe dim headlights crosses in front of him. Clay pulls out onto the road—he’s now tailing the car. He turns on his lights and speeds up until he’s two car lengths behind his former follower. Clay recognizes the car, accelerates, and flips on his brights. The car does not pull over.
He presses closer to the car, sets the gun on the passenger seat, and checks to make sure his new phone has finished updating from the cloud. It has, and he calls Zoey’s cell phone. She answers on the first ring.
“We’ve got to slow down,” says Zoey. “I just spent the night with you and half the day. How about a little break to whet our appetites?”
“I picked up a tail between Rochester and Riverwood.”
“Atail orsometail?”
“Zoey,” says Clay. “Not now.”
“Fine. Any idea who it is?”
“I know exactly who it is, but he may not be smart enough to realize it. If he has a full tank, this could go on for hours. Want to lend a hand?”
“Well, when you get all mushy and romantic, how can I say no? All right, all right. Not now. Where are you?”
“I’ll share my location, and you can think of something fun.”
“Hold on,” says Zoey. “Who’s driving the car?”
