Page 307 of Property of Whiskey

Somebody’s watching more than we thought.

Then Crowley says, “Give my regards to Mr. Montgomery’s daughter.”

Sophie.

Legend’s face changes.

That one gets through.

Crowley hangs up.

Royal moves toward the window. “Shoot the tires.”

“No,” Twila says.

“Why?”

“Because that’s what he wants.”

Royal stops.

Good point.

Crowley gets into the SUV and drives away.

Nobody follows.

I hate every second of it.

Five minutes later, we search the patch of yard where he stood, but there’s nothing useful. No discarded phone, convenient fingerprint, or mistake waiting for us to pick it up.

Man came prepared.

Royal heads back toward the bikes, then stops.

“Whiskey.”

Something in his voice turns me around.

There’s a folded Pearly Gates church bulletin tucked beneath my seat strap, same clean respectable design as the rest of the church shit we’ve already seen.

I pull it free and turn it over.

Four words are written across the back in black ink.

YOUR FATHER UNDERSTOOD. YOU WILL.

Twila reads over my shoulder.

My grip tightens around the paper. “He means you.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Get in line.”

I turn toward her. “You’re going home.”