J.W. nodded. “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. I’m pretty sure I left before you did. Had a date.” He winked.
“Nice talking to you, J.W.” Noah gave a second’s thought before bringing up a sore subject. “If you need a recommendation on your job hunt, I’ll be happy to write one for you. I hear Waco’s fire department is looking for experienced guys.”
J.W.’s face flushed. “I got it covered. Any day now, things will turn my way.”
Noah went back to the infield just in time for the Show & Shine, K&N Filters All-American Sunday competition. The air vibrated with the throbbing full-throttle sounds of late-model American-made vehicles.
Harley barked twice, not enjoying the punishment to his ears.
Noah bent down and stroked him strongly until the K9 settled. He didn’t blame his partner. In fact, he wished he had earplugs.
Shortly after three o’clock, the events shut down. Unlike the rest of security, who were sweeping the infield to make certain every single item that had been carried into the stadium was being carried out, or properly binned, by participants and guests, the explosives teams were free to leave.
Harley was panting heavily by the time Noah had installed him in the back of his father’s truck. He gave him more water, but not enough to potentially cause stomach problems. “You must be exhausted, aren’t you, boy? I know I am. How about a steak dinner somewhere before we crash?”
Harley barked twice and licked Noah’s face, leaving it glistening with dog saliva. Harley’s vocabulary was limited, but he knew “steak.”
Chuckling, Noah wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Better shower and change first. Eau de Pooch isn’t popular with the ladies.”
He climbed behind the wheel and then inched his way in bumper-to-bumper out of the stadium parking lot and onto I-35W South.
The pricking at the base of his neck jerked him out of the stupor of barely moving traffic. He glanced over his shoulder.
Harley sprawled on the back seat, tongue lolling as he snored like a ripsaw.
Noah glanced in his rearview mirror. The driver of the car behind him was a middle-aged woman who had her steering wheel in a death grip. She must be one of those drivers who wasn’t prepared for the mammoth near-permanent rush-hour crush that was the interstate under construction from the downtown Mixmaster north to the 114 cut-off.
The prickle persisted. As he reached up to rub the back of his neck he saw it. Or something. A flash of a headlight as a vehicle three or four back was veering across the stripe as if trying to keep tabs on him.
Could be a drunk driver not quite in control of his vehicle. Despite the strict tabs on alcohol, a few patrons had no doubt left in states of intoxication above the legal level.
“There it goes again.” Noah said the words to no one in particular. Harley certainly didn’t care. This time, the vehicle changed lanes.
Noah had a not-so-clear impression of a battered truck, more rust than paint, three cars behind him in the outside lane. But there was nowhere for either of them to go. The traffic had slowed to a stop.
A tail? Had Durvan sent someone to shadow his actions until he could be arrested?
The thought crawled all over him and stung like fire ants. The hell with that. He was usually the hunter, not the prey. Only one thing to do about it.
He bided his time, even turning on the radio to help him keep his cool as he plotted what to do. Sooner or later the traffic would thin enough for him to make a move.
It came as a major stream of traffic on his right began peeling off onto the exit ramp for 287 North. He changed lanes suddenly and then pressed the brake, causing the car behind him to slam on its brakes with an angry blast of the horn. He could imagine the middle finger being aimed his way as the driver swung left to fill his truck’s previous spot. He didn’t have time to admire it.
He jerked his wheel, sending his truck over the series of hard high bumps used to prevent drivers from exiting after they’d passed the official ramp. He was prepared for the jarring ride and kept the truck aimed at the exit. Harley, on the other hand, awoke with a start and began barking wildly as he tried to maintain his balance on the seat.
“Sorry, boy.”
Noah twisted his head left as he reached the pavement of the exit ramp.
The rusty truck, once three cars back and still a lane over, moved past before the driver realized that Noah was on the exit ramp.
He drove north a while before cutting over and driving city streets through Saginaw and then past Meacham Airport. He’d be harder to spot in town than on a major highway.
Only when he reached the stockyards did he stop checking his rearview mirror.
Maybe it was nothing. He could have been mistaken. His paranoia working overtime. But he couldn’t afford to be less careful. Not when he knew for a fact someone wanted him dead.