“Not bad,” said Peter. “Hairline fracture. I’ll tell you later. We need to pay these people.” He turned to look at Don. “How do we do that?”
“You don’t,” he said. “Not right now. It takes a week or more to figure out what you owe. Just pay the bills when they show up.” He looked at June, at her wrapped arm and the black stitches in her lip. “Are you two together?”
“Yes,” she said, before Peter could answer. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, but he wasn’t going to ask questions.
Don raised an eyebrow, his opinion of Peter clearly higher than before. “Why don’t you two go relax,” he said. “Try to limit the excitement for a while.”
That was an interesting idea. Peter stepped out of the wheelchair, testing his weight on the medical boot. It wasn’t too bad. The boot was fairly light, and came to mid-calf. He put out a hand to Don, and they shook. “Thanks.”
“It was my pleasure,” said the older man. “You have my number. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
Peter limped through the sliding doors, June at his side, both of them so glad to be leaving the hospital that they were oblivious to the pair of small cameras mounted in the ambulance bay, and others in the parking lot, watching them all the way to the minivan.
As they drove out, their license plate was clearly visible.
19
SHEPARD
The phone rang when Shepard was thirty miles from Eureka. The sky was gray and threatening.
He’d checked the chat room on the secure server the salesman used for their comms drop, so he had most of the background. The information was incomplete, but that was typical. The salesman never wanted anyone to know too much about what he was into.
Shepard hit the Bluetooth button. “Yes?”
“Bert reported back. He found Smitty’s team, up in the mountains.” Over the rental car’s poor speakers, he sounded more than ever like a pitchman doing a radio commercial. “A total loss.”
Four trained men, thought Shepard. Experienced men. Not at his own level, but very few were. It was enough to get his attention.
“How?”
“It looks like they were in pursuit but somehow left the road. Rolled their vehicle. It was burned to the frame.”
Vehicles didn’t simply burn, thought Shepard. Not without help.
“Tell me.”
“A logging truck was parked on the road nearby. There were a bunch of skid marks in the gravel. Bert said it’s a narrow road, not really wide enough for two, and he thought the logging truck forced the play. Smitty’s last report was that they were chasing the girl’s car, and from the tire tracks and debris, it looks like she left the road, too. But the girl and whoever she brought in to help, they drove out of there.”
“She had help?”
“Smitty’s report mentioned a man. That’s all I know.”
“How did they die?”
“The rollover killed two. One thrown, one crushed. Multiple gunshots on the third, probably after the wreck happened, he was still inside.” The salesman paused a moment. Then he said, “The fourth was killed by an arrow to the chest.”
Shepard felt his eyebrows rise. Perhaps this would become interesting. “And the truck driver?”
“He’s dead, too. Multiple gunshots.”
A clean slate. Good technique. “The vehicle, how did it burn?”
“Bert said it looked like someone took a can opener to the gas tank, probably used the gas as an accelerant. He could see the smoke from five miles away. Said it stank like hell.”
Shepard nodded to himself. He knew that smell, the combination of burning plastic and roasting human flesh. It was a stink he’d never forget.
Shepard had enjoyed those years in the desert. Shepard as asset, the salesman as controller, new challenges every day. The desert was where he had honed his abilities, where he had accepted that the only rules that applied were the ones he made for himself. The only limits were in his own mind.
Things were more complex in his current situation. Multiple clients, overlapping priorities. More caution was required, because circumstances were at once more constrained and more fluid. But he continued to exercise his abilities, to make a decent living and save his money.
And Shepard was now no man’s asset but his own. Despite what any of them thought.
Perhaps these were the best years now, even if he was turning forty. Wasn’t that supposed to be the human ideal, to have your current life be your best life? That’s what Oprah had told him in all those hotel rooms, as he waited for the next job to begin. He’d watched Oprah and Ellen and Dr. Phil and Jerry Springer and all the rest. He thought Oprah might know what she was talking about. He wasn’t so sure about Jerry Springer.
But Shepard knew he couldn’t live this life forever. It was only a matter of time. The internal signals were becoming clearer.
Perhaps his next life would be better still, growing tomatoes. He was considering including heirloom varieties. But it wasn’t quite time yet.
“What’s her latest location?”