Maybe it was just another dead end.
Peter’s stomach rumbled. He stretched his shoulders. Exercise would loosen him up. Mingus could use a run, too. He turned and walked up the hill toward his truck. At the top of a loading zone, past a car with a Zaffiro’s Pizza sign and a big telecom truck, nearly invisible in the lowering dark, stood a big black Ford SUV idling at a hydrant.
Before he could do anything, the Ford pulled into traffic with its lights off and rolled down the hill and around the corner, down the same street Skinner had taken.
“Shit.” Peter sprinted around the corner for his truck. Cars thick on the main drag at five o’clock, four lanes waiting for the signal to turn green. He couldn’t even get out of his parking spot with people in a hurry to get home.
By the time he’d cut off twenty people and nearly wrecked a city bus to get into traffic, Mingus barking like a hellhound in the back, the black Ford was gone.
20
He drove through downtown, the white spotlit U.S. Bank tower bright behind him, disappearing then reappearing in his mirrors over the heads of smaller buildings.
He slipped through the traffic, took the open side streets when he could. He dodged the lights, coasted through stop signs, and generally tried to drive how the scarred man would drive, looking for the fastest routes away.
Had the scarred man followed Peter, or was he there to follow Skinner?
After a twenty-minute tour through the small downtown without another glimpse of the black Ford, he turned toward the old neighborhoods and Dinah’s house.
The narrow streets were crowded with cars, and he drove on automatic pilot. He saw the veterans’ center building, and his foot rose off the gas as he pictured the woman with the ponytail and the paint-spattered jeans. He’d meant to stop back anyway. To ask about Jimmy.
His new phone buzzed. Only one person had the number. He swung the truck over and pulled the phone out of his pocket. It was a text message.
Too busy to talk today. Let’s catch up tomorrow. -Dinah.
Peter texted a reply. Your new doors are installed, keys under flower pot on picnic table.
Thanks! How much do I owe you?
Nothing. USMC still picking up tab. He didn’t like that he was still lying about the repairs, but there was no way he’d let her pay for it. Talk to you tomorrow.
Across the street, the veterans’ center door opened. Someone came out and looked at him. She waited for a break in the traffic, then angled across the street. It was the woman with the ponytail and the paint-spattered jeans. Different jeans today, but these were also flecked with paint. She wore a Brewers hat with her hair pulled through the opening in the back. It was a look Peter had always liked.
“Hey,” she said. “I thought I recognized that truck. You’re about on time for dinner. Three-bean soup tonight.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I have plans.” What those plans were, he wasn’t quite sure.
She cocked her head at him. “So. What are you doing here?”
“I got a text, so I pulled over.”
“Aren’t you the responsible one,” she said. “Do me a favor and come inside for a few minutes. We’re getting this place into shape and we need help. You’re a carpenter or something, right?”
Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. Drawn by this woman, but not wanting to go inside. He was conscious of the bruise on his face. He already had a headache from his time indoors that day. She saw the hesitation. “Or not,” she said. “Hey, whatever.”
“No, I’ll come.” He turned off the engine and the lights. “But I only have a few minutes.”
“Sure,” she said. “I’m Josie.”
“Peter.”
She stepped into the flow of traffic so he could open the door. Cars slowed and diverted around her without honking, as if she were a boulder fallen in the road or some other force of nature. Her eyes flicked across the bruise on his face. “Just to let you know,” Josie said. “House rules. No drugs, no weapons, no fighting, and no assholes.”
“Who decides on the assholes?”
She put her hands on her hips and faced him squarely, chin out. “I do,” she said. Standing in the street, backlit by the headlights of waiting cars. “Problem with that, Hoss?”
“No, ma’am,” said Peter, smiling. He liked her toughness and her ponytail and the faint smear of paint on the corner of her jaw. “No problem at all.”
She nodded, turned into the traffic, and led him through. By the time Peter crossed the street, she was holding the door open for him.
But when he got to the threshold, the white static began to fizz and pop. Sparks flew the length of his nervous system. His fingers drummed anxiously on his jeans. The iron band around his chest began to tighten, making it harder to draw a full breath. The need to do something, anything, was urgent and real. Fight or flight.