It is 6:04 a.m. when I pull off the highway, turning down the two-lane road. The road curves around on itself, taking me back parallel to the highway. The GPS indicates that I turn left, and I look in vain for a quarter mile ‘til I see a thin dirt road. I turn down the road, the ruts causing a vibration throughout the cab. Fog is heavy in the air, blanketing the fields in white clouds, all but obscuring my view of anything beyond the clay road with deep ditches on either side. I almost miss my destination, slamming on the brakes beside a white metal gate that is chained closed with a shiny new combination lock. A No Trespassing sign is visible, hanging from rungs on the gate. Bingo.
I get out of the truck, leaving the door open and look around; nothing but fog, trees and empty road. The closest house is about a half-mile behind me, a small clapboard frame set flush against the road, acres of fields surrounding it. I need to leave the truck somewhere and advance on foot. I get back behind the wheel and call Mike.
“God, I’ll be glad when this shit is over.”
“Yeah, earning money’s a bitch. Pull up a map, and tell me how Ralph would get from his house to this place. I need to know which direction he’ll drive down this road.”
“What road?”
“The fucking road I’m on!” I fumble with buttons on the GPS, pressing the wrong thing and zooming out to a map of the world. “Jesus Christ!”
“Damn, you are bitchy in the morning. Are you on the road that the trailer is on?”
“Yeah. I’m looking at a white gate right now.”
“Okay, I am pulling you up on GPS also. Just an update, lights are on in Ralph’s house, but no one has left yet. The cops watching the house are leaving at seven.”
“Going where?”
“Getting off shift. They’re not watching him today.”
“Fuck. His cell still puts him in the house?”
“Yeah, unless he’s sleeping at the neighbor’s. He’s in the area of the house, so yes.”
“A simple yes would do.”
“Again, bitchy.” He breathes loudly into the phone. “Okay. If he heads to the rental, and follows any type of normal thought process in driving there, he’ll take the quickest way, which would have him traveling west down that street.”
“I don’t have a fucking compass, Mike. I don’t know which way is west.”
He laughs, ridiculously chipper for being up all night. “You came from the east.”
“Okay.” I put the truck in drive, backing up, my taillights illuminating only fog. Then I hit the brakes. “How do you know which direction I came from?”
“Uh … what?”
I speak slowly, certain that my anger seeps through each word. “How. Do. You. Know. Which. Direction. I. Came. From?”
“Just assumed.”
“Bullshit. You know where I live?”
“Uh … yeah.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Uh … yeah.” In those two words he is able to communicate both wariness and pride.
“How easy was it to find out?”
“Not easy. I followed your—”
“Stop. I’ll bitch you out about it later. Fix whatever gap you crawled through so no one else can follow suit. NOW. And keep an eye on Ralph’s cell.”
“You know I gotta leave soon. Like in an hour.”
“Protect my privacy. Watch Ralph. Please.” I hang up the phone and look over my shoulder, putting the truck back into reverse and accelerating backward, looking for a place to turn around.
I find a place to pull over and park the truck, grabbing my duffel bag and locking the vehicle behind me. The parking spot hugs a curve of trees, far enough off the road to avoid unwanted attention. If someone comes from the west, it’ll be hidden unless they look in their review mirror. If someone comes from the east, the grey truck will stick out like a sore thumb. I say a quick prayer as I trudge through thick dirt toward the locked gate, and hopefully, toward Annie.
CHAPTER 47
The gate’s sole purpose seems to be keeping out cars; there is a two-foot gap on either side of it. I walk through, starting to jog as soon as I hit the road, a curving, rutted path—cutting a tight hole through the heavy woods. GoogleEarth had shown the trailer about two hundred yards down this road. With the sun already peeking through the trees, I need to move quickly. My feet work their way over the ruts, visions of a twisted ankle sashaying mockingly through my mind. My legs tire quickly, not used to cardio, and I have a stitch in my side by the time the trailer finally comes into view. I slow, ducking into the woods. Crouching down to my duffel bag, I unzip it.
I pull the gun out first, switching off the safety and setting it softly on the ground beside me. I check my sweatshirt pocket, closing my hand briefly around the stiletto knife, reassuring myself of its presence. I finger the ski mask I had packed, but decide not to use it. I want him to see me. I want him to recognize me, to know that he was the cause of his own demise. My cell buzzes, quiet against ski mask. I flip it open and speak quietly into the receiver.
“Yes.”
“Police escort just left Ralph’s.”
“It’s early!” I fumble for my sleeve and pull it back to reveal the watch face. 6:16 a.m.
“There was a report of kids spraying graffiti at the local high school. They needed someone to check it out. You’re talking about a small town here. There’s only one deputy out right now.”
“Fuck.”
“And you know I gotta—”