Marc’s beam darted past mine to pick out a teak dining table of sorts, built against the wall on our left. A pair of Stickley-style bar chairs flanked it. And when Marc’s light cut across the space toward the right, it skimmed over a complete kitchenette. Custom-built cabinets overhung an actual granite countertop with honest-to-goodness appliances occupying its surface. One of those appliances was a state-of-the-art Italian coffeemaker.
“So much for first impressions,” Marc muttered.
Now I understood why the cabin’s exterior resembled a shack. It was camouflage. And it protected the luxuries Sam enjoyed in his upland retreat when he came, as he said, to get away from it all.
Intent on exploring the rest of the narrow cabin, I entered slowly, aimed my light toward the back wall. There, a doorway provided a peek into a fully outfitted bathroom. But to get there, I’d have to bypass the bed. Made of lashed-together logs and piled high with quilts, it dominated the space. And it was built for two.
Marc’s beam fell on it like a spotlight. “Is that going to be a problem, babe?”
“No,” I told him. “As long as you don’t take your half out of the middle.”
Marc’s chuckle was a low rumble deep in his chest.
And the sound stirred something deep inside of me.
Chapter 25
Ignoring Marc and the flutter in my gut, I crossed to the electric fire in front of the chairs and flicked it on. It was one of those high-tech electronic Japanese devices, meant to resemble a glowing hearth with dancing flames—and to pump out enough warmth to efficiently keep a place like this cozy. But this one remained as cold and dark as a forgotten iron furnace.
“No heat,” I said.
“Gas tank and the generator should be around back,” Marc replied.
We trooped out of the little cabin, past our vehicle, and around the side of the small structure. The dirt lane we’d followed down from the road continued to become an access trail. But Sam Brewer hadn’t been the only one who’d used it.
A lean-to stuck out from the back of the cabin. Its floor was nothing more than a concrete slab. A modest Briggs & Stratton generator had been bolted to the cement. Hoses connected it to a tall, skinny red tank situated on stilts in the brush about two yards away. Marc gave the tank a light thump and the echo inside threatened to go on forever.
“Empty,” he reported.
“Gas rustlers,” I said, remembering Sam Brewer’s comment.
If the thieves could’ve cut the generator loose without much trouble, they might’ve taken it, too. But jail time for stealing fuel was one thing. The cost of the generator would make the penalty for taking it quite another, so here it had remained.
Insulated leads ran from the generator to a small junction box mounted on the wall of the cabin. No doubt this was the fuse box that fed electrical power to the lights, cooktop, and, most importantly, that fancy Japanese fire. But without gas to give ’em the go, we wouldn’t be using them tonight.
And that wasn’t the only thing we’d have to do without.
Two more leads ran to the connectors on a tall, vented rectangle of gray powder-coated steel. Altogether, the thing looked something like an air-conditioning unit. Except it wasn’t. PVC pipe, four inches in diameter and forming a right angle between the vented box and a concrete cap in the ground, gave it away. This was a water pump, for all the good it would do us.
“No water,” I said, “without the electric pump.”
“Look at this,” Marc called.
I joined him a few feet away in the scrub. His light shone down on another concrete cap that probably covered a cistern or well. Not far from it, mounted in its own concrete platform, and standing upright like a mechanical flamingo, was an old-fashioned hand pump.
“Water,” Marc said, shoving the flashlight in his pocket, “coming right up.”
He grasped the shiny black handle, levered it high. The pistons in the shaft resisted the motion at first. But with a little elbow grease, Marc got them moving.
“I’ll turn on the taps inside,” I said. “Create some negative pressure.”
The faucet in the kitchenette’s tiny sink, the basin in the bathroom, and the showerhead sputtered with air and protests until, at last, water trickled through. Not wanting to waste Marc’s hard work, I shut everything down quickly and joined him outside.
“Success,” I told him, but he didn’t quit pumping. “How many gallons do you think you’re moving through that thing?”
“How many gallons do you think we’ll need before we get the generator fueled and running?”
I didn’t have a clue. “I’ll tell you what. I won’t brush my teeth and you can come in out of the cold.”
“Deal.”
Not that the interior of the cabin proved to be much warmer than the great outdoors.
“I’ll give the place a good going-over,” Marc told me. “You can have the bathroom first.”
I took him up on that offer, and in the frigid facilities at the rear of the cabin, I drew enough water to wash my face and hands in the rustically modern basin. The fixtures were meant to look like turn-of-the-century oiled bronze, and I could only imagine the price they’d fetch for looters who might steal them to sell to a scrap yard. Sam had spared little expense when he’d furnished his out-of-the-way nest. And if Elena had accepted his job offer once he started his own firm, she might’ve had a good thing going herself. Of course, she’d probably had a good thing going with Marc, too, until addiction got between them.
Thinking of Marc, I brushed my dark hair, and after a moment’s consideration, whipped it into a long, loose braid. Since my divorce nearly five years ago, I wasn’t in the habit of sharing my sleeping arrangements with anyone, but for a bedmate, I knew all this hair could be a source of consternation—or temptation. Marc didn’t need either one.
After a few more ablutions, I climbed into my flannel jammies and emerged from the bathroom. Marc, I noticed, carefully didn’t look at me as he fumbled with his bag on the bench at the far side of the bed. When he took his turn, I put my things away by the light of my cellphone and slid between the sheets. They were as cold as ice despite the quilts piled on top, and involuntarily, I shivered hard.
Throwing off the covers, I hopped up, snatched my backpack from a nearby chair, and dug through it until I found a performance-fleece pullover. And socks. Heavy socks. I dragged the clothes onto my quaking form and felt marginally warmer. But not warm enough.
Clamping my jaw shut to keep my teeth from chattering, I slid between the covers again. Shivers continued to wrack my body, making the entire bed vibrate. My nose was probably blue. Which was wonderful. It would match my battered eye if we had any light to see it by.
Marc returned. The bed pitched when he climbed into it. And again, when he shuddered with the chill despite the track pants and sweatshirt he wore.
Curled on my side, I clamped my eyes closed. I willed sleep to come. Instead, I hovered between wakefulness and dreamland because the cold kept rest away.
But then Marc’s strong arm encircled my waist. His palm splayed against my middle. Beneath the covers, he drew me into the center of the bed and pulled me to the hard line of his body.
Attraction shimmered through me. And caution. I wasn’t going to do something crazy for the sake of body heat.
I clutched Marc’s wrist, just in case his hand had a tendency to wander. “Hold your horses, cowboy.”
His breath whispered across the shell of my ear. “No point in both of us being cold.”
And that, I supposed, was true.
Snuggling together, like two spoons nestled in the same drawer, did generate a little warmth. And with comfort came drowsiness. Except Marc wasn’t content with sleeping.
“What did the jarhead say,” he murmured, “when you told him you were helping me?”
“Um…nothing really.”
But that was a lie of sorts. Because I hadn’t mentioned Marc to Barrett at all. At the time, avoiding the t
opic had seemed perfectly reasonable. I never disclosed the names of other men or women who sought out my services to Barrett or anyone else. Now, I wasn’t so sure I’d done the right thing—and that seemed to be becoming a habit.
“Hm,” Marc mused.
And I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Hm what?” I demanded.
“Nothing. Just whenever I’ve seen you and the jarhead together, you both…Well, I thought…” Marc huffed out a sigh as he searched for the right words. “I always thought you two spoke your minds to each other. That’s all.”
Barrett and I had. Until I’d messed everything up. Again.
But maybe Marc’s comment wasn’t really about my relationship. Maybe it was an admission of his own loss and longing. Apparently, he saw in Barrett and me what he’d had with Elena—and what she’d ruined, willingly or not. And even if he didn’t miss Cody’s mother per se, maybe he missed that person-to-person connection. After all, ask any sociologist and they’ll tell you: it’s connection that makes us human. And despite being a tough guy, Marc Sandoval was definitely human, inside and out.
Humanity, of course, comes with ego—and with pride. Marc’s pride returned in a rush of bravado. Not to mention a heaping helping of cynicism.
His hand slipped north over my hip, followed the contour of my waist to smooth the plait at my shoulder.
“Know what your problem is?” he taunted.
“Yes. I’m stuck with a DEA agent who won’t pipe down and go to sleep.”
“I’m not your problem, babe. Your problem is what you’ve got going on with the jarhead.”
“And you’re a relationship expert now?”
“No, it’s just so bad, even I can see it’s like a faulty grenade.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Your relationship. It’s all flash,” Marc said, “and no bang.”
My face grew hot in a snap. Because, to tell the truth, Marc had hit the nail on the head. Thanks to broken bones, overseas deployments, a wariness caused by ruined marriages on each side of the tally sheet and more, Barrett and I had never managed to cross that particular line.
Now I wasn’t sure we ever would.
But Marc’s pointing it out still irritated the hell out of me.
“Well, see this,” I warned, slapping his hand away from my hair with a sharp crack. “If you don’t knock it off, you’re going to be sleeping on the floor.”
Marc chuckled. I could practically feel his smug grin in the dark. He’d plucked a nerve and he knew it.
“Wouldn’t want that. It’s awfully cold on the floor.” Marc turned over so we were back-to-back in the middle of the bed. He tugged the covers high. “Sweet dreams, Jamie.”
Then, to add insult to injury, Marc dropped into a deep and peaceful sleep, leaving me to lie awake, thinking of all he’d said.
And hating him for it.
Chapter 26
At the crack of dawn, Marc and I got up and out.
In search of breakfast, gasoline, and Dustin Toomey, we braved the frosty North Dakota morning to drive toward the town Sam Brewer had warned us about. As the sunrise turned the sky from pearly pink to searing blue, we got our first look at the brand-new settlement of Fortune’s Crossroads. It wasn’t much to write home about.
Marc and I cruised along the main drag, trying to make heads or tails of the chock-a-block construction crowding the roadway. For more than four miles, the area looked as if an industrial accident had dumped asphalt, cinder block, and iron girders on both sides of a lonely stretch of highway, leaving all that material for the up-and-comers of Fortune’s Crossroads to sort out. And some folks appeared to be having better luck with that than others.
A hand-painted sign proclaiming SU’PLIES listed over a small block building that looked more like a glorified baseball dugout. Next door, a wooden structure used its drop shutters raised high to display sweatshirts, long-sleeved T-shirts, and other work clothes in a variety of Day-Glo colors on wire hangers. The only nationally recognized business name I saw belonged to one of those farm stores that carry everything from steel-toed boots to barbed wire. It had popped up on the south end of Fortune’s Crossroads, but it wasn’t open yet. In the mud lot that surrounded it, hard-hatted workers had left their heavy-duty trucks to string thick, black electrical cables from the power poles along the road.
Behind the building, a crane levered the latest additions to row after row of prefabricated duplexes into place. In the fields beyond those, I saw old-school army tents that would sleep at least six men each, a cinder-block bathhouse, and plenty of plastic port-o-johns. The tents proved that housing was indeed hard to come by, even if employment wasn’t, and I began to understand why Sam Brewer had built his cabin so far from the action. Squatters could be a problem in a place like this. And even if it were your own property, encroaching on what a squatter claimed could turn ugly, because this kind of boom-or-bust town drew all kinds of people, from hard workers unafraid to roll up their sleeves to ne’er-do-wells on the lookout for a shortcut.
About halfway up the strip, a state highway cut across Fortune’s Crossroads, creating four corners and marking out what had probably been the original town. A tired-looking, tall-steepled church with peeling white paint occupied one corner as it had probably done for ninety years or more. A gas station sat on another.
Both buildings featured additions of red brick and gray cinder block, though the church’s was weathered while the gas station’s was brand-spankin’ new. I didn’t know what the church did with theirs, but the gas station now boasted nearly three dozen pumps and a convenience store the size of a small-town grocery. And that made it the perfect spot to start asking questions, grab some supplies, and get some gasoline for the cabin.
Marc turned into the lot, hit the brakes to avoid a near collision as a fellow with a bushy beard hastily backed out of his parking spot, breakfast burrito in hand. When we parked, two burly guys with quart-sized travel mugs full of coffee climbed into the pickup truck beside us. And the store itself was packed with more big, hungry men just like them.
Heads swiveled when Marc and I walked into the mini-mart. And it didn’t take me long to notice I was the only female on this side of the cash registers. As such, I got the once-over from more than one man. It wasn’t the first time in my life I’d ever been ogled, but I never liked the experience.
Marc didn’t like it either. He hadn’t been a bright ray of sunshine since our awkward midnight conversation, and morning certainly hadn’t improved his mood. Now he glowered at anyone dumb enough to let his attention linger on me.
“Hey,” I murmured, tugging on his sleeve with the intent of distracting him. “This gas station has got to be the only one for miles. I bet its delivery truck supplies fuel to the farms and ranches around here—and Sam’s cabin.”
“I’m on it,” Marc growled. “You watch out for these roughnecks.”
But not all of the men buying cold cuts and coffee, toothpaste and toilet paper were rough. They just looked that way. And they were willing to take on rough, back-breaking work here in Fortune’s Crossroads so they could send a decent paycheck to their wives and sweethearts, parents and children back home.
So I didn’t worry about approaching a young buck with well-worn leather gloves sticking from the back of his faded jeans’ pocket. I asked him if he knew Dustin Toomey, and when he told me he’d never heard of the guy, he blushed and stammered and called me ma’am. A gnarly little man, old enough to be a grandpa, even spat out his chewing tobacco into a paper cup and politely removed his hard hat before I questioned him—but as nice as these fellows were, none of them could help me find Dustin Toomey.
I kept up my Q-and-A, working my way around the grocery shelves and snagging a few supplies for Marc and me. Sam’s fancy espresso machine would have to run on mini-mart grounds. For the meantime, I poured some of the gas station’s ready-made brew into carry-out cups. A taste of the stuff convinced me to doctor them up with
sugar and powdered creamer. And with that done, I snagged a few more edibles for breakfast and midnight snacks and moved to the nearest cash register.
There, I forked over an exorbitant sum for this bounty. The cashier, a well-matured lady with sunken cheeks and a silver-streaked bun pinned to the back of her head, squinted at me like she couldn’t quite figure out what I might be doing in Fortune’s Crossroads. No doubt she was an original resident—and I didn’t exactly look like most of the newcomers.
“I don’t suppose you could point me toward a guy named Toomey,” I said.
The lady frowned like she expected me to pilfer from the chewing-gum display at the front of the register.
She said, “I’m afraid they don’t usually take your kind.”
She peeled a flyer from the stack at her elbow and handed it to me. Xeroxed onto pale green paper, it advertised a men’s shelter, sponsored in part by the church across the road. The accommodations came complete with hot showers and a free Bible study.
I thanked her as Marc joined me.
After he helped me load our supplies into our SUV, I showed the flyer to him.
“If Toomey’s living in a church homeless shelter that only takes men,” I told him, “I doubt Elena’s with him.”
“You never know,” Marc said, glowering.
But there was one way to find out.
We rolled across the busy intersection and into the church’s gravel lot. Around the side of the clapboard building, where the glass doors of the old brick-and-block addition opened to the great outdoors, a beaten-up old school bus idled in the parking lot. With a brush and a little paint, someone had blacked out the name of the bus’s school district. But this bus wasn’t here to haul children. Grown men exited the church and climbed aboard. Because this bus was a shuttle. It delivered the shelter’s tenants to the fracking fields and pipeline construction site so they could earn some pay and, eventually, stand on their own two feet.
As the bus chugged out onto the road, Marc and I entered the church. The addition featured a glassed-in foyer with a soaring ceiling. The sanctuary itself had to be behind a pair of swinging brown doors, but off to the right, down a short corridor plastered with bulletin boards, kids’ art projects featuring long-faced Jesuses and sheep constructed of cotton balls, and a pay phone the likes of which I hadn’t seen in eons, another set of doors opened into something else altogether.
The Kill Wire Page 16
