“Where do you need to go?”
“Like I told Agent Sherlock, I was driving to Cleveland, a job interview, family, you know the deal.”
Savich thought, Yeah right, and said easily, “A day or two then, if that’s all right with you. Now, Suz tells me there’s a fine B&B over on Canvasback Lane. The FBI will pick up the tab.”
As Suzette toted up their bill, Sherlock asked, “What’s with all the strange street names in Parlow?”
Rachael opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. This was, after all, her first time in Parlow.
Suzette said, “Horace Bench, the rich guy who founded the town back in the thirties, he bred and raised ducks—hookbills, rouens, runners, calls—the calls are real small, I’m told, like toy ducks. He figured not many folks would recognize those names, so he threw in some common ones, as well, like canvasback, rosy hill, old squaw. He himself lived on Runners Road, and his daughter, whom he didn’t like so it’s said, lived on Old Hooknose Lane.”
Sherlock’s eyebrow went up. “Hooknose? I thought the duck was called a Hookbill.”
“Yep, that’s right,” said Suz, and grinned.
“Where’d the name Parlow come from?” Sherlock asked.
“Parlow was an Indian chief back in the eighteenth century who sought out any settlers he could find to celebrate Thanksgiving with him and his people every year. He always brought trout for the feast. Isn’t that a kick?”
“And where is the sheriff’s office?” Savich asked.
“Oh, that’s on the main drag, First Street, one block over. Sheriff Hollyfield, now he’s so honest you could put your money under his mattress. Smart, too.”
“Duck names,” Sherlock said as they walked out of Monk’s Cafe, Savich carrying Rachael’s duffel bag. “It always amazes me what strikes people’s fancy.”
The three of them were checked in by the manager, Mrs. Flint, thankfully not a longtime native who could recognize Rachael. She told them Greeb’s Pond was the best of Parlow’s upscale lodgings. It was also the name of the current owner’s grandfather’s favorite duck.
They found their rooms decorated with a duck motif, from the wallpaper, to the hooked rugs on the floor, to the bedspread, to three small stuffed duck heads on the walls. “The only one I recognize is the mallard,” Sherlock said, shaking her head. “Imagine stuffing a duck’s head. And look at that little tiny one—you think that’s a toy duck, what’s the name—a call? And what do you bet the alarm clock will start quacking to wake us up?”
Since Sherlock had no intention of letting Rachael out of her sight, the two of them went back to the Parlow Clinic, waded through half a dozen patients to the desk, where Sherlock flashed her FBI shield at a very young receptionist who had short spiky red hair tipped with black and was vigorously chewing gum. She waved them back to the small room where they’d left Jack sleeping. Sherlock stopped by the door and tried her cell again. No luck. When she walked into the room, Rachael was saying, “You look better, Agent Crowne, and that’s a relief. We thought you’d still be out of it.”
Jack smiled. The debilitating headache was only a dull throb now, what with Dr. Post’s magic pain meds. “I slept a good hour, and I was still out when this gum-chewing teenager came in to draw some blood—just like a hospital. I was thinking, Rachael,” he continued, “that you need to stick around awhile, at least until after we get things squared away. What do you think?” Rachael maintained a stony silence.
“Well now, moving right along. Sherlock, where’s Savich?”
“Here he is,” she said, and smiled as Dillon came into the examination room.
Savich said as he shook Jack’s hand, “Well, lad, you’re not looking so green around the gills anymore. How’s the leg and head?”
“I’ll live.”
“And that’s the best news.”
“Please, Agent Savich, where is my car?”
Savich said, “They towed your car to the best and most honest mechanic in Parlow—you can’t trust the others worth spit, so Mort, Sheriff Hollyfield’s dispatcher, told me. Anyway, that excellent mechanic can’t get to your car for a couple of days. He’s really backed up.”
“Yeah, right,” Rachael said. “I’ll bet you terrified him down to his socks, threatened him if he didn’t say that.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Sherlock said, and gave Rachael a sunny smile. “He can do anything.”
“She likes to suck up to the boss sometimes,” Savich said. “As I said, Parlow’s got other mechanics, most attached to gas stations, but the sheriff strongly recommended against them. So did the dispatcher. These guys must know, Rachael.”
“There’s got to be another honest mechanic.”
“Well, all right, there is one, but he’s down with a bad back.” She watched Agent Savich shrug, the jerk. He continued without pause to Jack. “Dr. MacLean’s still out of it, so they don’t know yet what’s going on with him. They’re calling his condition guarded.
“Tommy Jerkins should be here anytime to check out the plane. Okay, Sherlock, if you come with me, I’ve got more calls to make from Sheriff Hollyfield’s office. I want to make sure, too, that his deputies have arrived at the hospital to do guard duty. You really are better, aren’t you?” he asked Jack.
Jack said, “Well, I don’t want to moan anymore, so that’s something.”
“Good. All right then, you can question Rachael, sift through more of her memories of the crash. Remember, Rachael, anything you might remember could be of great help. We’ll see you guys a bit later.”
What Savich had really meant was keep Rachael close, Jack thought. Once alone, he said, “You ready to tell me your last name?” NINE
It’s Abercrombie.” Why had that ridiculous name popped into her head? “How’s your leg?”
“It will heal, thank you for asking. I can’t go to the gym for a week, then I’ve got to go easy for a while.” Jack buttoned his shirt, then threw back the single sheet before realizing he was wearing only his boxer shorts. He quickly pulled the sheet back to his waist. “Since my head isn’t going to explode, I’m ready to get up now. Dr. Post said it was okay as long as I don’t attempt a marathon,” and he smiled. “Would you hand me my pants, Rachael? They’re on the hook on the back of the door.”
She handed him his dirty, ripped pants and left the room, saying over her shoulder, “You’re going to look like the leftovers from a drug war.”
“Nice image.”
They left the Parlow Clinic with the nurse muttering under her breath about macho men with muscles in their heads, Jack clutching a prescription for pain pills in his hand.
She eyed the prescription and said, “First let’s go to Peabody’s Pharmacy.”
“Nah, I don’t really need any more pain meds right now.”
“You will soon enough.”
“No, I think—”
“Shut up, Jack.” And so Jack shut up, cupped her elbow, as if afraid she’d bolt, knowing he couldn’t catch her.
“I think Agent Savich got you a room at the B&B where we’re all staying. If you’re wondering, everything is ducks around here. I was thinking Old Squaw Lane over there was a tacky insult, but no, it’s a duck.”
“Well, of course it is,” Jack said, aiming her toward Peabody’s Pharmacy. Once he had a bottle of Vicodin in his pocket, and one in his mouth, they walked to the sheriff’s office at the top of First Street, next to the firehouse. “I wonder if the firefighters have lots of business—look at all these old wooden buildings.”
“Hey are you the pilot of what’s left of the Cessna rescue plane?”
Jack smiled at the tall, fit fiftyish woman with cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a drill sergeant’s voice. She stood right in front of them on the sidewalk by the big glass window of the sheriff’s office. “Yes,” he said, and raised an eyebrow.
“I’m Dot—Dorothy Malone—silly name my parents fastened on me, but my daddy loved her, the actress, you know. I spent a little time looking over y
our plane. I’m thinking bomb, but the sucker didn’t do the trick, thank God.”
“Actually,” Rachael said, “thank God for Cudlow Valley.”
Dot nodded. “That’s for sure, but still, that must have been some flying you did.”
“Thank you.”
“Sheriff Hollyfield’s assigned a deputy to guard the wreckage.”
“Good thinking,” Jack said, shook her hand, andopened the door to the sheriff’s office. Jack knew Dot Malone was right. If the bomb had worked as expected, both he and Timothy would be memories. Fortunately, he’d had time to send the mayday and to spot Cudlow Valley stretching narrow and straight between that impossible mess
of mountains.
There was no one at the front desk, so he and Rachael walked through a large room that held ten or so cubicles, three occupied by uniformed deputies who watched their every move. Jack nodded to each of the men, no women, and continued to follow the sound of Savich’s voice to Sheriff Hollyfield’s sparse office. Jack saw Savich on the phone through the open door. Rachael shoved Jack into a chair, eyed him. “Here I thought you were well enough to make this little trek, but you’re not. You’re hurting again. Stay put and don’t you move. Give the pain med a chance to kick in.”
“Nah, I’m—”
“Be quiet. What you really need to do is crawl into bed for a while and sleep. Lean your head back, close your eyes, and rest your mouth.”
No sooner had Savich hung up than Tommy Jerkins poked his head in.
Things moved quickly. Savich and Sherlock and Sheriff Hollyfield went with Tommy out to the crash site. Even better, ten minutes later, after the blessed Vicodin was happily swimming in his bloodstream and Jack could see straight, he and Rachael walked over to Greeb’s Pond, the finest lodging in Parlow.
Rachael held him up while Mrs. Flint checked him into the last available room.
Mrs. Flint said, “You’re the federal agent whose plane was shot down and landed on the highway, right?”
“Close enough,” Jack said.
Rachael helped him up the stairs to the second door on the right. It was a lovely room, with high ceilings and windows overlooking Canvasback Lane.
It could have been a closet for all he cared. “More ducks,” Jack said as he eyed the duck border wallpaper and eased down onto the bed. “I feel fine now, Rachael. We can go out to the plane. Oh, man, this bed feels really nice and—”
Rachael pushed him onto his back. In under three seconds, he was out.
She poured a glass of water and left it and the bottle of pills on the nightstand next to his bed. She covered him with a duck-themed afghan and went back to her room.
When she left ten minutes later, she looked as good as she could with what she had in her duffel bag.
Mrs. Flint called to her before she could get through the front door. “Miss, are you a federal agent, too? I didn’t get your last name.”
“Abercrombie, Mrs. Flint. No, I’m not an agent. I’m happy to report that Agent Crowne is asleep. Ah, do you know where I can find Tip Top Overhaul?”
She walked straight to the car repair two blocks over on Long Neck Lane, set off by itself, the big lot in the back closed in by a high chain-link fence. Only one person was around, a youngish guy wearing a tatty T-shirt, jeans, and black sneakers, and he was sitting on a folding chair, back chair legs against the wall in the single garage bay, chewing gum and flipping through a tattered old Playboy.
Playboy. Now that was good, that was really quite hopeful, Rachael thought as she stepped over an ancient radiator and into the dim space. When he looked up, she nearly turned and ran. She recognized him straight off—Roy Bob Lancer. He’d been a senior when she was twelve, captain of the football team. He blinked up at her, and blessed be, there wasn’t a hint of recognition in his eyes. It was obvious he didn’t remember the skinny twelve-year-old with braces.
Rachael gave him a smile designed to curl his toes and churn up lust in his belly, and prayed to the tight sweater gods. “I wonder if you towed my car in, Mr....”
He lunged to his feet. “Lancer, ma’am, it’s Roy Bob Lancer. Ah, you’re the Charger?”
“Yes, but I don’t see it.” She gave him another blinding smile.
“It’s out back, ma’am, all safe and sound.”
“Do call me Rachael. And I’ll call you Roy Bob.” Another toothy smile. “If I knew anything about fuel pumps, and indeed I don’t, I’m going to need you to fix it or replace it for me,” and she kept that delicious smile on her face, her shoulders back, breasts forward. “You’re the expert, everyone says so. And you’re honest, that’s what the sheriff says, and the dispatcher. So, what do you think?”
“Well, ma’am, I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet. I’m all backed up, you know?” Roy Bob quickly dropped the Playboy and toed it beneath an open toolbox. He looked back at the most beautiful girl he’d seen up close since Ellie had waltzed out on him nearly four months ago, off to the big city of Waynesboro where her cousins lived, she’d said, with a little wave. Rachael was giving him a helpless look that made him want to lay the world at her feet, but what could he do? Agent Savich was an FBI special agent, and it was Roy Bob’s duty not—
“You know what, Roy Bob? In addition to paying for your services, I’d sure like to add my own personal thank you with a cup of coffee over at Monk’s Cafe, or maybe even a drink somewhere—you know, a cozy little out-of-the-way place?”
He glowed, but then, he was shaking his head. “Oh yeah, well, no, shit—forgive my French— I’d sure like that, ma’am, you know, a beer, but I’m so dratted busy right now.” He waved his hand around.
Yeah, right. Savich had indeed gotten to him. It was time to find another mechanic. No, she would give it one more try.
“Listen, Roy Bob, I’ve got a super important deal I can’t miss up in Cleveland. I’ve got to leave as soon as possible. Maybe you and I could work something out, maybe—”
A loud bang sliced through the air near her shoulder, ricocheted off a tire rim, and thudded into an oil can, spewing 10/40 in a fountain. Another bang, this one sharp and loud, gouged into the wall a foot over their heads. TEN
“Hey—what was that?”
Rachael grabbed Roy Bob’s arm and pulled him down behind a stack of old tires. “It was a bullet. Stay down, someone’s shooting at us.”
“Nah, that can’t be, I mean, who—”
Another two shots slammed into the wall behind their heads.
“Holy shit—pardon my Irish—you’re right, but why? Who would do that?”
“I don’t know.” But of course she did. They’d discovered she wasn’t dead. But how? “Roy Bob, you got a phone in your office?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Don’t move.”
She managed to look around the side of the tires through the glass into his small office, saw the black phone on his banged-up desk, the door not more than six feet away. Still, she pulled out her cell first, dialed 911.
No signal.
“Listen, Rachael—”
A bullet sank into an old car seat hooked to the wall beside his head. He ducked back down fast. “Oh man, what’s this all about? You FBI, too, Rachael, and someone’s after you?”
“Roy Bob, I’ve got to get to your phone.”
“No, look, I’ll go.” He eased up enough to peer around the tires.
The next bullet struck a support column two feet from his head, spewing concrete shards and thick gritty dust. One spear of concrete sliced Roy Bob’s upper arm, and he yelped.
“Stay down, Roy Bob. I don’t suppose you have a gun?”
“Sure, my daddy’s old Remington. It’s propped up behind my desk against the wall, right under his favorite calendar. No, wait! I’ll get it, I’ll shoot this idiot’s head off—”
He paled, grabbed his arm, and fell onto his side, gasping.
“Tell me it’s loaded.”
“Yeah, yeah, two bullets.” No time, she thought, no time. Even if some
one had heard the shots and called the sheriff—there just wasn’t time. They’d both be long dead. The only reason they were still alive was because the shooter simply hadn’t walked in and mowed them down. Why? Maybe he’d been warned she might have a gun with her. And she wondered again whether they’d checked to see the block of cement didn’t have her attached to it at the bottom of Black Rock Lake. No matter, someone had seen her, simple as that. But how had they found her, and so quickly? Get a grip, they knew she was here and they wanted her dead. She had to hurry. “You stay here, Roy Bob. Keep pressure on your arm, and keep down. Don’t give him a target.”
Both of them would be slaughtered if she didn’t do something fast. Before she could second-guess herself, Rachael crawled behind an ancient mop bucket, a stack of oil filters. Nearly there. She rolled through the open door into the office. A shot rang out, not a foot above her head, sending splinters flying out of the door frame. The shooter was firing from directly behind her, and that meant he was right in the middle of the bay opening. They were down to seconds. She felt rage shoulder aside fear. She rolled between the wall and Roy Bob’s desk, came up to her knees, grabbed the Remington, identical to her uncle Gillette’s that she’d learned on, and slammed down on her stomach onto the dirty linoleum as two more shots sprayed dust and clumps of Sheetrock over her head. Rachael jumped up, pumped it once, and fired toward the bay opening. She heard a man yell, curse.
Got him. She felt powerful, invincible in that moment. She shouted, “Drop that gun and step out where I can see you or I’ll shoot your head off!”
She heard heavy running footsteps. She scrambled to her feet, ran to the bay opening, saw him rounding a corner, and fired again. She missed, but it was close. The footsteps faded into the distance. Rachael ran after the man, saw him get into a black Ford pickup and burn rubber onto the street. She started to run after him, but realized there weren’t any more bullets in the Remington, and he might see her in the rearview and decide to stop and have another go at her. She lowered the rifle, a fierce smile on her face. She’d forgotten what it was like to feel strong and in control.
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