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“Oh, it’s a snazzy one. Love it.”

Tolifson was frowning toward Colter. “You’re going to, what? Look for explosives hidden in one of the construction trucks?”

“I don’t know what I’ll be looking for. But maybe.”

Debi Starr offered, “Too bad we don’t have one of those bomb-sniffing pigs. You could bring him along.” She frowned. “Though I suppose the story you and Porky have come to town to find your dream house might raise a few eyebrows.”

25.

Colter Shaw had with him his phone.

And his notebook.

And his three-hundred-dollar fountain pen.

One more thing.

His slim Glock 42, a six-shot (seven, with one in the chamber). The caliber was .380, a round that was like a stubby version of a nine-millimeter. Coming to Hinowah at Dorion’s request, he had believed his main mission—to find a missing SUV—would not require a weapon.

One shovel attack and an improvised explosive device later, he knew it was time to arm up.

The weapon sat high inside the waistband on his right hip.

Per Ashton:

Never cross-draw a weapon. It will sweep along unintended targets.

Going seventy miles per hour, he motored the Yamaha past the bridge where he’d had the run-in with Bear.

A glance to the west, wondering if he’d see the man.

No sign of him.

Again, the attack piqued his curiosity. What was the point? Beardidn’t seem like the sort to be a stranger to firearms, and if he had wanted Shaw dead it would not have been a difficult conclusion to arrange.

But a shovel—and risking a beating?

There had to be some reason other than shooing off a trespasser.

Maybe simple psychosis. Growing up with Ashton Shaw, Colter had learned that many words and actions that seem bizarre, and dangerous, to the normal world made perfect sense to those who lived with a turbulent, unstable mind.

Then the man and his issues were gone. He arrived in Fort Pleasant, which passed for a city in this part of the state, with about forty thousand souls. To his left the broad floodplain filled to the brim as the Never Summer River joined its cousin, the Little Silver. The water was flowing into some parts of the city and environs, yes, but it appeared that damage would be minimal. The defense included solid lines of sandbags, which were holding against a two- or three-foot swell.

Why divert all major resources to prevent minor damage here when Hinowah’s very existence was threatened?

The continuing mystery.

The GPS now sent him west, away from the water, and soon he came to the Windermere Development, about a hundred acres of single-family homes—big ones—and several luxury apartment buildings of ten stories, skyscrapers in this area.

A billboard in front of a large plain filled with sparse grass and ground cover proclaimed that this acreage would be a“Beautiful and Challenging” Eighteen-Hole Golf Course. He wondered if the promoters realized that the quotation marks might be taken as sardonic, suggesting that the course would be just the opposite. Presently it looked like one big sand trap, but then Shaw had once tackled a reward job in Palm Springs, which was even more desert than this and yet boasted a number of lush, verdant courses. The ground was waiting to blossom. It just needed one thing.

Water.

The substance of the hour today.

Some of the houses in Windermere had been sold, but most were still under construction, with crews nailing up Sheetrock, lifting prefabricated roofs onto frames with cranes, drilling wells and running utility lines, mostly underground. Shaw passed one house whose miniature front-yard billboard reported that it would feature 5,244 feet with seven bedrooms and thirteen baths. The garage could hold five full-size vehicles.

Spacious, certainly. But still claustrophobic for a Restless Man.