Page 51

Across Clear River County, Clay Smith’s attention flicked to the vehicle that had just rolled into the Chevron west of town.

Chewing on the last of his Cheesy Pepper Jack Tornado, Clay headed to his patrol car with a cold can of Coke as an orange Ram flatbed tow truck creaked to a halt at the pumps.

The driver was lifting the nozzle when Clay approached.

“Hey there, Ray.”

Ray Nash of RTN Towing nodded at Clay in uniform.

“Deputy.” He smiled. “Got a job for me?”

“Not at the moment.” Clay touched the Coke to his forehead.

A second or two passed, both men enjoying the highway breezes and the shade of the gas station’s canopy.

“While I got you,” Clay said, “maybe you could help me out. Unofficially.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I understand my new colleague, Luke Conway, paid you a recent visit?”

“He did.”

“Mind telling me what that was about?”

Scratching his stubbled chin with his free hand, Nash half smiled to himself.

“What’s it worth to you?”

Clay’s warmth dropped a few degrees as he eyed Nash. “I believe we have an understanding, Raylin.”

Nash shrugged, watching the pump, easing on the nozzle, slowing the flow.

“He asked about some sort of a report of somebody out on River Road, in that storm a few weeks back.”

“What about it?”

“Wanted to know if I’d heard or seen anyone, that kind of thing.”

“That’s it?”

“He asked if he could look around my place. I refused.”

Clay digested the information. “And that was the end of it?”

The nozzle clanked as Nash replaced it, then screwed on and tightened his truck’s gas cap.

“That was the end of it. Why you interested?”

Clay turned to search the horizon.

“Something happened with the new deputy out there on River Road that night.”

“Like what?”

“Something.” Clay clamped a friendly hand on Nash’s shoulder. “Thanks, Ray. Good seein’ you again.”