Page 71 of South of Nowhere (Colter Shaw #5)

71.

Shaw was on his Yamaha, returning to the Winnebago.

His sister and mother were now safely in their new motel, miles from the one Mary Dove had mentioned in the note taped to the front door. Dorion had checked into the new place using a fake name, no ID and paid cash. This was not exactly according to the rules but she paid $200 for a room that went for $49.99 with the story that she was escaping an abusive husband and had her elderly mother in tow.

The clerk had reached under the counter and lifted a baseball bat in her substantial fist and said, “If he comes by, just let me know.”

Shaw now powered his Yamaha up the hill where the infamous gun battle had occurred earlier, crested it, and then continued up the shallower incline to the shoulder where the camper was parked. He mounted the bike on the back and walked to the front to see if the bullet hole spidering had gotten worse.

It hadn’t.

But there was a wrinkle.

A traffic ticket sat beneath a windshield wiper.

For real?

He snatched it off and read.

Violation of California Vehicle Code Section 26710. Defective Windshield.

Then he looked at the bottom of the ticket.

See other side.

He turned it over.

Just kidding!

LOL!

Text me. Want to stop by.

D.S.

Shaw sent the message and Debi Starr replied.

Be right there.

This would be about thanking him for his role in getting her the chief’s job. Shaw hadn’t intended that she find out about his involvement, the pressure on Han Tolifson, but had forgotten to tell him to keep mum.

Starr would be a few minutes so he made another call, gazing at the canyon that was now the rocky, largely water-free bed of the Never Summer, brilliantly illuminated by high-power work lights set up by the army engineers as they were going about their methodical efforts in preparing the ground for the new levee.

A click on the line.

“Colter!” Annie Coyne’s breezy voice flowed through the phone.

“Hey.”

She choked. “My God, I can’t thank you enough for what you did. You, your mother, your sister. For everything.”

He could only think of flippant quips. Like: all in a day’s work.

Never banter.

He got right to the reason he’d called. “Just wondering. I know it’s late, but if you’re interested in another beer, I could go for one.”

The pause was brief, but it was like a zipped computer file. Compressed but filled with mega data.

“Actually, I’m having someone over.” Another pause. “It’s sort of about the clothes…that got left.”

He noted the structure of the sentence, the word choice. Passive voice was always a tell—a way to communicate when you didn’t want to say something directly.

Coyne might have been offering that her professor friend was picking them up and taking them back to his place.

Or she might have meant that she was going to help him hang the items in one of the spacious closets in her bedroom, slipping both the running and dress shoes under the bed.

Not much doubt about which.

“No worries,” he said lightly.

“But, Colter, really, I hope we can all get together at some point. That’d be real nice.”

“It would be,” Shaw said. “Take care now.”

“You too. And really, I mean it. Thanks.”

“?’Night.”

He hit disconnect, knowing without a vapor of doubt that those would be the last words the two would ever share.

A moment later the Public Safety pickup arrived, and Debi Starr got out.

She shook Shaw’s hand warmly.

“Like your ticket?”

“Funny.”

“We’ll have statements for you and your sister to read and sign. Your mother too. She is one heck of a shot. Was she ever in combat?”

Being the wife and partner of Ashton Shaw meant that, in a way, yes. She’d been instrumental in dealing with threats to her husband and the family at the Compound. And she’d done this efficiently and without emotion. But he shook his head no. “She hunts a lot.”

“Well, whole ’nother matter: I want to say something. Han said that you talked to him about me being the chief of police and all. Darn if that wasn’t nice of you.”

“You’re a natural at this business.” Shaw said nothing more. He was not good with gratitude.

“Ah, thank you for that too. But I wanted to tell you, I’m passing.”

Shaw was nodding slowly. “You’re…”

“Not taking the job.”

“But, look, traffic detail in a small town—”

“No, no, no. I guess I never explained. Jim and me’re moving now that the twins’re out of school. We’re going to San Francisco.” She tapped the Hinowah Public Safety patch on her biceps. “I just took this job temporary. I passed the civil service tests at San Francisco PD and I’m going to be fast-tracked for detective.”

Shaw could only laugh. “You’ll be an even better gold shield than a small-town police chief.”

“Here’s hoping.”

“And Tolifson?”

She gave a wry look. “He’s entertaining candidates and took himself off the list for chief.”

“All right, Detective Starr…Get us those reports, and we’ll sign ’em and send ’em back.”

He extended his hand, but she stepped in and hugged him hard.

After she’d left, he put a square of Gorilla Tape over the bullet hole in hopes that it would contain the cracks—this rarely worked, but he was less likely to get a real ticket if the officer saw he was making an effort.

He couldn’t take the camper through town—the valley roads were too narrow and the crest onto the south side of Route 13 would never work, so he made a three-point turn and drove ten miles in a loop around Hinowah, past the defunct fracking operation and then east again.

Picking up on 13, he continued for about a mile through the misty night until he could see the garish red and yellow lights of the motel’s neon sign in duplicate: above the structure itself and, distorted, on the wet asphalt before him.

He pulled into the parking lot and slammed on the brakes.

Three vehicles sat in front of him. Mary Dove’s pickup truck, Dorion’s Pathfinder.

And a blue SUV with Oregon plates.

The vehicle that Tony had seen arrive at and leave the Compound, after scoring Mary Dove’s destination.

No! Margaret had found her prey!

He pulled the camper to the side of the lot and pushed outside fast.

Time was the critical factor now, not subtlety.

Mary Dove and Dorion each had separate rooms but only one that showed activity—shadows moving across the curtains.

He hurried to this door.

A deep breath. Hand on his pistol’s grip.

Then he pounded hard. “Open up. Now.”

Sounding like a police officer.

It seemed a strategic role to play at the moment. And he could think of nothing else to do. Motel doors are far harder to kick down than most people think.

The door swung open. Mary Dove stood there, frowning. “Oh, Colter. That was dramatic.”

Dropping his hand, he looked past her. Dorion sat in one of the cheap armchairs and in the other was the older woman he’d seen outside the Public Safety Office talking with his mother and Mrs. Petaluma. She now glanced at him and offered a pleasant smile.

He took an instinctive glance around the room.

There was no one else.

Shaw tugged his jacket close to hide his weapon.

Dorion gave him a complicated look.

Mary Dove closed the door. “Colter, I’d like you to meet someone.” She nodded to the older woman. “This is Margaret Evans.” A brief pause, and a smile. “Your half-sister.”