Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(34)

“Gotta do something. ’Sides, I don’t like to get bored. You know the most dangerous man in America? Black man with a library card.”

Peter laughed at the Malcolm X quote. “I’m pretty sure you know more about money than most people working on Wall Street.”

“Gone bust a cap in yo’ ass, muthafucka. Talk like that gone get you killed.” Lewis really had the street in his voice now. He could also sound like a Pakistani cabdriver, a Nigerian prince, or an English professor. Or, as far as Peter could tell, anyone else he wanted to. Lewis was, more than anyone Peter had ever met, the product of his own creation.

“You want to shoot me, you’re gonna have to wait in line,” said Peter. He told Lewis a shortened version of the story. June’s mother. The men who had tried to take June, then followed her to the redwoods, and the car chase and wreck afterward.

“Man, I’m coming out there. I can fly into Frisco and drive your truck up north. Find a gun show on the way, grab some supplies.”

“What I really need is intel. Can you find out more about June’s mother? Her name is Hazel Cassidy. Business partners, employees, so-called friends. There’s an ex-husband out there somewhere, too. Anyone who might have a reason to make her dead.”

“You said she was killed in a hit-and-run. But now you’re thinking her death might be connected to the rest of it?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

June opened the door behind him and stepped outside carrying the depleted shopping bags.

“Listen, I gotta go,” said Peter. He didn’t want June to know what he’d asked Lewis to do. If it turned into something, they’d have the conversation. If not, there was no need to rock the boat. “How do I get some hard money on the road?”

“I’ll set that up tonight,” said Lewis. “One of those cash-advance places, I can just wire it in. You got about a zillion to choose from. They can do straight cash, although there are limits to how much they’ll give you. They can also do prepaid credit cards, which might come in handy.”

“That sounds fine.” Peter consulted the map he carried in his head. “How about Eugene? Call me when you know where.”

“If I came out there I could just hand you a stack of hundreds.”

“Maybe later. Good-bye, Lewis.” Peter hung up.

June said, “Your friend?”

Peter nodded. “He wants to help. He might show up. You’d like him.”

“You never really told me what you do for a living,” she said.

“Right now, I’m not sure I know myself,” he admitted.

“Did that shower help your leg?”

“It’s fine,” he said. “We should keep moving.”

“Sure,” she said. “Let me see you stand on that leg.”

Peter gave her a look. “It’s fine.”

She stared right back at him. “Can you bend the ankle? Will it even hold your weight?”

He didn’t answer. She put out her hand. “Give me the keys.”

“June,” he said. “We need to keep moving.”

“I’m the boss, remember? And you’re broken. So I’m gonna get you fixed.” She waggled her fingers. “Keys, motherfucker.”

She’d like Lewis, Peter was pretty sure. They certainly spoke the same language.





15





Eugene was an hour up the road. It was a university town, and likely to have good medical resources. Peter didn’t like it, but June wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t protect her if he couldn’t move.

Aside from slowing them down, he could see several other problems immediately. His leg certainly needed some kind of help, but they’d take one look at June and want to treat her fat lip and sliced-up arm, too.

The hospital would want Peter and June to identify themselves, and would plug their names into the system. Hospitals liked to know who they were treating in order to make sure they got paid.

The hunters obviously had funding and access to serious tech. If they could get into hospital information systems and started looking for June’s name, they’d come running. He mentioned his concerns to June.

“The emergency room doctors have to treat us,” she said. “It’s a federal law. We can give them false names and addresses. They can’t even demand payment.”

Peter could understand taking free medical care if he was broke and homeless, but he wasn’t. Or at least he wasn’t broke. And he’d always pulled his own weight. He’d pay the hospital, but at least he didn’t have to worry about June getting on some medical database. “Who do you want to be?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Debbie Harry.”

“Who?”

June rolled her eyes. “The lead singer of Blondie? Some people have no culture. You should be, oh, let’s see.” She put one hand to her chin and contemplated him. “Clint Eastwood. Definitely.”

“You’re trying too hard at this,” he said. “The goal is to be forgettable.”

“For you, maybe.” She flashed a brilliant grin. “For me, not possible.”

“You are a piece of work,” he said. But he knew she was just messing with him, trying to distract him from another, more significant problem.