Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(26)

He came back in. “So you’re that Miles Davenport.”

Miles sighed. “My fame precedes me.” That bad business a couple of years ago with Kev, Edie. A firefight in the woods, a shootout at a murdered billionaire’s house. That shit stuck in people’s minds.

“He vouched for you,” Barlow said. “Going to the graveside service?”

Miles shook his head.

“Then I’ll say goodbye, for now,” Barlow said, peeling a card out of his wallet and handing it over. “Don’t leave town.”

“I’ll pass you anything I find,” Miles said, tucking the card in his pocket. “I want you to find that scumbag and grind him into paste.”

“Me, too. Why don’t you plug that number into your phone right now, and call me with it?” Barlow suggested. “I’d like to keep our lines of communication open.”

Miles could think of no logical reason to object. His own fault, for coming here. Sticking his neck out. He was planning on switching out a new SIM card anyway, for some privacy. He did as Barlow asked.

Tension drained out of Miles’ body as he watched the guy walk away. Barlow seemed like a reasonable guy, but still, it paid to be careful with the Man.

The church was almost empty now, just a round little woman in her seventies, taking down photos displayed on a bulletin board.

Miles walked over to look. The woman wore White Shoulders, and some godawful hairspray. She reached for a picture of Matilda with an eighties hairdo, holding a tiny Amy. Baby pics, graduation photos. A shot of her, Amy and Steve on a sternwheeler cruise on the Columbia.

Pressure built in his throat. What was up with him? Why was he even looking at this stuff? Jerking himself around on purpose? Did he actually want to wake up in Urgent Care with tubes in every orifice?

The lady strained for a photo pinned too high for her short frame. Miles reached to get it for her. It was Matilda, in the mountains—

His hand froze. The horned hill. Its base was half-hidden by Matilda’s head, but the top was pronged, with that big nose jutting down between. The lady swiveled and looked at him over her glasses.

“So?” she asked. “Are you going to take that down for me, or not?”

“Did you take this picture?” he asked

“No, I got it off Facebook. It was the best recent picture of her that I could find. That lovely smile.”

“Facebook?” Miles stared at it. “Do you know where it was taken?”

“She posted it a week ago,” the lady said. “Her new profile picture. Only a few days before she . . . before she . . .” Her voice clogged up.

Miles pulled out Edie’s drawing. It was the same, but from a different angle, which caused the nose to slant more to the right. Some part of him pulsed like a strobe light, deep inside.

“She’d taken a few personal days to tend to some business. And that was the last time we saw her.” The woman proceeded to dissolve.

Without vetting the idea for practicality, or even baseline sanity, he found himself hugging her, and getting a big whanking noseful of White Shoulders and toxic hair fixative in the process. Whap. Kick that can. He patted the lady’s back and pulled away, trying to be subtle about gasping for air.

“I’m sorry.” The lady’s voice was soggy. “Are you part of Matilda’s family?”

“Just a friend.” Miles held out the photo. “Can I keep this?”

“Sure thing. I’ll just print up another.”

“Thanks.” He helped her take down the rest. She patted him on the cheek. He barely managed not to flinch.

“You’re a lovely young man,” she said. “Thank you.”

The photo lay on the passenger seat as he drove back to his motel. One lone puzzle piece. The only person who could explain its significance was dead. Just a fresh opportunity for torturous self-doubt.

Another Olympic event at which he excelled.

Once in the room, he got out his knife and released his laptop from its prison of bubble wrap and duct tape. He switched on the router. The electro-buzz made his ears ring and his teeth hurt, but he was highly motivated to endure it right now.

He called up the Facebook login menu, and poised his fingers over the keyboard. Her sign-in email he knew, but the password . . . ?

One granddaughter. One birthday between them. Matilda was no techie. She would go for a simple password, and to hell with security. He could run the password cracking software he had on his laptop, but he doubted he’d even need to, if his hunch was correct.

He started typing in combos of Amymatilda, then the numeric date. And on. And on. And on. He was about to give up in disgust and just run the software when it occurred to him to try Aimee.

He hit pay dirt, first try. Bingo. Aimee had posted on Matilda’s wall with the funeral details. Miles clicked around, checking out Matilda’s photos. He found several from the same series, of Matilda in that white sweater in the woods, but only one that featured the horned mountain.

Bullseye. The jpeg had geospatial data. Latitude, longitude, even elevation. He checked the coordinates, and found that it was in Central Oregon, near a town called Kolita Springs. Only a few short hours’ drive away.

He almost hyperventilated on the spot. He had to shut off the router and flop down on the bed until he stopped freaking out. Holy shit, he’d nailed Edie’s picture. It had to mean something. But what?