The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(35)

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Later that night, Peter sat in his truck and looked through his windshield at the Riverside Veterans’ Center. He’d gotten the address from the business card he’d found with Jimmy’s things.

Mingus lay on the passenger seat, his stink sharp enough to cut.

The vet center was in the front corner of a big old building, a repurposed warehouse that had seen better days. It was after eleven, but a warm yellow light spilled through the big windows. He saw shadows moving inside, shadows that must be people.

He wondered if anyone in there had the white static.

If they’d managed to do anything about it.

He’d come back tomorrow and see if anyone knew Jimmy.

A woman came out, a backpack slung over one shoulder, holding the door open with her foot, still talking to someone inside. She moved her hands a lot when she talked. She finally waved good-bye, shrugged into the backpack, and walked up the sidewalk.

She had dark curly hair in an unruly ponytail, and she wore a fleece jacket zipped to the neck. In paint-spattered jeans and hiking boots, she had a long, purposeful stride, like she could walk forever.

But she watched her surroundings. She saw Peter sitting in his truck across the street, his missing driver’s-side window maybe looking like the window was rolled down. Her face creased in a smile, but he noticed she didn’t come too close to the truck. Definitely careful.

“Hey,” she said. Her voice carried in the dark. “You waiting for somebody?”

“Nope,” said Peter. “Just hanging out.” Mingus perked up and came to the window, stepping on Peter’s crotch as he did. “Ow. Shit.” He struggled to adjust.

“Oh, you have a dog.” She came closer then. “Okay if I pet him?”

“He doesn’t like everybody,” said Peter, but the dog was already grinning at her, tongue hanging out over the picket fence of his teeth, tail wagging hard enough to knock the rearview mirror out of whack.

“Hi, puppy.” She showed Mingus her hand, then rubbed him behind the ears, releasing a wave of pepper spray and dog funk. “Whoa. He must have rolled in something pretty gnarly.”

“Yeah, he’s overdue for a bath,” said Peter.

But she wasn’t looking at the dog, she was looking at Peter. “We have showers in the center,” she said. The bruise left by Ray’s shoe was on the far side of his face, hidden by the dog. But still aching. “I think there’s some chili left, too, if you’re hungry.”

“I’m good,” said Peter, wondering how she knew he was a veteran. “I’ve got something to do, anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” She gave Mingus one last rub. “Bye, puppy.”

And she walked away with that long, purposeful stride, scanning the street ahead and not looking back.

Peter didn’t have anything else to do. Unless you counted four more beers and an ice pack for his bruised face.

And a parking spot in front of Dinah’s house.

Because if Lewis hadn’t sent the shooter, then the scarred man did.

And the scarred man knew where Dinah lived.




The Man in the Black Canvas Chore Coat

The campfire guttered low in the cold wind. The man in the black canvas chore coat leaned over to pick up another log and set it in place. The wind blew the coals bright orange, and the flames soon caught the new log.

The van driver sat on a tree stump, hands out to catch some heat. He wore a camouflage hunting jacket over his plumber’s sweatshirt, with the hood pulled up. A scatter of beer cans lay at his feet. “Shit, put on another, Mid. It’s colder’n hell out here.”

Midden, the man in the black chore coat, shook his head. “We’re keeping a low profile, remember? We don’t want some local boy to see the light out in the woods and wonder who we are.”

The van driver took the last pull from a pint bottle of tequila, then threw the bottle on the fire, where it shattered and flared briefly as the alcohol burned. “Shit, nobody’s lookin’ for us, Mid. We’re fuckin’ ghosts, man. We’re gonna change fuckin’ history, show those fuckin’ bankers that the people run this country. C’mon, put on another log. It’s the last run. Might as well party, right?”

Midden looked at his watch. He was tired. And tired of this. “Sure,” he said. Then reached inside his black canvas chore coat, pulled out a target pistol, and shot the van driver twice in the chest.

The van driver fell off his stump, two dark red spots barely showing through his camouflage jacket.

He made a gurgling sound and turned his head from side to side. His hands wandered across the fallen leaves, reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Midden stood over him, pistol at his side. He wanted to tell the man to hold still, but it didn’t seem right to ask.

Then the van driver looked right up at him, eyes trying to focus. Aware or unaware that he was dying. Midden shot him once in the forehead. He stared down at the other man for a moment, watching as the light went out of him. He wondered what it was like.

Then went to get the new shovel from the back of the old Ford.

He’d burn the truck long after midnight, when the flames were least likely to be seen. The plume of black smoke would dissipate before dawn.

He’d be sorry to see the old Ford go. It had carried him many miles without complaint. But it had been seen by too many people. It had to burn.