The Big Dark Sky (58)
The Pontiac GTO had much to recommend it. A 455 cu. in. engine in V8, pushing out 325 horsepower. A smooth transmission with jackrabbit response. Sleek good looks.
Most important of all, the coupe had rolled off the line in Detroit long before a GPS navigation system was standard equipment. It couldn’t be satellite tracked by anyone—not by the FBI, the NSA, the CIA, the state police, the FTC, the FCC, the EPA, the USPS, or a power-crazed hacker who, by remote control, flooded your apartment and burned down your lover’s house.
“It’s cool,” said Leigh Ann Bruce, sliding one hand along the sleek flank of the vehicle. “It’s retro and futuristic at the same time.”
“I take it for a drive once a week,” Kenny said, “keep the tank full and the battery charged. Two packed suitcases stashed in the trunk. We’ll stop somewhere and get you a couple pair of jeans, whatever else you need.”
As she got into the front passenger seat with the grocery-store tote, he started the engine. Putting the bag on the floor between her feet, she said, “Where are we going?”
He reached past her and opened the glove box. It contained a packet of Kleenex, a small bottle of Purell hand sanitizer, and tin of Altoids breath mints. There were also two disposable phones; he gave her one and closed the glove box.
“It’s activated. I haven’t used any of the minutes on it.”
“You want me to call someone?”
“Once we’re on the road.”
He drove out of the storage unit and away without bothering to close the roll-up door. Management would take care of it and send him an advisory reminding him always to lock his unit. He had rented the space in the name of Oscar French, an identity derived from the names of his favorite maker of hot dogs and his preferred brand of mustard, and the rent was prepaid through the end of the year.
He said, “Get the fish sticks out of the tote and open them.”
When she did as told, three credit cards and three driver’s licenses slid out of the box, into her hand. The licenses featured his photo, but each was in a different name; none of the addresses matched. There was one credit card to go with each license.
“Give me the pair for Jamison Eugene Norwald,” Kenny said. “He owns these wheels.”
“Totally white hat, huh?”
“This isn’t about committing a crime. This is about survival. I’m a techno prepper.”
Returning the four unneeded cards to the fish-stick box, she said, “Where are we going?”
“Nowhere, Montana. Liam O’Hara’s getaway place. Rustling Willows Ranch.”
“I’ve never been to Montana.”
“Neither have I.”
She said, “I never imagined ever going to Montana.”
“Neither have I. But if we’re in deep shit, so is Wyatt Rider.”
“The PI you mentioned.”
“I gotta tell him about this sociopathic überhacker, and I don’t think I should do it by phone.”
“Not even with a burner phone?”
“Wyatt’s phone isn’t a burner, and for sure the superfreak who torched your house has a tap on it—calls, emails, text messages. He took over the Nautilus and tried to kill us. He’ll kill Wyatt if he thinks it’s necessary. I don’t walk away from a friend.”
To the north and west, the blue sky was defaulting to a solemn tide of clouds. They appeared to be swollen with rain. Welcome to Seattle.
He accelerated onto an entrance ramp and injected the GTO into the bloodstream of traffic on Interstate 5.
Leigh Ann said, “Why’re we going south? Montana’s east.”
“Yeah, like maybe seven hundred miles to Rustling Willows.” He gave her a cell-phone number. “Ask for Ganesh. Say you’re calling for me.”
As she entered the number, she said, “Who’s Ganesh?”
“Ganesh Patel. My wingman. Wyatt and I have done some serious work for him. Ganesh and me, we have a lot in common. He’s like my brother from another mother.”
“You drive like a maniac,” she said as the number rang.
“Thank you.”
“Could you for God’s sake slow down?”
“No. Gut instinct. Time is running out.”
47
Murdered by your father.
The substance of the accusation was no more shocking than the tone of voice with which those words were delivered. During the period of her childhood when Jimmy Two Eyes had been her friend, at least as she now remembered those years, he’d never spoken sharply to her. He had been kind and caring at all times, by some strange power commanding all the creatures of field and forest to serve as her companions in adventure. She had always felt loved by him and safe in his company.
This version of Jimmy Alvarez seemed not merely older but also corrupted, perhaps because he was embittered after so many years of loneliness and suffering. She couldn’t be angry with him, but she was hurt that he evidently took pleasure in this outrageous lie or terrible revelation, whichever it might be.
He pulled himself to the edge of the armchair and glared up at her, breathing like a bull agitated by a red cape. Every expression on his unfortunate face could be easily misread, so that what at the moment looked like fury might in fact be only sorrow. However, the contempt in his fearsome voice could not be mistaken for anything else.