Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(63)

“Well,” Weldon says bitterly, “she damn sure forgot, because why did she call that stranger in the first place? Now we got that damn woman to deal with. And her boyfriend and kids. It’s a damn mess, Carl. This was supposed to be easy.”

“It is easy,” Carl replies. He sounds . . . well, like he’s used to being in charge. “It’s containable.”

“Well, then, you’d best get to it and fast,” the original voice says. No one’s given him a name yet. “When’s our money comin’?”

“Tomorrow or the next day,” Carl says. “I told you. It takes time for the transfers to process. If you want it untraceable, then it’ll take three or four offshore banks.”

My mind’s working furiously now. What are they talking about? What money? What did Marlene know?

Doesn’t matter. I’ve heard enough. We need to get the hell out of here. Now.

I back away toward the door, and ease it open behind me. It runs into something.

It hits a man about six feet tall wearing oily mechanic’s overalls, wiping grease from his hands. He’s more than twice as broad as I am, and tops me by several inches; his biceps look enormous beneath the sleeves. I notice those more than I do his face, which is mostly in shadow. As is normal in this town, he’s a white guy, and he looks like he crushes metal for a hobby.

“What you doin’ here?” he asks me sharply. “Customers ain’t allowed out there!”

“I was just looking for someone to help me,” I say, and try a placating smile. I’m not sure it works; his body language stays militant. “Maybe you can? How much for an oil change?”

It’s the first, most normal thing I can think of. It works, because he relaxes a little and steps back to let me come back into the reception area. “You should talk to—” He glances toward the counter, then looks grim; I don’t know why until he says, “Well, ain’t nobody working the counter these days. The boss, I guess.”

“Who’s the boss?”

“Mr. Carr,” he says. And he raises his voice, “Hey, boss? Got a lady out here wants to talk to you!”

It’s the last thing I wanted, but I can’t bolt; the mechanic is between me and the outer door. I try edging over. He moves to block me.

And I hear footsteps behind me, heavy and quick.

“Ms. Proctor,” says the voice I first heard from that office. The deep, raspy one.

I turn to face him.

He’s almost as tall as his mechanic, but thinner. Lanky, the way only some country folk are. Older, maybe in his early sixties, with a wild explosion of white hair that ought to soften his long, lean face, but doesn’t. Paler than I would have expected, and with shocking blue eyes that look like a doll’s eyes.

He’s smiling, but I can tell that’s just a muscle movement, not emotion. There is emotion in him, but it’s banked and burning behind those eyes.

“Mr. Carr,” I say. I extend my hand. He ignores it, so I drop it back to my side.

“You been waiting long?” he asks. Meaning, have I overheard his conversation with the other two in the office.

“Not long,” I tell him. Let him make of that what he wants. I don’t say anything else. I wait to see what he’s going to do. I’m aware, acutely aware, that I might not leave this room without a fight. Or alive. I’m fast on the draw, but even the fastest can go down before they get off a shot, and all he has to do is signal the mechanic behind me to put me in a bear hug. But I have a hole card.

“And what is it you came for? Car runnin’ rough?” He’s playing with me. I hear the mechanic move away from behind me. Checking out the window, probably. I see Carr’s eerie blue eyes move from me to him, then back. Oh God. They know my kid’s in the SUV. I know Lanny, I know she won’t open that door for anyone but me, Sam, or Connor . . . but they could break a window. Drag her out. Would they do that? Right out in public, on the main street?

“I heard Marlene Crockett used to work here.”

“Yeah?”

“I really just came to ask if she ever mentioned her daughter, Vera, threatening her,” I say. I know he’ll take the easy answer. He doesn’t disappoint.

“Marlene was scared to death of that damn girl,” he says. “No discipline in that house without a man to lay down the law. Vera did as she wanted—drugs, drinkin’, whorin’ around. That all you wanted to know? Coulda asked anybody.”

His chuckle sounds like a knife scraping concrete.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “Cops been by to ask about it already?”

“That’s my business. Y’all best be going,” he says. “Mrs. Melvin Royal. Be careful on those dark roads out there on your way home.”

I turn my back on him and walk toward the mechanic, who’s still blocking the door. I don’t stop. I see the man squint past me at Carr, and he moves at the last second.

I walk out of the dark shop and into the clean sunlight. That place. The smell. Rust and oil, sewage and baked-in rot.

And those men, unafraid to threaten me. My word against theirs, sure. But I could feel the odds being calculated, the cold decisions being made.

We need to get out.

Now.

I unlock the SUV from the key fob and climb in. In ten seconds I’ve belted in, started the engine, and have it backed out onto Main Street. Carr’s right. The woods get dark early. And I can see him watching now from his window, blinds pulled up to follow our progress. I check behind us. The black SUV’s still parked a couple of blocks away. Now another one has joined it on the other side of the street. I watch, but they don’t follow us.