Lost stays lost, when it wants to stay lost.
There were still holes. You could still slip through with a little effort.
Not this time. This time Bailey had thought ahead by placing that tracker in Wren’s wheel well.
They closed in on the dot, tires crunching as the road turned gravelly on the shoulder.
“Just up here on the right.”
Cooper slowed the truck and pulled into the gas station. It was closed, the little market shuttered and dark. The lights still shone over the pump island, the metal gleaming.
A single vehicle was parked over by the pay phone, an old Mustang that had seen better days, its paint job just black primer.
“That’s not her car,” said Cooper.
“No,” said Bailey.
Cooper pulled up close and climbed out. Bailey sat, staring at the dot. She was here. She had to be. But where? He scanned the property, the surrounding trees. He climbed out of Cooper’s car and approached the old black Mustang. Cooper had his hand on the hood.
“It’s still warm.”
They peered inside, tried the door, and found it open. It was empty, clean.
“Pop the trunk.”
Bailey walked around and took a breath before pressing the latch and lifting it. Mercifully, it was empty except for a spare tire. His body tingled with relief.
Bailey walked around the perimeter of the gas station, heading for the restroom, looking for the black Range Rover to be parked somewhere they hadn’t seen right away.
Maybe the ghost followed her here in that Mustang—had Bailey seen that vehicle somewhere before? At the motel? On the street in front of Rick Javits’s house? His head was swimming, his shoulder and arm a wildfire of pain. He wasn’t sharp. He wasn’t strong. And he shouldn’t be here. He knew that.
When he rounded the building, he leaned over and threw up again—quietly so that Cooper wouldn’t hear. Never ideal to show weakness in front of a hard-ass like Cooper, and he’d already thrown up once. He rested against the cool concrete of the building for a moment, then kept going, circling the entire property.
Her car. The big, shiny, outrageously expensive Range Rover was not here.
The restroom door was locked. See Attendant for Key, read a faded sign. It was a solid, heavy door. He banged on it pointlessly. Silence echoed back. Frustration was a taste in his mouth.
Where are you?
When he returned to the Mustang, Cooper was inspecting the wheel wells. He came back from the rear right with something in his hand.
“Is this your tracker?”
Bailey took it from the other man and held the small black device in his hand. It was his tracker, obviously taken from Wren’s car and placed on this one. It rested dark against his palm.
“She’s gone,” he said, a rush of anger, pain had the world around him pulsing again.
Jones Cooper looked down the road that seemed to lead to nowhere.
“Goddammit,” he said softly.
“I lost her.”
forty-three
How long have I been driving? The drive has started to feel like a dream. And Robin has abandoned me to this insane errand.
Finally, the long driveway ends at a tall, chain-link fence. A faded sign hangs, tilted, unreadable in the glare of my headlights. But clearly—with its red border and exclamation points—it’s a warning to stay away.
I sit, engine idling, wondering what to do next.
Another good moment to turn around and head back to the world, look for some help, get far away from you. Just as I’ve decided that’s what I’ll do, the gate slides open, rattling and squealing, obviously by remote control.
The night expands. Instead of leaving, I drive through the open gate and it rattles closed behind me.
Tires crunch on the gravel road, headlights cut a swath of light into black. Soon, a house rises into view. It’s known, familiar. Where have I seen it before?
Maybe in one of the few photographs from your childhood? It has a low profile, a flat roof, big, angled widows, a tall front door. It cuts a modern shape, nestled in the trees. Off to the side of the drive sits a raft of solar panels. Everything looks new, the landscaping wild and unbothered as if just space for the house, the panels, and the drive have been cleared. No lawn, no shrubs, just a house nestled in the woods. Flat stones act as a walkway to the front door.
There’s a light on inside.
Kill the engine. I lean across the passenger seat, to open the glove compartment where a revolver rests silver and menacing. Heavy, cold, it fits into the pocket of my jacket. I exit the car to walk toward the house, hand resting on the butt of the gun.