“Well then. Let me know when I can brew a pot for her.”
Cormac slipped on his sunglasses, took the map, and walked out.
He thought of renting a different car so that Isabelle Durant wouldn’t see the Jeep coming and know it was him. Then he thought, fuck it. He knew his Jeep, relied on it, and this hunt was going to take him on some pretty sketchy roads. Let her see him coming.
The Black Hills were familiar territory, reminding him of the Rockies. Curving mountain roads cut through vast pine forests, tourist spots mixed with out-of-the-way farms, weathered ancient houses and more modern but no less weathered mobile homes. Cormac looked for public parks and abandoned lots, three or four turns off the main highway but not so out of the way that a parked car would draw attention. Every tan SUV he saw, he looked at twice.
Then he turned east, through Rapid City and to the prairie beyond. County roads stretched for miles. Along these he found a patchwork of farms and homesteads. He looked for the kinds of charms and runes and talismans a desperate magician might put up to keep someone like him out.
At one point he found himself on a rise, a hill that overlooked miles of sweeping prairie and winding gulches. He got out his binoculars and searched, as if he could spot a flare of magic boiling up like a wildfire. He could not.
He got out a thread and nail, Amelia’s magical pendulum that would point directly to powerful magic. Dozens of times, he’d held the thread, let the nail dangle and point, and Amelia had interpreted its movements. Now. . .the nail just hung there. He couldn’t tell anything.
Coming on sunset, he still hadn’t found signs of Durant and her car, but he still had a few more roads to drive down. Patience, always patience. He’d hunted tougher prey than this in his time.
Twenty miles north of Rapid City, flashing red and blue lights lit up his rearview mirror. They seemed particularly glaring in the half-light of dusk. And yes, they were targeting him, because no one else was driving on this stretch of road. He did not have time for this. . . He hadn’t been doing anything wrong, he was sure of it. He usually even kept to the speed limit, just so he’d never have to talk to cops again. That might have been his biggest goal in life, never talk to cops again as long as he lived. He considered punching the gas, running, but only for half a second. He was on a long, straight country road with no turns ahead and a line of sight that went for miles. No place to hide. Running would just hand them an excuse. Dutifully, lawfully, he pulled over, turned off the engine, kept his hands on the steering wheel. The window was already rolled down.
Two officers stepped out of the patrol car. Both male, white, on the young side. If they’d run his plates they’d already know about his record. At least they didn’t have their weapons drawn. Then again, Cormac was white, too, even if he was a felon.
The taller one had light hair, a bit of paunch. His buddy had dark hair and a sour expression. Cormac didn’t even try to smile. He waited for them to ask for his license and registration before moving to get them.
“Sir, please step out of the car,” the tall cop said.
His breath caught, and his hands tightened on the wheel. Cormac wasn’t prone to panic. He was used to being in control. This, the instant racing heart and sweat on his palms—this was trauma. Everything he’d been through, and what got him were a couple of regular cops standing outside his car.
Taking several slow breaths, he steadied himself. Kept his hands in view and moved slowly.
“Is something wrong?” he asked stupidly. Of course something was wrong.
“I just need you to step out of the car please, sir.” The voice was calm, professional. Arguing would do no good here. Cormac opened the door, climbed out. Steady. . .
“ID please?”
Slowly, always slowly, Cormac reached into his back pocket for his wallet and handed over his driver’s license. The taller cop perused it, handed it back. The second cop walked around the Jeep, studying the tires and wheel wells. Cormac tried not to watch him.
“Can you tell me where you were between three and six this afternoon?”
“Driving. Seeing the sights,” he said.
“Can anyone confirm that?”
They were trying to establish an alibi. What was going on? “I think I stopped for fast food in Rapid City. You can ask them.”
“But no confirmation for the rest of the time?”
Calmly, carefully, he asked, “What’s the matter, officer? What’s happened?”
“We’d like you to come to the station with us, to answer some more questions, if you don’t mind.”
Not enough calm in the world for this. “Am I under arrest?”
The cop regarded him a moment. He exchanged a glance with his partner, now standing near the Jeep’s left front wheel. The second cop shook his head ever so slightly.
“No, sir,” the taller cop said. Frewer, the name badge on his uniform read. “We just need you to answer some questions for us. You can follow us to the station in your Jeep.”
“Saves you having to tow it later, I guess,” Cormac said with a sour grin. Frewer matched it.
They were looking for something. Cop two, checking out the car—maybe a hit and run? No, they’d get his contact info and let him go for that. This was something else. Something worse. They drove off, and he followed in the Jeep just like they asked, nice and steady, with exactly enough space between them.