“Can you fix it?”
“If I had the tools and parts, but it will cost as much to buy those as it would to pay someone to fix it, and they can probably do it faster.” Nox closed the hood. “There’s also the chance it’s more than just the water pump.”
Luca took out his cell and opened the GPS.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding a mechanic.” Luca typed. Seven hits popped up, two with well over a hundred ratings, both almost five stars. He hit the call button. The first phone rang, and no one answered.
“It’s kinda late. Doubtful they’re open.”
“I know, but we need to try.” Staying in one place too long had proven dangerous. Luca had no idea how long it would take those things to catch up. He didn’t even understand how they’d tracked him. He dialed the second number. It rang twice, and the line picked up.
“Ridly’s Auto, Ridly speak’n.” The man’s southern drawl oozed through the speaker.
“Uh, yeah, hi. Our van broke down, and we really need to get it fixed fast. We’re…” Luca bit his lip.Think. Think.“On our way to a wedding, and if we’re late, my aunt will kill me.”
“Oh boy, I know that feeling. My cousin, on my stepmother’s side, the second stepmother not the first. She got remarried in twenty-o-five. Now that was a wedding, let me tell you—”
“Can you fix it?”
“Depends on what’s wrong with it. But most likely, sure.”
“We think it’s the water pump.”
“Then, unless it’s one of those Italian models, I should be able to get the part tomorrow. Then up on the rack on Monday at the latest.”
Two days. Two days in one spot.
Nox didn’t look happy, but he nodded.
“Okay, um, do you have a tow truck, we’re kinda broke down.”
“Naw, I repair. I don’t tow.”
“Oh—”
“But my brother-in-law—he divorced Ellie ’bout… mmm… three years, four. Three, definitely three—years back, but we still talk, share a few beers; he’s got a fleet of five flatbeds. I’m sure he’d be willing to come get you, where you at?”
Luca rubbed his temple. Much more of this and his head would explode. “A gas station.”
“Mister, this may not be a big city, but we got a gas station on every corner, you gonna have to be more specific.”
Luca searched for a sign. “Marathon.”
“Is that the one on Central, Maine, or Burt?”
There wasn’t a street sign anywhere. Two big trucks passed on the main road and a rusting out station wagon full of screaming kids pulled into the doughnut shop next door.
“There’s a place called Pops Pot Holes.” Who the hell would name a doughnut shop that?
“We got two of them. Is it the one made out of an old train car or a barn?”
Train car? Barn?
“Barn,” Nox said.
Luca told the man.