I tell him that a middle-aged guy has been following me, and I ask if I can slip out the rear. He’s fine with that and promises that if anyone comes in asking about me, he’ll say that he’s not at liberty to discuss his guests.
I head out the back and, sure enough, when I peek around the corner, I see my pursuer in the parking lot. I’m wondering what he’s doing when I notice the cell phone glued to his ear.
He turns, leaning casually against an SUV, his back to me. I zip to the other side of that vehicle. When I stop, he’s laughing.
“Oh, yeah, she was having nothing to do with me. As soon as she realized I was following her she retreated to her hotel. Typical stuck-up bitch. Figures I’m trying to get in her pants and marches off, nose in the air, like I’ve got some nerve, thinking I stand a chance with her.” He snorts. “Anyway, you got eyes on the pilot?”
Pilot?
He’s talking about Dalton.
“I’ll come help with that,” the guy says.
A moment of silence.
“No, I’m coming,” he says, firmer. “This bitch isn’t going anywhere. Probably figures I’m mooning around the front door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Tell me where you are—”
The person on the other end cuts him off.
“Hey,” the guy says, the word coming hard and fast. “Don’t pull this shit on me. We had a deal, and I’m sticking close until this is sorted. It’s my money on the line, too.”
A pause.
“No, actually, I don’t trust you. This whole thing is starting to sound fishy, and I want my damn money. Tell me where you are, or I march up to this bitch’s room and tell her what’s going on.”
I cross my fingers that the person on the other end calls his bluff. But the threat works, and the guy heads for the street, phone still to his ear.
I follow. That isn’t easy. Even on a “busy” day in Dawson, once you’re off the main street, the sidewalks empty. Ahead, a trio of ravens pick at roadkill, adding to the Wild West ambience. The guy slows to watch them, and I hopscotch along from one point of cover to the next. When he picks up speed again, I let him get a good head start. It’s not as if I’m going to lose sight of him. He makes a left onto Hanson, heading for the back of town. Yes, only a few roads away from the main drag is the back of town, with forest beyond. Go in the other direction, and once you pass Front Street, you’re in the Yukon River.
I keep my distance. The guy is passing Berton House, heading toward the Jack London Museum and the Robert Service Cabin. He doesn’t seem the literary tourist type, and he swings left on Eighth Avenue, the last road in town. He heads straight for a pickup.
I kick it up a notch. He’s going to climb into that truck and drive away, leaving me standing on the street, gaping after him. I look around. For what? An Uber? This guy is about to drive off to parts unknown, where he will meet up with his partner, who has “eyes” on Dalton.
Shit.
THIRTY-FIVE
I spot an older sedan to my left. Last night, I quizzed Sebastian on his car-theft techniques. He’d failed the test. I could pass it. An informant once spent an hour teaching me—we were on a very dull stakeout together. Jacking an old car like this one is easy, especially when the windows have been left down. Hell, the keys are probably under the mat.
I don’t do more than idly consider the fact that I could steal it. I wouldn’t. Anything I do out here puts Rockton in danger. I have another idea. It’s not a good idea, but hey, it’d been a few days since I threw that bear cub. High time for another crazy plan.
I edge along the wooded property while the man does indeed walk straight for that pickup. As he climbs in, I duck behind a bush. The moment the door claps shut, I run, hunched over, toward the back end.
The tailgate is not open. That would make this far too easy. He puts the truck into drive, the carburetor thunking. As soon as the vehicle lurches forward, I pitch a rock over the cab. Then I leap onto the rear bumper. My timing is perfect. The rock hits the hood just as the truck dips under my weight. He slams on the brakes, and I dive into the truck bed.
Okay, I don’t dive. That would make far too much noise. It’s more of a slide. Then I hold my breath.
My hope is that he’ll look out the front windshield, realize he hasn’t hit anything, and drive off. Instead the door clanks open. His footsteps thankfully head around to the front. I wriggle forward and plaster myself against the front of the truck bed.
Please do not come around the back. Please do not look in the back.
There’s a pause as he tries to see what he might have hit. A grunt. Then the door clanks again as he opens it. He gets in and shuts it.
I exhale.
The truck makes a U-turn and heads back toward town. I stay where I am, up at the front of the bed, so he won’t spot me if he looks in the rearview mirror. We reach Front, which is also the Klondike Highway, leading in and out of town. When we pause at a four-way stop, a tractor-trailer pulls up behind us. The driver can see me. I wave and grin and do an exaggerated “finger to the lips.” The guy only smiles and shakes his head.
I might complain about being underestimated, but let’s be honest—I get a ton of mileage out of it. This trucker sees me in the pickup bed, and he does not for one second think the driver is in danger of having his truck jacked on a lonely road.