“Let me ponder.”
Nilsson studied the map. The first alternative, the route to Millton, would take them through a cluster of lakes. The bodies of water had colorful names: Crimson Rock, Snowshoe, Timberwolf, Halfmoon.
This put her in mind of her conversation with Colter about fishing.
Then the corporal was back on the line. He said, “Okay, what I’d do, I was them, I’d stick the cars in a garage and park the Winnebago in a big RV campsite. Needle in a haystack. And there’s only one place they could do both of those: Stanton. I can have a cruiser there in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll rely on your expertise, Corporal. Appreciate the help.”
69
Dawndue...”
Thinking of the first time the singsong mantra had wormed itself into his mind.
The melodious birdcall came from when Moll was sighting down the barrel of a Colt. The man, on his knees, looking back at Moll, crying, “Don’t do it, please! Don’t do it! Don’t do it. Don’t do—”
Dawndue...
That’d been a happy job, a good one, a fast one. A pull of the trigger and he had gotten $10K in his pocket and an infectious expression to carry about for the rest of his days.
This job was not like that one. Not at all.
This “Dawndue” was the obscenity version.
Moll rose on his thick haunches from where he’d been looking down at the grass, near the rear of the smoldering Winnebago. The men had found two computers in the non-soundproofed cabin and stepped outside to add them to the fire pit. Then Moll had squinted and walked to where he now stood.
Thebentgrass.
Thescuffeddirt.
He scanned the woods and, seeing nothing, turned to the cabin. “Problem.”
“What?”
“They got away.”
Desmond scoffed. “Not likely that.” He rose and jumped off the deck, walked to the back of the smoldering ruins of the camper, regarding the tamped down grass, the marks in the dirt. “We heard screaming.”
“Because somebody screamed.”
“You let me have at mom, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”
“Just do not,” Moll snapped. He squinted through the smoke at what seemed to be a trapdoor in the bottom of the camper. Grimaced.
Desmond poked at the ash with a stick. “He’s not going to be happy.”
“No, he is not.” Moll stared at the dense woods. “You were them, where would you go?”
Desmond considered this. “Only one place. Millton. Ten miles, little less.”
“It’s Everett County. No friendlies in the sheriff’s office.” Moll looked around, squinting through the smoke. “What did we leave behind that could be a problem?”
Desmond nodded toward the forest, where he’d hidden the Transit. “Tread marks from the Ford.”
Moll scoffed. “Here? I do not think cops here even know whatfingerprintsare. Tread marks are in a different dimension to them.” He gazed at the daunting woods once again. Where are you, Motorcycle Man? He felt a wave of anger, which seemed to make his skin itch even more. He didn’t bother to fish out the spray. He was tired of both the sensation and trying to ease it.
“I’ll take care of the Merc.”