He was suddenly aware of the trio and, as he gasped, his eyes first widened, then pinched into a frown.
“Hey,” Shaw said amiably.
No response.
Shaw looked down. “Sorry.”
Now confused.
“Lost a cat or dog? You’re burying it.”
“Uhm. Yeah. That’s right.”
But of course the truth was that what he’d dug was a meth or opioid dead drop. He was screenshotting the GPS coordinates ofthe location and would later text them to a buyer once the money was received. Shaw had heard that Bitcoin was all the rage for even the most backwoods of transactions.
He guessed it was a family business, given his youth. How many kin were nearby?
Parker frowned. “That’s sad.”
Hannah offered, “Yeah, sorry, dude.” Shaw could see from the tension in the girl’s shoulders she understood exactly what was going on.
Parker said, “Our camper, it burned up. We lost everything. Can we borrow your phone?”
Mistake.
He’d think they were either undercover narcs or, more likely, competitors, trying to get his cell away from him. Shaw’s plan had been to act casual and get close to the kid, then take him down and grab the phone from his hand. Parker had killed their advantage.
No one moved.
The quiet was broken by crow caws, the wind switchbacking through the dry, clicking autumn leaves, a jet’s faint engines, miles aloft.
The boy stirred. Thinking hard.
At least he wasn’t armed, or he would’ve drawn.
Another moment passed.
Then, fast, he lifted the device to his ear, commanding Siri or whoever the goddess of his phone was to “Call Dad!”
Hell...
Shaw charged forward. The boy was shouting, “It’s Bee. I’m at the place. There’re people. I need help!” He dropped the phone and took the shovel in both hands and started to swing. His face was desperate and terrified.
Shaw easily dodged and kept moving forward, driving the young man back.
After one fierce swing—Bee nearly stumbled—Shaw twisted thetool from his hands and the boy turned and took off in a panicked run.
There’d be company soon, but Shaw concentrated on the phone. He lifted and disconnected the call. Before it locked, he fished Deputy Kristi Donahue’s card from his pocket and dialed.
As it rang, he pointed north again and the three started moving quickly toward the river.
The call went to voice mail and he left a message about their general position and that they were heading north toward Millton, just west of 84. They were being pursued by the men from the Sunny Acres attack.
He’d decided that no one in this county likely owed anything to the Hero of Beacon Hill and was starting to dial 911 when he heard, almost simultaneously, the gunshot and the snap of the slug that hissed a foot over his head.
71
Jon Merritt was wrong.