Nilsson said, “It’s not like washing cars, you know: goes in dirty and comes out all buffed and shiny. It’s a slow process. CEOs don’t want to gamble their shareholders’ money—and their own bonuses—that the same thing won’t happen next year. Here we are.”
She skidded the SUV to an abrupt stop in a gravel parking lot in front of Mitchell’s. The pub and attached inn were both rustic and quaint, with dark wood siding and forest-green trim on windows and doors. A flagstone path snaked lazily to the entrance.
Nice place, Shaw reflected. An objective assessment; he was not one for atmosphere. As long as there was a local beer on tap and something substantial to eat—burger or steak—the place would do. Also, he hoped for relative quiet.
After they both did subtle security scans of the area around them, Nilsson and Shaw walked to the door. He was encouraged to see a sign.
We Serve Iron Town IPA.
In his travels Colter Shaw liked to sample local brews.
That satisfied his first wish, and the second was likely to be granted too, judging from the smell of grilling meat.
They climbed the three stone steps to the porch that frontedthe inn, and as they did, their shoulders brushed. They shared a glance. Shaw was reaching for the door handle when Nilsson’s phone chimed. She carried two. This was an iPhone. The other was larger and more complex, maybe satellite. Nilsson read the text.
Her lips tightened.
“It’s Marty. I have to go into the office.” She looked up. “He asked for you too.”
18
That was mean.”
Piloting the 4Runner west from Ferrington at just over the limit, Allison Parker glanced at her daughter, who sat knees up, in the front seat, looking at her computer.
“What?”
“Daddy’s tire.”
Parker turned back to the road.
As they’d hurried away from the house, without the iPad, Parker had skidded onto Cross County Highway and sped up, but then—to her horror—she had seen a white Ford F-150 parked curbside and empty. She braked hard. Yes, it was Jon’s—she knew the dings and scrapes. Looking around, she didn’t see him. He’d be at the house about three blocks away. She had only minutes. “Stay here,” she’d ordered. “Do not get out.”
Parker had jogged to the truck, looked in the bed for something she could slash the tires with. Nothing. So she’d unscrewed the air nozzle cap and with a twig bled the air out of the right front. Thought about the left but decided it was too risky to stay longer.
After five or so miles she had made another fast stop, scatteringgravel and flattened cans on the shoulder. Glancing continually in the rearview mirror, she had sent emails to her mother and Marty Harmon, telling them what had happened and that she and Hannah were leaving. She’d be in touch when it was safe. She left a message with David that he’d been to the house—a violation of the restraining order. He could now be arrested.
Finally she responded to her daughter’s earlier comment. “I didn’t do it to be mean. I did it to keep us safe.”
“Safe?”
Parker was not prepared to tell Hannah that her father’s intent was to kill her. She said softly, “Hannah, please. You know his tantrums, all the times he lost control? How mad he was at me for pressing charges? If he’s drinking again, and I’m sure he is—”
“You don’t fucking know that!”
Parker did not, of course, go to “Language!”
“He could make a scene. He could hurt somebody, even if he doesn’t mean to. Or hurt himself. He can’t legally be on our property. He could get into a fight with the police.”
“Maybe he was just coming by to apologize.”
Oh, sure, Parker thought in her most cynical silent voice.
She glanced at the Dell in her daughter’s lap.
Parker had the only router, so the girl wasn’t online... Or was she?
She might’ve bought a pay-as-you-go Wi-Fi with her allowance.