“Yeah, him.”
“What’d he do after he got the spare on?”
“Drove off after her.”
“You have a phone?”
“I got a phone.”
Shaw dug into his pocket and peeled off a hundred in twenties. Into the box they went.
“My, oh, my.”
Shaw also dropped a card with his burner numbers on it; only that, no name. “Give me your number.”
He glanced up cautiously. “You gonna sell it to a telemarketer?” Then grinned. He recited the number and Shaw loaded it into his phone.
“You see that white pickup around the house, call me.”
“I will.”
Shaw turned to leave.
“But he won’t be back.”
Facing the man again. “How do you know?”
“You spooked him good.”
“What do you mean?”
“You pull up on that motorcycle of yours and not three minutes later he’s climbing out that window.” He pointed to the garage. “He runs to the pickup and, this time, goes east.” Tugging a lengthy eyebrow. “Can I still have the hundred?”
Shaw sprinted to the Yamaha, fired up the engine and skidded into the street.
Two miles later, having passed scores of arteries major and arteries minor, which would have taken Merritt anywhere through the warren that was this part of Ferrington, he braked sharply to a stop, lifted his phone and composed a text to Sonja Nilsson.
Just before he hitsendhe received one.
From her.
Both messages said largely the same thing.
31
Jon Merritt parked the F-150 in one of the many vacant lots near the river, off Manufacturers Row.
There had been no point in engaging the guy on the motorcycle.
Muscle.
But working for who?
A big question. But he didn’t waste time speculating. He had to move. So far his only crimes—knowncrimes—were violating a restraining order and trespassing. Soon this would change, of course, and even the Hero of Beacon Hill would no longer be immune from pursuit.
But for now, he had a certain period of grace.
He climbed from the truck’s cab. Some crack and meth heads, scrawny men and a few women, sat or stood on the riverwalk, eyeing him. They were twitchy and desperate and hoping he could hook them up. Or, if not, he might have something they could relieve him of, which in turn they could barter for a hit. Two men rose unsteadily and approached. He displayed the gun and they turned and vanished, as if the wind had blown them on their way. Just like the bum at the bus depot.