Page 75 of High Velocity

Twenty-Four

Jackson

“That’s the rental.”

I point at Stephanie’s vehicle, tucked up against the trees on the side of the driveway. It looks to be empty.

We left Jonas’s truck parked on the opposite side of the road, right by a river access trail. Let them think we’ve gone fishing. My mother’s last message mentioned a trailer and Troy in the same sentence. Only one place I could think of where Stephanie might be going; Tracy’s place. She probably spoke with Vallard, I’m just not clear on what the hell Ma is doing with her.

Junior Ewing will be pissed we didn’t wait for the sheriff’s deputy to get here, but neither Jonas nor I are about to sit on our hands until he arrives. We called him as we were leaving the ranch, but he said he had his hands full with an explosion at the Country Inn in downtown Libby he’d just been called out to, but he promised to send one of his deputies.

We passed the Country Inn on our way to Troy and could see it was a chaotic scene. Smoke billowed from the rear of the property, and it looked like the entire fire department had rolled out and was trying to stop the fire from spreading throughout the hotel. I’m guessing people got hurt, because we spotted at least two ambulances in the parking lot as we drove by, as well as a number of sheriff’s cruisers.

It was clear emergency services would have their hands full for a while, so I’m not holding my breath for that deputy he promised. Besides, other than flash a badge, there’s nothing some snot-nosed community college graduate can do that Jonas or I can’t do better.

“Where the fuck is she?”

Jonas scans the trees for a sign of my mother, who is nowhere to be seen. She did say she was hiding, but I know my mother, I doubt she stayed put like Jonas told her to do.

“She still not answering her messages?”

Jonas checks his phone again, clearly annoyed. “No, and let’s just hope it’s because she was smart enough to turn off the ringer, and not for any other reason. Let’s check the trailer.”

We’ve been quiet in our movements so far, speaking in low voices and attempting not to announce our approach, but we’re about to step out into the open. I move the rifle I brought to my left hand and pull the handgun from my waistband with my right. I have no idea what we’re walking into, only that at some point there was shooting. I’m not taking any chances.

The trailer looks empty, but it’s clear there’s been activity recently.

“It rained overnight,” Jonas observes, pointing at what looks to be a muddy footprint on the front step. “Which would mean that was left sometime this morning.”

Makes sense, otherwise the rain would’ve washed it away.

“Small print. Woman?” I suggest.

“Probably.” He tries the front door, which is locked.

“Looks like whoever it was tried to peek in the window here. The grass is trampled.”

Jonas leads the way around to the back of the house where he points to a narrow trail that seems to run along the back of the neighboring properties. It’s really no more than a game trail, but Jonas crouches down and appears to examine the ground.

“I count at least three different prints.” He indicates several overlapping tracks.

One looks to be the same small boot print as from the front step. It’s smooth, with little ridging, and is superimposed on two others. Those look to have been made by something a little heavier, with deep treads like a hiking or a combat boot. All prints are aimed in the same direction though.

I follow Jonas, keeping a sharp eye on our surroundings and making sure our flanks and rear are clear, while he keeps his attention ahead on the trail. We never served together, but seem to instinctively fall into our respective roles.

I almost run into him when he suddenly slows down.

“There,” he mouths, pointing toward what looks to be a junkyard, at an old Chrysler LeBaron which is rusting underneath an old, knotty tree.

Squinting my eyes, I try to make out what he’s looking at. A slight movement catches my eye and now I see my mother, most of her hidden from view from this angle. I give Jonas a thumbs-up in acknowledgment. Ma is crouched by the taillight on the driver’s side, hidden in the shadows of the large tree. She appears to be shielding herself from view from the rundown mobile home on the property.

Then I hear a muffled voice, coming from the direction of the trailer. A man’s voice.

Jonas hears it too and turns to me, a finger to his lips. Then he gestures for me to take cover while he approaches Ma. I don’t argue, it’s hard to move in complete silence with a prosthetic leg, and the last thing we want to do is startle my mother into giving herself away. Whoever is inside that trailer could be watching right now.

For an old guy, Jonas is still pretty limber, making himself as small as possible and using his surroundings as cover, as he moves toward the Chrysler. At the same time, I find cover behind an old RV and tuck the gun back in my waistband before lifting my rifle to my shoulder. Pressing my eye against the scope, which has a 15x magnification range, I find the trailer in my sight, keeping an eye out for any movement.

A piercing scream has the hair on my neck stand on end, and it takes every ounce of my control not to depress the finger I have lightly curled around the trigger.

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