Page 27 of Jason Bourne
Istarted with the school. Teachers said Marcie hadn’t been in class all day, though her car was still in the lot. That told me one thing—whoever picked her up yesterday hadn’t let her come back.
By mid-afternoon, I was standing in front of her best friend Kayla again. “You said he drives a black pickup?”
Kayla nodded quickly. “It’s loud, like it’s missing a muffler. He always waits at the edge of the parking lot.”
“Did you ever catch a license plate?”
“Part of it.” She scrunched her nose, thinking hard. “Six-four…something.”
Not much, but it was a start.
I was halfway back to my cruiser when a voice behind me said, “You’re working this one already?”
Jason. Leaning against the hood of his truck like he had all the time in the world.
“You were following me,” I accused.
“Not following. Watching your back.” His eyes narrowed. “This girl—Kayla’s friend—what’s the story?”
I filled him in as quick as I could. Jason didn’t move, but I saw the muscle jump in his jaw. “That description,” he saidslowly, “matches a guy I knew years ago. A runner for the Reno lab. He disappeared after the raid—slipped the net. Name’s Cal Harris.”
My heart gave one hard slam. “You think he’s up here?”
Jason gave me a look that said it was possible. “If he’s messing with kids, he’s not just up here—he’s setting up shop.”
I didn’t answer right away. Because the truth was, if Cal Harris was on this mountain, then my first big case as a deputy sheriff wasn’t just about proving myself.
It was about stopping a ghost from Jason’s past.
“Then we bring him down,” I said.
Jason’s smile was thin and dangerous. “Together.”
29
Lane
The black pickup was parked half in the ditch at the edge of Timberline Road, engine still running, a plume of exhaust curling into the cold evening air.
“Six-four-B,” Jason muttered, eyes scanning the plate. “That’s him.”
I slid out of my cruiser and felt my gun more out of habit than anything, keeping my hand close to the holster. “Then let’s make this official.”
“Lane,” Jason said quietly, “he’s not just some drunk husband you can haul off in cuffs. Cal Harris has killed before. He’ll do it again.”
I glanced at him. “Then he picked the wrong mountain to crawl onto.”
Jason almost smiled, but his jaw was tight.
I walked up slow, boots crunching the gravel. Cal sat behind the wheel, a baseball cap pulled low, one arm hanging out the window. He didn’t bother to cut the engine.
“Cal Harris?” I called.
He looked up, eyes bloodshot but sharp, like a wolf that had been run off too many times and was spoiling for a fight. “Who’s asking?”
“Lane Brewer, Sheriff’s Department.” My voice didn’t waver. “Step out of the truck.”
He chuckled, low and mean. “Lady cop. Sheriff must be desperate.”
