Page 137 of Swept for Forever
“Okay,” he said, checking his phone.
“She’s a friend. She knows about the case, and she knows about Autumn. Ask her to meet you at Bozeman airport. Deliver the bullet in person.”
“I’ll call her now,” he said without second-guessing me.
“Tell her I sent you. Have her send the results to you, to me, and to Deputy Boone at the sheriff’s office.”
“I’ve got you, Dom.”
I stared him down. “Go.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“Find Autumn.”
That was all.
I didn’t care how long it took, who I had to go through, or what lines I had to cross.
Whoever took her had no idea what they’d just done.
They didn’t steal a woman.
They stolemywoman.
I had promised myself. I just never thought I’d have to keep it. But hell, I was going to burn the fucking world to bring her home.
It was late.The kind of late where decent people were in bed.
But I didn’t care.
I wasn’t polite anymore. I was done playing nice.
Deputy Boone met me outside a bar, his jacket half-zipped, his eyes wary. He probably thought I was going to punch him.
He wasn’t entirely wrong.
“You’re going to tell me,” I said, “who put out the sketch of Autumn and who said she robbed someone at gunpoint at that trail.”
Boone shifted, hesitating.
I added, “Don’t make me ask twice. And don’t tell me it’s Whitaker’s case!”
He finally exhaled, his shoulders dropping. “It was a farmer. He lives down near a little-known patch of Buffaloberry Hill called Timber Loop.”
“Timber Loop?” I repeated.
It all came rushing back. Autumn was nervous the day we were waiting for Log to pick us up. That was at Timber Loop. I remember how she hadn’t wanted to be seen. She must’ve felt it. The danger. The eyes. Maybe Lulu had given her a heads-up. Because I was sure as hell nobody else but that old man with a beagle had seen us.
Could that old man be the farmer?
I was about to find out.
39
DOM
I hated guns. Back in L.A., I’d had close calls, cases that turned tight, and clients who drew lines in blood. But even then, I never had to use it. I never fired in the field. Only at the range, where the paper targets made no sound and spilled no blood.
