Chapter Twenty-nine
When Morgan walked into Après, Nick greeted her with a bone-crushing hug.
“Congratulations, best wishes, whatever the hell it’s supposed to be. I’m so happy for you!”
“Thanks. I’m so happy for me.”
“Let’s see it. Let’s— Hey, where’s the ring?” Those deep brown eyes reflected bafflement and insult. “WTAF! He didn’t give you a ring?”
“It’s being sized.”
“Oh.” His face ran the gamut from relief to approval to disappointment. “I guess I have to wait till it is to catch the sparkle.”
“I have a picture on my phone.”
“Show! Wait.” He shot a mile-wide grin to a stool sitter who’d cleared his throat. “Sorry. What can I get you?”
“We’ll try two of the special cocktails.”
“Coming right up! My friend—she’s my boss, too—just got engaged. We’re pretty excited.”
“So did we!” The woman on the next stool shot out her left hand and the ring on it. “He surprised me with this at dinner last night.”
“Congratulations. It’s gorgeous. Drinks on me, Nick,” Morgan told him as he made them.
“That’s really nice of you.”
“Solidarity.”
“Her ring’s getting sized,” Nick tossed out. “But she has a picture.”
“Oh, we’d love to see. Wouldn’t we, Trent?”
“Sure.” He looked a lot more interested in the drink, but did his duty and looked at Morgan’s phone. But his fiancée gasped.
“It’s stunning! It looks like an heirloom.”
“His grandmother’s.”
“Holy sh … sparkle.” Nick set the drinks down. “We’ll talk later. Nell reserved a table outside for your meeting.”
“I’d better get to it. Congratulations again. Enjoy your drinks.”
On her way outside, servers waylaid her with more congratulations, more hugs. It felt, Morgan thought, very much like family. She’d barely taken a seat when Nell rushed over.
“Late. I hate to be late, but it happens.”
“It’s, like, two minutes.”
“Late is late. I need caffeine. Can Nick do an iced cappuccino as good as you?”
“Of course he can.”
“Great. Hey, Barry, iced cappuccino. Two?” she asked Morgan.
“Why not?”
“And I missed lunch. How about we split a cheese plate? I need something, since I’m going to sample your potential fall specialty cocktail for approval.”
“I like cheese.”
“Great. Thanks, Barry. Now,” she began immediately, “we’ll get to the business portion, but first I want to hear everything.”
“About what?”
Nell gave Morgan a long, hooded look. “Please. All I got from Miles was yeah, yeah, he gave you the ring, and it’s getting sized. I want details. How did he ask you?”
“He didn’t really. He more told me.”
Nell sat back, face covered with the unsurprised disgust only a sibling can manage. “Of course he did, the romantic fool.”
“But that was after he told me he loved me. He did that part really well.”
“Okay.” Willing to withhold judgment, Nell picked up the sparkling water Barry had already served. “Start at the beginning.”
“Well, the beginning really began when my ladies and I tested out the three finalists for the fall cocktail. Enthusiastically.”
“Oh boy, I’m going to enjoy this.”
And she did, laughing her way through half an iced cappuccino and a portion of a cheese plate.
“All right, he gets some points. And you’re happy. We’re all happy. I hope you know that.”
“I am, and I do.”
“So when and where? Have you decided?”
“In broad terms. I asked for spring and he said fine, as long as I move in with him by the New Year. He wants to end and begin the year with me.”
“Okay.” Cracker in one hand, Nell held up the other. “Major points for that. On Miles’s scale, that’s virtually sloppy romance. Spring. The where?”
“I know we could get married here, and it would be wonderful, but—”
“It’s not business, but it edges that way.”
“A little, but more, I’d like to get married at his house.”
“Your house,” Nell reminded her. “It would be your house, too. And I think that’s perfect, if my opinion counts. A spring garden wedding. What does Miles think?”
“He said, ‘Whatever you want is fine.’”
“You don’t actually believe that? Say you wanted him to wear a lilac morning coat to coordinate with the lilacs you carry.”
“I’m writing that down just to see his face. He doesn’t want to be poked by every detail. I’d say as long as I don’t want that morning coat or horse-drawn carriages—and I don’t—all good.”
“It’s good you know who you’re marrying. You should also know Mom’s going to want to get her hand in. So am I.”
“I’d be crazy to toss away experts, especially when I know I’m going to want and need help.”
“Say that again.” Nell tapped her phone. “So I can record it for the future.”
“I want and need help planning the wedding,” Morgan obliged. “Signed, Morgan Nash.”
“Okay, that’s on the record.”
“Knowing Miles, he’ll want Jake and Liam to stand up with him. In fact, that’s the one clear answer on all this he gave me. Nell, would you stand up for me?”
Reaching out, Nell gripped Morgan’s hand. “God, I was hoping you’d ask. I’d love to.”
“I’m so glad. How do you feel about puce? Kidding,” she said when Nell’s mouth fell open. “I expect to see a replica of that expression if I test Miles with lilac morning coats. I know I have to pick colors, but I swear whatever they are, flattering is key. Do you think it’s weird I’d like to ask Jen to be an attendant, to balance it out?”
“I think it’s perfect. Delicate question while we’re on it. Your father?”
“No.” That came easy, and without regret. “So many reasons, no. I’ll send him a note, but not an invitation.”
“Do you want someone to walk you down the aisle?”
“Yes. My mother and my grandmother.”
As her eyes filled, Nell held up a hand again. “Okay, I’m no soft touch, but that got me. More perfect, and so lovely, Morgan. Have you told them?”
“They cried. We all did. And it was perfect.”
“We’re going to have so much fun with this, and it will be perfect. Nothing’s going to spoil it.”
After nudging her cup aside, Nell took a breath. “We won’t say his name, not here and now. But I’m going to assume Jake gave you the update.”
“He did.”
“Morgan, you became family to us when you took over Après. That’s how the Jamesons work. You’re only more so now. We’ve got your back, your front, your sides. Anything we can do, anything you want us to do, it’s done.”
“I didn’t know just how much I wanted family until I let myself have family. I keep coming back to that. And in that spirit, of family, I’m going to ask … you and Jake. Any thoughts?”
“A lot of them, since you ask.”
Nell looked around the tables, at people having a drink, a bite to eat, relaxing as the summer day turned to summer evening. “He waited, and that was really smart of him, to wait until I was ready. Or close to ready, whether I knew it or not. I’m not ready, quite, to take the leap you and Miles are. I want to give it a test run—that’s me all over. Live together first.
“He’s got a nice place, but I like mine better.” She shrugged, picked up her water glass again. “Mine’s closer to my work, his is closer to his. And the practical part of me knows that he’s chief of police, and being closer to town’s important.”
“Find a house you like between those two points. Then it’s not Jake’s place or Nell’s, it’s Jake and Nell’s.”
“Buy a house together? That’s … really smart. A compromise and commitment all at once. He’d like that. I’d like that. Maybe. Yeah, maybe. I’m going to like having a sister.”
“So am I.”
“Okay, Sister, go make me a drink, and we’ll get down to business.”
Across the continent, Rozwell drove into Two Springs early to avoid the heat of the day. A joke, he thought sourly. The heat never left. But he wanted to get this trip over with, get those new towels, some fucking food, some decent booze.
He wanted to hear voices, even if they came from stupid desert rats.
The town wasn’t much—he’d call it a hovel—but it had stores, including a barely decent market, a few tired excuses for restaurants, two bars with a liquor store attached to one of them. The western rube version of a sheriff’s department—that didn’t worry him—and a huddle of houses on the outskirts someone with a sense of humor might call the ’burbs.
It lay a few miles from the western edge of Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest, which held no interest for him—and sported views of the mountains.
Close enough for bored day-trippers or crazed hikers and campers to pay a call, so some of those shops ran to souvenirs, camping and hiking gear. And plenty of guns for sale.
He might not be a fan of the gun, but he’d caught sight of snakes more than once. He’d tried shooting the hell out of them with the handgun he’d taken off Dead Jane, tried her shotgun, and the rifle he’d found in the cabin.
And tested out the AR-15, which obliterated the snake and scared the crap out of him.
He put that one back on the wall, stuck with the handgun.
She’d had a shitload of ammo, but he’d wasted some of it on the damn snakes, then shooting the shit out of a cactus just to hear the noise.
He’d written down the kind of ammunition for the handgun.
Wouldn’t hurt to pick some up.
Since he’d woken hungry, he’d eaten half a dozen eggs and the last of the bacon he’d found in the freezer. Jane had marked it—helpful—but he’d had to slice it himself, so the slices were mostly too thin, too thick.
He’d just buy some damn bacon. And sausage. And whatever else caught his eye and appetite.
He bought towels first. No Egyptian cotton in Two Stupid Springs, he’d discovered before. But he settled. He bought a new frying pan, since he’d burned the one at the cabin, then tossed it as far as he could toss.
He hit the liquor store. Beer, wine, whiskey, vodka, mixers, tonic, and, hell, why not tequila?
“Having a party?” the checkout clerk asked with a little ho-ho-ho like fricking Santa.
Rozwell stared at him, lip curled. “Yeah. I’m the life of the party.”
“Bet.” Avoiding those eyes now, the clerk bagged the booze, handed over the change.
After loading the supplies in the truck, he went for the ammo. He bought three boxes of hollow points for his inherited Colt 45.
And thought: Yeehaw, I’m a gunslinging son of a bitch.
From there, he hit the market.
Chips, cookies, candy, frozen fries—why hadn’t he thought of that before? Bacon, sausage, frozen pizza. The pizza made him think of Morgan.
“Bitch’ll get what’s coming,” he muttered, and the woman standing two feet away headed in the other direction.
Frozen dinners—heat and eat! Cheese! Milk! Cereal, bread, butter. Lemons—for a nice tequila shot. Bananas. Potatoes, because anyone could figure out how to bake a damn potato.
He filled two baskets before he was done.
At checkout, the clerk started ringing him up. She had a face as round as a pie with glasses that kept sliding down her nose.
It irritated him so much he imagined punching her right in those stupid glasses, just driving them into her eyes so they bled.
“Looks like stocking up,” she said cheerfully.
He spread his lips in what he believed made a friendly smile. “That’s right. Stocking up. Man’s gotta eat, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.” She kept her eyes trained on the items. “He sure does.”
He carted the bags out, loading the frozen stuff in the cab where the AC, such as it was, could keep it from melting on the trip back.
He loaded the rest, found himself nearly out of breath with the effort, the heat. He unscrewed the cap on the bottle of Coke he’d bought in the mart, and brought it with him as he got behind the wheel.
Another good glug and he nearly choked on it as his breath caught.
As he started the engine, he glanced in the rearview mirror.
He lost his breath again, and in the heat still baking the cab, went ice-cold.
He saw them, just walking out of a diner-type place, the place where he’d have had breakfast if he hadn’t been too hungry to wait.
But it couldn’t be. A mirage, a trick of the light. He rubbed his eyes under his sunglasses, but they remained—and moving his way.
The fucking feds. Those assholes, Beck and Morrison. Right here, walking down the planked sidewalk.
Panic had his ears ringing, his eyes watering as he hit the gas.
He beat his hand on the wheel as he drove. How? How? How?
The truck rattled and shook as he pushed it as fast as it could go. Because they were right behind him. Right behind him.
He had to get back, fast, to Dead Jane’s place. He’d broken his new rule and left clothes, equipment, cash—too much to lose again. He’d broken the rule because they shouldn’t be here.
Why had they come here?
When he reached the gate, leaped out, his legs nearly gave way under him. Fear had him sweat-soaked, shaky so his fingers fumbled with the padlock keys.
But he got the gate open, drove through, and gathered himself to lock it behind him again. Just in case.
He tore down the drive, struggling to clear his mind enough to think, just think. He’d take the old woman’s truck. A beater, but a better beater than this one. And maybe, somehow, they’d tracked what he’d been using.
He’d locked the cabin—safety first—so had to deal with those locks. Inside, he ripped through, shoving laundry he hadn’t done with laundry he had. His own breath sounded like a windstorm as he gathered up his equipment, disconnected some of hers to take.
The money, the money, the money, the IDs he’d completed.
The guns, the ammo, the knives—including the one the dead bitch had stabbed him with.
Chickens clucked and clacked as he ran to the shed, dragged the door open. He tossed tools into the bed of the truck, the clanging echoing as he threw in his bolt cutters, a pickax, a hatchet, a hammer.
Dust flew as he drove to the shack, tossed bags, suitcases, briefcases into the bed. He forced himself to take more care with the equipment, stuck the handgun under the driver’s seat. The rifle and shotgun went in the gun rack.
Let them come. He’d shoot them to pieces.
He needed water, food.
When he remembered all the food he’d bought, rage leaped into the fear.
He ripped open the door to the other truck, dragged out frozen dinners, frozen pizza, milk jugs, heaving them into the dirt. Time and money wasted, wasted.
As he raged, he screamed. As he screamed, something already cracked broke inside him.
He stood, looking around him at milk glugging onto the ground, at the dented boxes of potpies and fried chicken and gravy, the Dove Bars and extra-sharp cheddar.
And began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh so hard tears ran down his cheeks. He chuckled to himself as he transferred the other groceries, the liquor, the towels, from one truck to another.
Fuck it, fuck this shit, he was done with it. Time to close the books. Time for a reckoning. Time for a bitch to pay the goddamn piper.
“The time’s come, the walrus said,” he muttered as he bungee-corded one of Jane’s tarps over the bed of the truck.
He started to get into the truck, then decided what the hell. Walking over, he ripped open the box of Dove Bars, yanked one out, tore off the wrapper.
He ate it while he drove to the gate. “Adios, Jane!” he called out while he filled his mouth with ice cream and chocolate. “Thanks for fucking nothing!”
He unlocked the gate, drove through. And tossing the padlock keys out the window, started the drive east.
As Beck and Morrison walked across the street to their car, the grocery store clerk stood outside the market smoking a Marlboro to settle her nerves.
“Hey! You’re those feds, aren’t you?”
“Ma’am.” Morrison stopped at the passenger door, as he’d lost the toss to drive. “Special Agents Morrison and Beck.”
“Deb said there were feds poking around yesterday about some crazy guy. My day off.” She took a long drag. “Had my own crazy guy just a bit ago. Crazy eyes. Bought enough food for an army battalion. Gave me a look, a smile that turned my blood cold.”
“Is that right?” Beck felt a little hum, walked over. “We left a sketch of the man we’re looking for with the manager. Have you seen it?”
“Nah. I clock in, do my job, clock out. Mind my own business like everybody should.”
“Would you mind taking a look now?” Beck opened her briefcase, took one of the sketches out of a file.
“Guess I could. I’m taking my break because Crazy Eyes shook me up some.” She took the sketch, shoved at her sliding glasses. Shook her head. “Nope. This guy had shorter hair, sort of dirty blond—what I could see of it. And he…”
Pausing, she frowned. “Wait a minute. I guess maybe. It’s the eyes, those crazy eyes. But this one didn’t have a beard so much as a lot of scruff, and I think he had more weight in his face. But those eyes…”
“How about his height?” Morrison asked. “How tall would you say?”
“About six foot. Maybe just under.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Yeah, he said how a man’s gotta eat. I said, ‘Stocking up,’ because he had two full baskets of food, and he said how a man’s gotta eat.”
“Did he have an accent?”
“Didn’t sound like he’s from around here.” She shrugged and smoked. “More like back east, I guess. It maybe could be him, I can’t swear to it. But something wasn’t right about that guy. That I can swear to.”
“Did you see what he was driving?”
“No, sorry. Usually I’d’ve called for Tiny—he stocks shelves—to help him load up, but I didn’t. Just wanted him gone. Never saw him around here before that I noticed. At least I never checked him out before. Mustn’t live too far, I’d think, as he bought a shitload of frozens.”
Though she was reluctant, they got her name and contact.
“What are the odds?” Morrison wondered.
“Good enough to do another quick check. If you’re Rozwell, somehow got a place close enough to town to come in to buy food, what else do you stock up on?”
“If I’m holed up here, I’m going to buy a whole lot of alcohol.”
“Yeah, you would. Let’s follow the feeling, Quentin, show his picture one more time at the liquor store.”
When they walked into the liquor store, the clerk looked up from a paperback novel. Not the clerk from yesterday, Beck thought. Younger brother maybe.
“Help you?”
“FBI. Special Agents Beck and Morrison.” Beck held up her badge.
The clerk slid off his stool. “Oh, hey!”
“We’re looking for someone.”
“As long as it’s not me.”
Beck offered her best smile. “No, not you. This man.”
The clerk took the sketch, shifted from foot to foot. “That’s funny. Sort of.”
“What is?”
“He kind of looks like this fella who was in here about an hour ago. Around the eyes, he does. And yeah, the mouth, I guess. I didn’t like him.”
“No?” Beck leaned in, just a little. “Why?”
“Okay, he bought enough stock I could’ve closed the door for the day, and my brother—he owns the place—wouldn’t have known because the daily take would be more than it ever is. But he had mean all over him—the vibe, right? And he bought so much I just said how it looked like he was having a party. He gave me a look made me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I think this is him, with shorter hair. What’d he do?”
“Did you see what he was driving?”
“I looked out, saw him loading the boxes of booze in a pickup. Old Chevy, rusted-out red.
“Hey, what did he do?”
But they were already out the door.
“It’s him, Quentin. I swear I feel it in my guts.”
“Let’s bring the sheriff in on it. He’s got a place. You don’t buy all that food and booze for a damn road trip or when you’re in a motel.”
“He could have hostages—not his style—but there are homes and small ranches within a half hour’s drive of Two Springs. Or maybe there’s a place that’s been abandoned. Frozen food means he has refrigeration and a stove or a microwave. Coming into town, making at least two stops means he feels safe.”
As they moved, fast, to the sheriff’s office, they scanned the streets.
“He could still be here,” Morrison said. “But that’s unlikely. Frozen food.”
“Is going to melt pretty quick in this heat. He has to be close.”
The sheriff’s office had an outer room with a dispatch desk, and two more for the pair of deputies who both worked part-time. In the back, it held two cells, a unisex bathroom, and a makeshift counter for a hot plate and the coffeepot on it.
The AC whirled madly, and sent the smell of bad coffee everywhere.
Sheriff Neederman, a rawboned, sunbaked man of about forty-five, had his own office—with the door open.
“Well, FBI.” He stood from his desk. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Lucy Wigg from Two Springs Market and Kyle Givens from Givens Liquors and Beer just identified Gavin Rozwell from our sketch. He was in both places this morning.”
“Well, hell. Are they sure of that?”
“Sure enough. He stocked up on food—including frozen products—and alcohol, which indicates he’s found a hole close by. Close enough. We need to start a search.”
“We’ll sure help with that. I’ve got one deputy out on a call, and I’ll bring the other one in. I’ll notify state, have some head in here.”
“He’s driving a red Chevy pickup. Older model, from what we’re told. You know the area, Sheriff. Let’s have some best guesses.”
“Let me make those calls and think on it.”
When he had, he spread out a map. “These houses here, here? Few and far between maybe, but people’ll notice a stranger. Different story when you move out here, or into the mountains. Hardscrabble ranches, hardscrabble people who live that life because they don’t want people around. And you’ll have your preppers, survivalists, anti-every-fucking-thing types. They wouldn’t set out the welcome mat for him—or us, come to it.”
“Leaning to that, who lives alone? No family—too much trouble,” Beck said to her partner. “Easier to take down one person. He’d want privacy if he decided to dig a hole.”
“There’s Riley—former marine—piss and vinegar in one package.” Neederman tapped on the map. “His place is a damn fortress. And there’s Jane Boot—her husband passed awhile back, but she stuck. Comes in, sells eggs, goat’s milk about once a month. Tough as nails, prepping for war or the Rapture, whichever comes first.”
“The woman,” Morrison said. “He’d go for the woman before he’d take on a marine.”
“Let’s go find out.”
“I’ll lead the way. She’s got no phone—doesn’t believe in them—and she’s got her place gated and barbed wired off. I’ve got bolt cutters in the truck. If she’s back there milking that damn goat, she is gonna be pissed.”
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up at the open gate.
Neederman angled his truck across it to block any exit, then stepped out. He picked up a set of keys, shook his head when Beck opened her window.
“No way Jane would leave this gate open. Keys on the ground. Son of a bitch.”
“Do you have body armor, Sheriff?”
He tipped back his hat. “Yeah, yeah. Son of a bitch,” he said again. “She’d never leave the gate open.”
“Let’s suit up. Call for backup. My partner and I will take the lead from here. He’s our quarry.”
He aimed a hard look at Morrison. “If he hurt Jane, he’s mine now, too.”
After they’d put on vests, they drove through the gate.
“He’s not here anymore, Tee. He got a whiff of us, that’s what this means.”
Face grim, she kept driving.
“There’s the red truck, and groceries all over the ground. Front door open, that outbuilding door open.”
“Somebody had a temper tantrum,” Morrison muttered.
“Looks like it, but let’s not get shot being wrong.”
She drove between the outbuilding and the cabin, and using the car as a shield, they got out.
“Gavin Rozwell! This is the FBI. Come out with your hands up.”
No sound but chickens clucking, pigs rooting.
She picked up a rock, tossed it to draw fire. And nothing stirred. She tossed another so it banged against the house.
“Okay, Quentin, let’s clear it.”
They came out of cover, stayed low as they ran to the door. He swept first, went in high as she swept and went low.
The place smelled of sweat and dust and looked like the scene of a bar fight.
They cleared it, and the shed.
“She has a Ford Ranger pickup, a … 2015 or ’16, I think—and I’ll confirm that,” Neederman told them. “Blue, a medium blue, and I’ll get the plates. Would he have taken her with him?”
“That’s very doubtful.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m going to look around for her,” he told Beck. “And the goat.”
“He had to see us, this morning. He had to see us, or why run like this after buying all the food?” Beck had to stop herself from kicking the melting packages. “He came out of the market and saw us. Or he’d loaded up already. Likely that. He got in the truck, drove here, did this, got what he wanted, and went.”
“Running again, Tee.” Because they both needed it, he put a hand on her shoulder. “He’s running again, running scared and mad with it. Let’s get the alerts out on her truck.”
“She’s back here!” Neederman called out. “And the goat. Jesus, what’s left of them’s back here. He just dumped her on the ground,” he said when they joined him. “Just tossed her on the ground for the scavengers.”