Deadlock

  Hutch looked at his watch. His plane left in two hours. He stood and stretched. He felt good. He’d taken a scalpel to his insides. He’d gouged and prodded. And it hurt like hell. But he considered it necessary, cathartic. He had attacked not the healthy tissue of his soul, but the cancer, the stuff that shouldn’t be there.

  A phrase kept repeating in his mind. It could have been a condemnation of his present state, but he saw it as a challenge. It made him believe he could be a better father. There was hope for him yet.

  Work harder, he thought. Work harder.

  FORTY

  “There,” Dillon said.

  “Looks like it,” Laura said, but she was hardly enthusiastic. They had given closer inspection to dozens of cars—felt like hundreds: stop, clamber out, look, climb in, go. If go was what you would call the slow, not-even-registering-on-the-speedometer pace Laura moved at, to make sure they took in every car on either side of each aisle.

  Always, there had been something that disqualified the car as Hutch’s: a broken window, an out-of-state plate, a BAD AS I WANNA BE bumper sticker. Macie had remembered that Logan had clipped his bicycle handlebars against the door, leaving a distinctive straw-sized scratch above the door handle. That had ruled out several candidates.

  They had traversed a little more than half the aisles. Several people had given them long, suspicious looks. Laura was beginning to think they wouldn’t find Hutch’s car in that lot. But the prospect of continuing the search in the airport’s many other garages and lots made her want to give up. If she monitored the passengers arriving in Terminal East, and Dillon did the same in Terminal West, the odds were in their favor that they’d spot him. But considering the stakes, she didn’t want any odds; she wanted a sure thing. And that meant finding his car.

  “Go look,” she told Dillon.

  He hopped out, ran to the Honda that to Laura looked older than the one she’d remembered Hutch driving away in the day before.

  A sedan with a flashing amber light on top stopped at the end of the aisle. The driver stepped out. He was dressed like a cop, but Laura didn’t see a holster. Security guard. His skin was so dark, it blended in with the night. He pushed his hat back on his head, hiked up his pants, and started walking toward them.

  “Uh-oh,” Macie said.

  “No worries,” Laura assured her.

  “No,” Dillon said. He was halfway back to the SUV when he spotted the guard. He froze.

  “Come on, baby,” Laura said. “Get back in.”

  The guard stepped up to her window. A hundred wrinkles furled his face. His eyebrows were bushy and mostly white.

  “Evening,” she said.

  “Morning,” he replied. “Can’t help but notice you been cruising the aisles, checking out cars.”

  “We’re looking for my husband’s car,” Laura said. “He left his briefcase in the backseat. He needs it for a morning meeting.”

  “How you going to get it to him?”

  “Fax. You know, the important stuff.”

  The guard looked past her at Macie and Dillon. “You know it’s past one in the morning?”

  “Gotta do what you gotta do,” she said.

  “You have a key? To your husband’s car?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “May I see it, please?”

  “Oh, you mean on me? No, it’s, uh, you know, in a little thing under the bumper.”

  “What’s the license plate number?”

  “S . . . A . . .” She laughed. “I don’t know. It’s his car. Do you know yours?”

  The driver thought for a moment. A big smile pushed up his cheeks. “It’s got a number one and an L in it.” He slapped his hand on the sill. “All right, ma’am. Just let the lady in the checkout booth know when you find it. We’ll record the license plate. Just in case there’s a problem. And I’m going to get yours right now—and your driver’s license.” He held out his hand.

  She looked around her, into the footwells. She said, “This isn’t looking good for me. I ran out of the house without my purse.” And that was true.

  The security guard made a face. He peered around, thinking. Laura knew he was about to boot them out of the lot.

  “My daddy’s getting a new job,” Macie said.

  “Zat so?” the guard said. The loose skin on his face seemed to move and flow on its own. It dipped into a frown before congregating in his cheeks to form a smile.

  Macie bobbed her head up and down, showing all her teeth. The two on either side of her eyeteeth were missing, giving her a bit of rabbit DNA. “Then we can move out of Nana’s house and get our own apartment.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” Laura said. “That’s family stuff.” To the guard she said, “I’m sorry.”

  He was smiling at Macie. “It’s okay, I understand. Like you said, you do what you gotta do.” He reached out his hand to Laura, startling her. “Name’s Charlie.”

  They shook.

  “You need anything while you’re looking, flag me down.”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  He walked to the front of the XTerra, pulled out a notepad, and jotted down the plate number. He waved, strolled to his car, and drove away.

  Laura glared at Macie in disbelief. “Where did that come from?”

  The girl shrugged. “Jenna Robinson, in my class. She got out of all kinds of homework when her dad lost his job.” She lowered her head. “I shouldn’t have lied.”

  Laura patted her leg. “I did it too, sweetheart. It’s all right, this time.”

  Macie grinned.

  Fifteen minutes later, they rolled to the next aisle.

  Dillon said, “There’s one.” He hopped out without waiting for the SUV to stop.

  Laura glanced at it. Easy to tell it was a Honda. It had been backed in, so the grille with its center logo faced the aisle. But no flip-flop resided on the dash, and it appeared copper-colored to her. Dillon’s yelling startled her from a state of bored drowsiness. He was jumping up and down, pointing.

  “There’s a flip-flop in the front seat!” he said.

  She put the XTerra in gear and climbed out. Up close, the brownish hue faded, and it was clearly silver. The scratch from Logan’s bicycle was right where Macie said it would be. She held up her palm to Dillon, and he high-fived her.

  Hutch’s car hunkered about ten vehicles from the end of the row, farthest from the entrances and exit. On one side of the Honda, closer to the center, was a Corvette; a minivan occupied the space on the other side.

  She pointed over the ’Vette’s roof. “Let’s find a spot over that way, so we can see it better.”

  As they returned to the SUV, she scanned the area. A sign attached to a light pole showed a silhouette of a bighorn sheep and defined the section as S14. A shelter for customers waiting for a shuttle fronted the aisle a few spaces beyond the ’Vette. She could see another shelter way down near the other end. Most of the spaces were filled.

  If we have to, she thought, tired of the hurdles, we’ll push a car out of the space we need.

  FORTY-ONE

  “Don’t park yet,” Dillon said. “Now that we know where Hutch’s car is, can we get some food? I’m starving.” He held his stomach dramatically.

  “Me too,” Macie said.

  “It’s been awhile since we ate,” Laura said. “And I could use a bathroom.”

  Macie nodded.

  “I’m all right,” Dillon said. He’d relieved himself earlier between the cars. “It’s like being in a metal forest,” he’d said.

  “There’s a McD’s way over there,” Macie said. “The sign’s lit up, so I think it’s open.”

  Laura could see it. Not far, but the way things were going, Hutch would show up while they were gone. It was too far to send Dillon, and the traffic around here made her head spin. Between their stomachs and their bladders, they had to do something. She threw an arm over the seat back to see Dillon.

  “What do you think about staying here while Macie and I make a food run
?” she said.

  “I can do that,” her son said, naturally.

  The kid would babysit lions in their den if she asked him to. It wasn’t that he was blindly obedient. His willingness to do whatever the world required of them was rooted in his trying to be the man of the house, now that his father was gone. He’d never spoken about it, but Laura knew.

  “You’d have to hide among the cars, okay? Don’t go near the Honda unless you see Hutch. And don’t talk to anyone. Not even that security guard, got it?”

  He gave her a thumbs-up and hopped out.

  She rolled down her window. “It’s nippy. Want your gloves?”

  He skewed his mouth sideways. “Mom, we live in northern Canada.”

  She nodded. “What do you want to eat?”

  “What do they have?”

  The closest Fiddler Falls came to a fast-food restaurant was the Elder Elk Diner. Lars and Barb Jergins flipped a mean caribou burger, with steak fries and a side of homemade soapberry ice cream—all in under ten minutes. The few times Tom or Laura had taken the boy to Wollaston or Saskatoon, they had dined at a friend’s establishment, one of those mom-and-pop, old-fashioned places, not so different from the Elder Elk.

  Macie said, “You’ve never eaten at McDonald’s?”

  Dillon shrugged.

  “Whoa,” Macie said.

  Laura didn’t know if it was nobler to keep him pure or to treat him to something different. Finally she said, “Burgers.”

  “Okay.”

  She said, “Go hide, now.”

  He moved away. Before she realized it, he had disappeared from view. She squinted, tilted her head, and even pulled forward slowly, but saw not a flick of hair or flash of eyes. He did that on their walks in the woods. She marveled that he could duplicate the trick here.

  “Where’d he go?” Macie said.

  “Only the Shadow knows,” Laura said in her spookiest voice. She took one last look, then pulled away.

  When they returned, Laura found a trash can blocking a parking space. It was across the aisle from Hutch’s, about a dozen spaces over. She slowed in front of it. Dillon materialized from nowhere, waved at her, and dragged the can to the shelter. Laura backed into the spot. The only way to get a clearer view of the Honda would be to sit in it. Knowing what Hutch was returning to—his son gone, killers after them—Laura thought the car appeared forlorn. The man who was coming to drive it would be sad and desperate. She wished their reunion could be happier.

  As Dillon climbed into the backseat, he said, “A lady came and got her car. It looked like a good place.”

  “Perfect,” Laura agreed.

  “What’s that smell?”

  “Grease.” She handed him a box that had been printed to look like a haunted house.

  He reached in, pulled out a fry, and examined it.

  “Just eat it,” Macie said, watching him. She pushed five of her own fries into her mouth.

  He did and nodded appreciatively.

  The dashboard clock read 2:01. Grains of sand seemed to have slipped under Laura’s eyelids. Each time she blinked, she found it harder to open her eyes. She took a bite of a double cheeseburger, felt as though she could barely chew it.

  “I’m fading,” she said. She nudged Macie. “You should be too.”

  Macie widened her eyes. “I’m okay.” She yawned.

  “I had a nap,” Dillon said. “You guys sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

  “You sure?” Laura said. He did look spunky.

  He said to Macie, “Change places with me. You can lie down back here.”

  Her eyebrows came together.

  Laura said, “Honey, that guy’s tied up. He can’t get anywhere near you.”

  Dillon leaned over his seat back, then returned. “Besides, he’s still out.”

  Macie slipped between the seats. Dillon went the other way into the front passenger seat. He leaned over the seat and snagged his Happy Meal. Macie was already sprawled on the bench, eyes closed.

  Laura brushed Dillon’s hair away from his face. “You doing okay?”

  He nodded.

  She reclined her seat back and slouched down into it. Her eyes closed. “Wake me if you see anything.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. He looked at the blood on his finger, then smeared it with his thumb. He pressed his lips together, not upset at all that he’d put an arrow in that guy. Not even a smidgen.

  FORTY-TWO

  Laura woke to Dillon shaking her shoulder. His face was close. Beyond him it was still dark. The gleam of a parking lot light caught his eyes: the blue sparkled in a sea of white. He looked frightened.

  She rubbed her face. “What—?”

  “Shhh,” he said.

  “What is it?” She began to sit up, but he pushed her down.

  “Some men,” he said. “They’re checking out Hutch’s car.”

  The skin on her arms and back of her neck tingled and tightened. She licked her lips. “Let me see.”

  “Stay low.” He pulled back into the passenger seat. Slouched, Dillon’s head breached the level of the dash only enough to let him see.

  She put her hand on the console and pushed herself up. A man dressed in black stood in the aisle near the Honda. His hands were in his pockets and his back was to the car, casual, uninterested. His posture was canted enough away from the XTerra for Laura to believe he was not intentionally facing them. His head swiveled slowly around.

  “I only see one,” she whispered.

  “The shelter.”

  A man-shaped shadow occupied an edge of the bench. His immobility more than his dark clothing had caused her to overlook him.

  “They came from separate directions,” Dillon said. “The one standing walked between the rows. He went right to Hutch’s car and looked in all the windows. Then he stepped out to where he is now. The other one was more sneaky. He stayed low and weaved through the cars until he reached the shelter.”

  “You didn’t see them looking for it?” she asked.

  “A couple cars went by. They could have been in one.”

  “I think they’re soldiers from the house,” Laura said. “Same clothes.”

  “They aren’t wearing helmets.”

  “They want to appear as normal as possible,” she said. “Can’t do that with futuristic helmets.”

  The men confirmed her suspicion that they wanted Hutch as well. Whatever had happened in Washington, Hutch had gotten away. He had tried to warn her, but the people after them had cut off their communication.

  “What time is it?” she whispered.

  He looked at his watch. “It’s 3:41.”

  She’d slept two hours.

  The man standing in the aisle rose onto his toes. He craned his neck to catch every direction, then he nodded.

  Shadow Man glided off the bench, barely growing in height. Laura realized he was bending his knees, hunching his back. He carried a small duffel bag, which pulled down in the center under the weight of some heavy object within. He floated out of the shelter and drifted toward the back of the lot. He stopped in front of the Honda. Without pausing, he dropped to the blacktop and slid under the front of the car. The duffel bag went with him.

  The man in the aisle backed closer to his partner. He turned his head and raised his hand to his mouth.

  “I think he’s talking,” Dillon said.

  The man’s head snapped around. He crouched, touching his fingers to the pavement.

  Laura followed his gaze. At the far end of the aisle, closest to the entrances, the white car with flashing amber lights cruised slowly past.

  The man unfolded from his crouch.

  The legs and boots protruding from under the Honda wiggled and squirmed, as though he were hard at work on the car’s suspension.

  “What’s he doing?” Dillon asked.

  “Nothing good.”

  Shadow Man slid out from under the car. He got his feet under him and semi-stood. The duffel bag was empty. He flattened and folded it
and pushed it into his waistband behind him. He pulled something from a shirt pocket.

  Laura thought it was a pack of cigarettes until a light on it illuminated, glowing red. He returned the device to his pocket. Nodding at the other man, he walked to the rear of the car and dropped out of sight. Where his upper torso and head had been, now only the red roof of the Corvette glimmered in the yellow glow of sodium vapor lamps.

  The other man twisted his hips and kicked at pebbles. It was a completely relaxed gesture, designed to appear harmless. A minute after his partner had disappeared, he broke into a striding gait. It carried him across the aisle and into the row of cars in which the XTerra was parked.

  Dillon tugged off his sneakers. “We have to know where they’re hiding,” he said, as if in one long word. He spun and opened his door.

  “Wait!” Laura said, low and harsh. She slapped her hand over the dome light. “Dillon, no!”

  He closed the door softly. It clicked, and the interior light blinked out.

  “Dillon!” She scrambled over the console and opened his door. The light came on again, and she didn’t care. “Dillon!” she whispered.

  He had faded into the shadows of the cars.

  FORTY-THREE

  Dillon immediately moved toward the rear of the XTerra. He peered around the bumper, between the rows of cars. He crossed to the next car and quickly moved along its length. He stopped at the next aisle. He, Mom, and Macie had not gone down it, because they’d found Hutch’s car first. He saw no one. The man must have been walking faster than Dillon thought. He paused to study the car windows. No lights, no head-shaped silhouettes.

  He was about to bolt across the aisle when the sound of a shoe scuffing against the pavement made his heart leap into his throat. He ducked and edged his vision past the bumper. A dark figure three cars away peeled itself away from the shadows and stepped into the aisle.

  The man had stopped. Waited. Had he heard Dillon leave the car or shuffle over the blacktop? Dillon thought he’d been more than quiet; he’d been truly silent. He was accustomed to moving over a forest’s groundcover, with its twigs and leaves and needles—essentially, a blanket of noisemakers—without alerting keen-eared animals. Surely he could handle flat pavement.