Something was going to happen, he could feel it. Sure enough. Just as Child’s Jack Reacher character was about to raise bloody hell on four beefy idiots with his bare hands, Gerald’s phone rang. According to the source, Michael Brody’s black gas guzzler had pulled up to Jamie’s house with her in the passenger seat. It’d parked at her home for ten minutes until the two of them emerged with Jamie carrying a small suitcase. And the SUV was headed his way.

Gerald reluctantly closed the novel, carefully marking his place. Were they headed to the airport? He was prepared if it came to that. Brody’s SUV blew past the gas station, and he pulled out after it. The SUV passed the airport exit and continued east on the highway, following the Columbia River through the gorge where the river cut through the Cascade Mountain Range. Gerald kept his gaze glued to the Range Rover, ignoring the wide blue river on his left. The river was the northern boundary of Oregon, separating it from Washington. On his right were towering steep cliffs with the occasional waterfall.

To Oregonians, the Columbia River Gorge was one of nature’s miracles. Gerald ignored it.

Hours later the cliffs eventually became flatland. The sights grew drier and browner. They crossed over into what Gerald mentally classified as redneck country. The eastern side of the Cascade Mountain Range was home to ranchers and cowboys. How far east were Brody and Jamie going? Boise? Montana? He believed it wouldn’t be too much farther. If they were going as far as Boise or more, it really made more sense to fly.

About fifty miles before the Idaho border, the SUV exited the main highway. A series of dusty two-lane roads and ninety more minutes of driving placed them in a tiny country town. Gerald stopped at the single-pump gas station to fill up and kept an eye on Jamie and Michael’s vehicle down the street. It’d pulled up to the sheriff’s building and they’d gone inside.

Fuck, it was hot. Gerald stretched the kinks out of his back as the attendant filled his vehicle. Hopefully this was nearly the end of the journey. Why’d they stop at the sheriff’s office? Did they not know exactly where they were going?

He had a hunch Chris Jacobs was hiding out in this shitty little town.

He noticed the attendant eyeing the tattoos peeking out on his wrists. Gerald tugged at his sleeves, hating to pull them down to hide the color. The guy probably thought he was nuts for wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans in this heat. The shirt was athletic fabric, the clingy, stretchy kind that wicked moisture away from the body and showed every sculpted muscle of his arms and chest. It really wasn’t too bad in the heat.

He pretended to make a phone call and held the phone to his ear for a few seconds.

“Shit. What the hell?” he said, loud enough for the attendant to hear.

“Problem?” the kid asked. He looked like a typical country boy. Tanned skin, dingy cargo shorts, and a T-shirt that had been white at some point. He just needed a grass stem hanging out the side of his mouth or a tobacco can ring in his back pocket.

A brief flash of the teen boys from his childhood hit his brain. This kid would have been one of the popular kids. Normal looking, confident. The kind who made fun of Gerald, the freak. Gerald stood straighter, expanding his chest. It was one of the reasons he stayed in top physical shape. It was a confidence builder. And his tattoos gave him confidence. Sometimes he wanted to shed his clothes and show his colors to the world, but that wasn’t their purpose. They were for him. They allowed him to look at his body with pride, boosting his morale. In private moments, his victims had seen his skin of many colors. It’d intimidated them, helped them recognize his power.

Gerald held up his phone. “Keeps going to voice mail. I’ve called five times.”

The kid nodded. “That sucks.”

“Well, hell. I drove all the way from Boise today to buy a truck from a guy, and now I can’t even reach him. He’d told me to give him a call when I got to town, so he could give me directions. I told him I had a GPS, and he just laughed. Said his address doesn’t work on those things. That common out here?”

White crooked teeth grinned at him. “Totally. A GPS can get you to Demming, but none of the mapping companies are going to waste time with the local addresses when there’s one house every twenty miles.”

Gerald looked over the tiny town. “I guess I’ll sit and wait somewhere and hope the guy gets back to me. I hope he doesn’t think that I changed my mind.”

“Who’re you buying a truck from?”

Yes! Gerald gave the kid a surprised look. “You think you might know him? This area that small?”

The kid shrugged and glanced at the ticker on the gas pump. “I know most folks.”

“The name’s Chris Jacobs. Sound familiar?”

One eyebrow rose a bit. “Yeah, I know him. Didn’t realize he was selling his truck. That thing’s a piece of shit. Why’d you drive so far to buy that?”

Gerald tried to look concerned while inside he was shooting off fireworks. “You think it’s a waste of money? I’m just looking for a beater vehicle for my nephew to drive to school.”

“Oh. Yeah, it’d be fine for that.”

“You know where I can find him?”

The pump turned off, and the kid clicked the handle a few times, topping off the tank. He slammed the handle back in the holder and punched a few buttons on the pump. “Sure. But you better keep trying to call him. Chris doesn’t like surprise visitors. He nearly shot my buddy, Justin, when he cut through his property going after a coyote. I’ll write the directions down for you. If he’s not home, you could stop by the bakery and ask. Old Juan, the baker, is about the only guy Chris ever talks to. He might know if Chris is out of town for some reason.”