Christ! Had she tried to call? What sort of panic would she be in if she couldn’t reach him? He steered the vehicle to the side of the highway and parked. He hit the button to call her house.

Shit! Voice mail. He couldn’t leave a message.

He tried her cell phone. Voice mail again.

He didn’t dare leave a message that anyone could hear. At least he’d had his number set up to show as a restricted number. Hopefully, that would let her know he’d at least tried to reach out to her. She knew he’d never leave a message.

What if she can’t get to her phone? What if the Ghostman already got to her? Is that how he found me?

Chris leaned his head against the wheel, heart pounding. Slow sweat started to drip down his temples. Could that have happened? Could the Ghostman have traced him through Jamie? He’d been so careful. But it made sense for someone to start with her if they wanted to find him. He’d always made certain Jamie knew nothing, and he’d hoped that was enough to keep her safe from anyone who decided to look for him. But what if someone wasn’t satisfied with her answers? What if they hadn’t believed her and decided to force answers?

He couldn’t move. How could he leave the US not knowing if she was okay?

He had to go back to Portland.

Bile churned in his gut, and a headache bloomed behind his temples.

He had to see for himself that she hadn’t been touched. A quick trip. He’d keep trying her phone numbers on the way. Then he’d head to Mexico.

He pulled a U-turn on the empty highway.

No one was coming back to Chris Jacobs’s little house. Gerald was certain of that. Somehow, Jacobs had instinctively fled. Possibly Jamie had said something to scare her brother off, but she was still in town. And Jacobs wasn’t with her. As far as he could tell, the sister was planning to head out to the Jacobs house sometime today.

Last evening, he’d asked a few questions in the market, and he’d found out Jamie had asked the sheriff for directions to Chris’s home but not driven out there. Instead, she’d shacked up in a bed-and-breakfast with Brody.

Gerald snorted. Wonder what they’d spent the night doing?

According to the checker at the market, the only person Chris Jacobs spoke to was the town baker. Some old Mexican with an ancient bakery off the main drag in town. The kind of place where living quarters are behind the shop. He’d said Jacobs was a regular at the bakery. It matched the story he’d gotten from the kid pumping his gas.

Did Chris still have a sweet tooth? Gerald doubted it.

Gerald decided the bakery wasn’t going to be opening up shop today. He’d made a hand lettered sign to place in the window stating Juan wasn’t feeling well. That would be sufficient to keep small-town people away. He needed to have a private talk with the baker. Might take a few hours.

He silently let himself into the bakery, sneering at the pathetic lock. He’d dismantled it in fifteen seconds. The bakery was dark, the windows facing the street quite small. That was good. He inhaled deeply though his nose. God, it smelled heavenly. Small glass cases stood empty, ready to be stocked with that day’s goods. The bakery was old but spotless.

Gerald moved behind the cases and into the back room. Old stainless steel equipment littered the room, the walls lined with shelves and stocked with canisters. But he only had eyes for the door to the right. He held his breath as he listened outside the door for a full five seconds. Pure silence. He placed his hand on the knob and slowly turned, pushing the door in to another dark room and tightening his grip on his gun.

He heard the movement before he felt the metal pole crash into his face. Lights exploded behind his eyes, and Gerald’s head felt separated from his neck with the blow. He dropped to his knees in pain, losing the gun. He heard it hit the floor and slide away. He flung himself in that direction, and the bar hit him in the back of the head. Blindly, he cast about the floor for the gun. Hands scrambling. Nothing.

Shit! Where the fuck was it?

His attacker yelled at him in Spanish and struck him in the back of the head again. Gerald powered forward, aiming low with his shoulder in the direction of the voice, and rammed something solid. Swearing in Spanish, the attacker fell backward and landed hard on the concrete floor. He heard the air rush out of the man’s lungs, and he lunged forward again, hands grabbing and punching. Adrenaline lit up his brain with fireworks. He got one hand on the metal bar and yanked, flinging it behind him.

His attacker was old. The voice was scratchy, and the movements were of a weak man. Easily overpowering the attacker on the floor, Gerald rolled the old man onto his stomach and knelt on his back, yanking his head up by his hair.

“You the baker, you useless piece of shit?” he hissed in the man’s ear.

The man struggled underneath him, and he pulled harder on the hair, overextending the man’s neck.

“You want me to break your neck? Is that what you want me to do? Because I can. I can do it so fast you’ll never even know.” Gerald punctuated his threats with more yanks, and the old man gasped for air. “My fucking head hurts! You old bastard!”

He squinted in the dim light and spotted an electrical cord plugged into the wall. Stretching, he jerked it out, and a phone fell to the floor. He wrestled the old man’s arms behind him and spun the cord around his hands. He grabbed the old man’s head with both hands and slammed it into the floor. The baker went still.

He slid off the man’s back and collapsed on the floor, gasping for air, trying to slow his heart rate.