The trooper touched the brim of his hat. “Drive safely, sir.”

Gerald watched the trooper walk back to his car. He put on his blinker and pulled out onto the open highway. How had the trooper seen his phone? The sun had been down for an hour.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

He kept an eye on the rearview mirror. The trooper’s patrol car hadn’t budged. It got smaller and smaller as Gerald increased his speed. Just before he couldn’t see it anymore, it did an abrupt turn and headed in the opposite direction.

He looked at his ticket. One hundred forty-two dollars for talking on a cell phone?

Pissed and steaming about the fine, two miles later, Gerald took the rest stop exit.

Deserted.

He parked as far away as possible from the little bathroom buildings. He sat in the driver’s seat, scanning the rest stop for a few minutes. Even though he’d watched the trooper head in the opposite direction, he half expected him to reappear. And not be alone. After the rest stop stayed quiet, he stepped out of the car and stretched. Every joint hurt. It’d been a hell of a long day.

First, the empty Jacobs house, then the old Mexican, the kid from the gas station, Jamie Jacobs, and then a fucking traffic ticket.

He stood behind his car, eyeing the trunk. He examined the taillights. Both looked intact. If she’d been kicking at them, it didn’t show. He snorted, remembering his fear of a foot hanging out, visible to the trooper. He bent over the trunk, feeling the heat radiate from the metal against his face, listening.

All silent.

Ax in hand, he pushed the trunk release button on his key fob.

Jamie lay motionless. Her hair and shirt were soaked with sweat. He shoved at her legs with the ax handle, and her eyes opened. Thank God, the bitch is still breathing. She stared at him, her gaze studying his face and taking mental notes. She didn’t move.

“You hot?” he asked.

Her eyebrows narrowed.

Probably a stupid question.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

The eyebrows rose a bit.

“Knock off the goddamned kicking, and I’ll open the center console area. That’ll let some of the air-conditioning into the trunk. Deal?”

Jamie blinked and gave one short nod.

“Yeah, I didn’t think you were too stupid. You’re no good to me barbecued or roasted.”

She was silent.

He considered giving her some water, but that’d mean taking the tape off her mouth, and he didn’t feel like acting like a nursemaid. She’d be okay without water for a few more hours. The air-conditioning should make a difference.

He poked at the inside of the trunk where the lights connected. All solid and covered up. She wasn’t going to be able to damage them, no matter how hard she kicked.

Gerald slammed the trunk, opened the rear driver-side door, and yanked at the console that was tucked into the backseat. It moved forward. He could feel hot air from the trunk move into the cooler air of the car. He pointed the two wimpy rear vents at the center of the backseat.

He got back in the driver’s seat and headed back to the highway. He hadn’t seen a single vehicle in fifteen minutes. He took a long swallow from his bottle of water, sighed, and wiped at his mouth. He was gonna be driving most of the night.

It was a long drive back to the other side of the Cascade Mountains. Gerald was aiming a little farther south this time. He wasn’t going back to Portland. He was headed toward home. Salem, the state’s capital. Salem was his comfort zone. The bunker had been closer to Salem, and his job was primarily in that city.

He took the highway turnoff toward a mountain range pass. Hopefully, he’d hear from his boss soon. He wasn’t going to try calling while driving this time.

To Michael’s relief, Spencer stepped out of the Luna County car. Nothing against the deputies of Luna County, but Spencer was the one with the brains. The rest seemed to be a bunch of local recruits who stood around a lot. One deputy tailed his boss. Hove opened his cruiser door but sat in the driver’s seat, talking on his cell.

“Whatcha got?” Spencer asked as he strode up the walk. He nodded at Chris. “Jacobs. ’Bout time you turned up. I’ve got a couple of questions for you about Juan’s place.”

“Right now we’ve got to find Jamie. I know the Ghostman grabbed her,” Chris said.

“Who?” Spencer scowled.

“I called him the Ghostman. Same guy who held me captive as a kid. Freaking ghostly, white-skin-colored asshole.”

“Covered in ink now,” Michael added.

“Mr. Tattoo is the Ghostman. Got it.” Spencer’s expression said he thought both of them were slightly nuts. “Who the fuck is he really?”

Michael shook his head. “Dunno.”

Hove stepped forward. “According to your Detective Callahan, he’s a former sexual predator known as Gary Hinkes. But the guy has vanished from the face of the earth. There’s no driver’s license, no tax records, nothing. He was arrested in the late eighties for some sex crimes, but no one can find any records. He was also arrested in conjunction with a murder of a Portland woman but went to prison on a lesser charge. There hasn’t been a peep from him since he got out.”

“Where are the records from the trial?” Spencer asked.

“Gone.”

“And from his time in prison?”

“He was there for two months. Any scrap of paper relating to it has vanished.”

Chris looked at Michael. “How does that happen?”