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“No, I’m not. If there’s nothing else—”
“Private aircraft routes can be easily tracked, as I’m sure you and Mr. Lockwood are aware. We know you flew from Las Vegas to Montana on his aircraft. Why the stop at Havre Airport?”
Myron opened his mouth to answer, but Ellen raised a silencing finger.
“I asked you to make this easier,” she said in the voice of an elementary school teacher who has been disappointed by a favorite student. “That’s all. Just one small thing.” She sighed theatrically. “I suspected you wouldn’t listen. But I did ask you, didn’t I?”
Myron figured the question was rhetorical, so he said nothing. She kept her eyes on his. Finally, Myron broke the stalemate.
“Look, whatever your name is, I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Haven’t I made myself clear?”
“I don’t know where Bo Storm is.”
“Pity then.” She shook her head and opened her purse. Myron half expected her to pull out a gun—it was that kind of day—but instead she took out a smartphone and said, “Allen, did you hear all that?”
A newly familiar voice came from the phone speaker: “Every word, Ellen.”
Myron felt his blood freeze.
The old woman turned the screen toward him, so Myron could see. There, on FaceTime or whatever video app she was using, was Dad’s new pickleball/trivia pal, Allen Castner.
“Hey, Myron!”
Myron just sat there. He felt a rushing in his ears.
Allen Castner moved his face very close to the screen. He had AirPods in his ears. “Your father invited me over after our pickleball outing for a little pinochle. He’s just in the bathroom, taking a piss. Something’s up with his prostate. It’s like the fourth time he’s been in there.”
Myron swallowed. “What the hell is going on?”
“Oh, I think you know, Myron.”
The screen jerked as though Allen Castner had dropped the phone. When it came back into view again, he was holding a Beretta M9A3 with a silencer screwed on the end of the barrel.
“Talk to us, Myron.”
It was Ellen who said that. He understood, of course, that it wasn’t her real name. And that this guy’s name wasn’t really Allen. They’d used his parents’ names to mess with his head. Like he needed that.
“By the way,” the old woman said, “Allen is wearing headphones.”
“Ear pods,” Allen said, correcting her.
“I stand corrected, ear pods, thank you. The point is, Allen can hear you. Your father won’t be able to.”
And then Myron heard his father’s voice. “Who are you talking to?”
Allen Castner said, “Sit down here, Al.”
“What the hell? Is that a gun?”
“Dad!”
“Don’t shout,” Ellen said. “Your receptionist will hear and that will be a problem. Where is Bo Storm?”
Myron’s eyes were glued to the screen, to his father. “I told you. I don’t—”
And then, on the screen, Myron saw Allen Castner whip his father in the face with the gun. His father grunted in pain and fell back.
