Page 87 of Into the Fire

I watched the mouth of the loop road in the mirror. Nothing came out of it.

I sat there long enough that the kid inside looked up. The street ran empty in both directions. A semi passed without slowing. Somewhere between the elevator and the edge of town, the headlights had stopped following me. I couldn’t say where. I’d looked away, and the next time I checked the mirror, the road behind me was dark.

Either I’d been followed off the base, or a rancher had gone home the long way while a jumpy man watched his mirror. I sat under the Sinclair lights and didn’t know which.

The Sawtooth was three doors down, its blade lit over the door. I hadn’t eaten since morning, and the last thing I needed was to be alone in a motel room, with an empty stomach and only myself for company. I drove down the block and parked under the streetlight in front of the bar’s window.

It was a weeknight crowd, which in Kessler meant four customers and Denny behind the bar. The room smelled of griddle smoke and old beer. Denny was filling a glass under a tap by the time the door shut behind me.

“And a burger,” I said. “If the kitchen’s still on.”

“It’s on for you.”

I took the end stool. Denny set the beer down and didn’t ask any questions.

When the burger came, Denny set it down and moved away.

Two stools down, a man in a feed-store cap was talking to the woman beside him. “Heard one of the jumpers got stacked into the rocks out east of the base.”

“Wind?”

“Must’ve been. Chute got sideways on him.”

“Jesus.”

“Walked away.”

“Then he got lucky.”

I picked up a fry.

Denny stopped in front of them with the coffeepot. “You two want anything besides stories you don’t know?”

The woman held out her cup.

“Coffee.”

“That I have.”

I ate the fry and dug into my burger. It was the best thing that had happened to me all day.

I finished the fries and left most of the beer. I put money down, and Denny lifted his chin at me as I headed out the door.

“Take care of yourself,” he said.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk and checked the street both ways. The motel was a block off Main Street, one story facing a gravel lot. The office was at the near end with a light over it. I took the room second from the office, paid the woman at the desk in cash out of habit, and parked directly under the lot’s one pole light.

I checked the lot before I got out. There were two other vehicles: a mud-caked SUV and a Toyota Corolla with Montana plates. I grabbed my bag and headed for the room.

It was what I expected: paneling, a bedspread the color of old mustard, and a heater under the window that smelled like burned dust when I kicked it on. I filled the ice bucket at the machine by the office. Hollis was right. It worked.

I iced the hip sitting on the end of the bed with my boots still on. I took my phone out and typed two words, sending them to Boone.

Dante: I’m here.

The reply came back within a minute.

Boone: Good.