His own right palm slid down her spine, stopping just below the narrow horizontal strap. He too pressed hard.
He felt her breasts against his chest, was embraced by the ambiguous, seductive aura of flowers.
Her eyes closed, then his.
They kissed harder, their mouths hungry.
Her hands went to his cheeks. He took her right and kissed the finger that was enclosed by the serpent ring. She ran the black-tipped nail around his lips.
He looked past her, at the couch against the wall.
He noted a lock on the door and the absence of video cameras in the room — ironic considering what they were doing here.
Her eyes were making the same transit. Her gaze ended at the couch and she turned back and nodded.
They both started toward it, his arm round her waist.
And as they did, Shaw happened to glance to his left. He saw the frozen video image of Route 55. No cars were depicted, no trucks, no hitchhikers. Just the business end of a gas station with a quick mart across the road.
An establishment that Allison Parker might have pulled into sometime that afternoon and, when buying a soda or chips, might have asked the clerk a question about any nearby motels that were decent, or made a comment from which their final destination could be deduced.
He turned to Nilsson, who, he found, was staring at the same screen.
Their eyes met once more, a different gaze this time. He smiled. For Nilsson’s part, she gave a wistful laugh. Another long kiss and they retired to their respective workstations, each hitting play at exactly the same moment.
Part Two
Hide and Seek
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21
36
“It was good for me. How was it for you?”
The hour was 6:30 a.m. and Sonja Nilsson was sitting on the edge of the couch in the monitor room, braiding her hair.
Colter Shaw sat up straight, wondering when the pain in his back would vanish. “I’ve had better.”
Her smile was both demure and seductive, not an easy combination.
At around two that morning, exhausted from examining videos, they’d decided they needed to surrender to sleep. Shaw insisted Nilsson take the couch. He locked the wheels of two office chairs, put them face-to-face and sat, resting his feet on the opposite one. He crossed his arms, tilted his head forward and slipped under almost immediately. This was a helpful talent for a survivalist, though one that could not be taught. He was simply lucky in his ability to doze anywhere, anytime.
The marathon viewing sessions of the night before had been only a modest success.
Shaw’s third camera — the low-def one at the service station — had caught Allison Parker’s SUV speeding north on 55, three miles south of Herndon, the home of the bus terminal and rental car agencies.
Just past that sighting Parker had crossed into Marshall County, where Ferrington’s guardian angel Marty Harmon had no clout when it came to government officials opening up traffic cams. Shaw had left a message for beleaguered Detective Kemp to see if he could access any videos up there. But the man had not called back. The odds he would? Ten percent, tops. If there was any good news in this it was that they also hadn’t spotted Merritt’s truck going north on 55 in pursuit.
Stretching, Nilsson said, “HEP is the land of overnighters. There’s a shower on every floor. Toothbrushes. Shave kits.”
Shaw’s beard grew in dark and coarse, curiously the opposite of what crowned his head. Facial hair didn’t bother him but it did make him look sinister, and considering what lay ahead today he’d take advantage of a razor.
“Next steps?” she asked, making coffee from a Keurig in the corner. She lifted an eyebrow and he nodded.
“I’ll talk to friends outside of the office. You keep going with employees?”
She nodded and handed him the cup. He snagged a creamer from a bowl and poured it in. Let it self-stir.
“Bathroom?”
“I’ll show you.”
They walked out together, Nilsson pointing toward the restroom.
They offered silent nods in farewell. She continued to the elevator and Shaw stepped into the bathroom. He locked the door behind him. He sipped coffee and set the cup down on a ledge. The bright, clean room, of blue tile, was well stocked for the hardworking. Plenty of towels and individually wrapped packets of soap, shampoo, toothbrushes and paste and the shaving kits.
He stripped, stepped into the shower and stood under the hottest water he could stand, then the coldest. The Winnebago was downstairs, in the lot, but didn’t have water pressure or temperature like this; he always took advantage of landline pipes when he could. He toweled off, dressed and shaved.
In the monitor room once more, he collected his backpack, which contained his computer, phone and notebook. The Glock had remained affixed to his belt constantly, even when he’d slept.
On the ground floor, he carded out and stepped into a damp, still morning. Either he was getting used to the scent of the Kenoah or the off-gassing was milder today. Maybe the cleanup was finally having some effect.
In the camper, he changed into clean jeans, a navy polo shirt and gray sport coat. Outside, he tugged on his helmet and muscled the two-hundred-pound Yamaha off the rack on the back of the vehicle, where he had — out of habit — affixed it once again after returning from Allison’s. He swung on, fired up and typed into GPS the first address on his list of Allison Parker’s friends. He memorized the route and skidded out of the lot.
In the reward business he always called on interviewees in person if he could; a phone call could be terminated with a mere tap of a finger.
Riding through progressively nicer neighborhoods, he arrived at the stately white split-level in twelve minutes. There was a low-end Mercedes in the driveway. He motored past and parked around the block and left the helmet. Bikers, even those dressed like CEOs of computer start-ups, will often be ignored when knocking on doors.
He rang the bell and stepped back.
A blond woman of about forty opened the wooden door but left the screen closed. Shaw suspected it was locked.
“Ms. Holmes?”
“That’s right.” She scanned him carefully.
“My name’s Colter Shaw. Alli Parker’s mother suggested I talk to you.”
A child — a boy of about five — wandered up and stared. Holmes turned him around and said, “Go play.”
Back to Shaw. “Alli’s mother? Why?”
“Alli’s ex-husband, Jon, was released from prison yesterday. And her mother’s worried she might be in danger.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “What?”
The surprise was genuine. This deflated the potential value of the lead significantly; she hadn’t heard from Parker in the past two days. Still, she might know of other friends or of getaway spots the woman might head to.
“She and her daughter’ve disappeared. I’m trying to find them and make sure they’re all right.” He knew the answer but asked anyway. “Have you heard from her in the past few days? Or know where she might’ve gone?”
Holmes’s eyes narrowed considerably. “And, again, who are you?”
“I’m in security. You can call Alli’s mother or her boss at Harmon Energy if you want confirmation.”
“I only met her mother a few times. And I don’t know her boss. Isn’t this something for the police?”
“They’re investigating. But Mrs. Parker thinks they’re not doing enough. So, any thoughts where she might be? We know she was headed north out of Ferrington. Friends or inns or hotels in that direction she might’ve mentioned?”
Now she was looking behind him, scanning the street, her face a mask of worry. “No, I don’t know anything. Please leave.” Her voice was desperate, her eyes imploring. A whisper: “He could’ve followed you here. He could think I’m helping you.”