“Who are you?” he said, more of a demand than a question.
“Me? I’m just a guy with a bad headache and a hankering for acid indigestion.”
I snatched up the turkey jerky and aspirin and walked out to the car.
To the west, the clouds broke, and for a few fleeting seconds, I could make out mountain peaks — the same mountains where I’d first spotted what remained of a winged phantom lost long ago. The phantom’s last flight, according to my spook buddy, Buzz, had been in support of a highly classified mission to arm nations friendly to US interests in and around South Asia — countries that I assumed included Pakistan, India, and, one of America’s strongest regional allies back then, Iran. Jalali and his squatty friend, the fireplug, were from Iran. I knew of absolutely nothing to link either man to the murder of Chad Lovejoy, or whatever it was that had been stolen from the wreckage of that airplane. Nor, for that matter, was I aware of one iota of evidence tying them in any fashion to Savannah’s disappearance. But when you’ve spent the majority of your professional life at Defcon 1, suspicious of everyone and their motives, there’s no such thing as coincidence.
I drove the neighborhood for a couple of minutes, then circled back to park a block away from the Dutch Mart Gas and Grub where I could establish a relatively unobtrusive surveillance position. With the back of the SUV positioned toward the convenience store, I angled my side and rear mirrors to maintain eyes-on, sat back chewing my overpriced aspirin, and waited to see who came or went. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was better than nothing.
More than anything, I wanted my phone to ring. I wanted Savannah to call. I wanted to hear her voice tell me she was safe. I wanted her to be upset with me for having overreacted at the B&B, booting Preston Kavitch’s door the way I had. But the phone remained silent. I checked the call log; there was nothing.
Other men under similar circumstances might’ve prayed. I’d prayed plenty when I was a kid. I begged God every night to remove me from my latest foster home hellhole, and to find me a family, a real family, with people who genuinely cared about me. The Almighty never seemed to hear me, though. Either that or he was always too busy to respond. Soon enough, you stop asking. I knew under present circumstances that the Buddha wouldn’t be of much help, either. I realized as I sat there, watching that convenience store, the only power I could rely on was my own.
After nearly an hour observing a procession of ragged but otherwise benign-looking customers pulling in for cigarettes and beer, I turned over the Yukon’s ignition and drove on.
Amid the snow, searching for Savannah, traffic on Lake Tahoe Boulevard quickly became slow-and-go — a mile-long backup of four-wheel drive pickup trucks and luxury SUVs mostly, with a few beaters thrown in, many hauling snowboards and skis on their way to the freshly powdered runs at Heavenly Mountain, northeast of town. I rolled down my window, inching along in the right lane, and studied every fogged-up, snow-covered vehicle that rolled past me in the left lane, hoping against hope that I might spot her.
A stocky dude in his early twenties with a sandy crew cut and black ski bibs apparently thought I was checking out his girlfriend and took offense. He rolled down the passenger window on his black Hummer and leaned across her lap, giving me the stink eye.
“What’re you staring at, asshole?”
I ignored him.
The inside of my throat was burning. Probably from the aspirin. I needed something to wash it down, and quickly. Up ahead, past a hemp shop where a Jamaican flag hung in the window, was a sign for a bakery. I hooked a right into the snow-covered parking lot.
The bakery was warm and smelled of chocolate. The cherubic girl behind the counter sported a sterling ring in her lower lip and a purple streak in her dark, punk-style hair.
“What can I get you?”
“I’d like some water.”
“Bottled or tap?”
“Is bottled faster?”
She didn’t understand the question.
“Bottled,” I said.
“Bubbles or no bubbles?”
“I have no preference.”
“Would you like—?”
“Look, just some water. Please.”
She reached into a large cooler behind her and handed me a cold bottle. I chugged it down. My throat felt considerably better.
“Anything else for you today, sir?”
I showed her Savannah’s photo.
“Any chance you’ve seen this woman?”
“Definitely.”
My pulse quickened.
“You have seen her?”
“Oh, for sure.”
“Where?”
“On TV.”
“You saw her on TV.” I was puzzled. “When was this?”
“Last week.” The girl looked at the picture once more. “She’s on Real Housewives, right?”
I forced a smile. “Not exactly.”
“Well, one of those shows, right?”
“She’s missing. I’m trying to locate her.”
“Oh.”
I ordered black coffee along with turkey and Havarti on a baguette. I ate the sandwich quickly. When I was finished, I called Streeter. He didn’t answer. I left word on his voice mail that I had some information for him on the downed Beechcraft and asked that he let me know if he’d heard anything from the hospital on Savannah.
“I’ve checked out of the B&B,” I said. “I’m not sure where I’ll be staying tonight, but I’ll leave my phone on. Call me.”
The snow was coming down heavier. I pondered my options and quickly concluded that I had few. Driving around in a blizzard, showing random people Savannah’s picture, seemed pointless. The woman at the newspaper said she’d run a notice the next day. That was at least something. I decided to return to Tranquility House, to see if Streeter had gone to question Preston Kavitch, like he said he was going to. As I pulled out of the parking lot onto Lake Tahoe Boulevard, a red-over-silver Subaru Outback drove past from my right to left. The driver, a man of indeterminate age, was wearing a dark-colored baseball cap.
Savannah was sitting in the passenger seat.
I fishtailed out of the lot and across the road, nearly slamming into an eastbound Range Rover and an old Buick heading west. Both drivers hit the brakes, skidding on the snow and laying on their horns as I shot the narrow gap between them.
I couldn’t see inside the Subaru — snow obscured the station wagon’s back window — but I could tell that whoever was behind the wheel knew how to drive in winter by his lack of sliding. I could also tell that he knew he was being pursued. Repeatedly, I flashed the Yukon’s headlights on and off, on and off, pounding on my own horn, trying to get him to pull over, but he did the opposite, ratcheting up his speed to more than forty miles an hour. Half of that would’ve been too fast given the deteriorating road conditions, but he wasn’t about to stop.
We wove crazily through traffic, passing a CVS pharmacy on our right, and blowing through a red light at Fairway Avenue. Fortunately, there were no other cars in the intersection or we would’ve been creamed.
The Subaru kicked it up close to fifty mph. Snow rooster tails arced from his back wheels, spattering my windshield as I rode his back bumper. Even in four-wheel drive, I could feel the Yukon’s front end dancing on the snow. A sane person would’ve slowed down. He drove faster. So did I.
Up ahead, I could see that the road narrowed to one lane for construction, and that traffic had halted. That didn’t stop the Subaru’s driver from cutting hard left, into the opposite lanes, with me right behind him. The line of oncoming vehicles parted like the Red Sea, cars and trucks sliding to the side of the road as the Subaru tried to get away.