Page 42 of Torch Songs

“Won’t be mine for long if I lose my job,” he confessed nakedly. “C’mon, let’s hit the gas station before people start getting out of work.”

THE TRUCKwas a good twenty-five years old, a Chevy Colorado that he tried to keep maintained but that was probably due for a complete overhaul. The bushings were going, and the belts—he’d been planning to take it in to the maintenance department because he had the employee maintenance package taken from his check and he might as well use it, but there was no time for that now.

Still, he’d hooked up a decent sound system in it, and he could hear his music even when it wasn’t played at top volume. He put up a “road trip” list he’d compiled and—after the stop at the gas station, where he had April get them a shit-ton of nuts and candy bars to add to the grub he’d already packed—the music helped him get up the hill without killing anybody, even when he hit the giant fucking construction mess at the I-80 split near West Sac.

By the time he followed his flickering GPS to Colton, a little town in the Tahoe National Forest, he and April were tired, cranky, hungry for real food… and scared out of their minds.

April had slept a lot, arms crossed in front of her, one of his blankets wrapped around her shoulders, the cooler on the floorboards by her feet and her giant flowered bag next to her on the seat. He had the feeling she’d done that on purpose, surrounded herself with things to make everything not so big and scary.

Smart, he thought, realizing how hard this must be on somebody who was hypersensitive for whatever reason. Everything from the engine noise to the jouncing of the cab, which Guthrie took for granted, was probably scraping on a nerve filed down to a nub by now.

“So,” April murmured, glancing around, “what now?”

Guthrie turned the radio down, where he’d been humming along to “Sympathy for the Devil,” wondering how it was that the Stones never seemed to age. Old Mick was looking fairly corpselike, it was true, but themusic,man, that was devil-at-the-crossroads stuff right there.

“Let me ask where the sheriff’s office is,” he said, eyeballing the gas station right off the main thoroughfare through town. “Everybody knows where to support their local sheriff.”

TWO HOURSlater, the sunlight that had been filtering through the tall pines as they’d pulled off the road had completely disappeared, and Guthrie thought if he got sent on one more wild-goose chase, he’d grab the next local he saw by the throat and shake them until dead.

The sheriff’s office had been full to the brim with cops, none of whom knew what was going on. When Guthrie had approached the desk, a distracted-looking middle-aged man in a uniform with W. Coolidge on the name tag had shrugged.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he muttered. “The Sacramento people have taken over everything. Ask them.”

“I will,” Guthrie snapped. “Where the fuck are they?”

“The one hotel in town,” Coolidge snapped back. “But don’t get pissy withthosepeople ’cause the SWAT team is up here and they’ll shoot you into sushi if you so much as ask a question.”

Guthrie raised an eyebrow. “Have they shotyouinto sushi yet?” he asked carefully.

“No, sir, but they arenotsharing information, and search and rescue has got a giant banana up its ass.” A mean smile twisted his lips. “Or at least that’s what I hear.”

Guthrie wasn’t even going to fuckin’ ask. “Great. Do you know where Chris Castro is? He’s one of the two detectives that came up.”

“Oh, who the fuck knows,” W. Coolidge shot back. “I’m going to say the hotel, and if I’m wrong, sue me.”

Guthrie blinked and said, “Okay then, son, the hotel it’s going to be. And I cannot thank you enough for not being any fucking help at all.”

And with that he whirled on his heel and went out to the truck, where April was huddled with the flannel blanket that she’d been hugging for the entire trip.

“So?” she asked.

“So,” Guthrie said, gnawing on his lower lip, “Their sheriff got shot last night, and their undersheriff fell down the same goddamned hole Tad did. Right now you’ve got a lot of tired assholes wandering around in circles going, ‘Have you heard anything yet?’”

“That’s not promising,” April muttered. “Where to next?”

“The hotel. I guess there’s only one, and I saw it a mile back.” He started the rattling truck and put it into gear, heading for their next destination.

A next destination that looked like a kicked hornets’ nest.

The hotel itself was a very basic place: a two-story row of rooms with rickety stairs on each side of the strip. There were three big SUVs parked in front and an honest to God tactical van, with people geared up—masks, armor, the whole nine yards—running up and down the stairs shouting orders and directions to each other in the quiet dark of the mountains.

April made a muffled “Meep!” and slunk down practically on the floor, throwing the flannel blanket over her head and whimpering to herself.

Guthrie didn’t blame her.

He slid out of the truck and started reading people’s chests and backs, praying he’d see the thing he needed most.

And there it was.

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