Page 6 of Connected
“What kind of suspicious activity?” he growled.
“Finish up your report, go home, and take the weekend off. Monday morning I’ll have a summary for you and a car ready to go.”
Even while knowing that he’d already lost this battle, Owen couldn’t quite surrender. “I have to fuckingdriveto Wyoming?”
“You can fly into Casper and rent a car, if you’d rather. Myself, I like to leave the flying to the professionals.” He smiled slightly and squeezed Tenrael’s shoulder. “I like a road trip better.”
Owen, who was too big to fit comfortably into commercial airline seats, tended to agree, but he wouldn’t give Grimes the satisfaction by saying so. He scowled instead, mumbled something that wasn’t really a word, and stomped out of the office.
CHAPTER 3
Copper Springs, Wyoming
Keaton Gale stoodat the highest point in Copper Springs Cemetery and watched a wall of black clouds fill the western sky. He couldn’t smell the storm yet, but his skin prickled with the expectation of electricity and his head pounded with a sinus headache. The birds that usually fluttered around in the nearby ash trees were nowhere to be seen or heard. One of those ash trees had been struck by lightning in a storm last year; if Keaton remained where he was, he might end up struck as well.
Still, he didn’t move.
The headstones around him bore names from all over the world. People had immigrated here for over a hundred years as Copper Springs fed the nation’s endless appetite for power: first coal, then oil, finally natural gas. All of those industries had died out, and now the town was dying too.
Maybe it wasn’t healthy to think so much about death. But Keaton was, after all, standing in a cemetery. Lightning flashedin the distance, the echoes of thunder reaching him several moments later. He shivered despite the warm air.
When his phone pinged in his pocket, it startled him so much that he nearly cried out. The text was from an unknown number with a 310 area code.
Is your rental available tonight and tomorrow night?
Keaton stared at the screen, considering. He hadn’t had a guest in weeks and didn’t particularly want one now, but his bank account was looking thin. Besides, the storm was going to be a bad one, and he’d feel slightly guilty subjecting the unknown traveler to the Copper Motel under those conditions. And it would be for only two nights—he could handle that.
Yes. $300/night for up to two people, plus $50 cleaning fee.
The rate was too high, but it was his place and if he wanted to gouge customers, he could.
The answer came immediately.
Ok. Can I check in now?
Great—another $600 in Keaton’s pocket. That would cover expenses for a while.
Sure. 1024 Marchant. Little yellow house next to a big white one. You can park in driveway.
Be there in 15.
The guesthouse was at the other end of the city cemetery, just a five minute walk away, but by the time Keaton got there, the temperature had plummeted and the wind whipped his hair. He ducked inside to get things ready. He cleaned it often, even without guests, so all he had to do was put on fresh bedding. He was just tucking in the blanket when he heard a car engine approach and then turn off. The doorbell rang a few seconds later.
He opened the door, and even though he’d shielded himself as fully as possible, an emotional wave hit him so hard that he gasped and fell back a step. The big man in front of him wasstone-faced, but his insides seethed with anger, regret, sorrow, loneliness, and uncertainty.
“Are you okay?” the man asked, brow drawn into a frown.
Keaton tried to get his shit together fast. “Yeah, I…. Sorry. I didn’t realize the storm had hit already. It’s nasty out there. Come in.”
Itwasnasty, with the sky gone almost night-dark, the wind sending leaves and small branches skittering down the street, and fat raindrops splattering on the pavement. The tornado sirens hadn’t gone off, however, so that was good.
Keaton shut the door and, inner protections redoubled, had a better look at his visitor, who stared at him quizzically. The man was tall and broad, heavy muscles evident beneath jeans and a plain black tee that both looked new. His size would have been truly intimidating if Keaton had sensed any hostility from him. He was clean-shaven, with broad cheekbones, serious brown eyes, and thick sandy hair not yet going gray although, like Keaton, he was probably in his mid-forties.
“I’m sorry,” said the man. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”
Which was when Keaton realized that he’d met this person—half a lifetime ago. Encountering him again wasn’t a complete shock, seeing as Copper Springs was the man’s hometown, but Keaton hadn’t exactly expected him to show up literally at his front door.
“I get that a lot,” he said, not untruthfully. “I guess I have one of those faces. I’m Keaton Gale.” He stuck out his hand.
