In the DSS this kind of information had beenright at his fingertips, but now days…not so easy. California hadstrict laws about allowing civilians access to DMV records. Onceupon a time anyone could run a license plate, but now release ofpersonal information was restricted by the Information PracticesAct of 1977 and the federal Driver’s Privacy Protection Act of1994. Any request for information meant the subject was notified ofthe request. These laws provided excellent protection for citizensbut they were a PIA if you were a global security consultant whoneeded info fast and didn’t want to spook his subject.
Granted, there were private firms who couldprovide that info given time and money, but if someone was gunningfor them, Taylor didn’t want to waste time on figuring that out.They still had contacts at the California DMV. He and Will triednot to tap their old associates because — unlike on TV — gettingsomeone to circumvent the system too many times resulted inreprimands and loss of employment. Not the way to treat afriend.
He was probably paranoid, but he couldn’tshake the feeling that running into Mr. Black hadn’t beencoincidence. Mr. Black hadn’t been surprised to run into him, no,he’d been uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because he hadn’twanted to be spotted by Taylor. Because he was following them?That’s how it looked from Taylor’s perspective.
He dialed the California Department of MotorVehicles in Ventura and asked for Ms. Euphonia Jones. He was stillon hold when Cousin Dennis ran out onto the deck.
“Someone’s coming!” Cousin Dennis lookedpale and wild-eyed.
Taylor disconnected. “Okay. Well —”
“A white pickup is coming down theroad!”
The dogs barking from the front of the houseseemed to confirm this intelligence.
Taylor swore inwardly, and led the way backinside. How the hell was Cousin Dennis suddenly his problem?“Is this the first vehicle that’s shown up since you arrived?”
“No. You showed up.”
Taylor drew a long breath and mentallycounted to…three. “Who is it you think is coming after you?”
Cousin Dennis stared at him, silent andstricken.
“Hell.” Taylor went to the window and gazedout. A white pickup was indeed traveling at a fair clip down thedirt road, bouncing over potholes and rivulets.
No way would Bill Brandt have left CousinDennis here on his own if he’d thought there was a chance in hellof anyone coming after him.
On the other hand, Cousin Dennis was inWITSEC for a reason.
“Is there a cellar or a basement in thishouse?”
“A cellar. Yeah. They use it as a saferoom.”
“Get down there and lock yourself in.”Taylor brushed past Cousin Dennis on his way to Will’s bedroom. Hedug his SIG Sauer out of his bag and returned to the front roomwhere Cousin Dennis was still standing paralyzed.
Taylor jostled his arm. “Hey. Snap out ofit.”
Cousin Dennis blinked at him.
“I don’t know what your story is, but I cantell you that nobody is sending a hit squad after you in the formof a couple of yahoos in a beat-up pickup truck. All the same, getyour ass in that cellar and don’t come out until I give you the allclear.”
Cousin Dennis seemed to have to work tounstick first one foot then the other, but at last he pulled freeof his inertia and disappeared down the hall. Taylor jammed hispistol in the back band of his jeans and strolled out onto thefront deck watching as the white pickup jounced to a stop on thehillside below. Riley and Roxie trotted up the steps to standbeside him. They had stopped barking and were watching the pickuptruck with evident anticipation.
Three guys, who looked like extras fromDuck Dynasty, were crammed in the cab of the rumbling truck,apparently getting the lay of the land. Blake Shelton’s “Mine WouldBe You” blasted off the surrounding mountains, and several emptybeer bottles, rolling around in the bed of the truck, clinkedcheerfully.
“Wow,” muttered Taylor, and Riley wagged histail as though in agreement.
Taylor lifted a hand in greeting.
One of the yahoos, dressed in woodland camo— complete with matching bandana — crawled out of the truck windowand jumped to the ground.
“Is Brandt here?” he yelled. He was a bigman. Some of it was muscle, some of it was flab, a lot of it washair. Long black hair and long black beard. Altogether, it amountedto a sizeable and sturdy form.
Taylor relaxed. Not that he had reallythought this was some country cousin branch of the mob come huntingCousin Dennis, but life could be weird.
He called back, “Nope. Anything I can do foryou?”
“Who are you?”
“Who wants to know?”
The guy said impatiently, “I want toknow.”
I’m Larry; this is my brother Darryl, andthis is my other brother Darryl. Taylor bit back aninappropriate smile. First rule of visiting the in-laws: Nolaughing at the local wild life.
“And you are —?”
“Going to kick your ass if you don’t tell mewhat I want to know!” The big man drew himself up as thoughreadying for battle.
Really? Taylor sighed. The weary soundcarried in the sharp, crystalline air and Larry looked a littlediscomfited.
He recovered though, cheered on by the othertwo in the cab who were calling instructions to him, thoughunintelligible over the music and the truck engine. He bristled.“You a cop?”
“Something like that.” Actually, that was nolonger true, and Taylor was startled to realize it.
But it was certainly true in spirit, andLarry bought it. He deflated a little, glancing back at the truckand his snarling kinfolk. Whatever messages of hope and comfortthey were delivering seemed to inspire him. He yelled, “You tellBrandt that the Dooleys are looking for him.”
Taylor put a hand to his ear. “Sorry. Imissed that. Who?”
“The Dooleys.”
“The…?”
“DOOLEYS,” roared Larry.
“Right. Got it.” Taylor leaned comfortablyon the railing, smiling down at Larry who looked more and morebaffled. “I’ll let ‘em know.”
Larry stared at him a moment longer and thenclimbed awkwardly, heavily back through the truck window. He wasnot built for climbing in and out of truck windows, and theendeavor revealed more glimpses of fish-white anatomy than Taylorwanted to see before breakfast.
When Larry was once more packed inside thesardine can, the truck pulled away in a wide arc, sending stonesand beer bottles flying.
Blake Shelton’s voice faded mournfully intothe distance.
“I need
