“There’s the truck right there,” I said, pointing into the lot. The blue pickup was parked crooked beside the cluster of vans, trucks, SUVs, and other vehicles. Steve slowed down, approaching the scene carefully.
Now that I was closer, I saw just how blindingly bright the fairground lights were. The workers—volunteers from town, I assumed—had already constructed two huge tents, not as large as circus tents, but still big enough to house dozens of disaster victims, with two more ready to be erected. The canvases had been painted in different designs: red with white snowflakes, white with green Christmas trees, that sort of thing.
Everyone was working. They were unfolding canvas, connecting pipes, uncoiling electrical cable, whatever it took. No one was standing around watching. No one was fighting. Two people stopped and embraced while a third person rested a hand on their shoulders, but that looked like grieving. The predator wasn’t there.
In the far end of the parking lot, half hidden among the trees, was the Neon I’d rented. I hoped Catherine was there and that she was okay. I’d check later, if I had the chance.
I saw a shape move behind a van. “Stop. Stop!” I said, unclicking my seat belt and opening my door.
“Heaven’s sake, stay in the car.” Steve’s voice was tense.
I didn’t. He chirped the brakes as I climbed out, nearly dumping me on the ground. I ran around the edge of the parked cars, then dropped low.
Christ, the asphalt was cold. Why hadn’t I used my plastic to buy gloves? I peered under the cars, looking for moving feet and, maybe, a glimpse of a blue leg. No luck. I scrambled to my feet and peered through the car windows. Still no luck.
Steve had circled around the cluster of vehicles. He was too close, only ten feet from the pastor’s pickup. He should have known better. It occurred to me that I could use him as a distraction, as a wooden man, but I rejected that idea. I wasn’t here to sacrifice innocent people. I wanted to save them, not destroy them.
Several of the builders had noticed me creeping around their cars and stopped working. “Hey! Fella!” someone shouted. Six or seven of the workers began walking this way. Crap.
I was about to ask about a dog when Steve’s reedy voice cut through. “Have any of you boys seen Pastor Dolan?”
That question stopped them cold. The man in the front, wearing a wool-lined jacket and hunter’s cap, waved an arm vaguely behind him. “His truck broke down. Esteban is giving him a ride somewhere.”
I looked across the field in the direction Hunting Cap had waved. Midway down the tree line, there was a break in the woods. It was another feeder road.
“You saw that?” Steve asked him. “You saw the pastor get into his truck?”
“Yeah,” Hunting Cap said. “He was carrying something in his arms, like a load of laundry or something.”
I was already running toward the car when Steve called my name. Justy threw open the back door for me and yelled: “If you see either of them again, keep away! Let everyone know!” I climbed in and slammed the door shut. Steve raced down the slope across the grass toward the second feeder road.
The seat belt was difficult to click with the bumps and jolts of the uneven ground, but I managed it. “What kind of truck does Esteban have?”
“Cube truck,” Justy answered. “He’s a plumber.” Her tone was clipped. Steve hissed as he jounced around behind the wheel.
We reached the feeder road without breaking an axle, and Steve slowed. This road was made of mud and ruts. We had to be careful, or we were going to be stranded.
I wondered whether we’d find Aaron or Esteban in the truck when we caught up with it. So far, none of the people who’d been marked by the sapphire dog had wanted to share.
We hit a deep pothole, and the whole frame jolted. Steve slowed even more, which frustrated me even though I knew it was the smart thing to do. I hoped that whoever was driving the truck was less sensible and had stranded himself.
It didn’t happen. We eventually reached a two-lane asphalt road. There were no taillights visible in either direction.
“Town is to the left,” Steve said. He turned that way, really giving it gas.
I knew the road to the right also led to town, although it was a longer drive, but fair enough. I sat in my seat, staring ahead. The road twisted and curved, but there were no turnoffs. Eventually, we came to the top of a rise and I could see the lights of Washaway below.
“There he is,” Justy said. I saw a pair of taillights speeding toward town. Steve stomped on the gas, and for once I wished we were in a genuine cop car with lights, sirens, and everything. We zoomed down the hill, taking a long, slow curve at twice the speed the top-heavy truck could manage.
Justy turned around and stared at me blankly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “At Big Penny’s, I wasn’t ready. I ran —”
“Don’t worry about it. You didn’t do anything wrong.” I meant it. She looked grateful, then nodded and turned around.
Within two minutes, we were right behind him, honking our horn. Of course, the truck didn’t pull over.
“Dad-blastit,” Steve said. We angled across the double yellow line to pull alongside him, but the cube truck swerved, nearly smashing us off the road into the trees. Justy screamed, and Steve slammed on the brakes. I wished I could drag him out of his seat and jump behind the wheel.
“Esteban’s not answering his phone,” Justy said, snapping her cell shut. “I’m going to try Aaron now.”
We hung back from the truck for a few seconds. The gun in my pocket was out of bullets, and I didn’t think Steve would loan me his so I could shoot at the truck’s tires. Hell, I couldn’t hit the pastor’s tires when he was pulling out of a parking spot. There was no reason to think I’d do better now.
Of course, I also had my ghost knife. It would hit whatever I wanted it to hit, but it was just a piece of paper.
