“Jav pick this one out?”
“Yes.”
Jonathan struggled onto his feet and dragged Kalyn back into the darkness of the trailer.
Will took the TrimTrac out of his pocket as Jonathan fumbled with a set of keys. He ran his hands under the metal step beneath the Idaho license plate.
A door in back of the trailer creaked open. Kalyn slid along the floor.
Will couldn’t find a surface large enough for all the magnets.
A door slammed, keys jangling.
Will crept around the corner of the trailer, stood up, unzipped his pants.
“The fuck are you doing?” Jonathan said.
“What’s it look like?” Will zipped his pants and spun around, Jonathan staring at him. “We done here?” Will said.
“Yeah. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m gonna have to tell my contact that Javier is no longer selecting. Up to the buyer if he wants to use you guys again. Won’t have nothing to do with me. I just wanna be clear so you don’t . . . if it turns out we can’t do business again, won’t be me ending the relationship.”
Will walked to the Land Rover and, despite his trembling hands, managed to get in and start it. He turned around between the rows of trucks and drove slowly away, watching Jonathan in the rearview mirror, and fighting against the thought that he’d seen the last he’d ever see of Kalyn Sharp.
The Last Frontier
TWENTY-SEVEN
Will and Devlin sat in the backseat of the Land Rover outside their motel room, staring at the computer screen.
“That woman has balls,” Devlin said.
“Yeah, she does.”
“So what are we looking at?”
“This is a Google map of the Boise area.”
“The truck’s not moving yet?”
“Doesn’t seem to be. Maybe Jonathan’s taking a nap before he hits the road. We should probably do the same.” He opened the door. “Come on. I’ve got this thing set to fire up when the truck starts to move.”
Will found it almost impossible to sleep, afraid he wouldn’t hear the electronic notification that the TrimTrac had changed positions. But with the computer sitting on the bedside table, humming quietly, he finally succumbed.
His dreams came in waves, repetitive and fevered. He dreamed he woke up and the computer was gone. Dreamed it had melted into a puddle of plastic, got fried by a lightning strike. Dreamed he slept for two weeks and never heard a thing.
His eyes shot open at 4:14 A.M. He sat up in bed, instantly awake. The computer was making noise—some kind of digital alarm. He turned on the bedside table lamp and opened the laptop. As the screen sprung to life, his eyes came into focus and he saw that the icon on the Google map was no longer across the interstate at exit 64.
He shook his daughter out of sleep, and when her eyes opened, he said, “Time to go, Devi. They’re on the move.”
. . .
By the time Will merged southbound onto I-84, Jonathan’s truck had a ten-mile head start. He’d set Devlin up in the backseat with the computer, given her a crash course, and she now knew the program as well as he did, calling out updates every couple of minutes.
At sunup, they were speeding east through Twin Falls.
As morning swung into full gear, they were heading northbound on I-15, climbing steadily into the high country of southwest Montana.
They gave Jonathan’s truck a solid five-mile berth, and what had been pure exhilaration at the outset soon deteriorated into mind-numbing monotony.
There was no stopping.
Dillon. Butte. Helena. Big Sky Country.
On the plains, ten miles north of Great Falls, it occurred to Will where Jonathan was heading, and Devlin must’ve heard him sigh, because she said, “What’s wrong, Dad?”
“He’s going to Canada.”
“Cool, I’ve never—”
“No, not cool, Devi. We have a gun in the car and we’re fugitives.”
“That gun’s illegal?”
“It is in Canada.”
“But we have identification for Joe and Samantha Foster, right?”
It was true. Will carried Social Security cards, a driver’s license, passports, and certified copies of their birth certificates at all times, though he’d had only one interaction with law enforcement—a city cop at a DUI checkpoint near their home in Colorado.
They stopped in the town of Shelby, Montana, thirty miles south of the border, and after thirteen straight hours of driving, Will’s legs cramped as he stepped out of the Land Rover and swiped his credit card at the pump. While the tank filled with gas, he stashed the small Glock in his leather jacket and approached a pair of Dumpsters behind the convenience store.
The gun clanged inside the empty bin.
In the store, Will used the rest room, and he and Devlin loaded up on junk food, soft drinks, coffee, packs of NoDoz.
By the time they were back on the road, it was evening, and the little icon representing Jonathan’s truck on the Google map stood motionless for the first time all day on the Montana-Alberta border.
“I need you to listen to me, baby girl. What’s your name?”
“Samantha Foster.”
“Where do you live?”
“Mancos, Colorado.”
“What’s my name?”
“Joseph Foster.”
“Why are we going to Canada?”
“To follow a renegade FBI agent in the back of a transfer—”
“Not funny. The Canadian border agents won’t have a sense of humor. What they do have is the power to detain us—on any old whim. Something goes wrong? That’s it for Kalyn. So you be respectful, give the information requested, but nothing more. The story is, that you and I are going to visit a friend in Calgary.”
“Shouldn’t I be in school?”
“You’re home-schooled.”
“What’s our friend’s name?”
“Nathan Banks.”
“How long are we staying?”
“A week.”
“You’re a really good liar, Dad.”
