Dead Silver

47

The constrictive feel of phosphor eased off as we drove home, through forest that gradually opened up into ranch land and then the miles-wide expanse of the Helena Valley, funneling into the apex of the old part of town rising up against the mountains to the south. We arrived in the last throes of after-work traffic. a joke by big-city standards, but it had thickened enough over the past years to become a nuisance. At least it had a healthy bustle.

Instead of going straight to my cabin, we detoured past Renee's to make sure everything was okay. That neighborhood was well removed from the hum of commerce, and the streets were quiet as usual. Her house seemed fine from the outside, but I wanted to go in and take a look around. There was no telling who else might know she was back in town.

I still had very clear memories of the last time I'd pushed open that front door, and getting met with a blast of gunfire-so clear that as I got out of my truck, I had to stop and hyperventilate for a few seconds.

But this time, I never made it that far. Instead, I had a different deja vu, a tangible one. A couple hundred yards up the hillside, a dark-colored SUV was moving through the trees; apparently it had been stopped there and was leaving, accelerating onto the street.

The spot was exactly where I'd seen a dark blue SUV do exactly the same thing, right after Professor Callister's funeral-as if the driver had been watching the house.

I couldn't swear that this was the same vehicle, but it sure the hell looked similar.

Renee was fussing with something in her purse and hadn't yet gotten out of my truck. She looked up, startled, when I swung myself back in and jammed the key into the ignition. The old rig rocked with torque as the engine caught, and we both rocked with it as I wrestled it in and out of her driveway in a fast three-point turn, then stomped on the gas.

"Watch the cross streets for that son of a bitch," I told Renee. "If we get close enough, take the license number."

"What son of a bitch?" She was staring at me, her left hand braced against the dash and the other clutching her door handle. I realized she didn't have any idea what I was doing.

"Somebody was watching the house. Blue SUV, medium size, few years old."

"O-kay," she said uncertainly, still clinging to her handholds.

Two blocks farther, her quiet street intersected with the broader route of Montana Avenue, leading up the hill where the SUV had been parked. A couple of cars were approaching on it. They didn't have a stop sign; I did. I blew right through it, flashing my headlights and leaning on the horn. Brakes squealed and other horns blared back, but we got through untouched. We came out of the skidding left turn headed uphill, and I rammed the accelerator to the floor again. The engine throbbed with the strain of the steep climb, rattling the windows.

When we got to where I'd seen the SUV, it had disappeared.

I kept going on Montana, hoping that the driver had done the same. The street continued more or less straight on into the hills; I could see quite a ways ahead, and while a vehicle might briefly be hidden in a dip or curve, it would reappear within seconds.

It didn't. Either he also had his foot on the floor or he'd turned off. Some of the intersecting streets eventually led back into Helena or out of town, but almost all of them wound through newer developments laid out in labyrinthine lanes and cul-de-sacs.

I slowed the truck and glanced at Renee. She shook her head unhappily.

"I never saw it," she said.

Maybe the SUV driver had known we were after him, and hauled ass. Maybe we just weren't due this particular bit of luck.

The blaring of a horn behind us jerked my gaze to the rear-view mirror. A car was coming up on us fast. It damn near rear-ended us, then whipped around to pass, with the very pissed-off-looking guy behind the wheel leaning across the seat to give me the finger. It must have been one of the vehicles I'd almost collided with, back at the stop sign. I didn't blame him.

Out of frustration and stubbornness, I cruised around a few more minutes, then pulled over where the SUV had been parked. As I'd expected, the vantage point was excellent, on a downhill slope, hidden from passing cars, with a clear view of Renee's house-including into her bedroom windows.

It was time to report in to Gary Varna.