Liquid Smoke

SIXTY-THREE

It took two more nights before I could shake free. The police had no luck in finding Keene, even after I shared my belief that he was responsible for the destruction of Carter’s car. He was running free somewhere.

The media had made themselves at home on the boardwalk and in the alley. I tried to get out once to go to the grocery store, but I was immediately swarmed and I retreated inside. The vans were spending the night in the alley—anytime I stepped outside, even in the middle of the night, someone on watch snapped to life.

I was fed up with being trapped in my own house and told Carter I was getting out that night, regardless of who followed me. We made plans to meet five blocks away a little after midnight. The boardwalk was empty, and I walked all the way down to the shoreline and then up the beach before turning back up and getting out onto Mission. My long way around worked, and I arrived out on the street alone.

Carter pulled up in a Ford F-250 pickup, the huge diesel engine idling like a plane’s as I opened the door.

“Yours?” I asked as I stepped up and into the cab.

“Sort of,” he said, shrugging.

I reminded myself not to ask.

We made the drive out to Bareva in under an hour, thanks to the time of night. The casino was lit up like Christmas, and the parking lot was nearly full.

Cha-ching.

We parked at the far end of the lot, and Carter shut off the engine.

“We just nap now?” Carter asked.

I nodded. “Yeah. Nothing to do until morning.” I glanced at him. “You got what you need?”

He pointed his thumb toward the rear window and the bed of the truck. “Back there.”

I twisted around and saw a black tarp with a few shapes barely visible beneath it.

“Wake me when you’re ready,” he said, slouching down and closing his eyes.