“And that’s the best news.”

“Please, Agent Savich, where is my car?”

Savich said, “They towed your car to the best and most honest mechanic in Parlow—you can’t trust the others worth spit, so Mort, Sheriff Hollyfield’s dispatcher, told me. Anyway, that excellent mechanic can’t get to your car for a couple of days. He’s really backed up.”

“Yeah, right,” Rachael said. “I’ll bet you terrified him down to his socks, threatened him if he didn’t say that.”

“I suppose that’s possible,” Sherlock said, and gave Rachael a sunny smile. “He can do anything.”

“She likes to suck up to the boss sometimes,” Savich said. “As I said, Parlow’s got other mechanics, most attached to gas stations, but the sheriff strongly recommended against them. So did the dispatcher. These guys must know, Rachael.”

“There’s got to be another honest mechanic.”

“Well, all right, there is one, but he’s down with a bad back.” She watched Agent Savich shrug, the jerk. He continued without pause to Jack. “Dr. MacLean’s still out of it, so they don’t know yet what’s going on with him. They’re calling his condition guarded.

“Tommy Jerkins should be here anytime to check out the plane. Okay, Sherlock, if you come with me, I’ve got more calls to make from Sheriff Hollyfield’s office. I want to make sure, too, that his deputies have arrived at the hospital to do guard duty. You really are better, aren’t you?” he asked Jack.

Jack said, “Well, I don’t want to moan anymore, so that’s something.”

“Good. All right then, you can question Rachael, sift through more of her memories of the crash. Remember, Rachael, anything you might remember could be of great help. We’ll see you guys a bit later.”

What Savich had really meant was keep Rachael close, Jack thought. Once alone, he said, “You ready to tell me your last name?”

NINE

It’s Abercrombie.” Why had that ridiculous name popped into her head? “How’s your leg?”

“It will heal, thank you for asking. I can’t go to the gym for a week, then I’ve got to go easy for a while.” Jack buttoned his shirt, then threw back the single sheet before realizing he was wearing only his boxer shorts. He quickly pulled the sheet back to his waist. “Since my head isn’t going to explode, I’m ready to get up now. Dr. Post said it was okay as long as I don’t attempt a marathon,” and he smiled. “Would you hand me my pants, Rachael? They’re on the hook on the back of the door.”

She handed him his dirty, ripped pants and left the room, saying over her shoulder, “You’re going to look like the leftovers from a drug war.”

“Nice image.”

They left the Parlow Clinic with the nurse muttering under her breath about macho men with muscles in their heads, Jack clutching a prescription for pain pills in his hand.

She eyed the prescription and said, “First let’s go to Pea-body’s Pharmacy.”

“Nah, I don’t really need any more pain meds right now.”

“You will soon enough.”

“No, I think—”

“Shut up, Jack.” And so Jack shut up, cupped her elbow, as if afraid she’d bolt, knowing he couldn’t catch her.

“I think Agent Savich got you a room at the B&B where we’re all staying. If you’re wondering, everything is ducks around here. I was thinking Old Squaw Lane over there was a tacky insult, but no, it’s a duck.”

“Well, of course it is,” Jack said, aiming her toward Pea-body’s Pharmacy. Once he had a bottle of Vicodin in his pocket, and one in his mouth, they walked to the sheriff’s office at the top of First Street, next to the firehouse. “I wonder if the firefighters have lots of business—look at all these old wooden buildings.”

“Hey, are you the pilot of what’s left of the Cessna rescue plane?”

Jack smiled at the tall, fit fiftyish woman with cropped salt-and-pepper hair and a drill sergeant’s voice. She stood right in front of them on the sidewalk by the big glass window of the sheriff’s office. “Yes,” he said, and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m Dot—Dorothy Malone—silly name my parents fastened on me, but my daddy loved her, the actress, you know. I spent a little time looking over your plane. I’m thinking bomb, but the sucker didn’t do the trick, thank God.”

“Actually,” Rachael said, “thank God for Cudlow Valley.”

Dot nodded. “That’s for sure, but still, that must have been some flying you did.”

“Thank you.”

“Sheriff Hollyfield’s assigned a deputy to guard the wreckage.”

“Good thinking,” Jack said, shook her hand, and opened the door to the sheriff’s office. Jack knew Dot Malone was right. If the bomb had worked as expected, both he and Timothy would be memories. Fortunately, he’d had time to send the mayday and to spot Cudlow Valley stretching narrow and straight between that impossible mess of mountains.

There was no one at the front desk, so he and Rachael walked through a large room that held ten or so cubicles, three occupied by uniformed deputies who watched their every move. Jack nodded to each of the men, no women, and continued to follow the sound of Savich’s voice to Sheriff Hollyfield’s sparse office. Jack saw Savich on the phone through the open door. Rachael shoved Jack into a chair, eyed him. “Here I thought you were well enough to make this little trek, but you’re not. You’re hurting again. Stay put and don’t you move. Give the pain med a chance to kick in.”

“Nah, I’m—”

“Be quiet. What you really need to do is crawl into bed for a while and sleep. Lean your head back, close your eyes, and rest your mouth.”

No sooner had Savich hung up than Tommy Jerkins poked his head in.

Things moved quickly. Savich and Sherlock and Sheriff Hollyfield went with Tommy out to the crash site. Even better, ten minutes later, after the blessed Vicodin was happily swimming in his bloodstream and Jack could see straight, he and Rachael walked over to Greeb’s Pond, the finest lodging in Parlow.

Rachael held him up while Mrs. Flint checked him into the last available room.

Mrs. Flint said, “You’re the federal agent whose plane was shot down and landed on the highway, right?”