At midnight, Buddy began his own routine of packing up. Since he’d worked two shifts already, Neal had left it up to him about whether to work the overnight. Ever since that harrowing caller, Pooh Bear, the dude from Detroit, his nerves had left him jittery and anxious.
He needed to get out of the station, to clear his mind, think, and reassess his situation. He’d landed in this fly-speck burg in the Florida Panhandle because it was a place where nothing ever happened. And that had been true until a week ago, when Symmes Robinette’s car had flipped and burst into flames. The death of the congressman and the ensuing circus was shining a national spotlight on Silver Bay.
Was it time to pack up and move on? He hoped not. After six years, he’d grown fond of this place.
Just before he left, he cued up the tape of one of his “Best of Buddy” programs.
As he was pulling the Corvette onto Main Street, he spotted the blue Subaru as it idled in front of the drugstore. He recognized the car and the driver. Conley Hawkins, the hotshot reporter who’d moved to Silver Bay under her own set of mysterious circumstances. She was the competition, and he should have resented her. Instead, he admired her gumption and her drive. She reminded him of himself, back when he was young and hungry and burning up with ambition. Before Detroit.
Half a block before she reached the drugstore, he saw the black Ford pickup slide onto the street, keeping back a little, right until the moment when she slowed to a near stop. The driver braked, then held back until he was a few car lengths behind.
Buddy recognized the truck and the driver, although he didn’t know the guy’s name.
He’d seen the driver quite a few times, saw him walking into the Waffle House late at night, flirting with the waitresses, loitering in a booth while he idly stared down at his phone. He’d spotted him again earlier in the day, hanging around the shadows of the courthouse square, during the press conference. Now he was back, apparently following Conley Hawkins.
Common sense said he should mind his own business and go on home. Curiosity drove him to tail both the Subaru and the truck as they drove west, in the direction of the beach.
For once, Buddy wished he were driving something less noticeable than the ’Vette. Everybody in town recognized his flashy car with the WORKING PRESS vanity plate. He’d liked that, liked being the closest thing to a celebrity in Silver Bay. Driving the ’Vette made him feel like a big shot. But now, if the truck’s driver bothered to glance in his rearview mirror, there could be trouble. The kind of trouble he didn’t need.
When they reached the causeway that led to the beach, he almost did a U-turn. But something made him keep going.
The Subaru and the black truck slowed at the beach road, with its twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit. For the second time, he fought the urge to turn around. He inched along in the wake of the two vehicles, the only ones on the road at this late hour. He saw the Subaru’s brake lights flare red, and she pulled into a crushed-shell driveway in front of a rambling old wood-frame beach cottage. The faded lettering on the mailbox said THE DUNES, EST. 1923.
The truck kept going, but only for about half a block. Then it slowed and turned into the sandy drive of a half-built house under construction. Buddy drove on for another block, then did a quick U-turn, pulling onto the shoulder of the road with the Vette facing the truck.
He watched while the driver pulled as far forward as possible, until a construction dumpster nearly concealed it. The driver got out of the car, looked around, then slipped quickly down the sandy path through the dunes.
Buddy waited, wrestling the urge to flee. He had no business here, and whatever happened next was none of his business. He was tired and needed to think.
When he got back to his snug garage apartment, he parked and went around to the trunk. He pulled out the vinyl dustcover and lovingly placed it over the Vette, as he did every night.
Inside the apartment, he moved quickly through the tiny rooms, gathering books, clothes, and his album collection. He went into the bathroom and dumped his toiletries into a plastic zip baggie.
Something brushed against his ankle, and he nearly screamed. But looking down, he saw that it was only Hi-Fi, his black cat.
She meowed loudly and rubbed her hindquarters against his ankles. He closed the commode cover, sat down, and scooped her into his arms, stroking her fur repeatedly.
“Did you think I’d leave you?” he whispered into her ear. She purred, and he hugged her. “I would never.”
Holding Hi-Fi always made him feel calmer, more centered. He walked into the living room and sank down into the sofa cushions with the cat in his arms.
Buddy looked around the room. Over his years on the run, he’d winnowed out his possessions to just the things that would fit in the trunk of the Vette. By design, the sum of his belongings could be packed in less than twenty minutes. All his business dealings were on a cash basis.
He could leave right now and be several states away by morning. When he was good and clear of Silver Bay, he could place an anonymous call to the newspaper and alert Conley Hawkins to the shadowy dude who was following her. He’d gotten good in his role as the anonymous tipster. Too good, maybe.
Payday was another week away. He could stay and watch and listen. He’d keep his head down, hoping that nobody would turn around and watch the watcher.