Tavish was vaguely aware of movement, being carried, a soft surface under her cheek, a calloused hand brushing her hair from her face. What a strange dream. Blinding lights, barking . . . The nostril-burning reek of ammonia made her eyes fly open.
“She’s coming to.” Two men crouched in front of her. The wild-haired man reached forward with the reeking ammonia smell.
“No!” Tavish covered her nose and struggled to sit up.
“Just stay put.” Sawyer placed a firm hand on her shoulder.
Sawyer? “Wha . . . what are you doing here?” she croaked.
“Never mind that. What happened to you?” He sat on a metal kitchen chair.
“Panic attack.” She managed to sit upright on a threadbare sofa. She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I thought I’d stopped having them. At least that severe. I feel like an idiot.”
Marley wiggled out of Sawyer’s arms and jumped up beside her on the sofa.
The wild-haired man scrunched his face. “Hey, lady, I’m sorry. I’m security conscious out here, ya know, with all the fringe crazies who call me up and claim Martians have invaded earth or the government is using mind control. I’m Dusty Rhodes, by the way.”
“Evelyn McTavish. Call me Tavish,” she said automatically, then offered her hand.
Dusty shook it briefly while studying her face, then said, “Any relation to Helen McTavish Richmond?”
“My mother. Why do you ask?”
Instead of answering, Dusty turned to Sawyer. “And you are?”
“Sawyer Price.”
“Are you two together?”
Tavish opened her mouth to answer, but Sawyer beat her to it. “She was recently visiting the Kéyah archaeological site doing a bit of . . . research. I was making sure she made it home safely.”
She stared at him. There was no doubt he’d followed her. The question was why.
Dusty sat on a yellow lawn chair. “Okay. Do ya want to explain what you’re doing here? Or were ya lost?”
“I was listening to your show . . . Wait, aren’t you doing your show right now?”
Dusty jabbed a thumb in the direction of a small kitchen. It had been turned into a radio station. “Prerecorded. Go on. You were listening to my show . . . ?”
“You don’t sound the same as you do on the radio.”
“Ah, you mean like this?” Dusty’s voice deepened and his words became clipped. “Good evening, folks, and welcome to station KZRT.”
“Amazing. Anyway, you mentioned microchips and placing microchips into people—”
“Ya don’t actually believe that stuff, do you?” Dusty shook his head.
“You don’t believe it?” Sawyer asked. “But it’s your show.”
Dusty waved away Sawyer’s comment. “My topics are like my radio voice. For effect. It’s a paying gig. Entertainment. It was about all I could do for work once I got out.”
“Out?” Sawyer asked.
“Of prison.”
Tavish was suddenly grateful for Sawyer’s presence. She took in her surroundings. The trailer had stained wood-paneled walls, ripped avocado shag carpet, and a half-empty bucket resting on a chunk of plywood under a ceiling drip. It smelled of mildew and spoiled milk. She tried not to look too closely at the sofa.
“So, Miss, um, Tavish, how can I help you? Why are you interested in microchips?” Dusty spoke softly.
Marley had placed her two front paws on Tavish’s lap, rested her head on them, and was watching Tavish’s every move. “A man by the name of John Coyote had a microchip placed in his dog—this dog—but put my name as the contact. I barely knew him and had just drawn a portrait for him. He was murdered.”
“Okay, ya have my attention. Tell me about this guy who got murdered.”
“She drew his picture,” Sawyer said.
Both men looked at her. “I’ll go get it.” She started to rise, but Sawyer placed a hand on her shoulder. The room spun for a moment. She sank back down.
“Tell me where it is and I’ll get it,” Sawyer said.
“Back seat, in the black bag, tucked into a sketchpad.”
Sawyer nodded toward the door. “Do you think you could turn off all the bells and whistles?”
“Oh, sure.” Dusty stood, stepped into the kitchen, flipped a switch, then returned to the lawn chair.
After Sawyer stood and left the trailer to retrieve her sketches, she explained further about the murder, Fake Cop, neighbor, tracking device in her car, and gas explosion.
“You’re sounding like someone who would call me,” Dusty said, “and that’s not a compliment.”
Tavish squeezed her hands into fists. Why was it so hard to convince anyone of the truth? “I thought you might have an idea what was going on.”
Dusty shifted in the lawn chair, sending out a metallic twang. “Microchips, the ones we put into animals, are designed to be read from a short distance. They don’t transmit. You can’t track anyone with them.”
“But you told that lady on the radio that she could be on to something.”
He made a pffff sound. “I said it was an interesting subject. Like I said, entertainment.”
“You mentioned companies that were making microchips—”
Dusty snapped his fingers and jumped to his feet. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Your mother. Microchips.” He moved to the kitchen, retrieved an old grimy laptop, and returned to his seat. After tapping on the keypad for a moment, he turned the computer around so she could see the screen. It displayed a long list of names. She recognized several at the top from the list he’d recited on the radio. Nanoace, Ichip, Cryprochip.
She looked up at him. “You read some of these names? Microchip manufacturers.”
“Keep reading.”
Her gaze returned to the screen. She saw the name in the third column. Softmode Testing.
She blinked. The name remained. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you’re beginning to. Your mother, Helen McTavish Richmond, is the owner and CEO of Softmode Testing.”
“My mother owns many companies,” Tavish said through stiff lips. “She’s an astute businesswoman. That particular enterprise does product testing. It has nothing to do with microchips.”
“And you know this because . . . ?” Dusty asked. “Does your mom tell you about the inner workings of her companies?”
She started to look for a handy hangnail to work on, but Marley slipped into her lap. She hugged the dog instead. “No. But she offered me a position with this one.”
“How much do you know about Softmode Testing?” Dusty asked.
“They have a large building on the edge of town. I’ve been there a few times. They get contracts to do custom tests on different products. Um . . . not much else. Why?”
Dusty stared at the mottled ceiling for a moment. “I’ve heard rumors. That’s all. I’ve heard your mother has expensive tastes.”
Tavish wrinkled her nose. “What does that have to do with anything? She makes a lot of money.”
“And spends it. I heard about her art collection.”
Marley sat up, whined, then jumped to the floor. Tavish bent forward to retrieve her before she could explore the trailer.
The windows and door exploded in a torrent of gunfire.