54

Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Orange juice. Toast. All of it gone within minutes.

“Wow.” The waitress smiled at Mila as she picked up the empty plate. “Guess you were hungry, huh?”

Mila wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“So they say. You need anything else?”

She was still hungry, could have eaten another meal. According to Ash, your appetite was supposed to increase as you came down from crystal, and Mila could testify to it. But she wasn’t exactly flush with cash, and who knew how long she would have to stake out this town?

“Maybe just some more orange juice,” Mila said. “And also, like, a map?”

The waitress shook her head. “Orange juice I can do. For a map, you’ll have to go over to Big Al’s across the highway. He’ll sort you out.”

“Okay,” Mila told her. “Thanks.”

“You looking for anything in particular?”

Anyone, Mila thought. Yes, I am. I just don’t know a damn thing about him. “Not really,” she told the waitress. “Just trying to get a feel for the area.”

The diner didn’t have Wi-Fi, not officially. But it did have an unprotected router. Mila found the signal on her phone, connected to it. It was weak, but it would do. But her battery was at six percent.

Crap.

She looked around the restaurant, the walls beneath the booths. Couldn’t find an outlet anywhere.

“Do you have anywhere I could charge this?” she asked the waitress, who’d just returned with her orange juice.

“I can charge it in the office in back,” the waitress replied. “Tell you what: you leave your phone with me, go over to Big Al’s and buy your map. You can spread that map out here when you get back, get a feel for the area while you wait on your phone. I’ll even keep you in orange juice.”

Mila dug into her packsack. Came out with her charger. “Thank you so much,” she said, handing the phone to the waitress. “I’ll be right back.”

—

Big Al’s Gas Stop was a little two-pump operation with a single mechanic’s stall. A little bell chimed as Mila walked in through the doors. There was a man at the cash register, a large guy with a mustache whom Mila assumed was Big Al. She smiled quickly at him, then took in the store: magazines, beef jerky, a cooler of beer and soda in the back. Cigarettes behind the counter and a rack of map books in the corner. A couple of aisles of overripe fruit, stale bread, candy bars, and toilet paper. Judging from the look of the place, it functioned as the sole source of groceries within a fifteen-mile radius, though it wasn’t exactly a booming business.

The rack of map books, Mila discovered, had everything from the continent down to the county—Glacier National Park, the Pacific Northwest, even a map of Canada. As Mila turned the rack, the little doorbell chimed again and someone walked into the store.

It was a man, middle-aged, in an army parka and snow boots. He’d come out of a truck parked at the curb, an old Chevy Suburban, white and blue. Mila watched him stamp the snow off his boots, watched him nod to Big Al. Watched as he started through the aisles, as he studied a bunch of black bananas nearby.

Desperate times, Mila thought. Man, it would suck to live here.

She picked up the map of Flathead County and brought it up to Big Al’s cash counter. “Do you have anything with more detail than this?” she asked.

Big Al shifted in his chair slowly, like the effort required was nearly more than he could handle. He picked up the map as if testing its weight. “What are you looking for?”

“A map of the region,” Mila told him. “Anchor Falls and the surrounding area, I guess. Just something with a lot of detail.”

“Like a topographical map.”

“Yes. Exactly. Do you have any of those?”

Big Al slid the map back across the counter. Rearranged himself in his chair. “We don’t stock topographical maps,” he told her. “Only maps I have are on that rack over there.”

Mila spread the map open on the counter. Found Anchor Falls, a little dot on the railroad tracks, the highway a thin line. You couldn’t even see the intersecting roads in town. Shit.

Someone coughed, and Mila turned to find the guy in the army parka standing behind her. He had an armload of groceries—including those black bananas—and he looked like he was waiting to pay.

“Sorry,” Mila told him, folding the map up again. “I guess I’ll take this. How much?”

Big Al shifted again. Peered down at the map. “Says six ninety-five.”

“Six ninety-five.” Mila dug into her pockets for her wallet. Remembered she wanted a pack of cigarettes, too, but caught a sudden funny feeling before she could get the words out, a feeling like she should be scared of something, but she had no idea what.

She found a ten, stuffed the rest of her money away. Slid the ten across to Big Al, who took forever to ring up the sale. Mila tucked the map under her arm, stuffed her change into her pocket. Turned to go, and as she turned, she caught sight of the man behind her again, and then she knew why she was scared.

The man had his parka unbuttoned to reach his wallet. He was wearing a plaid flannel shirt underneath, tucked into a pair of blue jeans. But it wasn’t his clothes that stopped Mila short. It was the knife on his belt.

It was a bowie knife, a long one, hanging at his side. A beautiful, custom-tooled handle, an Indian woman on horseback. Mila stared at the knife, felt her stomach turn over. She knew that knife. She’d seen it before.

That was Ash’s knife on that man’s belt.