Read Online Mission Canyon by Meg Gardiner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Meg Gardiner
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from my glove compartment, and ate a bag of peanut M&M’s for lunch. I outlined the seminar I planned to give at the writers’ conference: conflict. Ha, easy. Follow me, class. Observe, and take notes. And I worked on Chromium Rain, the chapter where the heroine escapes from the ruins of Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. I kept an eye on the jail and the county sheriff’s headquarters next door to it. I didn’t want a curious deputy tapping on my window to ask why I was writing about blowing up NORAD.
And the coffee had run through me. I needed a bathroom. I looked at the jail, hoping that if Brand came out, it would be soon.
Did he plan to skip? I didn’t know. Despite Adam’s alarm, the idea of forfeiting $250,000 might deter a millionaire from running. Not to mention the thought of getting a bounty hunter after him. Moreover, I still believed Brand was in Santa Barbara on unfinished business.
By three o’clock I was squirming. I needed relief, but Adam hadn’t phoned. When my cell phone finally rang, I grabbed it and said, ‘‘Hello?’’
I think that’s what I said, but it may have come out as Grrr , because my brother said, ‘‘Well, aren’t you a bundle of sunshine.’’
"Brian." I fidgeted on the seat. ‘‘How’s D.C.?"
‘‘Humid. So sticky that to stand up I have to scrape my butt off the desk chair with a spatula.’’
He was at the Pentagon. It was a customary stop on a fighter pilot’s journey up the ranks in naval aviation, but he chafed at the desk job. The Pentagon could no longer be considered dull, safe duty, but it wasn’t an F/ A-18.
‘‘Listen, Ev, I’m calling to give you a heads-up. Company’s coming.’’
‘‘Really? Great, Bri, I can’t wait to see you and Luke—’’
‘‘Afraid it isn’t us. It’s Cousin Taylor.’’
My spirits, momentarily elevated, dropped. ‘‘You’re joking.’’
‘‘Sorry, sis. The Hard Talk Café is bringing her mouth to your town.’’
Across the street, a black Porsche Carrera pulled up at the jail. The driver got out, and I sat up straight. It was Kenny Rudenski.
Brian said, ‘‘I just talked to Mom. Taylor’s husband is being transferred. The oil company’s sending him to a rig in the Santa Barbara Channel.’’
Kenny smoothed his hair and went inside the jail. I scrambled over the gearshift into the front seat, feeling a ping from my bladder. Dropped into the driver’s seat, stuck the key in the ignition, and stopped.
‘‘Wait. Taylor is moving here?’’
‘‘There you go again, making that growling sound,’’ Brian said.
Kenny came out of the jail with Franklin Brand. I started my car. Even at this distance I could see that Brand didn’t seem cheerful. His face looked stiffer than a boxing glove. Wordlessly he and Kenny climbed into the Porsche.
‘‘I’ll call you back, Brian.’’
The Porsche pulled out. I let it go, waiting for a silver Mercedes SUV to pass before I fell in behind it, letting it screen me from Kenny’s view.
The Porsche got on the freeway and headed west into Goleta. When he pulled off so did I, keeping the Mercedes between us. The light was turning red but Kenny didn’t stop for it. The Porsche gunned onto Patterson. I braked, blocked by cars ahead in both lanes, peering past traffic to see which way Kenny was going. The Mercedes SUV was stopped next to me in the right lane, and I saw the driver and passenger doing the same thing I was.
Looking at the Porsche.
The passenger was a wiry young woman with whippet’s limbs and cropped black hair. She was craning her neck. The driver was a rotund man whose glasses nestled in skin the color of pancake batter. His double chin hung like a gourd below his beardlet. The woman pointed at Kenny’s car. The driver spun the wheel and maneuvered the Mercedes onto the shoulder, around the cars in front of him, and made the turn.
They were following him, too. For a moment I felt a bizarre competitive urge, and I started to spin the wheel
And the coffee had run through me. I needed a bathroom. I looked at the jail, hoping that if Brand came out, it would be soon.
Did he plan to skip? I didn’t know. Despite Adam’s alarm, the idea of forfeiting $250,000 might deter a millionaire from running. Not to mention the thought of getting a bounty hunter after him. Moreover, I still believed Brand was in Santa Barbara on unfinished business.
By three o’clock I was squirming. I needed relief, but Adam hadn’t phoned. When my cell phone finally rang, I grabbed it and said, ‘‘Hello?’’
I think that’s what I said, but it may have come out as Grrr , because my brother said, ‘‘Well, aren’t you a bundle of sunshine.’’
"Brian." I fidgeted on the seat. ‘‘How’s D.C.?"
‘‘Humid. So sticky that to stand up I have to scrape my butt off the desk chair with a spatula.’’
He was at the Pentagon. It was a customary stop on a fighter pilot’s journey up the ranks in naval aviation, but he chafed at the desk job. The Pentagon could no longer be considered dull, safe duty, but it wasn’t an F/ A-18.
‘‘Listen, Ev, I’m calling to give you a heads-up. Company’s coming.’’
‘‘Really? Great, Bri, I can’t wait to see you and Luke—’’
‘‘Afraid it isn’t us. It’s Cousin Taylor.’’
My spirits, momentarily elevated, dropped. ‘‘You’re joking.’’
‘‘Sorry, sis. The Hard Talk Café is bringing her mouth to your town.’’
Across the street, a black Porsche Carrera pulled up at the jail. The driver got out, and I sat up straight. It was Kenny Rudenski.
Brian said, ‘‘I just talked to Mom. Taylor’s husband is being transferred. The oil company’s sending him to a rig in the Santa Barbara Channel.’’
Kenny smoothed his hair and went inside the jail. I scrambled over the gearshift into the front seat, feeling a ping from my bladder. Dropped into the driver’s seat, stuck the key in the ignition, and stopped.
‘‘Wait. Taylor is moving here?’’
‘‘There you go again, making that growling sound,’’ Brian said.
Kenny came out of the jail with Franklin Brand. I started my car. Even at this distance I could see that Brand didn’t seem cheerful. His face looked stiffer than a boxing glove. Wordlessly he and Kenny climbed into the Porsche.
‘‘I’ll call you back, Brian.’’
The Porsche pulled out. I let it go, waiting for a silver Mercedes SUV to pass before I fell in behind it, letting it screen me from Kenny’s view.
The Porsche got on the freeway and headed west into Goleta. When he pulled off so did I, keeping the Mercedes between us. The light was turning red but Kenny didn’t stop for it. The Porsche gunned onto Patterson. I braked, blocked by cars ahead in both lanes, peering past traffic to see which way Kenny was going. The Mercedes SUV was stopped next to me in the right lane, and I saw the driver and passenger doing the same thing I was.
Looking at the Porsche.
The passenger was a wiry young woman with whippet’s limbs and cropped black hair. She was craning her neck. The driver was a rotund man whose glasses nestled in skin the color of pancake batter. His double chin hung like a gourd below his beardlet. The woman pointed at Kenny’s car. The driver spun the wheel and maneuvered the Mercedes onto the shoulder, around the cars in front of him, and made the turn.
They were following him, too. For a moment I felt a bizarre competitive urge, and I started to spin the wheel
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