Neil McMahon - Dead Silver

Of course, that didn't mean they were right.

The constrictive feel of phosphor eased off as we drove home, through forest that gradually opened up into ranch land and then the miles-wide expanse of the Helena Valley, funneling into the apex of the old part of town rising up against the mountains to the south. We arrived in the last throes of after-work traffic. a joke by big-city standards, but it had thickened enough over the past years to become a nuisance. At least it had a healthy bustle.

Instead of going straight to my cabin, we detoured past Renee's to make sure everything was okay. That neighborhood was well removed from the hum of commerce, and the streets were quiet as usual. Her house seemed fine from the outside, but I wanted to go in and take a look around. There was no telling who else might know she was back in town.

I still had very clear memories of the last time I'd pushed open that front door, and getting met with a blast of gunfire-so clear that as I got out of my truck, I had to stop and hyperventilate for a few seconds.

But this time, I never made it that far. Instead, I had a different deja vu, a tangible one. A couple hundred yards up the hillside, a dark-colored SUV was moving through the trees; apparently it had been stopped there and was leaving, accelerating onto the street.

The spot was exactly where I'd seen a dark blue SUV do exactly the same thing, right after Professor Callister's funeral-as if the driver had been watching the house.

I couldn't swear that this was the same vehicle, but it sure the hell looked similar.

Renee was fussing with something in her purse and hadn't yet gotten out of my truck. She looked up, startled, when I swung myself back in and jammed the key into the ignition. The old rig rocked with torque as the engine caught, and we both rocked with it as I wrestled it in and out of her driveway in a fast three-point turn, then stomped on the gas.

"Watch the cross streets for that son of a bitch," I told Renee. "If we get close enough, take the license number."

"What son of a bitch?" She was staring at me, her left hand braced against the dash and the other clutching her door handle. I realized she didn't have any idea what I was doing.

"Somebody was watching the house. Blue SUV, medium size, few years old."

"O-kay," she said uncertainly, still clinging to her handholds.

Two blocks farther, her quiet street intersected with the broader route of Montana Avenue, leading up the hill where the SUV had been parked. A couple of cars were approaching on it. They didn't have a stop sign; I did. I blew right through it, flashing my headlights and leaning on the horn. Brakes squealed and other horns blared back, but we got through untouched. We came out of the skidding left turn headed uphill, and I rammed the accelerator to the floor again. The engine throbbed with the strain of the steep climb, rattling the windows.

When we got to where I'd seen the SUV, it had disappeared.

I kept going on Montana, hoping that the driver had done the same. The street continued more or less straight on into the hills; I could see quite a ways ahead, and while a vehicle might briefly be hidden in a dip or curve, it would reappear within seconds.

It didn't. Either he also had his foot on the floor or he'd turned off. Some of the intersecting streets eventually led back into Helena or out of town, but almost all of them wound through newer developments laid out in labyrinthine lanes and cul-de-sacs.

I slowed the truck and glanced at Renee. She shook her head unhappily.

"I never saw it," she said.

Maybe the SUV driver had known we were after him, and hauled ass. Maybe we just weren't due this particular bit of luck.

The blaring of a horn behind us jerked my gaze to the rear-view mirror. A car was coming up on us fast. It damn near rear-ended us, then whipped around to pass, with the very pissed-off-looking guy behind the wheel leaning across the seat to give me the finger. It must have been one of the vehicles I'd almost collided with, back at the stop sign. I didn't blame him.

Out of frustration and stubbornness, I cruised around a few more minutes, then pulled over where the SUV had been parked. As I'd expected, the vantage point was excellent, on a downhill slope, hidden from passing cars, with a clear view of Renee's house-including into her bedroom windows.

It was time to report in to Gary Varna.

Two hours later, just as dusk was giving way to night, I drove back to my cabin, alone.

Gary had decided to take the wraps off this case and start his people working it actively. He had to assume that someone was watching Renee, and that that someone might be the murderer of Astrid Callister.

He had also fired me, politely but firmly, as Renee's bodyguard. From here on she needed a professional, and tonight that was going to be Gary himself-she would stay with him and his wife. First thing in the morning, he would take her to the airport and put her on the red-eye to spend some time with a friend from college who lived in Arizona. She might have to work out a plan to stay hidden indefinitely.

I was fervent with thanks to all the powers in the universe that we'd been alerted in time to get her to safety. She assured me she'd call as soon as she got settled, and no doubt we could work out a way to see each other if that was how things shaped up.

Still, she was gone from my life again.

I tossed restlessly through most of the night, then got up early and spent a couple of hours drinking coffee and thinking things over, waiting for Gary or Renee to call and let me know what was in the offing. But whatever that was, it probably wouldn't involve me, and I wasn't sure of what to do next.

I'd made it clear to Gary that I'd be happy to help if he could use me, and he'd said he'd keep that in mind. But with the cops stepping in, amateur hour was over, and I didn't want to risk doing anything that might get in their way or muddy the waters. I was healed up well enough to start working at Split Rock again and I couldn't keep ignoring that job forever, but neither could I imagine trying to get back into it right now.

So I puttered around my place, mulling and fretting, until the phone finally rang about eight-thirty. For once, I jumped at it.

But the tense harsh voice that spoke into my ear was Madbird's.

"Darcy didn't show up for work," he said, with no preliminaries. "I'm at her apartment; I broke in. She ain't here but her car and purse are, and things don't look right. I need the cops, but I ain't sure they'll listen when I point them at Fraker. If you'd call the sheriff, that might get things moving."

"You really think he did something to her?" The opposite had flashed across my mind right off-that Fraker might have gotten horny enough to patch things up with Darcy. But Madbird would be way on top of all those kinds of possibilities. That he even considered calling the police was a measure of how concerned he was, and his next words iced that.

"He threatened her yesterday," Madbird said. "I just found that out; Hannah wouldn't tell me before."

Jarred out of my own little stew pot, I said, "I'll call Gary right now. See you as soon as I can get there."

The scene at Darcy's apartment was official but low-key. With someone as prominent as Seth Fraker involved, this matter would be kept discreet, at least to start with. From the outside, it looked like a burglary or another relatively minor matter; the only signs of police presence were two Helena city units parked in the lot with lights off and a cop posted at the door. But several more men were inside the place, probably detectives and technicians.

I was grateful to see that Gary Varna had shown up in person. Nothing could make Madbird feel much better, but that would help.