Ethan nodded, then hesitated. "You won't take us back to him?" "No," Grim said. "I will not." The boy looked at him one last time, then put his arm around Rosie's shoulders again.
Near the restrooms stood an old pay phone that Millie had never removed because truck drivers still used it when their mobile service failed in the hills. Grim fed coins into the slot and made three calls. The first went to Danny Reyes, a rider he trusted to keep a clear head when other men became excited. The second went to Marco Alvarez, who knew the dirt roads around Wikieup better than any map. The third went to a man in Phoenix whose telephone number Grim had kept for years and had almost never used.
None of the conversations was long. "I need eyes on a place north of Wikieup," he told Danny. "A woman may be trapped inside, and there's a deputy on the property. No stupid moves."
To Marco he said, "Bring your truck, not just your bike. Somebody may need a real seat and a heater." To the Phoenix number, he left a message in a voice that carried less explanation than urgency: "It's Victor Hayes. Something's happening out by Wikieup. I need you to call me back. It isn't about club business."
Outside, the rain had become hard enough to blur the gas station across the highway. Grim crossed the parking lot and stood beside his Road Glide while Danny and Marco arrived under a canopy of wet darkness. He told them about the children, the name Clay Mercer, and the detail about a local deputy who seemed to know each escape attempt before it had begun. Neither rider joked or interrupted. They listened until he finished, then asked the questions that mattered.
"Is she alive?" Danny asked. "As of three this morning," Grim said. "Maybe after that. We don't know."
Marco glanced toward the road. "Then we find out before we do anything else." Grim nodded and swung onto the motorcycle. For the first time in a long while, he had a clear direction in front of him and no comfort in the fact that the road was open.
Back inside Millie's, Ethan watched the three taillights disappear into the rain. Rosie had laid her cheek against his shoulder and fallen asleep so completely that he could feel her weight settle all at once. He pulled her close and tried not to think about the trailer, the locked door, or his mother's expression when she had pressed nine dollars into his hand. He looked instead at the second plate, the one Grim had given them. It had been placed on a table for somebody who was not there, and somehow the meal had found them anyway.
Eleven minutes after the motorcycles left, Rosie fell into a sleep so deep that the diner might have vanished around her without waking her. Her head rested against Ethan's shoulder, and one small hand remained closed around the hem of his jacket. Ethan shifted the cushion behind her so she would not bump her sore arm against the wall. The movement was careful, automatic, the kind of care that becomes habit when nobody else is reliably available to provide it.