The sun hit her with brutal force.
Within minutes sweat soaked through her shirt.
She kept moving.
A mile and a half.
That was the distance to Arthur Pendleton’s Auto Salvage.
Cars passed occasionally.
Chloe lowered her face whenever one approached.
Every white SUV made her stomach tighten.
Every vehicle with a roof-mounted light bar made her consider diving into the scrub.
She kept imagining Richard waking.
Finding the open window.
Finding the missing backpack.
Checking beneath the floorboard.
Then getting into his county-issued vehicle.
She had no doubt he would come looking.
The only question was how much time she had.
Arthur Pendleton’s Auto Salvage appeared through the heat shimmer like the remains of some mechanical civilization.
Rows of wrecked cars stretched across acres of hard-packed dirt.
Crushed sedans.
Pickup trucks without doors.
Frames stacked on top of frames.
Windshields glittered among weeds like broken ice.
An old sign leaned beside the gate:
PENDLETON AUTO SALVAGE
USED PARTS - TOWING - CASH SALES
Chloe slipped through the open gate.
She found Arthur behind a wrecked Chevrolet, half his body buried beneath the hood.
“Arthur.”
No response.
“Arthur!”
His head appeared.
Arthur Pendleton was sixty-eight and looked as though the desert had been sanding him down for most of his life. His beard was mostly white. His skin was permanently browned by sun. A battered Dodgers cap covered the bald spot on his head.
A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.
He took one look at Chloe.
The cigarette came out.
“What happened?”
“I need a vehicle.”
Arthur stared at her split lip.
“Richard?”
Chloe said nothing.
That was answer enough.
Arthur wiped his hands on his overalls and stepped closer.
“You need a hospital.”
“I need Nevada.”
“Chloe.”
“Today.”
Arthur looked toward the highway.
“Does he know you’re here?”
“Not yet.”
“You call the state police.”
“He’ll know before they reach me.”
“Not every cop around here belongs to Richard.”
“I don’t know which ones do.”
Arthur did not argue with that.
Chloe reached into her pocket.
She unfolded the two twenty-dollar bills.
“I have forty dollars.”
Arthur stared at them.
Then at her.
Despite everything, he gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Kid, forty dollars won’t buy one decent tire in this place.”
“It doesn’t have to be decent.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I don’t have a running car under a thousand.”
“Anything.”
“Chloe—”
“Please.”
Her voice cracked.
That silenced him.
Arthur had known David Sanders for years.
They had worked together occasionally when David was still alive. David could rebuild carburetors, transmissions, and small-block engines with the relaxed competence of a man who genuinely liked machines.
Arthur had once told Chloe that her father could hear a bad bearing before anyone else could.
When David died, Arthur lost track of the family.
He had seen Chloe only occasionally over the years.
Each time she looked thinner.
Quieter.
More careful.
Now she stood before him bruised and desperate, holding forty dollars like it was ransom for her own life.
Arthur rubbed one hand across his beard.
“There is one thing.”
Chloe’s eyes lifted.
“It is not a car.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
He started walking.
“Come on.”
They passed through the salvage yard.
Farther back.
Beyond the organized rows.
Past vehicles Arthur had not touched in years.
At the edge of the property, where tumbleweeds collected against corrugated fencing, he stopped.
Chloe stared.
At first she thought the machine leaning against the fence was too far gone to identify.
Then she recognized the outline.
A motorcycle.
An old Harley-Davidson.
A Shovelhead.
Late seventies.
The bike looked terrible.
The fuel tank was covered in reddish-brown corrosion and thick patches of gray primer. The fenders were dented. Almost every piece of chrome had either been removed or blackened beneath grime.
The seat was split open along one side, exposing yellow foam.