"I voted against a shipment," he said, almost to himself. "That was all. I didn't threaten anybody. I told Graham we were taking money from people we'd never be able to say no to."
"You mean the people buying the weapons?"
"The people controlling the people buying them."
Sarah felt a chill despite the heat. She did not ask him to name an organization, a route, or a buyer. She had spent enough time near dangerous machines to recognize the moment when more information would not make her safer.
"And your brother decided you were the problem," she said.
"He decided I was the part of the problem he could remove."
Sarah looked at Wyatt's empty hands. She thought of Martin, whose idea of fixing a problem had almost always involved admitting what the problem was first. Wyatt had lived so long among men who punished honesty that he seemed startled by it even now.
"You should tell the investigators," she said.
"You think that'll make it end?"
"No. I think it gives them a chance to do something besides sweep up after you kill one another."
He turned the water glass between his palms. "You talk to everybody this way?"
"Only the ones who frighten my customers."
"I haven't frightened any customers."
"You frightened the one who walked in just before you. He drove away when he saw your bikes. His name's Eddie, and he usually buys two slices of pie. That's twelve dollars of business I won't see today."
For the first time since she had shouted across the lot, Wyatt smiled without apparent calculation. It was a small, tired expression and disappeared almost as quickly as it came. Sarah was grateful to see it anyway. It reminded her there was a person inside the reputation.
Near sunset, Deputy Mercer returned to tell them the matter had been referred to detectives and that the sheriff's office was coordinating with federal investigators because of the suspected broader criminal activity. She advised Sarah to stay somewhere else for the night if possible. Sarah looked past her at the diner, the workshop, and the rust-colored hills where her family had worked for three generations.
"You think they might come here?" she asked.
"I don't know," Mercer answered. "And I won't pretend I do. But there's nothing wrong with getting away from a place that's just become part of an attempted killing."
Sarah told her about the old bunker on the property. Her grandfather had described it as a wartime storage site, although Sarah had never seen the original government paperwork and suspected the family story had gained more drama with every telling. It was a reinforced concrete structure dug into the hillside and later converted into storage for engines and salvage equipment. Its steel door was heavy, its interior dry, and its ventilation adequate enough for brief shelter, but it was not a fortress she had ever tested against an armed attack.