Dead and Gone by Jack Patterson (universal ebook reader .TXT) 📕

scooted down one makeshift street, sliding between a pair of RVs to the next street at every opportunity. While the area made it easy to disappear, the wide alleys between each row of RVs made it easy to search for someone. If he didn’t switch often enough, they’d be on him again—and he might not get so fortunate in his attempts to escape.

As he dashed down one street and aimed to switch to another, he ran past a couple, grilling out and drinking beer.

“Where do you think you’re goin’ so fast, young man?” the man grumbled. “Don’t just cut through my RV without stopping to have a drink.”

Cal noticed a vehicle was parked in the passageway between the two RVs and he couldn’t pass through them. He froze and turned around. The old man grinned. He had a beer bottle extended in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other.

“Sit for a spell,” the man said. “You should never be in a hurry around here, much less empty handed. I thought I was gonna have to call the cops if you didn’t stop.”

Cal eased back toward the couple. He hustled toward them and then glanced in both directions down the street. Then he surveyed the RV site. The flags hanging off the RV provided a good cover, which was why Cal hadn’t noticed the couple in the first place.

He decided to take the man up on his offer.

“Cal Murphy,” he said, extending his hand.

“I’m Fred and this is Norma,” the man said, gesturing toward his wife. She rocked in her chair and smiled at Cal. Fred put a beer in Cal’s hand.

“Thanks,” Cal said.

“So, where you off to in such a hurry? The race is that way.”

“Long story—and to be honest, I don’t have much time.”

“I must admit, you look kinda suspicious running around like that. I figured I’d kill you with kindness.”

Cal laughed. “I don’t get much of that in my line of work.”

“You a politician?”

Cal laughed again. “No, a journalist.”

The man reached his hand out and leaned toward Cal. “Then give me that beer back.” His straight-man comedy routine left Cal laughing. Fred then broke out into a smile and sat back down.

“So, who’s gonna win the race?” Fred asked.

Before Cal could answer, he looked up to see the two men staring right at him. “Sorry, gotta run. Now’s the time to call the cops!”

Cal leaped out of his chair and hit his full stride in less than three seconds. He had about a fifty-yard lead on the two men, but they were closing fast.

Cal dashed down one street and then found two RVs to cut through to the next one. He weaved his way back toward the throngs headed for the stadium. Down one street and through another. Back and forth. His attempts to lose them seemed to fail at every turn.

However, it did give him enough time to scout out a location to hide. He noticed one RV two streets back that had set up a temporary brown lattice around the bottom of the vehicle. And no one was there.

Cal worked his way back toward the RV and lost the men, giving him just enough time to move a piece of the lattice to the side so he could slither in behind it. Everything about it was perfect. It was dark and kept everything under the RV hidden.

With his face pressed to the gravel pad beneath the RV, he watched and waited. He looked at his watch. The race started in an hour and there would be another wave of latecomers in about thirty minutes. He thought he could blend in with that crowd long enough to find a sheriff’s deputy to help him.

Cal scanned the area and saw very little activity, with the exception of a small group of fans wandering toward the stadium. The smell of a nearby barbecue wafted across Cal’s nose, while a George Strait song blared over the loudspeaker several RVs away.

Why would you ever leave and go to the race?

Cal thought it was heaven.

Until a pair of shiny black shoes appeared in front of the lattice.

Cal froze. So did the shoes.

For several agonizing seconds, Cal held his breath and hoped those shoes didn’t belong to whom he thought they did.

Without warning, the man squatted down and peered through the latticework.

“Hello there, Mr. Murphy.”

Cal rolled toward the other side and kicked the lattice out. He scrambled to his feet, only to be met by the other man.

“We need to talk.” The man recoiled and punched Cal in the face.

Cal slumped to the ground.

CHAPTER 33

OWEN BURNS CONCLUDED that the only way to beat a cover up was to produce indisputable evidence. And the evidence was there, right in front of him—if he could just get his hands on it. If NASCAR had truly suspected foul play in Carson Tanner’s accident, they would have confiscated the car indefinitely. Or if the police had been involved, the footage would be airing on the cable news cycle for the next week and a half. But when Ned Davis had everyone in his hip pocket, people only looked for what he wanted them to find.

He drove back to his hotel with Jackson Holmes to drop off a few things before going to an early evening dinner.

“You all right, Burns?” Holmes asked.

He shrugged. “I’ve been better.”

“Well, we just haven’t had a chance to really talk about what happened to Tanner.”

“What’s there to talk about? It sobers us up and reminds us that none of us are immortal. But I can’t see getting into a deep conversation about it. Why? Do you need to talk about it?”

“He was a good guy and I miss him.”

Burns sighed. “We all do. He went far too soon. But he wasn’t perfect.”

“Nobody’s perfect. He was far from it.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, all those gambling debts he racked up.”

Burns laughed. “Who doesn’t have gambling debts these days?”

Holmes remained stoic. “I don’t.”

“Well, congratulations.”

“And I’ve never run anyone over