Endings by Linda Richards (e ink manga reader txt) 📕

The driver’s seat swivels so it can face the cabin where Atwater sleeps. I do that now so I can keep an eye on him while I think. But I have to stay awake: I don’t want to sleep in his presence. He is as dangerous a creature as I’ve ever encountered. He is capable of anything. More. I keep an eye on him as I sit and think and watch. It feels like meditation.

I have a lot to think about.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

BY THREE IN the morning, Atwater has been sleeping for several hours. Sleeping soundly, too. I thought he would. The physical trauma he’s endured combined with the small amount of comfort he’s been given have taken their toll. He is entirely out. I figure he is down until first light, at least.

One of the things that has come to me while I sit in the dark listening to him breathe is that I’ve gotten everything I came for. Sadly, it was easier than I thought it would be. He was able to clear the list with just a few words. Sadly, because I would have liked a different answer. One with a happier ending; better outcomes for some of those missing. With that realization, my next move comes clear.

I leave a few of the plastic bottles of water and the bananas within his reach. If somehow no one gets to him for a couple of days, he’ll survive. And if he doesn’t? Well, that is a different conversation, but the thought doesn’t perplex me too much, either.

I pull my suitcase out of the RV as quietly as possible, then lock the door behind me. Next, I spend some time looking around for a rock to leave the key under. I need something distinctive. Something big enough to be remarkable. With that accomplished, I wheel my suitcase down the deserted campground road, feeling ridiculous but unobserved. It is off-season and a weeknight and there are no late-night partiers around. I’ve gotten lucky with a pale moon, and after a while my eyes adjust to the almost-total-darkness, and I’m not forced to use the flashlight on my phone. I want to be as invisible as possible. I want to be unseen.

Not a lot of the camping spaces are taken, but after a while, I spot a big land yacht with Arizona plates and a Jeep parked next to it. The Jeep is probably a tow vehicle, but it is loose now, and it looks like it will suit me fine. For one thing, I know I can boost a classic Jeep easily, but before I try to do that, I check the visor and, sure enough, the keys are there. I get lucky again because they’d parked the Jeep at the top of a little hill. I pop my case gently onto the passenger-side floor, closing the door quietly. Then I put the truck in neutral and push it forward, gratified when it moves and grateful the vehicle has a standard transmission and I can drive a stick. So many things to be grateful for. A car with automatic wouldn’t have budged, but it doesn’t take much pushing before the Jeep is bumping silently down the campground road. I swing into the driver’s seat and pop the clutch. With the RV well behind me, the Jeep comes to life, though I wait until I hit the highway to turn on the lights. And then I head north.

I drive until I see a gas station. There are enough cars parked there that I feel some shuffling might not be noticed if I am careful.

I park the Jeep close to a dark green minivan that looks as though it would not be out of place next to a soccer field. I use my slim jim to open the passenger door, relieved when there is no alarm.

As I transfer vehicles, I hesitate, thinking about fingerprints. I know that my fingerprints have never been recorded; at least not in relation to me. It’s not something I usually actively worry about. Still. I know I need to be careful. Mindful. I use one of the disinfectant wipes I always carry to wipe the Jeep down quickly as I leave it: conscious of where I have touched and where I have not. This, too, has gotten to be as easy to me as breathing.

In the driver’s seat of the minivan, I jam my OBD tool into the dataport. On-board diagnostic tools are little miracles. You can use one to prevent a thief from ever stealing your car. Most people don’t do that, though. In fact, they pretty much freak out when it hits home that basically anyone can take over your car’s computer and override all security functions with the right OBD tool. Which is what I have. It takes about thirty seconds before the car starts. I slide back onto the highway before anyone even notices.

Near Monterey, I pull into an all-night diner for a bite and a quiet place to think about what has to happen next.

I pick a corner booth where my laptop and I will be mostly unnoticed. I order a cheeseburger and a beer for the same reason: it is not an order that will draw attention in this place. I munch excellent fries and a passable cheeseburger while I think about what I’m going to do now. I don’t relish it, but I need to be done—complete—and I am now far enough away and with well enough covered tracks for it to happen.

I use my Tor browser to get the general information e-mail address on the San Pasado Police Department website. I figure that the general address will get it scattered out to several department heads, and feet will start moving quickly, one way or the other. Time, it seems to me, is of the essence.

I begin:

William Atwater is chained up inside a small RV in space 204 of the San Simeon