Snowbound - Blake Crouch [35]
Will couldn’t find a surface large enough for all the magnets.
A door slammed, keys jangling. Fuck. Jonathan lumbered toward him as Will’s hands passed over the largest flat surface he’d yet encountered. He lifted the device to the metal, felt the magnetic pull as the TrimTrac locked into place with an audible clang.
Will crept around the corner of the trailer, stood up, unzipped his pants.
“The fuck are you doing?” Jonathan said.
“What’s it look like?” Will zipped his pants and spun around, Jonathan staring at him. “We done here?” Will said.
“Yeah. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I’m gonna have to tell my contact that Javier is no longer selecting. Up to the buyer if he wants to use you guys again. Won’t have nothing to do with me. I just wanna be clear so you don’t . . . if it turns out we can’t do business again, won’t be me ending the relationship.”
Will walked to the Land Rover and, despite his trembling hands, managed to get in and start it. He turned around between the rows of trucks and drove slowly away, watching Jonathan in the rearview mirror, and fighting against the thought that he’d seen the last he’d ever see of Kalyn Sharp.
The Last Frontier
TWENTY-SEVEN
Will and Devlin sat in the backseat of the Land Rover outside their motel room, staring at the computer screen.
“That woman has balls,” Devlin said.
“Yeah, she does.”
“So what are we looking at?”
“This is a Google map of the Boise area.”
“The truck’s not moving yet?”
“Doesn’t seem to be. Maybe Jonathan’s taking a nap before he hits the road. We should probably do the same.” He opened the door. “Come on. I’ve got this thing set to fire up when the truck starts to move.”
Will found it almost impossible to sleep, afraid he wouldn’t hear the electronic notification that the TrimTrac had changed positions. But with the computer sitting on the bedside table, humming quietly, he finally succumbed.
His dreams came in waves, repetitive and fevered. He dreamed he woke up and the computer was gone. Dreamed it had melted into a puddle of plastic, got fried by a lightning strike. Dreamed he slept for two weeks and never heard a thing.
His eyes shot open at 4:14 A.M. He sat up in bed, instantly awake. The computer was making noise—some kind of digital alarm. He turned on the bedside table lamp and opened the laptop. As the screen sprung to life, his eyes came into focus and he saw that the icon on the Google map was no longer across the interstate at exit 64.
He shook his daughter out of sleep, and when her eyes opened, he said, “Time to go, Devi. They’re on the move.”
. . .
By the time Will merged southbound onto I-84, Jonathan’s truck had a ten-mile head start. He’d set Devlin up in the backseat with the computer, given her a crash course, and she now knew the program as well as he did, calling out updates every couple of minutes.
At sunup, they were speeding east through Twin Falls.
As morning swung into full gear, they were heading northbound on I-15, climbing steadily into the high country of southwest Montana.
They gave Jonathan’s truck a solid five-mile berth, and what had been pure exhilaration at the outset soon deteriorated into mind-numbing monotony.
There was no stopping.
Dillon. Butte. Helena. Big Sky Country.
On the plains, ten miles north of Great Falls, it occurred to Will where Jonathan was heading, and Devlin must’ve heard him sigh, because she said, “What’s wrong, Dad?”
“He’s going to Canada.”
“Cool, I’ve never—”
“No, not cool, Devi. We have a gun in the car and we’re fugitives.”
“That gun’s illegal?”
“It is in Canada.”
“But we have identification for Joe and Samantha Foster, right?”
It was true. Will carried Social Security cards, a driver’s license, passports, and certified copies of their birth certificates at all times, though he’d had only one interaction with law enforcement—a city cop at a DUI checkpoint near their home in Colorado.
They stopped in the town of Shelby, Montana, thirty miles south of the border, and after thirteen straight hours of driving, Will