Page 91 of Backtrack

Lola closed her eyes, composing herself, then sat forward again with a sigh, elbows on the table.

“You’re right,” she said. “We’re spinning a dozen plates at a time. Always are. Why should now be different?” She tapped the butt of her fork on the table. “Anyway, remind me what her name is, this ex of yours. Josephine?”

“Joellen.”

“And the plan is …”

“Think of it like a surveillance detection run,” Cutter said. “We’re watching her to make sure no one else is watching her.”

“And she doesn’t know we’re out here.”

“That’s correct.”

“Sounds an awful lot like we’re stalking her.”

“True enough,” Cutter said. “But she’s the one who called me. I need to check it out. Like I said. You don’t have to come.”

“You know better than that, Boss,” she said. “I’m your shadow.”

“Suit yourself,” Cutter said. “We’ll keep an eye on her from a distance as everyone is getting off the ship. Follow her for a couple more minutes to make sure she’s clean, and then—”

Lola covered her hand and pretended to cough. “Stalking!”

It was too early for Cutter to argue. Besides, Lola wasn’t wrong.

“Here’s the thing,” he said. “Joellen is probably the least aware human being I have ever met. She lives life with her head perpetually in the sand. It had to be something pretty out of the ordinary for her to even notice. I tend to give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“You have her photo?” Lola asked.

“Nope,” Cutter said.

“How am I supposed to—”

“You’ll know her when you see her,” Cutter said. “Just look for a mean version of Mim.”

CHAPTER 41

Ricky Pink stood in front of the window of his room in the Cape Fox Lodge wearing shorts and a T-shirt, wide-eyed like a little boy. Sunlight bathed his face. A tear rolled down the gray stubble on his cheek.

Shayna came up behind him, smelling like shampoo and the fancy perfume she used to spray on her letters. Pink didn’t have the heart to tell her he liked the shampoo, but that stinkum hurt his eyes.

She snuggled against him, peeking around his back to see what he was looking at.

Two huge cruise ships were already moored along the wooden docks at the base of the mountain some five hundred yards below. A third moved slowly in behind the other two. Deckhands and dockworkers stood ready with heavy lines fore and aft of the massive vessel, ready to tie up. Passengers stood at the rail and on their individual balconies, watching the process. They looked like ants.

Pink wondered if any of them were the Cutter woman.

Beyond the three visiting monstrosities, seagoing Alaskans went about their daily business. Fishing boats and pleasure craft chugged past in the narrow strait, leaving silver trails in the dark water. Green mountains loomed in the distance, looking more like shadow and mist than anything of substance. Pink wiped away the tear and imagined the clean smell of it even through the glass. After forty-four years of concrete walls, this much beauty was painful, like staring directly into the sun.

“I just heard from Bart,” she said. “The ship’s about an hour out. Let’s have some breakfast before we head down to the wharf.”

He gave a grunting nod.

One thing was sure: Pink had to stop eating so much. Getting fat made you a sitting duck in the yard. He laughed inside at the thought. He had a shitload of problems to worry about, but getting shanked in the yard was no longer one of them. Still, he hoped they had oatmeal in the restaurant.

Pink finished his steel-cut oats and blueberries and waited outside for Shayna. Ever since the guards had buzzed open the prison gates that last time, he’d done everything he could to minimize his time in confined spaces.

A crisp morning breeze rolled up the hill, meeting him with the smells of wet evergreens and the sea as soon as he walked out the hotel doors. The sun had been up almost four hours. Pink couldn’t help but squint. Every tree and blade of grass glistened, dazzling with moisture. As far as he knew, it hadn’t rained, but everything was wet, as if the forests and grass just expected the rain and acted accordingly.