Page 139 of Creeping Beautiful

“And how do you suppose we do that? Hmm? We can’t put her under again. I know this Carter guy, McKay. He’s very good at his job. He went off the rails fifteen years ago and now that the Company is gone, there is no way to reel him in.”

“You know him?”

The response I get from Donovan is something in between a nod and a shake of his head.

“How do you know him? From where? Who is he? What is he? Is he PSYOPS? Is he a Zero?”

Donovan sighs. “Both, I think. Or maybe neither. I’m not sure it matters. What matters is… what matters is that he took her mind, McKay. He’s got it. And there’s no real way for us to get it back without his permission.”

I stew in that for a while, thinking. There has to be a way. I never thought I’d wish that the Company was still around. The whole time they were in charge all we wanted was out. But if they were here Adam or Donovan could go to… someone. Ask for a favor. Get a face to go with that name. And then we could hunt him down and end this shit for good.

“Hold up,” I say, because I just had a thought. “How did Indie get to my house?”

“That’s… rhetorical, I assume?”

“I mean, she got to my house somehow. And this Carter guy wasn’t a part of that.”

Donovan pauses. It’s a long pause too. “For all we know he sent her to you. He knew you’d call me and then we’d bring her here. He could be out there in the woods somewhere just waiting for us to leave her alone for a moment so he can trigger her again. Finish what he started. He was after us, right?”

“Was he? Do we really know that?”

“Well… she did drug us, McKay. I can only assume she did that with the explicit intention of finishing the job. And if Nathan hadn’t come and interfered, I’m sure we’d be dead right now.”

“I think she got away. And that means she got to my house somehow. And she had to be staying somewhere. I mean, she told me she was watching me for ten days. She came alone, Donovan.”

I get up from my stool, grab my jacket, and head down the hallway, grabbing my keys from the little dish on the table by the front door.

Donovan follows me. “Where are you going?”

“Home. I’m gonna go see if I can figure this out. We need answers and if you’re not gonna put her under again, we’re not gonna find them here.”

The drive back to my shop takes almost two hours. I pull into the driveway and the familiar sound of gravel under the tires of my truck is soothing for some reason. After I turn the truck off, I just sit there for a while, looking at the front of the shop in the dark. It’s starting to rain again. Figures. It’s always fucking raining when shit goes wrong.

I have a little shed at the end of the driveway, just off to the right of my shop. That would’ve been my first guess about where she was staying if I didn’t have it locked up so tight. It’s where I keep my motorcycle and this neighborhood doesn’t have the lowest crime statistics.

I get out, shove my hands into my jacket pocket, and shrug my shoulders up like this might defend me from the thick drizzle. Then I turn and look down the driveway and start walking out of instinct.

She would be somewhere close, but not here.

I’m only walking for a few minutes when I see it.

Her truck. Black, like Adam’s. But it’s old now. And it looks like it’s been through hell. I circle it first, warily glancing around to see if anyone’s watching me. It’s nearly nine at night, but this neighborhood is mostly industrial. So people come here for work, then go somewhere else at night. So there’s no one that I can see.

There’s a dent in the passenger door and her tailgate is being held up with a bungee cord. But it’s not locked. I slide into the driver’s side and close the door, even though the dome light overhead doesn’t work or is set to the off position.

There are clothes on the passenger seat. A pair of jeans and another flannel—holes in the wrists for her thumbs. That makes me smile. And there’s a dried-up magnolia flower hanging from her rearview mirror.

I start searching. I’m unsure of what I’ll find, but I need to go through every inch of this truck. Every piece of garbage is a clue.

A receipt from McDonalds. She paid cash with a fifty-dollar bill. So she’s not broke.

Mud on the floormats. Which could mean she’s been in the woods. But then again, there’s lots of gravel driveways around here.

Lots of spare change. One of the coins is a British pound. I close my eyes and feel sad about that for a moment. Because however she got to the UK, and whatever she was doing there, none of it was good.

What I don’t find is any ID. No passport, either.

And after I climb into the back cab and don’t find anything more useful, I’m just about to give up when I get an idea.