Deadly Sight

She doubted she could dig up more than that if she had a computer and internet access at her disposal. He didn’t sound like the kind of guy whose life would leave much of an electronic trail. “Anyone interviewed the family?” she asked.

“I don’t have those kinds of resources at my disposal.”

She frowned. What the heck did that mean? “What can I do to help your investigation?”

“Anything you can see and learn is more than I have to go on now.”

“And who do you work for, exactly?”

He leaned back in his chair. Crossed his arms. Pressed his lips into a thin white line. He even spoke tightly. “At the moment, Jeff Winston.”

He might have dodged her question, but all that body language spoke volumes. He had secrets to keep. “You do realize I have the equivalent of military top-secret clearances or better,” she commented.

He didn’t seem impressed. And he didn’t open his mouth. There were not too many employers in the United States who demanded complete and total silence from their employees. She considered him thoughtfully. He didn’t look like a mercenary for a private security firm. He was too clean-cut for that. Too by-the-book. Government, then.

“Okay, Sparky. I’m going to assume you work for some spooky, secret government agency until you say otherwise. Which begs the question of why you don’t just have your peeps poke around a little and hand you a complete list of names of every known associate of one Luke Zimmer. Order up a little surveillance detail on his cronies, and you’d know what ole Luke’s up to in under a week. I don’t see why Jeff thought you would need my help at all.”

“It’s not that simple. Given our total lack of ability to use electronics in this area, the manpower required to mount the sort of surveillance op that you’re proposing would be prohibitive. Not to mention, people in this region routinely live completely off the grid. They’re nearly impossible to track by any other means than direct visual surveillance. For all I know this kid’s using a fake ID and isn’t going by the name Luke Zimmer at all.”

She nodded. “Fake identities are pretty easy to get.”

“You say that like you have one,” he replied, amused.

She had several, in point of fact. More than a little of her youth had been misspent. But she wasn’t about to admit that to him. “It’s dark enough to go outside and do parlor tricks with Sammie’s eyesight. If you’ll grab something with writing on it, I’ll start jogging down the road.”

“I have a better idea. Let’s put your eyes to work for real,” he suggested.

“What do you have in mind?”

“How about you put on some walking shoes and I’ll show you?”

He definitely came from the government-intelligence community. Those guys always answered a question with a question. Curious, she went to her room and grabbed her neon yellow running shoes. When she came back, Gray was just finishing packing a rucksack.

“Let me guess,” she said dryly. “You were a Boy Scout and you’re taking along a few items in case we get stranded in the woods. With angry bears. In a blizzard. On the side of a cliff. And we need to put on Thanksgiving dinner for a dozen guests.”

He grinned. “I’m not that anal.”

“Had me fooled,” she grumbled under her breath.

“I’m trained to anticipate contingencies and plan for them.”

Oh, yeah. So a spy. When he headed for the passenger side of the Bronco, she rolled her eyes. “Really, Gray. I can get my own doors.”

“Really, Sammie Jo. Aren’t you confident enough to let a man get them for you?”

The quip hurt. She was sure he didn’t intend it, though. How could he know how inadequate she felt around polished, sophisticated people like him? To distract herself, she asked, “How old is this vehicle?”

“It’s a 1972. The first onboard car computers were put out in 1975, so all the cars permanently in the NRQZ have to be ‘74s or earlier.”

“This place is like some kind of bizarre time warp.”

He nodded. “Just think about how bizarre it’s going to seem in another twenty years. Tourists will come here to see the living history exhibit it’s rapidly becoming.”

“Where are we going?”

“Luke lives in the next valley over. Little town called Spruce Hollow. It’s known for being a bit cultish.”

That lifted her eyebrow. “Define cultish.”

“I wish I could. But I’ve only been here one day. As best I can tell, the folks there are particularly intent on eliminating all electronics from their lives. Real back-to-the-good-old-days fanatics. And apparently they’re pretty suspicious of outsiders. I thought it might be prudent not to just barge in and start asking questions.”

“Good call. I’ve done cultish before, and you have to be very careful in your approach. Best bet is to find a way to get them to invite you in.”

He looked over at her sharply. “Define having done cultish.”

She winced. It simply was not in her nature to be secretive. Yet again, her big mouth had given her away. “Let’s just say my choice in boys wasn’t always stellar. A few of them were gang types.”

“What kinds of gangs?”

“Bikers. Skinheads. Drug dealers.” She omitted the coming apocalypse bunch her mother had dragged her into the middle of. She nearly hadn’t gotten away from that particular cult alive.

To his credit, Gray didn’t show any outward signs of horror. He asked casually enough, “Do you still go for guys like that?”

The question stopped her cold. Did she? Until this afternoon, she might have said yes. But Grayson Pierce was a revelation. She’d had no idea that decent men actually existed. She’d always thought they were a figment of television producers’ imaginations. She settled for mumbling, “I don’t go for men at all at the moment. I’m a committed single person.”

He made a sound that was probably supposed to pass for a laugh, but somehow failed. “Me, too.”

“Why’s that?” she queried. “You must have women falling all over you.”

“Work,” he answered from between gritted teeth. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he’d gone a little pale. What on earth?

She waited for more, but he didn’t add anything to that one-word response. She prodded, “Most men work and yet manage to have relationships. What’s the problem with your work?”

“Long hours. Lots of travel.”

“And then there’s the whole undercover thing,” she added sympathetically. “And the killing.”

His hands clenched the steering wheel abruptly, and in the glow of the dashboard, he looked a ghastly shade of gray. He gave no other outward sign of tension, but it was enough. Her eagle eyes didn’t miss much. She spoke quietly, “Your secret is safe with me.”

“I have no secrets,” he ground out.

“Sure you do. You’re afraid of women. That’s why you avoid us.”

That made him actually jerk the steering wheel. The Bronco briefly swerved, and he righted its course angrily. “I am not afraid of women!”

So. There was passion beneath that calm, cool, collected exterior. Somehow, his outburst made him seem more human. More approachable. And a little color had returned to his face. Satisfied that he had himself back in hand, she sat back.

“What about you?” he asked. “Why the whole leather and chains bit? The scarlet lipstick and black nails thing shouts of insecurity and need for attention.”