The Complete Colony Series. Lisa Jackson
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himself aloud. Hudson had confirmed it.
It just sure didn’t feel like it.
“You talkin’ to me?” Phil asked.
“Hey, change the channel back to country and close the doors, will ya?”
“Look who’s the boss.”
“You want to work on the damned Pontiac?”
“Fine, fine.” Phil adjusted the station from the all talk radio that Mike always insisted upon and soon Randy Travis’s voice boomed through the bays. “Tomorrow,” Phil called as he pressed the electronic opener button so that the doors began their clattering descent. Before they closed completely Mitch caught a glimpse of Phil as he pulled himself up into the cab of a pickup that was jacked two feet into the air to support its huge tires.
With Phil gone, Mitch was completely alone. Everyone else, including Elsa, the greyhound, Mike’s rescue dog and unofficial garage mascot, had already left for the day.
These days, Mitch didn’t really like being completely alone.
With an effort, Mitch turned his attention to the Pontiac supported by a hydraulic jack. Something wrong with the front-end U joint. A big job. Shit. He slid beneath the vehicle on the creeper, rolling it into position, then began working. He hooked a lamp over the axle and frowned at the under-carriage. A trick one, this, but he’d always enjoyed working on cars, ever since he’d been a freshman at St. Elizabeth’s, years before he could drive legally. He began humming along to Brooks and Dunn, spying what looked like another oil leak—more problems—when he heard something…a scrape of a shoe? Or just some static from the radio?
No one was in the place.
Mike had been gone since two.
Phil had left less than twenty minutes ago.
Mitch strained to listen over the sound of country twang and the thrum of guitar chords.
It was the damned medications, making him all paranoid. All the weird shit surrounding those bones, and the damned notes, and the fire and Glenn…and then Renee up and dying. Made him crazy, that’s what.
Still nervous, he slid out from under the Grand Am bumping his head on one of the rims. He stepped outside for a smoke, and ducked under the awning of the overhang where they’d once pumped gas. Now the old tanks were empty and Mike only did auto repair work. The parking area under the overhangs was used for cars waiting for a part. Rain was starting to fall again, beating on an old tar roof.
He finished his cigarette, lit another, and wondered what was taking Hudson so long. Maybe he shouldn’t have called him. Maybe he should’ve called that cop. But what did he know, really? Not the kind of evidence they were always yammering about on those TV shows. More like suspicions.
And he didn’t know anything about Renee. Nothing. Whatever happened to her at the beach was just a weird coincidence, probably. The work of thrill-seekers who just ran her off the road, maybe. He didn’t see how it could tie into Jessie.
Maybe her dick of a husband did her in. What a fucking asshole that guy was.
Then there was Glenn…God, he wished Hudson would get here.
Mitch took a last, long drag, then walked around the corner of the building and through the open door, only half aware that it was ajar. Once under the car again, he went back to work, moving leisurely on the creeper. He knew he could wrap this job up if he could just get the fuckin’ universal joint—
Scccrraaaape.
Someone was inside.
“Hey!” he yelled.
No answer.
Just the sound of static over the notes of a slide guitar. “Phil? You there?”
Every hair on the back of Mitch’s neck rose.
“Listen to me, you cocksucker. If you’re fuckin’—”
The lights in the entire garage went out.
All the bays were plunged into darkness.
Holy shit!
Mitch’s ticker about exploded.
He started to roll out from under the car, but the Pontiac groaned above him.
He reached an arm out, scrabbling for purchase, desperate to get out from under the car. Before he could shift free, he heard the snap of the release on the jack. “Shit,” he whispered, his mouth turning to an “O” of horror just before three thousand pounds of General Motors metal pinned him to the creeper, which somehow didn’t fold in on itself. Something punched into his chest. The weight of the car crushed him, cracking his bones. Pain like he’d never felt before screamed through his body. His lungs burned. He gasped for breath. Heard the hiss of his lungs. His heart was pumping furiously and he sensed blood leaking from his broken, aching body.
His eyes rolled back in his head, but he clung to consciousness. And then he saw her…as she was twenty years earlier—beautiful, sexy, and teasing.
“What are little boys made of?” she said.
“Jessie,” Mitch cried, his voice strangled. “Jessie…”
Chapter Nineteen
Hudson’s truck rattled down Highway 217 before turning off at Canyon and heading east toward the city. Mike’s Garage, Mitch’s workplace, was about another mile in.
He looked across at Becca. She’d been awfully quiet since their lovemaking and he wondered if he’d done something wrong. “What is it?” he asked her again, feeling like one of those idiots who keeps asking, “What’s wrong?” when the person clearly doesn’t want to say.
“Just tired,” she said.
They passed auto dealership after auto dealership pressed shoulder to shoulder along the road that cut through this ravine in the west hills surrounding Portland. She glanced at her watch. “It’s kinda late. Shouldn’t he be off work by now?”
“He said he was working late, and that was a little over an hour ago. If he’s not there, we’ll check his apartment, and if he’s not there, we’ll go home.” Hudson ran through a yellow light and drove the remaining quarter mile to a cross street where Mike’s Garage was located.
The low, flat stucco building that once had been a gas station looked empty. The lights in the building were out, the Closed sign visible, not a soul in sight. But Mitch’s black Tahoe was parked in a spot at the side of the building.
“He must’ve gone with someone, gotten a ride,” Becca said as Hudson pulled up next to the big rig and parked, cutting the engine.
“Maybe.”
“The place is closed.”
“I know.” Hudson opened the glove compartment, retrieved a small flashlight, then stepped out of the pickup, leaving the driver’s door open. He punched out a number on his cell phone and walked toward the garage, listening. “It’s ringing.” He nodded toward the garage. “Inside.” Becca heard the faint sound of some downloaded tune.
“Maybe Mitch left it by mistake.”
“Left his truck and his cell phone?” Hudson was already walking around to the back of the garage as Becca shoved open the passenger door and hopped to the ground, catching up with Hudson. By the time they reached a slightly ajar back door, the cell phone was still playing a song from the eighties. “Mitch?” he called into the darkened interior, his voice echoing slightly. “Mitch?”
“He’s not here,” Becca said again, but even as she stepped over the threshold of the garage she felt that something was wrong. No security lights were lit and country music was playing softly from speakers. But there was a strange, eerie quietude to the place that caused the hairs on the back of her arms to lift. Her stomach knotted as she kept up with Hudson. They picked their way