Voodoo Ridge

“$8.97,” Jalali said.

“Nine bucks for two aspirin and three bites of jerky? That’s really promoting customer loyalty.”

“You don’t want it,” Jalali said with an obnoxious, indifferent shrug, “don’t buy it.”

My head felt like it was splitting apart at the seams. I pulled a ten-spot out of my wallet and slapped it on the counter. Jalali took the bill and made change, his eyes locked on mine.

“You were in the restaurant,” he said. “Why did you look at us that way?”

“I’m looking for a woman.”

“We are all looking for a woman, my friend,” the fireplug said.

I showed him Sava

The fireplug do

“No,” is all he said.

If I’d understood Urdu I might’ve been able to assess with greater accuracy whether he was telling the truth. Nothing, though, in his body language or microexpressions suggested he was lying. His friend, the fireplug, was a different story. The small muscles beneath his right eye were in spasm. He couldn’t stop glaring at me.

“Who are you?” he said, more of a demand than a question.

“Me? I’m just a guy with a bad headache and a hankering for acid indigestion.”

I snatched up the turkey jerky and aspirin and walked out to the car.

To the west, the clouds broke, and for a few fleeting seconds, I could make out mountain peaks — the same mountains where I’d first spotted what remained of a winged phantom lost long ago. The phantom’s last flight, according to my spook buddy, Buzz, had been in support of a highly classified mission to arm nations friendly to US interests in and around South Asia — countries that I assumed included Pakistan, India, and, one of America’s strongest regional allies back then, Iran. Jalali and his squatty friend, the fireplug, were from Iran. I knew of absolutely nothing to link either man to the murder of Chad Lovejoy, or whatever it was that had been stolen from the wreckage of that airplane. Nor, for that matter, was I aware of one iota of evidence tying them in any fashion to Sava

I drove the neighborhood for a couple of minutes, then circled back to park a block away from the Dutch Mart Gas and Grub where I could establish a relatively unobtrusive surveillance position. With the back of the SUV positioned toward the convenience store, I angled my side and rear mirrors to maintain eyes-on, sat back chewing my overpriced aspirin, and waited to see who came or went. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was better than nothing.

More than anything, I wanted my phone to ring. I wanted Sava

Other men under similar circumstances might’ve prayed. I’d prayed plenty when I was a kid. I begged God every night to remove me from my latest foster home hellhole, and to find me a family, a real family, with people who genuinely cared about me. The Almighty never seemed to hear me, though. Either that or he was always too busy to respond. Soon enough, you stop asking. I knew under present circumstances that the Buddha wouldn’t be of much help, either. I realized as I sat there, watching that convenience store, the only power I could rely on was my own.

After nearly an hour observing a procession of ragged but otherwise benign-looking customers pulling in for cigarettes and beer, I turned over the Yukon’s ignition and drove on.

Amid the snow, searching for Sava

A stocky dude in his early twenties with a sandy crew cut and black ski bibs apparently thought I was checking out his girlfriend and took offense. He rolled down the passenger window on his black Hummer and leaned across her lap, giving me the stink eye.

“What’re you staring at, asshole?”

I ignored him.

The inside of my throat was burning. Probably from the aspirin. I needed something to wash it down, and quickly. Up ahead, past a hemp shop where a Jamaican flag hung in the window, was a sign for a bakery. I hooked a right into the snow-covered parking lot.

The bakery was warm and smelled of chocolate. The cherubic girl behind the counter sported a sterling ring in her lower lip and a purple streak in her dark, punk-style hair.

“What can I get you?”

“I’d like some water.”

“Bottled or tap?”

“Is bottled faster?”

She didn’t understand the question.

“Bottled,” I said.

“Bubbles or no bubbles?”

“I have no preference.”

“Would you like—?”

“Look, just some water. Please.”

She reached into a large cooler behind her and handed me a cold bottle. I chugged it down. My throat felt considerably better.

“Anything else for you today, sir?”

I showed her Sava

“Any chance you’ve seen this woman?”

“Definitely.”

My pulse quickened.

“You have seen her?”

“Oh, for sure.”

“Where?”

“On TV.”

“You saw her on TV.” I was puzzled. “When was this?”

“Last week.” The girl looked at the picture once more. “She’s on Real Housewives, right?”

I forced a smile. “Not exactly.”

“Well, one of those shows, right?”

“She’s missing. I’m trying to locate her.”

“Oh.”

I ordered black coffee along with turkey and Havarti on a baguette. I ate the sandwich quickly. When I was finished, I called Streeter. He didn’t answer. I left word on his voice mail that I had some information for him on the downed Beechcraft and asked that he let me know if he’d heard anything from the hospital on Sava

“I’ve checked out of the B&B,” I said. “I’m not sure where I’ll be staying tonight, but I’ll leave my phone on. Call me.”

The snow was coming down heavier. I pondered my options and quickly concluded that I had few. Driving around in a blizzard, showing random people Sava

Sava

I fishtailed out of the lot and across the road, nearly slamming into an eastbound Range Rover and an old Buick heading west. Both drivers hit the brakes, skidding on the snow and laying on their horns as I shot the narrow gap between them.

I couldn’t see inside the Subaru — snow obscured the station wagon’s back window — but I could tell that whoever was behind the wheel knew how to drive in winter by his lack of sliding. I could also tell that he knew he was being pursued. Repeatedly, I flashed the Yukon’s headlights on and off, on and off, pounding on my own horn, trying to get him to pull over, but he did the opposite, ratcheting up his speed to more than forty miles an hour. Half of that would’ve been too fast given the deteriorating road conditions, but he wasn’t about to stop.