I had seen Hillman. It was all I had. The shooter had to be Hillman or one of his men. Or connected to him. I could drive back to the houseboat, gather my stuff, and get out. Like I planned to do anyway. The shooter didn’t know where my home base was or they’d have ambushed me there.

Manic, hyped up, awake again. Didn’t suit to run. That’d be setting up the same situation again. Next time, it’d be my head exploding in a parking lot somewhere.

No, not interested in running. Not yet. Not again.

I headed for the strip of town on the outskirts, with its row of shitty motels and gas stations. I remembered Hillman’s car. If I didn’t see it, I’d return to the houseboat.

Dusk, with the low sun fuzzed with mist and the gas station lights muffled. The whole coast felt too gloomy. It’d be easy to miss the car. What if Hillman parked around back? What if Hillman had left town?

Nothing at Snow White’s Motel, whatever that was, and nothing at the Marquis or the El Dorado or Mickey’s Irish Inn.

I had the heat on, and gloves on, too, as the temperature had plummeted like a duck shot out of the sky. Sleet, and the wipers on. But, then, out of all that nothing, I found it.

Hillman’s car. In a spot under a good, bright streetlamp. Sitting there innocuous in front of Room 112 of the Black Bear Motel.

I parked three spots over. Thought better of it, hesitated, then pulled out my gun, safety off, and got out, leaving my car door ajar to avoid making more noise. The ice machine in front of 114 growled and complained, which helped. As did the logging trucks rumbling past.

The garish pink of the motel doors made them seem to pulse against the mist like they were breathing. I stood there in front of 112, deciding whether to knock or not. Not even passkey technology. I could see where the frame was rotting and how the space between door and frame was too wide, the lock silhouetted within not quite fitting.

This would have to be quick.

One bad shoulder. Bleeding in a new place from that mosquito-bite bullet. Leg suspect.

Well, use the one good shoulder.

I smashed the door down on my first try. I wasn’t even breathing hard.

A person sat inside the freezing room. Hillman, leg still in a brace from the damage I’d dealt him. Slouched, haphazard, in a crappy chair beside the even crappier coffee table. Older, wearier-looking.

A bullet hole through the back of his skull.

[80]