Finders/Keepers (An Allie Krycek Thriller, Book 3) (4 page)

Allie clenched her teeth but didn’t say anything.

H
e couldn’t go meet
the girl while both his legs were feeling as if they were engulfed in flames for some damn reason, so Hank took a quick detour. Kent Whitman’s pharmacy had a small line of people at the front register, but Hank bypassed the woman working behind the counter and went straight to the back.

“What do you want?” Whitman said when Hank pushed his way into the back room. The pharmacist was in the middle of separating stacks of pills.

“I need the good stuff,” Hank said.

“What ‘good stuff?’”

“You know what good stuff.” Hank pointed at his right leg, though of course Whitman couldn’t see anything through his pants. He had re-bandaged the wound the best he could while Diane’s voice nagged at him to go to the hospital and get it properly looked at.

Whitman didn’t even glance down at Hank’s leg and instead returned to his work. “I’m not giving you anything without a prescription.”

“Ain’t got time for that.”

“What’s wrong with your leg?”

“Someone shot me.”

“Someone
shot
you?” The pharmacist looked back at him. “Jesus Christ, Hank. I thought you were retired?”

“I am, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still get shot. Now you going to give me the good stuff, or not?”

“No,” Whitman said, and shook his head for emphasis.

Hank sighed and leaned on the counter, staring at Whitman. “Eight years ago, you came to me asking for help…”

Whitman didn’t let him finish. “Okay, okay. Jesus Christ, how long you going to hang that one over me?”

Whenever I need something from you
, Hank thought, but said, “This is the last time.”

“Yeah, right,” Whitman said, but he abandoned his work and headed farther into the back. “Wait here.”

Hank leaned against the counter and wondered what Diane would say about him blackmailing one of their oldest friends.

I did it for a good reason, sweetheart.

Well, mostly.

And he could be wrong—and it was likely all in his head—but Hank swore the pain had started to lessen in both legs almost right away.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, old-timer.

T
he address
the girl gave him was for a motel along the interstate in the neighboring state, and it took Hank over three hours to reach her. He spent that time mulling over everything he knew about the robbery at the diner—which wasn’t very much, when he really thought about it—and how much of a bad idea this was. Hank was glad he didn’t carry a cell phone, otherwise he wasn’t sure if he could fight the temptation to call Miller and tell him everything. The lack of a phone, as well as a general dislike of the young turd, helped Hank to keep on course.

By the time he pulled into the motel parking lot, the sun had begun to dip in the horizon and the establishment’s glowing neon sign had flickered to life in the background. From the number of vehicles, the rooms were only half full today, most occupied around the central hub where the manager’s office was located. The room the girl gave him was for the next-to-last door on the east side.

Hank parked in front of the room and sat behind the wheel of the Bronco, staring out his dirt-covered windshield, trying to convince himself he wasn’t just being a stupid old man who still craved action.

Go back home. This is one mystery you don’t need to solve.

What would Diane say?

He sighed and stuck his keys into his jacket pocket and climbed out of the truck, and was happy when his legs didn’t buckle or send streams of pain through his body as soon as he put pressure on them. Maybe it was the long drive that had numbed the wound or the pills Whitman had given him. The “good stuff,” after all, was called that for a reason.

“This is it; no more,” Whitman had said when he handed them over.

“Yeah, sure,” Hank had said, doing his very best to avoid his friend’s eyes.

He jingled his keys in his left coat pocket while rubbing the well-worn walnut grip of the snub nose in the right. It was a good thing he had asked for it back from Miller. He hadn’t brought any extra rounds, but Hank figured if he needed more than six bullets to deal with a little girl (He wondered how old she was. Ten? Twelve? Nineteen?), then he was already in trouble anyway.

He sucked in some of the nice, chilly air and walked to Room 23, but he hadn’t reached the concrete sidewalk that separated the rooms from the parking lot when the door opened and a small, thin figure looked out at him. She had one hand on the doorknob and the other in her jacket pocket.

“You’re late,” the girl said.

Am I? Oh, right; that side trip to Kent’s.

“Sorry,” he said. “I had to go see some guy—”

Hank froze at the sight of the creature emerging out of the dark interior of the motel room.

Wolf!
his mind screamed before he realized how dumb that was (What would a wolf be doing inside a motel with a girl?). Even so, it took a few seconds before he could properly identify the beast as a large dog covered almost entirely in white fur with brown patches to break up the monotony. He had never been much of a dog person, so Hank had no idea what kind of breed the animal was. Though it looked huge to him at first blush, that was probably because it was standing next to the small girl. So what did that make the dog? Average size? Just slightly bigger?

“Is he dangerous?” Hank asked.

“Only to the right people,” the girl said.

Hank stared at her, not quite sure what to make of that last statement.

“Relax; he’s a pussycat,” the girl said, maybe seeing the doubt on his face.

But the way she had said it, with almost a slight smirk, made Hank not entirely believe her.

“Come on in,” she said.

Hank took a step forward, waiting for the dog to bare its teeth or show some form of aggression. Instead, the animal simply looked back at him, almost curious about what
he
was going to do next.

That makes two of us, buddy.

“You got a name?” he asked the girl.

“Uh huh,” she nodded.

He grinned. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen—maybe sixteen—but there was a world-weariness about her. He also made a mental note of how she kept her right hand inside her jacket pocket the entire time.

What’s she got in there?

She stood back, holding the door open with one hand, and he entered, but only because the dog had turned and wandered back inside. He walked across the carpeted floor, looking the modestly-decorated room over. Nothing fancy—a bed, a bathroom at the end, a heavy (and cheap) dresser to his right, and a TV hanging off the wall above it. The bed was a queen and looked lived in, and there was luggage on the floor next to the nightstand. More than one. Two, to be exact. He didn’t see a phone anywhere, though, which made him wonder how he had talked to the girl earlier. Did they even still have phones in motel rooms?

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” he said.

“Lucy.”

“Nice to meet you, Lucy.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The dog was lying on its stomach in the back hallway, large brown eyes watching him the entire time. He wondered how long it would take that thing to leap up and clamp what were probably very sharp teeth around his neck. Hank was hoping to not find out anytime soon. It might not have been an actual wolf, but fangs were still fangs.

“Turn around, mister,” the girl said.

Hank did—and sighed.

So that’s what she had in that pocket.

She had a gun in her right hand, and it was pointed at him. He didn’t like the way she held it—casually, next to her hip, as if she had done it many times before. It was one of the smaller model Glock semiautomatics, maybe a G306, which was popular with women for protection. It was officially a subcompact pistol, but there was nothing “sub” or “compact” about the ten .45 rounds it carried.

“Kid, look—”

“Take your hand out of your pockets,” she said, cutting him off.
“Slowly.”

He did—first his left hand, then his right.

“What’s inside your right pocket?” she asked.

“A gun.”

“Your left?”

“Car keys.”

“Take the keys out first.”

He did. “Now the gun?”

She nodded. “Now the gun.”

He took it out by the handle—slowly, without any sudden movements. He didn’t see it, but he thought he might have heard the dog behind him moving closer. He could have made sure by turning his head to look, but he didn’t because that would have meant taking his eyes off the gun.

Christ, I hope that dog doesn’t try to bite my balls off.

“Relax, Apollo,” the girl said.

“Apollo?” Hank said.

“The dog. He doesn’t like men with guns.”

“What about little girls with guns?”

“I’m sixteen. Hardly little.”

“Younger than me.”

“Mister, dirt is younger than you.”

Hank chuckled. Despite everything, he was starting to really like her.

“Put the gun on the bed, please,” the girl said.

“At least you said please,” Hank said, and did as she instructed, then stepped back.

He finally risked a quick glance over his shoulder, and sure enough the mutt was on its feet and, somehow, some way, had crept up until it was on all fours, standing barely three feet behind him. He almost did a double take but was too afraid any quick movements might set the animal off.

Fucking ninja dog, or something.

He looked back at the girl instead. She had walked over and picked up his gun, then put it in the nightstand drawer next to the bed and closed it.

“Now what?” he asked.

“How did you get my number?”

Her gun was hanging at her side—and, more importantly, no longer pointed at him—which made him breathe easier. The last thing he wanted was to get shot.
Again.

“The answer’s in my back pocket,” he said.

“Get it,” she said. Then, before he could move,
“Slowly.”

He reached back and pulled out the folded piece of paper. It had torn slightly from being soaked in water but was still mostly in one piece. He held it out to her and she walked over, took it, then retreated just as quickly. She was maintaining enough space between them that Hank wasn’t sure he could cover them and go for the gun before she fired. Or, hell, before the dog took him from behind first. He could feel the animal moving around back there, even if he had to fight every instinct to check a second time.

Stay back, you stupid dog. You leave me alone, and I’ll do the same. Deal?

The girl, Lucy, opened the paper and looked down at it before glancing back up at Hank. “It’s her handwriting. Her sevens always look too much like her ones.”

“Her?”

She ignored his question and said instead, “Why did she give this to you?”

“I don’t have any clue, kid. She put it in my pocket after she shot me.”

“She shot
you?”

He nodded and saw the girl’s mind working.

“There was a robbery earlier today, at a diner,” Hank began.

“I saw it on TV. Three people robbed some place called Benny’s?”

“Ben’s.”

“Same difference.” Then, “So she shot you?”

“I guess I didn’t really give her much of a choice.”

“She clipped you. You’re lucky,”
Mary the EMT had said when she was bandaging him up earlier today.

Maybe it wasn’t luck, after all, now that he thought about it. Maybe it was the only way she could have stopped him without killing him. He remembered the argument she’d had with the other two, including the Brit, the one Hank was sure was the leader of the pack.

“What does that mean?” the girl asked. “You didn’t give her any choice?”

“I had a gun, and there were two of them.”

“Are you saying she saved your life?”

“I guess that’s one way to put it. Though I can’t figure out why she would put your phone number in my pocket.”

Apparently he wasn’t the only person trying to figure that one out. The girl cocked her head slightly to the side, her eyes glued on him.

“What are you, some kind of cop?” she asked. Then, before he could answer, “Or ex-cop?”

“How’d you know?”

“Well, you’re old.”

Hank grunted. He was liking this kid more and more. If nothing else, he’d never have to tread lightly around her or worry she was bullshitting him. His Diane was like that; it was one of the
(Many, so many)
reasons why he missed her so damn much.

“Yeah, I was a statey for a while,” he said.

“Statey?”

“State police, kid.”

“Oh.” She walked back to the nightstand and opened the drawer and pulled out some kind of tablet, using her thumb to turn it on. “What’s your full name?”

“Hank Pritchard.”

“Hank, like Hank Hill?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“He’s a famous dad. Sold propane for a living.”

“Yeah, I guess. Like Hank Hill.”

She sat down on the side of the bed, put the tablet in her lap, and typed on it with one hand, using all five fingers. Hank didn’t know how the hell she did that while keeping the gun in her right hand, but then he’d always been a two-fingered typist. It was one of the curses of not owning a computer, a tablet, or a cell phone, though back when he was in the department he did have a ten-year-old desktop—

“You were a lieutenant,” the girl said, looking back up at him. Hank glimpsed his picture (or, at least, an old version of him) in uniform on her tablet’s screen. “Retired six years ago. Why?”

“I got old,” he said. “Is that my state police file?”

“Yes,” she said, and put the tablet down, slipping the Glock into her jacket pocket.

She had put the gun away so quickly, without any preamble whatsoever, that it actually took him a few seconds to realize he was no longer in danger of being shot, accidentally or otherwise. Of course, there was still the dog behind him…

“I’m sorry about the gun and everything,” the girl said, “but I had to be careful.”

“What’s going on here, kid? You wanna tell me who you are, what you’re doing here, and more importantly, why some woman I’ve never met slipped your number into my pocket
while
she was holding up a diner?”