Damaged Goods

Chapter Forty-Three

My business with Blaine was finished, but I hadn't wrapped everything up just yet. After a dramatic exit from my former client's house, I went home, caught a few hours' sleep, and hit the road again. In an abundance of caution, I bought a burner phone and left my cell at home. I also used a map to find my way rather than rely on GPS.

The map included directions given to me (under only the slightest duress) by Katie. It led to a post office in Charlotte, North Carolina.

I backed my car into a space beside a sandwich shop far enough from the post office to go unnoticed, but close enough to watch the entrance. My first day of surveillance was a complete bore, as were my second and third. Now and then, I moved the car so I could walk to the shop and stake out the place while scarfing down a sandwich at a window table. For the most part, no one seemed to notice me. I slept in the car and stayed at my post while sneaking in a few minutes here and there for a hurried pit stop or to grab a quick bite to eat at the deli.

The fourth day finally bore fruit. The man entering the post office looked a good bit like the photo I had of Kandinsky's son. Less than a minute later, he reappeared and walked around to the back of the building. I started the car and crept toward the post office, pretending to look for a space.

A green pickup truck nosed out onto the street. My quarry was behind the wheel. He turned left, so I pulled into the drive that led to a parking lot, making as if to take his spot. After a quick three-point turn, I left the same way I'd come in and hastened to catch up with the pickup, making sure to keep two or three cars between us.

We took a fairly well-traveled, but hardly crowded, highway into the surrounding countryside. As we went deeper into the Great Smoky Mountains, traffic thinned out. The need to keep a greater distance made my pursuit more difficult, especially given the winding roads and occasional forks in them. Most of the time I was able to stay on course. Only once did I pick the wrong fork. A quick encounter with a dead end made my mistake obvious, so I quickly corrected course to get behind the pickup again.

We ended up near a cabin tucked away downhill from the road and nestled so far back among evergreens and birch trees I could barely tell the building was there. There was a gravel driveway but I stayed away from it to avoid the inevitable noisy crunching of my tires and to maintain my distance. The pickup drew up in front of the cabin and the driver went inside. I looked around for a good place to leave my car. The hilly topography gave me few options, but I managed to find the world's tiniest pull-off area and squeezed the Fiesta into it. From there, I walked back to the driveway and tried not to overly disturb the gravel as I made my way down toward the cabin.

The place apparently had no official address, that is, no house number. Not surprising, under the circumstances.

I knocked on the door, stepping to one side just in case. No shots were fired, but my spidey-sense tingled. I was being watched.

"I'm not here to hurt you," I announced. "We just need to settle a few things."

A prolonged silence followed. Then a man's voice emanated from within the mini-house. "Why? Who are you?"

"A friend. Someone who's tired of being hounded because of my work for an ingrate client."

That gave him something to think about. "Why should we talk to you?"

We? The use of the plural answered one question. "Because if you help me, I can help you, Mr. Kandinsky."