No Fault of Mine

Chapter Three

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, he's right, Mom. They can literally tell where you are even if you don't use your phone."

"So, what should I do? Burn it?" I held my phone away from my body as if it was contaminated or about to explode.

"Nothing that radical," Stan said. "Just get a burner phone."

"Right. I'm sure they're available everywhere."

"They are," he said with a broad smile.

"There?" I nodded toward the store.

"Yes, there," he said.

"I suppose you'll give me that, too," I said with an edge in my voice.

"Listen, I know you're in a bad situation. Instead of being suspicious of me, you should focus on the bad guys. They're the ones who want to hurt you."

"And you wouldn't?"

He didn't answer my question, but by the time I left the station, I had somehow accepted his plan. I'd take the burner phone and the numbers I needed, and he'd take my phone with him to a business appointment he had in the Tri-Cities in the morning and then on to Portland by the weekend. He said he had been planning to see his brother, and this would be the perfect excuse. From there, he'd call me to return the phone. It all sounded so simple.

I saw his reflection in my mirror as I pulled away from the station. He stood by the door and looked as casual as someone on a break, not having a care in the world. I was surprised at the spark I felt seeing him there. It was a response to his kindness, but the fact that he was easy to look at helped.

As I watched the town's lights in my rear-view mirror fade into the landscape, I realized this all sounded like a poorly scripted plot for a B-grade movie. But this story didn't start with a vehicular attack. My world began to circle the drain when my husband was found dead in a national forest in Idaho's panhandle. He was killed elsewhere and dumped along a forest service road to be found by a family on a Sunday afternoon ride on their side-by-sides. The body was badly decomposed. The medical examiner found he was tortured before he was killed.

Dad had turned over the family business to my brother and me before his death, and my husband joined the company after our marriage ten years ago. Within a year, my husband and brother were at odds over financial dealings involving banking, investments, and government contracts. It only got worse over time. When I say worse, I mean I felt pulled in two directions and ended up losing the trust of the two men I loved the most.

Running into Stan at the gas station seemed like a stroke of good luck. He fixed my lights and suggested a trade of phones. Both seemed like a good idea at the time. However, suspicion, doubt, and paranoia had begun to raise their ugly heads again, and I was developing a neck ache, checking my rear-view mirror so much.

Then there was Stan. Is he on the "to-be-trusted list" or the blacklist? He struck me as helpful, skilled, and thoughtful, but I only have a sample of one of them. If I see him again, I'll keep my eyes open.

My mind was no longer racing on a gerbil wheel for the moment. The downside was that my adrenalin had burned off, and I felt the heaviness that drowsiness brought. I estimated that dawn would break at about the time we reached the summit of White Pass. I lowered my window for the noise and cold air. Brant stirred but didn't awaken.

I had never been this alone and vulnerable. My parents were dead, my brother had questions about my loyalty to him and the business, and my sister was in no position to offer us help. The yearly business payout to the stakeholders would only happen on the first of the year, based on the operational by-laws of our LLC. My husband emptied our accounts before his death, and my bills, including the mortgage, were three months in arrears. I had only a few thousand in my pocket, the last cash I had squirreled away in my safe. A "friend" of mine—I put that in quotes because I question the loyalty of all my friends—agreed to handle the listing of my home, but we've had no reasonable offers in the three months it has been for sale.

To add salt to my wounds, my husband took out a second loan on our house without my knowledge and spent it on one of his harebrained business ideas. At this point, I'm wondering if it has anything to do with the man in the SUV hellbent on killing me and my son.

The morning sun had reached the top of the mountains as I neared the pass's summit. I pulled off the road at the overlook at Clear Creek. Brant stirred, rubbed his eyes, and looked around.

"Are we there yet?" he asked.

"No, but we'll stop for breakfast in about a half-hour." I opened the car door and stretched. I needed to shake the fatigue from my body.

"Mom, do you think that the guy in the car killed Dad?" Brant asked, following me.

"I don't know."

"Would you tell if he was?" Brant asked.

I stopped and looked out over the canyon. The sun had inched lower and would touch the canyon floor before we found breakfast.

"Truth is a hard thing, Son. Being your mom is a hard thing. I want you to know the truth, but right now, there is a lot of speculation and theories, and I can't say any of them are true. I promise you one thing: when I know the truth, I'll tell you."

My son took my hand and squeezed.