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so very deep. She listened to the air flowing from her lungs and tried to steady it. She had
     to remain calm. Cool. Her goal was so close.
    Tommy’s footsteps sounded hollowly on the wood of the deck, and she opened her eyes. He came back carrying a bunch of keys
     tied together with a frayed piece of string. “One of these, I think. Maybe. Question is, which one.”
    Turner kept herself still and watched the old man carefully sort through the keys. Tommy was a slight man, no taller than
     five-eight, and as he’d aged he’d slumped a bit. Add to that some weight loss in the last few years, and he’d become frail-looking.
     His wrists were narrow and bony, the skin easily bruised. He probably didn’t weigh much more than Turner herself, and she
     was a small woman.
    He looked up and caught her watching him but didn’t comment. “Think I got it here. ’Spose we can give her a try.”
    He gave an extra hitch to his khaki pants and led the way into the barn. Turner followed. Inside, the dark interior blinded
     her temporarily after the harsh sunlight. The air was still and hot and smelled of oil and sawdust. Lined up against the side
     were three vehicles: a huge station wagon with fake-wood panels, a lumbering late-eighties Ford Taurus, and the baby blue
     ’68 Chevy pickup. The Chevy wasn’t the most discreet of cars, but it wasn’t like she had a whole lot of choice now.
    “Okeydoke.” Tommy wrenched at the driver’s side door and it opened with a screech. “Oughter oil that.”
    Turner got in the passenger side and watched Tommy insert the key and start the engine. It made a horrible squealing sound.
    “Starts right up,” Tommy yelled over the revving. “That’s because I take it out every month or so to keep her in shape.” He’d
     apparently already forgotten his prediction that the truck wouldn’t start.
    He turned and cautiously, carefully, and very slowly backed out of the barn.
    Once out in the sunshine, he switched the engine off again. “Better put some oil in. These old trucks will run forever, but
     this one just about drinks oil.”
    He hopped down from the cab and disappeared back in the barn. Turner got out and fetched her suitcase from the Escort. Tommy
     had reemerged by the time she’d stowed the suitcase on the passenger floor. He slowly opened the hood and began tinkering.
    Turner sighed and drove the Escort into the barn to take the Chevy’s place. When she came out, Tommy was still under the hood.
    She walked over and laid a gentle hand on his back. His shoulder blade felt sharp under her palm. The bone was covered with
     only a thin layer of skin; there wasn’t any fat or muscle to spare. “I have to go now, Tommy.”
    “Eh?” He withdrew from the hood and looked at her, old blue eyes sharp. “What’s the gol dern hurry?”
    “I’ve got to do an errand for Rusty.”
    Tommy stilled for a moment, then slammed the hood down. “Okeydoke. Just remember to put oil in her every couple hundred miles
     or so.”
    “Will do.” Turner got in the cab.
    “I put some extra cans of oil under the front seat.” Tommy slapped the hood and stepped away. “Take care now.”
    She nodded and backed out of the drive. When she looked back, he was still staring after her, the breeze gently lifting his
     grizzled hair. Turner made sure to memorize the image. It might be the last time she ever saw Tommy.
    Chapter Four
    I ’m pretty sure Fish has a first name,” Sheriff Clemmons said slowly, not sounding sure at all. “Maybe Tom or Ned.”
    John watched the sheriff expressionlessly.
Ned?
Nobody named their kids Ned anymore, did they? The only Ned he could think of offhand was Ned Yost. Well, and Ned Nickerson,
     Nancy Drew’s boyfriend. The name was wimpy even thirty-one years ago when he’d been sneaking reads from his sister’s yellow-spined
     collection.
    John tilted his paper coffee cup to catch the last nasty, stone-cold drop. It tasted like the toxic leavings in an old chemical