Bitter Recoil (2011)
“The sheriff regarded me as if I’d given Finn the keys myself. Maybe that’s why Tate had driven to the city instead of prolonging our phone conversation. “The son of a bitch parked Al Martinez’s car right in Estelle’s driveway. Then he broke a wing window of your Blazer and that was that.” “What the hell is that simple bastard up to?” I walked to the window. To the north, the plume of smoke towered like a summer thunderstorm’s anvil—hell, airline pilots were probably smelling the pine smoke at 30,000 feet. “He won’t be hard to find.” “No. There are probably only a thousand beat-up ’84 Chevy Blazers in the state. But we got every road covered…one agency or another.” “And he’s got Daisy with him.” “For sure,” Tate said. “We saw the tracks of her little sneakers in the dirt of the driveway.” He sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers twined together and he said quietly, “I don’t believe we lost Paul.
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