Shadow of Betrayal

When they reached Los Osos, they turned onto South Bay Boulevard. According to Orlando, that would take them to State Park Road, which wound around the local golf course before becoming Main Street in Morro Bay.

“What’s the plan?” Nate said.

“We get as close to the school as we can,” Quinn said.

“And then?”

And then … That was the real issue. Quinn had been trying to figure the best answer to that question since they’d left Marion in Shell Beach. One solution had come to mind, but he was hoping to come up with a better one before he had to act.

“Just drive,” he said.

A minute later Nate eased off on the gas. Ahead, five cars were stopped in the road. Parked on the shoulder at the front of the line were two Highway Patrol cars.

Checkpoint, Quinn thought.

Quinn pulled his SIG out of his backpack and slipped it under his seat. Though the last thing he wanted to do was use it, it needed to be accessible. He heard the zipper on Orlando’s backpack open a second after his. Their thoughts once again parallel.

“Orlando and I are here on vacation,” Quinn said, creating a quick legend. “Nate, you live up here. We’re visiting you, so you wanted to show us Morro Bay.”

“Got it,” Nate said.

“The car?” Orlando asked.

“Don’t worry,” Nate said. “No one will notice it’s gone for another couple hours.”

Quinn looked at him, a question on his face.

“Grocery store cashier. She was rushing to get to work on time. Never saw me.”

Nate pulled to a stop behind the last car in line. There were only two officers manning the checkpoint. One stood near the center of the road, leaning down to talk to the drivers as each car approached. The other stood just off the blacktop. His job was to observe, and react if needed. Low-level security, trying to weed out the obvious crazies.

Slowly the line inched forward. The officer seemed to be spending no more than a couple minutes or so with each vehicle. Just enough time to get a vibe from those inside, and check the trunks. So far, no one had been turned back.

As the car in front of them finished its check, Quinn said, “Nice and relaxed.”

Nate eased the car forward, then rolled his window down.

“Morning,” the officer said.

“Morning,” Nate said.

“How you doing today?” The officer’s gaze moved through the cabin, stopping for a second on Quinn and Orlando.

“Doing well,” Nate said. “Can’t beat the weather.”

The officer smiled. “Are you locals?”

“I am,” Nate said. “Arroyo Grande. My friends are visiting. Thought I’d take them out and show them the bay.”

The officer glanced at Orlando again. “So where are you visiting from?” he asked, his voice deceptively light.

“Los Angeles,” she said.

“I hear it’s been hot down there lately.”

Before she could respond, Quinn jumped in, “Not too bad. It’ll be worse in September.”

“Now that’s true,” the officer said. His eyes stayed on Quinn. “You look a little familiar. Have we met before?”

Quinn could feel a chill run up his arms. The police sketch, he thought. It was a question he wasn’t used to, so it caught him off guard.

“He’s an actor,” Orlando said. “Does a lot of commercials.”

“I’ve done a couple movies, too,” Quinn added, trying to sound appropriately defensive.

“But no one’s seen those,” she said. Then, to the officer, she added, “Straight to DVD.”

“No wonder you’re not my publicist,” Quinn said.

“That must be it,” the officer said. He took a step back. “I’m going to need to take a look in your trunk. Do you mind popping it for me?”

“No problem,” Nate said.

There was a dull thunk as Nate released the trunk. The officer walked around back and pushed it all the way open.

“Anything in there we need to worry about?” Quinn whispered through unmoving lips.

“Just the body of the owner,” Nate said.

“Funny,” Quinn shot back.

“I checked before I picked you guys up,” Nate said. “Standard stuff.”

A few seconds later, the officer closed the trunk and returned to the driver’s side window. “All right. You all have a good day,” he said.

“We’re so glad you made it, Mr. Lee,” Sylvia Stanton, principal of the R. J. Oliver School, said. “Doris in Santa Maria had a child who had a meltdown this morning, so they had to cancel. Since you were coming from so far, I was afraid you’d have the same problem.”

“We’re glad we’re here, too,” Tucker said.

Ms. Stanton was under the impression that Tucker was Harold Lee, director of a school several hours south in Ventura. The real Mr. Lee was indeed supposed to be transporting a group of children to the event, but his bus had been stopped not long after leaving Ventura by the squad of Tucker’s men that had split off and gone south in the dark hours of the morning. Mr. Lee would be thankful later, Tucker knew. At least he and his children would still be alive, as long as no one did anything stupid.