Chapter 10: R.C.

I got to the bottom of the stairs before Rafe did.

Norman Mabry stood in the gravel with the old tank in his arms and didn't look up until I was ten feet away.

He was sixty-one and looked older.

His eyes were red-rimmed, and he hadn't shaved.

"Mrs. Telford," he said.

"It's Ansel."

"Ms. Ansel." He swallowed. "I'd like to talk to you alone, if the man upstairs will allow it."

"He doesn't decide that."

"Good." Something in his face almost eased. "That's good."

Behind me the shop door opened and closed, and Rafe stopped in the doorway. He didn't come out.

Norman looked past me at him for a long moment. Neither of them spoke.

"I'm not here for you, son," Norman said at last. "Not yet. Give me ten minutes with her."

Rafe's jaw moved. Then he looked at me, and I nodded, and he went back inside and left the door open a hand's width.

Norman held out the tank.

"I think this is yours."

I took it. It was heavier than I remembered, and the paint was still perfect, ten years under a shelf.

The wrench crossed the wing. The gold-leaf letters glinted.

"R.C.," I said. "A customer who never came back."

"That's what Dutch told you."

"It's what he told everyone."

"It's a lie." Norman's voice cracked on the word.

"R.C. stands for road captain. I ordered it through Dutch, because he said you could do the best work in three states."

"It was a gift for my road captain, for the Sunday I named him."

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