The Grid by Harry Hunsicker Read Free Book Online

her head up when you least expect it.
    My time as a federal law-enforcement contractor had generated a certain amount of headlines and notoriety, an unsavoriness that Jerry wanted kept out of his county. Who could blame him?
    Nevertheless, I was hot and tired and not in the mood to rehash ancient history.
    “Kelsey’s benefits,” I said. “The commissioners need to reinstate them.”
    He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, a blank look on his face.
    “She’s in a tough spot,” I said. “The county shouldn’t make her situation worse just because it can.”
    “Jon . . . I’m, uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s this damn heat.”
    “No worries.” I forced a smile.
    “Do you have any leads on who killed our man?” He put his handkerchief away. “This is an affront to the county. We can’t rest until the murderer—”
    “Our man?” I said. “You were trying to fire him twenty-four hours ago.”
    He didn’t reply, suddenly looking every bit of his seventy-odd years.
    “He was catting around,” I said. “Looks like his murder was somehow related to that.”
    Jerry nodded.
    “The Texas Rangers are handling the investigation. We’re gonna find who’s responsible.”
    He looked across the square to the Suburbans idling at the gas station.
    I followed his gaze. “They’re here about the power outage, if I had to guess.”
    “The what?” He seemed confused.
    “The brownout this morning, remember?”
    “Oh yeah.”
    “You feeling okay?”
    He nodded. Then shook his head. “The deputy’s grandfather. He and I were friends way back when.”
    Neither of us spoke for a moment.
    “Kelsey and her benefits,” I said. “Don’t forget.”
    He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed for a few seconds. Then he wandered down the sidewalk to his car, a freshly washed Cadillac sedan.
    I took one last look at the Suburbans, then went inside the courthouse.

- CHAPTER ELEVEN -
    Sarah’s making good time. The speedometer is pegged at ninety, and there’s not a cop in sight.
    Then the tire blows.
    A loud thud followed by a slapping noise.
    The Monte Carlo tilts to one side. Smoke and road dust gush from the back right of the vehicle. The steering wheel rattles. She hangs on with all her strength, knuckles white.
    Instinctively, she takes her foot off the gas but does not apply the brake, instead letting the vehicle slow on its own. She aims toward the shoulder on the right side.
    Just north of Hillsboro, this stretch of the interstate is empty of houses and commercial buildings. Nothing but heavily wooded land and roadside billboards.
    The car comes to a stop, and the AC starts blowing hot air for some reason. She leaves the engine running because starting it again with a screwdriver can be tricky.
    Traffic whizzes by, a never-ending stream. Cars and pickups, the occasional motorcycle. Eighteen-wheelers that buffet the old Chevy like it’s a tin can.
    Dallas is maybe an hour away.
    There might as well be an ocean between her present location and the safety of the city. She’s in a stolen car with a blown tire and no key to the trunk, where there might be a spare. Also, the state police are probably looking for her by now.
    Her whole body shakes. Sweat pops up on her forehead, trickling into her eyes.
    The voice of her grandfather echoes in her head: You really shit the bed this time, didn’t you?
    “Shut up.” She yanks off her sunglasses.
    Whatchoo gonna do now, girl?
    On the opposite side of the highway, separated by forty yards of grassy median, a Texas Highway Patrol unit speeds south.
    Sarah hyperventilates.
    The correct word hasn’t been invented yet for how fucked she is.
    Inside the Monte Carlo, everything feels like it’s getting smaller, the air hotter.
    She rips off the ball cap and her hair spills out, dry but tangled. She unzips the raincoat, flings it open, not caring that she’s naked underneath.
    Her chest is slick with perspiration.
    She leans her head back against