Chapter 6: Millhaven
The town of Millhaven sat forty miles east of the highway, at the end of a two-lane road that the county had repaved once in the last thirty years and forgotten about since.
It had a hardware store, a post office that kept irregular hours, a bar called Hennessey's that had operated under four different names and the same owner, and a population that had been declining slowly and without drama for two decades.
It also had, on its eastern edge, a property behind a low stone wall that the locals called the Harlan place — though no one named Harlan had lived there for a very long time.
The SUV stopped at the gate.
Mr.
Hale got out and stood for a moment looking at the property.
The house was large and plain, built in a style that suggested money spent on substance rather than appearance.
The grounds were maintained.
The lights were off.
"He cleared out six hours ago," said the man beside him — the one who had stood at the diner entrance and stopped Cole without touching him.
His name was Voss.
He had been with Mr.
Hale for nine years and spoke only when there was something worth saying.
"I know," Mr.
Hale said.
"We have the secondary location in Redding.
He may have gone there."
"He didn't go to Redding." Mr.
Hale looked at the dark windows of the house.
"He went somewhere he thinks I don't know about."
Voss waited.
"There's a property outside a town called Sutter Creek.
It's registered to a holding company — three layers of shell, very clean work.
It took us fourteen months to trace it." Mr.
Hale turned from the gate.
"Garrett has been building a fallback for a long time.
He's been planning for the day I found him."
"Then he knows you've been looking."
"He's always known." Mr.
Hale walked back to the SUV.
"He left the silver hawk patch in circulation deliberately.
He wanted me to find the chapter.
He wanted me to come down this route, sit in that diner, and make myself visible." He paused with his hand on the door.
"Cole's message tonight wasn't a warning to Garrett.
It was a confirmation."
Voss was quiet for a moment.
"A confirmation of what?"
"That I'm still looking for him personally." Mr.
Hale got into the vehicle.
"Which means I haven't found what he took."
The door closed.
The SUV moved back down the two-lane road toward the highway, its headlights cutting a narrow path through the dark.
In the rear seat, Mr.
Hale opened a thin folder that had been waiting on the seat beside him.
Inside was a single document — a property transfer record, eleven years old, signed at the bottom by a notary in Sacramento.
He had read it many times.
He read it again now, in the moving dark, his eyes stopping at the same line they always stopped at.
The transferring party's name had been redacted.
Professionally.
Cleanly.
But the notary's stamp was still legible.
And the notary's name was Garrett.
Not a nickname.
Not a street name.
A legal signature, made in an official capacity, by a man who had been careful about everything except the one document he had needed to make real.
Mr.
Hale closed the folder.
"Sutter Creek," he said.
May you like
Voss, in the front seat, relayed the destination without being asked.
The SUV accelerated onto the highway, heading north, into a darkness that was getting thinner at the edges as the hours moved toward morning.
