I know, Boon said. I've kept track of her. Sully's eyes sharpened. You've been keeping track, not interfering, just knowing, making sure. Salty was quiet a long moment.
You should have told me, he said at the time, what the decision was going to cost. There wasn't time, Boon said. And I knew you'd say no. You would have said no, and the other outcome would have been worse. I've always known you know that, too.
Knowing it doesn't mean it didn't cost me something, Sully said. No, Boon said, "It doesn't. " The silence between them wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't hostile, either. It was the silence of two men who had been through enough together that they could sit in the difficult parts without needing to rush past them. "I didn't come here to settle it," Sully said finally. I'm not sure it settles completely.
I came because what Pierce is building toward if he decides you're a threat he can't manage quietly it won't stay clean. Your daughter is here. Boon looked at him. So what's the plan? Sully said working on one.
Boon said you'll be here a few days. Few days. Sully said. They spent those days in the garage mostly. The easy companionship of men who had known each other long enough that working side by side didn't require conversation to be legitimate.
Sully handed Boon tools sometimes without being asked, which meant he still knew what each job required before the hand reached out, which was the kind of knowledge that didn't go away regardless of the years between. On the second evening, Boon told Sully about Ruth, about Walt's box in the garage, about the 9 years she'd kept it. Sully listened without interrupting. When Boon finished, Sully was quiet a while. "Dutton told me Walt Callahan was becoming a problem," Sully said.
That was his exact word. A problem for Pierce. He looked at the garage ceiling. If Pierce had anything to do with that road, "We don't know," Boon said. "No," Sully said.
"But somebody should. " Sully left Saturday morning before the town was up, before the diner opened, before the day had committed to being anything particular. Boon walked him out to the Sportster. The air had gone properly cold, the kind that came off the Tennessee hills in late October, and reminded you that warmth was earned, not assumed. Sully pulled on his jacket, checked his saddle bag straps, not because they needed checking, but because riders always did, because the ritual of it settled something before a long road. The photograph, Sully said.
Make copies. Store them somewhere separate from your house and from each other. Already done, Boon said. Sully nodded. He swung a leg over the bike.
Sat without starting it. One more thing, he said. He looked at the handlebars rather than at Boon. What happened in Portland? I spent years being angry about it.