Chapter 6 Inward Shadows

CHAPTER 6: INWARD SHADOWS

August

Holt glanced through his rear-view mirror at the rental trailer hitched to his truck. It was fishtailing a little on the highway every time he tried to drive at full speed. It was probably his fault for failing to evenly disperse the weight of his tools and automotive gear inside the trailer. He was so excited about moving into his own shop today that he'd just tossed his stuff in and slammed the door shut.

"What's wrong?" Bonnie twisted around to glance worriedly out the back window.

"Nothing. I just need to slow down." He feathered his brakes. "Got a heavy load back there. Fortunately, we don't have far to go."

They reached the main part of town and turned onto East 1 st Street. And there was his shop between a laundromat and a tire repair place. The sign read WINCHESTER AUTO DETAILING in fat capital letters. Since it was only a quarter past six, Holt's new sign was still lit up. He had the timer on it set to turn off at the same time the streetlights turned off each morning.

"It looks amazing," Bonnie breathed as he pulled in front of the twin red garage doors. "And it's all yours!"

"Yeah, that part's still sinking in." Holt owed the miracle of business ownership to his generous new employers at K&G Security. Without the salary they were paying him, there was no way he could've afforded to take out a mortgage on a place like this. The next part was up to him. He needed to generate enough income now to make the place profitable.

"Did you return the call of that car lot owner who reached out to you?" Bonnie undid her seatbelt and picked up one of the boxes stacked on the seat cushion beside her. Both of them contained office supplies.

He pushed open his door and hopped to the ground. "I did." The result of the phone call felt like yet another miracle.

"Well, what did he want?" she demanded eagerly as she shimmied his way on the seat, holding the box high enough to clear the steering wheel.

"He's looking for a shop that's willing to prioritize his orders since he plans to bring in steady business." Holt assisted her to the pavement and maneuvered his way around the box in her arms to give her a tender kiss on the lips. "Thanks for being here for me, babe."

Since she had to work today, she'd gotten up extra early to help him deliver his first load. She was one of those rare individuals who was as beautiful on the inside as the outside.

"I wouldn't have missed this for anything," she assured, kissing him back with her eyes. "This is an awfully big day for you, Mr. Business Owner."

"No kidding." It was hard dragging his gaze away from her white knit shirt, red slacks, and blue denim vest. Her wedge heel sandals were almost as tall as the ones his sister wore. "That used car lot owner is pushing to bring his first two cars over today."

She looked surprised. "Guess he wasn't kidding about all that business he intends to throw your way. I'd have never guessed a used car lot owner would need so much detail work done."

"Me, either." Holt shrugged. "But he claims the upgrades really increase his profits. Says he's looking for custom paint jobs, trim packages, lift kits, sound systems, and spoilers. The whole works." The kind of stuff that was right down Holt's alley. He couldn't wait to get started.

Bonnie tossed back her dark braids, facing the wind so that it blew her bangs out of her eyes as they moved toward the building. "The more business he brings you, the less you have to drum up on your own."

"My thoughts exactly." Holt unlocked the front door of the shop and held it open for her.

She moved past him to set her box on the counter where his cash register was sitting. "Want me to get these supplies put away?"

"If you don't mind." She was more organized than he was, so she'd do a better job of it than him. "Don't forget to keep an eye on the time, though. I'll stop and drive you to work whenever you need to boogie out of here."

She fiddled with her cell phone for a few seconds. "I'll set a timer to give us a fifteen-minute warning."

"Good idea." It would take under five minutes to get there. Underwood Realty was only a few streets over.

He opened the door that connected his shop to the auto bays and mashed the button against the wall to open the nearest garage door. Striding outside, he unlocked the rental trailer, rolled up the door, and started hauling equipment inside.

Since the guy who'd sold him the shop had specialized in auto repairs, he'd been willing to let go of some of his equipment real cheap. As a result, Holt now owned a commercial air compressor, diagnostic equipment, and a heavy-grade steam cleaner that would make running boards look as good as new.

He whistled as he continued unloading the trailer and getting moved in.

The rev of a car engine made him glance up in surprise, since he wasn't expecting any visitors. It was the used car lot owner he'd told Bonnie about. Jett Briggs nosed in behind the rental trailer.

He was lounged behind the wheel of a classic Corvette with the windows rolled down — a 1967 model, no less, with a raised hood and epic quad taillights. The only downside was its peeling orange-red paint. A vinyl wrap, from the looks of it, one that had been put on poorly. There were bubbles on the flairs over the wheels that resembled an outbreak of the chickenpox.

Holt strode outside, wondering if he was looking at the first car he'd be working on in his new shop. "Hey, Jett!" He thrust a hand through the car window.

Jett clasped it and gave it a hearty shake. "I see you're finally moving in." He was a blonde Ken doll of a guy in a pink pastel shirt tucked into beige slacks. The short sleeves of his dress shirt showcased body builder arms.

Holt didn't normally pay attention to stuff like that, but it was hard to miss the fact that Jett Briggs looked like he spent more time at the gym than he did selling cars. Then again, if the guy was mainly dealing in classic cars like the eye popping one he was driving today, he probably didn't need to sell too many of them to stay in business.

"Yep, I'm moving in." He glanced at his watch. "Unloading tools and gear as fast as I can." The place had been turned over to him in move-in condition, clean and operational. Pretty much all he'd had to do was call to get the utilities put in his name and have a locksmith rekey the locks. "I'll be open for business in less than two hours."

"Good, ‘cause I'd like to check this one in for a paint job." Jett reached outside the car to flick a finger over a cluster of air bubbles beneath the vinyl wrap on the driver's door. "This vinyl is complete garbage."

"Whoever put it on either didn't know what they were doing, or they were in a hurry." Holt shook his head. He'd installed a dozen or more of them himself, and they looked sharp when they were put on correctly.

"Well, I'd like some real paint on this baby." Jett patted a tanned hand lovingly on the door. "Dark red without the bubbles. I'm gonna need to take a look at your paint samples first."

"Sure. I'll get my sample book." Since Jett was ready to rock and roll on his first detail job, Holt jogged over to his workbench against the far wall. He opened and shut drawers until he found what he was looking for. Snatching up the paint sample book, he jogged back out to Jett's car. "Here." He handed it through the window.

Jett immediately started riffling through the pages.

Good gravy! Holt wasn't expecting him to pick out the exact shade on the spot. "You're more than welcome to take the book with you?—"

"This one." Jett stabbed a finger at one of the samples. "It's called, er…" Frowning, he leaned closer to read the name of it.

"Black cherry," Holt supplied, wondering if the guy was near sighted. He was squinting like he needed glasses.

"If you say so." Grinning, Jett handed the paint sample book back. "Work me up an estimate, and I'll have a couple of my guys drop off the car after you order the supplies."

"Already have that color of paint in stock." It was a popular shade of dark metallic red. Holt scanned Jett's features to gauge his reaction to the estimate he quoted him. "My terms are fifty percent up front. Balance is due at the end, after you're happy with the job."

Jett nodded in satisfaction. "Those are terms I can live with. What kinds of payment do you accept?"

"Cash, check, or charge," Holt drawled. He was sort of kidding about the cash. Nobody paid in cash these days.

"Cash it is." Jett gestured vaguely. "Or a direct transfer from my account to yours, assuming you bank in town?"

"I do." Holt liked the thought of not having to wait for a check to clear. "I can get you set up for electronic payments in two snaps."

"Perfect." Jett waved two fingers at him. "I'll be back after breakfast." He revved his motor a few times and zoomed out of the narrow front parking lot, skidding a little in a patch of gravel by the curb. A tiny pebble zinged through the air and bounced off the chrome grate above the bumper on Holt's truck.

Though no harm was done, he made a mental note to sweep up the gravel and toss it in the dumpster behind the building. He didn't need any hot rods kicking up rocks and putting dings in the paint jobs and windshields of his customers.

He did a victory jig on his way back inside the shop.

Bonnie glanced up from the cash register booth. "Good news?"

"Just landed my first paint job." He danced behind the counter and reached for her hand to twirl her closer. "We can celebrate over dinner tonight, if you're available."

"Hmm. I'll have to check my calendar." She pretended to think about it.

"Everybody gets hungry," he coaxed.

"True." She gave in, chuckling. "It's a date!"

Man, but he adored her! She was fun and upbeat, the polar opposite of his last girlfriend. When he and his mother had made the move up from Dallas a couple of years ago, his ex had dumped him faster than a hot potato, claiming that most long-distance relationships didn't work. Sadly, she hadn't even been willing to give it a try.

Bonnie, on the other hand, was embracing life with arms wide open — grappling with the missing pieces of her memories, studying for her real estate broker's license, and navigating the perils of living on her own for the first time, all while embarking on a new relationship with him.

She was amazing. Though he hadn't told her yet, he was falling in love with her.

Hard.

Fast.

Completely.

He felt powerless to stop it, not that he wanted to.

Jett Briggs flooded Winchester Auto Detailing with so much work over the next several days that Holt could barely squeeze in any other customers. It was a nice problem to have. He just hadn't expected to be booked up so soon.

It was only a week after opening day, and he was already kicking around the idea of hiring part-time help. However, he wasn't sure when he was going to find the time to post a job opening, much less hold the interviews. Because of how busy he was, his encrypted daily report to K&G Security got pushed later and later.

It was how he ended each day of work — sharing the details of everything he'd observed first-hand in the local auto business. Today's report didn't happen until an hour past closing time. He locked the front door and flipped the sign in the window to CLOSED. Only then was he able to relax in his apartment at the back of the shop.

After much debate, he'd moved out of the guest quarters at his sister's place and carried his sparse personal belongings to the shop. It would take a while to get the place furnished the way he wanted, but it was his. All his. There was a special kind of beauty in that.

He was currently using a small card table for his desk. A black folding chair rested on one side of it. He plopped wearily into it and opened his laptop. Pulling up a blank email, he addressed it to Foster and copied it to Foster's partner, Lyon.

Completed a black cherry paint job on a 1967 classic Corvette.

Added a spoiler to an electric blue 1965 Mustang, plus twin white racing stripes down the hood. Detailed interior and steam cleaned the bumpers and running boards.

Installed a lift kit to a silver 2000 Dodge Ram pickup truck.

Owner of all three vehicles is Jett Briggs of Briggs Auto Plaza.

Prepped the windows of a white 2016 Mazda Miata for tinting in the morning for a college kid named Eric Benson. He's from Houston, visiting his uncle for the summer. About to head back to college in a few days.

Met one of Jett's salesmen today, Remy Peters. New guy from Galveston. Got dropped off to pick up the Mustang and drive it back to the lot. Knew Jett from a used car business he owned on the coast about five years ago. They come across more like friends than an employer and employee.

My girlfriend and sister drove by to bring me some lunch. Met Remy. Bonnie pulled me aside to tell me he creeped her out. Didn't say why. I'll ask more about it when I see her this evening.

Also found out that Jett's sales team pops in pretty regularly at the auto parts stores on highway 385 and West Park Avenue. Stores aren't affiliated. I checked.

Holt grimaced as he pushed send. He wasn't sure if his daily reports were helping with the car theft case or not.

Foster usually just sent him a thumbs up at some point. This time, however, he shot back a question: Mind sharing the VINs on the three sports cars?

It was a request Holt hadn't been expecting, but it was an easy one to answer. He started typing again: Here you go. He had to run back to the shop to pull the order tickets, but it didn't take long to add the requested numbers to his email. Right afterward, he closed his laptop to clean up and change for dinner.

A text from Bonnie was waiting for him when he emerged from the shower.

Alice and I are making a grocery stop on our way to Z's. They want us to join them for a BBQ. You in?

Of course, Holt was in! His mouth watered just thinking about it as he sent her a YES in all caps. The Z in Bonnie's message stood for Zayden, Alice's fiancé. And, boy, could that guy grill! He was a cop who'd relocated from Dallas so he could marry Alice, serve on the local police force, and raise cattle. They were planning a September wedding.

Zayden was working like crazy to finish the renovations on his old homestead before the wedding. He'd paid for a new roof, replaced the HVAC system, and ordered all new appliances. The place was steadily transforming into his and Alice's dream home.

Bonnie was helping by continuing to rent one of Zayden's tiny houses. Unfortunately, her relationship with her family was still strained — not because she didn't love them, but they'd hurt her deeply by all the secrecy surrounding her adoption. So far, she hadn't reached out to the couple claiming to be her birth parents. She was waiting for K&G Security to finish verifying their identities first. It was turning out to be a difficult task, since Greg and Bonita Williamson lived off the grid. No permanent address. No registered vehicles. No driver's licenses.

Nothing at all suspicious about that!

While Holt tugged a t-shirt over his head, his cell phone vibrated with an incoming call. Hoping it was Bonnie, he smoothed his shirt into place and snatched up his phone.

"Hello?"

"Got a sec?" It was Foster.

"Yep." Holt's attention sharpened. "Is everything okay?"

"I'll say! You've given us a solid lead on the case."

"I have?" Holt's eyebrows shot upward as he waited for more details.

None came. "How soon can we meet up in person to discuss it?"

"Oh! Eh…" Holt's mind raced. "My sister and future brother-in-law invited Bonnie and me over for a BBQ this evening."

"At the old Parker homestead?" Foster inquired.

"That's the place."

"I can meet you there in half an hour or so." Foster paused. "Sound okay to you?"

"Um, sure. Why not?" He debated inviting him to stay for dinner. "I'll tell ‘em it's bring-your-boss-to-dinner day."

"We won't stay that long. Promise," Foster assured.

"We?" Holt latched on to the word, wondering who else his boss was referring to.

"Lyon Garrett will be with me. I believe you two have met?"

"Once." Foster's business partner had been out of town on a special assignment most of the time Holt had been working for the two men.

"Never mind," Foster said suddenly. "Looks like I've got another appointment on the books that I forgot all about. We'll have to meet with you some other time. Unless…" His voice grew muffled. It sounded like he was speaking with someone else in the background.

"Unless what?" Holt was impatient to get on the road.

"Unless you can hang tight right where you are for another five or ten minutes. We're on the road right now, heading your way."

Holt's heart sank. "I can wait." After a long day at work, he'd really been looking forward to, well, not working the rest of the evening. Hopefully, Foster would keep his word about not taking up too much of his time.

He buckled on a belt and grabbed his Stetson as he left his apartment. As he entered his shop, he could hear the pop of a horn outside the windows.

To his amazement, a tall, black armored vehicle was parked out front. It resembled a tank without the tracks. It boasted oversized tires instead, military-grade with big treads.

Foster and Lyon hopped to the ground. Both men were wearing solid black shirts, vests, and cargo pants. Their ball caps were emblazoned with the K&G Security logo. Lyon was beefier than Foster, with heavily tattooed arms that Holt had been told were to cover the burn scars he'd incurred while on active duty as a Marine.

Foster made it to the door first and rapped on the glass with his knuckles.

Holt pulled it open and ushered the two men inside. They glanced around curiously.

"Good." Instead of greeting him, Lyon pointed through the glass of the door leading to the garage bays. "You've still got the Miata in the shop."

"Yep. I'll be tinting the windows on it in the morning." Holt recalled including that bit of information in his email to Foster earlier.

Without answering, Lyon pushed through the door and strode to the car in question. He leaned over the windshield to peer closely at the bottom left corner of it.

"What's going on?" Holt followed him.

Lyon straightened and rounded on him. "The serial number you gave Foster in today's email is different from what's printed on the car." The note of accusation in his voice was unmistakable.

"You sure about that?" Holt didn't believe him for a second. He was meticulous when it came to recording stuff like that. He stomped closer to the car to have a look.

"Whoa there, cowboys!" Foster chuckled as he jogged forward to step between the two men. He gave Holt an apologetic look. "Lyon is suffering from jet lag. It makes him cranky."

"Overseas?" Holt was surprised to hear it. "I heard you were out of town, but?—"

"France," Lyon barked unceremoniously. "Before you ask, I've been in Paris, and if you think I'm cranky?" He shook his head balefully. "Let me tell you, Parisians are not too fond of tourists. Especially Texans."

"Cranky Texans," Foster corrected in a stage whisper.

Normally, Holt would've found his comment hilarious, but he was too anxious to set the record straight. He turned on his phone and scrolled to the message he'd sent to Foster earlier. "Here." He handed his phone to Foster. "You read along while I say the VIN out loud to check for accuracy." He bent over the windshield and rattled it off.

"Read it again," Foster commanded quietly.

Holt read it and straightened. "You satisfied now?"

Foster handed back Holt's cell phone, looking grave. "Now would you mind reading the VIN you emailed me? Out loud, please."

Holt accepted his phone. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

"Absolutely," Foster agreed. "I'm about to get to that. Just bear with me a little longer."

Holt read the VIN aloud again, this time from the body of his email, not sure what the problem was. He watched as Foster and Lyon exchanged troubled looks.

Foster proceeded to lead Holt around the shop, pointing at various numbers and barcodes on the equipment, asking him to read them aloud. They ended up beside Holt's pickup truck, which he'd parked inside the empty bay at the far end of the garage.

"Will you read your truck's VIN number to me? That's it," Foster assured. "Then I'll spill the beans."

Holt read it, feeling weary all the way to his soul. "Okay." He spread his hands. "Clearly, something's going on here. Something I'm missing."

"I'm pretty sure that's the whole point." Foster's cryptic comment did nothing to shed light on the matter.

"Listen, I really hate to break it to you, but that Miata over there is a stolen vehicle." Foster pointed to the middle bay.

"That's impossible!" Holt's head whipped toward the car in question. "I check the VIN on every vehicle that comes through here. You can't be too careful in my line of work."

"I believe you. We believe you." Foster stressed the word we , and Lyon nodded in agreement. "That's why I had you read so many numbers back to us. We wanted to be sure our suspicions were correct."

"That I'm helping camouflage stolen vehicles?" Holt's voice dripped with bitterness. Their underlying accusation stung. He leaned back against his truck, wondering if he was about to get fired from the best paying job he'd ever had.

"Nope." Foster looked sad. "We believe that someone is using you without your knowledge to do that." He grimaced. "And making you look awfully guilty in the process. When this garbage hits the fan, and eventually it will…it always does, you'll make the perfect fall guy."

Holt shook his head, more puzzled than ever. "I'm afraid I'm not following you." He was starting to feel like Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole.

Lyon folded his arms and studied him seriously. "I'm certified in kinesics. That's why Foster insisted on bringing my cranky self to your shop this evening. He wanted me to read your body language, and it says you're innocent, bro."

"I could've told you that." Holt gestured helplessly. "Still don't see what the problem is."

Foster gave him a curious once over, like he was seeing him for the first time. "Every time you read a VIN, you transpose the third and fourth digits of the serial number. You're consistent. When you read us the VIN in your email, you did the same thing. Which, incidentally, returned it to the correct serial number, if that makes any sense?"

"I think so." Holt nodded slowly, absorbing what he was hearing in slow degrees. "Are you saying I'm dyslexic?"

"Not at all." Foster's voice was grim. "You read back every other number I pointed out with one hundred percent accuracy. It's only when you're reading VINs that you transpose numbers. Even then, you only transpose the middle two digits of the part that comprises the serial number. Every blasted time."

"Why would I do that?" It made no sense whatsoever to Holt. "Why would anyone do that?"

"We suspect you were programmed to do it." Foster's gaze filled with empathy. "Possibly when you were abducted."

Holt stared blankly at him, straightening against the side of his truck. "Come again?"

"You have roughly six missing hours in the statement you gave to the police concerning your abduction," Foster informed him gently.

That's impossible! "Who in the world decided that?" Holt demanded, wondering if his boss had any idea how preposterous he sounded.

"A man by the name of Jude Westfield," Lyon supplied. "He's a convicted felon working as a consultant for Sheriff Cade Malone, who serves as his handler of sorts. A bizarro genius dude with a take-over-the-world complex. The cops claim they would've never caught him if he hadn't turned himself in."

"His forensic analysis skills are off the charts," Foster added. "He pieced together a timeline out of your written statement that revealed a time gap that everyone else had missed."

Holt leaned back against his truck again, spreading both arms out against the sides of the bed. "Are you telling me I'm another one of Real Sons' experiments?" It made him sick to his stomach. Me?

"Not Real Sons, per se, since they went belly up. They were only one cog in the wheel of a much bigger criminal organization," Foster explained. "According to Jude Westfield, it's an organization that's designed to rise from the ashes and reinvent itself every time it gets shut down by the authorities. Dozens of their top brass have been arrested. Jude was one of them, by the way." He blew out a long, weary breath. "What makes this organization so dangerous are their mind control techniques. Think about it, Holt. They manipulated you to cover their trail of stolen vehicles, without you having any idea they'd ever been inside your head."

Holt pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. "Guess that would explain the inward shadows." Ever since his abduction, he'd remained on edge. Off balance. Borderline paranoid about being enclosed in small spaces. He'd harbored a sense that there was more to remember — things just out of his reach. He'd just assumed it was from being shut inside that old railroad container until he'd nearly suffocated, but what if something else had caused the paranoia?

Oddly enough, now that the embedded trigger had been exposed, the shadows inside his head were quickly fading.

He lowered his hands from his temples. "I feel different all of a sudden. Like I've been debugged or something."

Foster smiled. "Would you be willing to submit to further medical evaluations?"

"Of course." Holt didn't need to think twice about it. "Anything that helps bring these bozos to justice." He gave his bosses a rueful look. "As much as I hate to say this, I understand if you no longer want me on your team."

"Are you kidding?" Lyon glared darkly at him. "This will be the second time you've gone head-to-head with these guys and busted the case wide open."

"Yes. That." Foster's snort turned into a chuckle as he pointed at his partner. "We were thinking more along the lines of a pay raise."

"I accept." Holt could only hope they weren't kidding. "In the meantime, what am I supposed to do about Jett Briggs?" He should've known the amount of business the guy was sending his way was too good to be true. Jett was apparently up to his eyeballs in the car thefts.

And I've been helping him hide them in plain sight by changing paint colors, accessorizing them out the wazoo, and misquoting their VINs on the paperwork .

"Keep doing exactly what you've been doing." Foster pointed at him with both forefingers like they were twin pistols. "You'll continue to serve as our eyes and ears on the front lines until the authorities are ready to make their move."

"You mean arrest him?" Holt gripped the sides of the truck bed harder.

"Yep."

"Any assurance you can give me that I'm not gonna end up in jail alongside these scoundrels?" Holt needed to hear the bottom line.

"Honestly?" Foster didn't look too worried about it. "Your best defense is submitting to further medical evaluations. As long as the results line up with Jude Westfield's findings, I'd say you're off the hook." He turned to leave and stopped, pivoting back in Holt's direction. "Oh, and K&G has excellent legal representation, should it ever come to that. We ascribe to the age-old motto of nemo resideo . It's Latin for no one left behind ," he explained. "From the moment you agreed to come work for us, we've had your back. That won't ever change."

Holt stared after the two men as they left the building. "Well, I'll be," he muttered to himself. " Nemo resideo ," he repeated.

No one left behind.

He certainly liked the sound of that.