Thomas Blackhorse's Arc

Chapter 1 of 17

Thomas Blackhorse spotted the tail on the third day after he pulled the Delgado file from the cabinet. A gray sedan. Same driver, different parking spots. The case had ended his career at the department eight years ago, and now someone cared that he was looking again. He stood at the window of his office, half-hidden behind the blinds. The strip mall lot baked in the afternoon sun. The sedan sat two rows back, engine running, driver in a ball cap pretending to read his phone. Thomas had already made three calls that morning to old sources. If he drove to any of them, the sedan drove to them too. He turned back to his desk. The manila folder lay open beside a chipped coffee mug. A girl's school photo was clipped to the top page. Twelve years old when she died. Nobody had answered for it. That was the debt he was carrying, and the reason he'd traded a badge for a cracked adobe storefront between a vape shop and a dollar store. He needed to lose the tail without letting the driver know he'd been made. If the man reported back that Thomas had spooked, they'd tighten the leash or cut the line entirely. He needed the tail to think today was a nothing day. He stepped outside and locked up. The heat hit him like a flat hand. Across the walkway, the old man who lived on the bench in front of the pawn shop was feeding crumbs to a green lizard perched on his knee. Earl Pritchard had watched this lot longer than most people had been alive in this town. He didn't look up as Thomas approached, but his mouth moved first. "Gray Buick. Been here since ten. Guy pissed in a Gatorade bottle around noon." Thomas crouched to tie a bootlace that didn't need tying. "You know the plate?" "Wrote it on my palm." Earl scratched the lizard's throat. "Figured you'd ask eventually." "I need him to follow me somewhere boring for two hours. Then lose interest." Earl thought about it. "My nephew runs the car wash on the county road. Long tunnel. One way in, one way out. You go in. Jeep comes out. You don't." "And the Jeep?" "My nephew drives it home slow. Stops for groceries. Real boring." Thomas handed him two twenties without looking at him. "Palm." Earl showed him the plate number, then wiped it off on his pants. An hour later the green Jeep rolled into the wash tunnel with Thomas at the wheel. It rolled out with a stranger. The Buick waited across the road, then peeled off after it. Thomas stayed crouched in the back office of the wash, phone in hand, the Delgado folder pressed against his chest. He was clean. He was also alone, on foot, and now certain the people who buried this case eight years ago were still in town watching.