My 6-year-old granddaughter phoned me in panic just after midnight. “Mommy says the baby is coming! Help!” I asked, “Where’s daddy?” She answered, “He k!cked mommy’s tummy and left.”…..

Harry followed at a distance as Trent drove erratically back to his cabin, cell phone pressed to his ear, probably calling his Billings contact to demand an accounting. The first seed was planted. Now it was time to water it and watch it grow point 3 days later. Delmare’s mechanical sabotage paid dividends. Trench truck died exactly where Harry had predicted halfway through Miller Canyon, 20 m from a nearest town and completely out of cell phone range.

It took four hours for another driver to come along and offer help. And by the time Trent made it back to town, he was sunburned, furious, and convinced the world was conspiring against him. Harry heard about it from June, who reported that Trent had spent the evening drinking heavily and ranting about his mechanical problems to anyone who would listen.

“He’s starting to crack,” June said. Keeps looking over his shoulder, jumping at shadows. Yesterday, he accused Dave Garrett of recording their conversations. Poor Dave was so rattled he spilled beer all over himself. Good. Paranoid people make mistakes. What’s the next move? Time to turn up the heat. Harry’s next call was to an old contact from his oil rig days, Jimmy Costanos, who now ran a small gambling operation out of Callispel.

Jimmy owed Harry a favor from 10 years ago when Harry had covered his medical bills after a rig accident left him with a broken back and no insurance. Jimmy, it’s Harry Kane. Harry Jesus, it’s been years. How you been, Hermono? Been better. I need a favor. Name it. You save my ass when nobody else would help.

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