“I’d like to be part of the conversation about keepin’ your car safe,” he said, as though asking permission.
“Of course, Hank.” I opened the car door and got out, turning my gaze back to the town and the darkening clouds in the sky. It looked like a storm was coming.
Hank got out, then hopped to the front of the car on his crutch.
I hadn’t seen any sign of either man in the garage, but Wyatt walked out of the office to greet us.
“Hank. Carly.” He gave me a wry look. “I’m surprised to see you here after your boyfriend paid me a visit a couple days ago.”
Hank gave me a questioning look, then squinted at Wyatt.
Wyatt’s gaze shifted from Hank to the car and then back to Hank. “You havin’ car troubles? The lever givin’ you problems?”
“No, nothin’ like that,” Hank said warily. He then took a deep inhale, as if shifting gears mentally. “We need you to tell us what to look out for in case someone tries to mess with Carly’s car.”
Wyatt’s eyes flashed. “What makes you think someone’s gonna mess with it?”
“Humor an old man and let us know.”
Wyatt drew in a breath and slowly let it out as he ran a hand over his head. “Well . . . it would have been a hell of a lot easier if you’d brought her car instead of yours.”
“It can’t be all that different,” Hank said.
“Actually,” Wyatt said in an aggrieved tone, “it is.” He turned to me. “If you’d just get the hell out of town, you wouldn’t need to be dealin’ with this nonsense. Who’s after you now? Louise Baker? Did Bingham turn on you? Or did you set off Crimshaw after you interfered with his family?”
“Fine,” I snapped. “You’ve made it pretty clear you’re not interested in helping. Let’s go, Hank.”
I wheeled around to head back to the car, steaming, but Hank said, “You get back here.”
I stopped in my tracks, still pissed. “That man doesn’t want any part of this, Hank, and I’m not gonna make him!”
“That man will tell you what to look for, or I’ll take my crutch to him.”
Wyatt looked just as pissed as I felt, but he flung a hand toward Hank’s car. “Open the hood,” he barked.
I figured it would be easier for me to do it than Hank, so I stepped forward and took care of it, popping the hood release inside the car. When I shut the car door and walked around to the front, Wyatt was propping the hood open.
“There’s lots of ways to disable a car. The first is if they don’t want it to start at all. They can disconnect or cut the cables to the battery. Either will work, although cuttin’ them is a surefire way to keep you put.” He pointed to the battery and the cables connected to the positive and negative bolts. “See?”
“Yeah.”
“Another way to make sure you’re not goin’ anywhere is to either let the air out of your tires or puncture them. If they let the air out, you can refill it with an air compressor—if you have one. If it’s a puncture, a can of something like Fix-a-Flat might work temporarily, but if it’s slashed, no go.”
“What about disablin’ it while it’s movin’?” Hank asked. “So she crashes?”
Wyatt put his hands on his hips and squinted. “You mean like Jerry?” He shook his head. “Someone ran him off the road. His truck wasn’t disabled.”
“Humor me,” Hank said.
“Well . . . I guess the best method would be faulty brakes. They could cut the brake line so the fluid leaks out. You’d still be able to stop and slow down, but it would be harder on these mountain curves.” His anger seemed to be bleeding away as awareness filled his eyes. And well it should. He knew I suspected my father of having murdered my mother.
“How would she be able to tell?” Hank pressed.
Wyatt squatted and pointed under the car. “You’re gonna want to look for brown fluid. If it’s someone out to get you, they likely won’t go for subtle, so look for a gush of fluid. A slower leak, and you’ll find some spots.”
“Okay,” I said.
He stood and turned to face me. “Another thing they might go for is the power steering. Again, those curves would be difficult to manage without it. That fluid’s gonna be red or reddish-brown. Or they could loosen the lug nuts on one of your tires. It’ll vibrate at first and then get progressively worse until the tire falls off. Of course, if the internet were better around here, they could find a way to hack into your car’s computer.”
I swallowed. “I’m suddenly feeling like walking or riding a bicycle is a good idea.”
“Or,” Wyatt retorted with plenty of bite, “you could leave town. Hardshaw’s gone. You should be too.”
I gasped as Hank reached out and grabbed the front of Wyatt’s T-shirt, hauling him closer until they were just a foot apart, Hank staring up at him. “Listen here, you fucker. Her father may have figured out where to find her, and we have reason to believe he’ll tamper with her car, not have someone bring her home for tea. And given that she now has to watch her back twenty-four seven, she’s gonna need people who give a shit surrounding her at all times to make sure she’s protected. So you either get with the program or get the fuck out. Which is it?”
Wyatt stared at me in confusion. “But . . . I thought he needed you to marry that bastard Jake. Now that Hardshaw’s gone . . .”
“You stupid fool,” Hank snapped, giving him a slight shove as he released his shirt. “You think an asshole like her father is just gonna let this go? Fuck no. He’s gonna come after her just to show her who’s boss. I can’t believe you’re too stupid to figure that out on your own.”
Wyatt opened his mouth to speak but quickly shut it. He swallowed. “If you ever feel the need to have your car looked over, bring it by and I’ll take a look. Free of charge. I’ll be one of the people who gives a shit.”
Hank nodded, adding a gruff, “Good.”
He started to head to the driver’s door, but I didn’t budge.
“There’s one more thing,” I said to Wyatt. “Not related to my father or my car.” I smiled weakly, trying to reassure him. “When you ran the tavern, there was a fight between Todd Bingham and Bruce Abernathy. Do you remember?”
I doubted he’d tell me a damn thing, and sure enough, his expression shuttered. “Why are you askin’ about fights from a long time ago?”
“It would have happened about thirteen years ago. Two days after Louise Baker shot her husband.” When he didn’t answer, I asked, “Did you have a lot of fights back then?”
“More so than Max does now,” he said, looking distracted. His gaze darted to the street behind me before it returned to my face. “Max made it more of a family establishment. Mine was more hard drinkin’.”
I resisted the urge to see what he’d been looking at. “So you’re saying you don’t remember it?”
“Like I said, it was rougher. There were plenty of fights.”
“That’s funny,” I said. “I never got that impression from Ruth. She remembered the fight, no problem at all.”