Unseen (Will Trent / Atlanta Series)

would’ve spent the rest of his days picking pieces of Will out of the buck’s rib cage.
    He supposed there were all sorts of wild animals living close to Atlanta, but the possibility seemed remote when you stood amidst the skyscrapers, watching buses and cars and trains zoom by.
    One of the most startling things Will had found in Macon was not the wildlife, but the divide between rich and poor. In Atlanta, Will’s modest house was only a few blocks from Sara’s penthouse apartment, which in turn was not far from a methadone clinic.
    Macon didn’t really have a literal wrong side of the tracks, but a meandering avenue skirting the city limits seemed to be thepoint at which the carpet ran out. Old mansions gave way to cottages, which gave onto clapboard houses and derelict trailer parks and, eventually, unpainted shacks. Working cases around the state, Will had seen his share of poverty, but there was something particularly depressing about fresh laundry hanging outside a structure that looked as if it didn’t even have running water.
    Will slowed the bike. He squinted up the road, checking for loose deer. Closer proximity revealed a yellow Volkswagen Bug—not the new kind that looked like something George Jetson would drive, but the older model that emitted a sound like a child blowing a raspberry. There were bumper stickers all over the back. The blinkers were flashing in lieu of brake lights. Will downshifted another gear. The Bug swung into the oncoming traffic lane, doing a sharp U-turn toward a row of mailboxes on a strip of dirt. A hand went out, a mailbox was checked, then the Bug swung another heavy U-turn that would’ve provided a nice ramp for Will’s bike if he hadn’t been paying attention.
    He shifted the gear down another notch and pulled over opposite the mailboxes. He checked the time on his cell phone. Will had given himself almost an hour to make what was supposed to be a twenty-minute journey. He wasn’t good with directions, and a phone that told you to go left or right was not exactly helpful to the average dyslexic. Also, he felt mired in a quicksand of guilt. Sara wasn’t happy with him being undercover. She sure as hell wouldn’t be happy with the prospect of Will going on a date. Not that he was technically dating Cayla Martin, but the fact that the nurse seemed to think so gave the exercise an air of uncomfortable legitimacy.
    After talking with Faith, Will had decided that it was time to confront the Big Whitey of it all. He’d spent nearly an hour looking for Tony Dell. Cayla Martin seemed like a good fallback plan. The nurse was much easier—in more ways than one. Will was eating his lunch in the cafeteria when a furtive hand slid a note under his tray. The move was practiced. No one seemed to notice. Willwanted to believe he rose to the occasion, discreetly tucking the note into his pocket like Aldrich Ames. Though Will was pretty sure the master spy hadn’t read his missives while hiding in a toilet stall.
    7 p.m.—Left off exit 12, right on dirt road. Only house with lights on. Don’t be late!!
    Cayla had put a smiley face under the exclamation points, which served to heighten Will’s guilt. He left smiley faces for Sara sometimes. He texted them to her. She texted them back. Once, when they were fooling around, she kissed them all over his stomach.
    Will let out a long, pained sigh as he got off the bike.
    He pulled up the telephone keypad on his iPhone. He dialed in the twelve-digit code to access the secret apps. The screen flashed up quickly, so he had his finger ready to select the number-cloaking program. The app opened. He dialed in a ten-digit number.
    The edge of the phone bumped his helmet. Will undid the strap and hooked it on the handlebars. Four unusually long rings passed before Sara answered. In the background, Will heard a piano playing and the soft murmur of conversation.
    Instead of saying hello, Sara asked, “Brunswick?”
    Will guessed the cloaking app had done its job. “Not exactly.” He tried to identify the background noise, which sounded more like a bar than a hospital. “Where are you?”
    “Where am I?” Her drawl was more pronounced, which tended to happen when she got away from the city. “I am drinking a glass of scotch at the hotel bar of the Macon Days Inn.”
    Will immediately thought of all the scumbugs who were probably trying to hit on her. He worked to keep his cool. “Yeah?”
    “Yep.” She hit the
p
hard at the end.