The Conviction by Robert Dugoni Page A

“You do that. And you make sure it’s that wannabe rent-a-cop, Wade, who comes looking for us because I am just itching to see him again.”
    S IERRA N EVADA M OUNTAINS
    The sun beat mercilessly, the heat seeming to attack not only from above but to also rise up from the ground, penetrating the soles of his boots. Bent over, Jake’s body convulsed, stomach muscles wracked by pain, throat burning from the acidic phlegm that made him continue to gag uncontrollably.
    “Not much for the great outdoors, are you, Jake?” Atkins held two leashes, the dogs attached to them no longer pulling them taut. The animals, some type of hound, though sleek in build, had sat as instructed, tongues hanging out the sides of their mouths, chests panting, eyes darting from Jake to their master, eager to get started again.
    Jake had no idea how long or far they had hiked. Wrists cuffed to the chain around his waist, he used the shoulder of his red coveralls to wipe his mouth. “Are we done?”
    Captain Overbay got up from the boulder on which he sat, rifle in hand, barrel pointing at the cloudless sky. “Done? We haven’t even started hunting yet.” Eyes again hidden behind sunglasses, his face revealed no expression. “And the dogs have to be run, Stand-up. Dogs are trained to behave through repetition. When you take dogs from their pens and put a leash on them, take them into the mountains, they expect to hunt. It’s bred into them. We’re going to train you the same way.” Overbay looked about the landscape of boulders and trees while wiping a red bandanna across his neck and chest. “You see a rabbit, Stand-up?”
    Jake didn’t bother to look. He just wanted to get the hike over with. “No.”
    “Well, I guess we have two options. Your choice. One, we continue on until we see one, or two, we find something else for the dogs to hunt.” The corners of Overbay’s mouth lifted slightly. “What’ll it be, Stand-up?”
    “I don’t care,” Jake said.
    “Well then, I’ll decide for you. You got a ten-minute head start.”
    Jake’s reflection stared back at him in the lenses of the captain’s sunglasses. “What?”
    “Start running, son.”
    “You can’t shoot me.”
    Overbay smiled. “I told you, Stand-up. I can shoot anything that runs.” He considered his watch. “And the clock’s ticking.”
    T RULUCK F OUNDRY
T RULUCK , C ALIFORNIA
    Sloane did not see signs indicating a police impound. The hand-painted wooden sign above the canopy of the building at the eastern edge of Truluck identified it to be a foundry, but that was likely 160 years earlier, when the town had been flush with residents in need of metal tools for digging the gold out of the hillsides and to pan the river. With that no longer the case, the present renter had turned the building into an antique store. The porch overflowed with period furniture, metal bed frames, light fixtures, and trinkets tourists would buy to commemorate their visit. Inside, clutter filled the shelves and spilled onto nearly every square inch of the wood plank floor. The shop had the same musty odor as damp wood that never quite dries out, despite the efforts of an oscillating fan near a glass countertop displaying rings, necklaces, and metal bracelets. A man behind the counter wore a white T-shirt with a Harley-Davidson motorcycle above the words HOG WILD , gold and silver bracelets like the ones on display, and rings wrapping every finger.
    “We’re looking for the police impound,” Molia said. “Someone directed us here.”
    “Yeah, I got the call you’d be coming.” The man hooked one thumb behind a brass belt buckle bearing the image of a minercarrying a lantern, a pickax over his other shoulder and the words UNITED MINE WORKERS OF AMERICA circumventing the oval. “I have it out back. Four backpacks.”
    Molia looked about. “This is the impound?”
    “Today it is.”
    “What’s that mean?” Sloane asked.
    “It means, today it’s the police