The Conviction by Robert Dugoni Page B

impound.”
    “So how much do we owe you?” Sloane asked, again sensing where the conversation was heading.
    “Five hundred dollars.”
    “Five hundred dollars,” Sloane said, unable to keep from chuckling. “You’ve had the stuff for less than an hour.”
    “It’s a flat fee.”
    “Today anyway?” Sloane asked.
    “That’s right,” the man said.
    Molia pounded a fist on the counter, rattling the glass. The man jumped. “You listen to me and you listen good,” Molia said. The veins in his neck bulged.
    Sloane stepped between Molia and the counter. “Hang on. Hang on.”
    “I’m calling the police,” the man said.
    “Just hang on,” Sloane said. “You don’t need to call the police.” Sloane walked Molia away from the counter, lowering his voice. “Neither of us is going to do our sons any good in jail,” he said.
    Molia did not respond. He was breathing heavily, and his focus remained on the man behind the counter.
    “Let me handle this. Tom?”
    Molia’s gaze shifted to Sloane.
    “Let me handle this.”
    Sloane walked back to the counter. The man adjusted his glasses. “I don’t like being threatened,” he said, trying to sound tough though his words came out tentative and he looked unnerved.
    “Okay, fine. Five hundred dollars,” Sloane started.
    Molia stepped forward. “What? You’re not honestly—”
    Sloane put up a hand. Molia stepped back. “If you’ll just show me your California license authorizing your establishment to impound possessions, we’ll be happy to pay and get on our way.”
    “What’s that?”
    “You do have a license, don’t you?” When the man didn’t immediately respond Sloane said, “You need a license to impound another person’s possessions in the State of California. Otherwise it’s just extortion, and that’s a serious crime. The newspapers and television people would love to get ahold of a story like that, tourists being exploited. You’d likely lose your business license as well as go to jail.”
    “Funny you should bring up the subject of crimes, seeing as how you just skipped out on a hotel bill.”
    Sloane shrugged. “You can explain that to the state officials when they come to discuss the complaint I’ll be filing against you.”
    “Wait.” The man glared, but the game of chicken didn’t last long. “Like I said, stuff’s out back.”
    They found the four backpacks on a cluttered patio. “An impound license?” Molia asked, eyebrows arched and unable to suppress a grin.
    Sloane smiled. “I figured they have departments for just about everything in California, don’t they?”
    S IERRA N EVADA M OUNTAINS
    The dogs gained ground. Jake could not see them, but the rabidity and volume of their wailing and bawling had increased as they neared, sensing him, perhaps smelling his scent. Their barking echoed across the canyons and reverberated off the mountains, sounding as if the two had become many, a pack encircling him, closing in.
    He climbed over fallen trees and boulders, the altitude causing his lungs to ache. The back of his throat burned. He had fled at too quick a pace, fueled by adrenaline and fear. The lactic acid burned deep in his muscles and he now ran on fumes. He’d unzipped the upper half of his coveralls and folded them to his waist, but as the dogs neared, the echo of their yowls made him pull the fabric back over his bare skin.
    He followed no discernible path, his only goal to climb higher. A steep pitch, his legs labored as the rock and shale gave way witheach step, dirt and gravel avalanches leaving a trail of dust down the mountain. When he fell he scrambled like a bear on all fours.
    Reaching the peak, he turned and looked down, hands on thighs, emitting great gasps and moans. The muscles of his legs and feet cramped, and his chest felt as if someone had reached inside and gripped his heart. Light-headed, his vision spotted black and white, but he could still make out the dogs, tethered together, pulling Atkins up