of the western half of the United States. Lines were drawn from city to city along with equations neatly transcribed on sticky notes throughout. Timber City was circled in dark black ink, and the lines all followed from there. “Las Vegas, Missoula, Portland…”. I moved closer, reading aloud as I walked over the industrial maroon and brown carpet. “Rexburg? Louisville?” Both very small towns. “What is all of this, Pauley?” I had a feeling I already knew. Well, kind of. The smaller towns didn’t make sense.
Pauley stood over by a desk covered in various papers, which he quickly began straightening into stacks. “Scot must have come in here. These are not organized.”
Since he was distracted, I took out my phone and snapped several photographs of the map. “Who drew on the map?”
“Scot drew the lines, and I wrote the equations.” With the papers in neat stacks, Pauley turned back around to face me.
Warning ticked through me followed by a healthy dose of anger at Scot for getting Pauley involved. How dare he take advantage of my cousin’s great intelligence and innocence? “These look like distribution routes.”
Pauley looked over the map. “That is exactly what they are with calculations for time and distance.” He moved closer to me, careful not to touch his shoulder to mine. “It makes more sense to take a big shipment to Las Vegas and then go from Vegas to Los Angeles and Vegas to Denver.” He scratched his elbow. “In comparison to going directly from Timber City to Los Angeles.”
My throat went dry and I cleared it. “What are you distributing, P?”
His smile flashed for the briefest of seconds. “I am not distributing anything. Since you meant to ask what was being distributed, I will tell you. Handlebars.”
I jerked, heat flushing down my esophagus. “Handlebars?” Was that some new name for a drug? I’d thought Beast was a stupid name.
He nodded. “Yes. With a manufacturing plant outside of town, making handlebars for motorcycles, these would be good distribution paths.” Then he tapped the smaller towns on the map. “These places have a lot of motorcycle clubs, so they would be a good place to distribute and sell.”
Stupid Scot Peterson. He’d found the best way to distribute drugs by using Pauley. At least Pauley had no idea. “What else could you distribute this way?” I asked.
Pauley shrugged. “Anything, but the smaller motorcycle towns wouldn’t factor in.”
Those towns weren’t really known for motorcycles. More for horse auctions and rodeos. I frowned and studied the map. Pauley hadn’t traveled much yet, and he probably wouldn’t know that. “Scot told you that these towns have a large number of motorcycle clubs?”
Pauley scratched his chin. “Scot? No.”
I couldn’t breathe. So, I swallowed rapidly to get my system back working. “Pauley? Who told you about the motorcycle towns?”
He must’ve caught something in my voice, because he straightened and moved back to the desk, tapping errant pieces of paper into strict lines.
“Pauley?” I struggled to keep my voice level.
Finally, the papers perfect, he turned back around. “It was a secret because nobody wants to upset you. You are fragile, still.”
“Baloney,” I burst out, wincing as he blanched. “I’m sorry, but I am not fragile, and you don’t need to keep secrets from me.” I wish Scot were still alive so I could punch him in the face. “You need to tell me what’s going on. Who told you about the motorcycles?”
Pauley looked up to meet my gaze and then just as fast looked away. “The Lordes motorcycle club is building the motorcycle handle-bar factory. They were working with Scot to bring jobs to the area and make money.” Pauley clasped his hands together. “Aiden Devlin is in charge, and he is staying home now.” Finally, Pauley smiled again. “I thought that would make you happy, which is why I helped them with the math. Does that make you happy?”
“No.” I tried to make sense of it all. “Is there any chance you’ve met a Melvin Whitaker?” There had to be a connection.
“No. No Melvin. I met a Meryl once, but she was a woman. Friends with our grandma. Good lady.”
It was then I noticed a blinking light in the far upper right corner of the ceiling. “What’s that?”
Pauley looked up. “That’s Scot’s.”
Was it a camera? Motion activated when we entered? Panic clawed through me, although I was just being paranoid. “Let’s go, Pauley.” I grasped his arm and all but ran us both outside
A motorcycle was parked next to my car along with