Earl had always told him the same thing.
“Evidence stays with you. Never leave it where the wrong person can find it first.”
Eli wrapped the objects in torn notebook paper and placed them inside the deepest pocket of his jacket.
On the third afternoon, Cade opened his eyes for eleven seconds.
Eli was holding the biker’s phone.
“I kept it charged,” the boy said.
A small solar panel from Earl’s kit lay on a flat rock nearby, connected to the device by a repaired wire.
Cade blinked against the sunlight. His weathered face was pale beneath the dust, and dried blood darkened the bandage around his head.
He looked at the phone, then at Eli.
“There’s a voicemail,” the boy explained. “I listened six times. I memorized it, but you need to hear his voice.”
Cade’s hand shook as he took the phone.
Eli pressed play.
Douglas Callaway’s smooth, reasonable voice filled the canyon.
“Harlow, or whoever finds this, it doesn’t matter. I know why you were on Route 376. The land records you pulled change nothing. The Sagebrush trust closes Friday morning at nine.”
Cade’s jaw tightened.
The message continued.
“The sheriff’s department already logged your ride as a single-vehicle accident. No witnesses. Deer strike, most likely. If you’re alive, walk away from Sagebrush and Ember Creek. The next time someone asks questions about that land, the answer will cost more than a set of handlebars.”
The recording ended.
Cade pressed play again.
This time, he listened with his eyes closed.
When the message stopped, he looked directly at Eli.
“You’ve been here three days?” “Yes.” “You didn’t leave?” “No.” “Why?”
Eli touched the brass key hanging from his neck.