And I hadn’t learned about the existence of the FTRA from Mack. I’d let him think that, because it was the only way to make sure Dolly thought that, too. It wasn’t so long ago that I had needed a way to get in and out of Denver without leaving tracks. Not that “paper trail” nonsense TV is always bleating about—if you stayed off airplanes, didn’t use credit cards when you needed gas, and didn’t pose for convenience-store cameras, that part would be easy enough. What I’d needed was a way to float through, moving like the mountain breezes they take for granted that high up. I had to go to Denver to keep my promise to MaryLou McCoy. I had promised to take a life in return for her promise to fight for her own. Up to that moment, she’d been a block of stone. Whatever was coming, let it come. She wasn’t going to move toward it … and she wasn’t going to step aside. “What do you think is going to happen if you won’t let us help you?” the lawyer we’d hired for her had asked.
