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classic styling of a Chevy muscle car. It was definitely before her time, but not before Wilson's—and the muscle car Wilson had dragged home two weeks ago, a candy-apple-red 1967 Dodge Coronet, for the love of God, had been the start of her worrying that the old man was actually losing his mind. Seventy-two-year-old men did not drive supercharged Dodges. When three days later he'd traded the Coronet in for a late-model silver Porsche, she'd thought it was a dubious improvement.
    Then he and the Porsche had disappeared.
    She still wouldn't have thought of Quinn Younger if it hadn't been for the entry in Wilson's calendar, but the damning evidence was piling up all around her: muscle cars and Porsches, Cisco and bad guys and guns.
    He'd asked what made her think Wilson was in Cisco, but she had a feeling he knew the answer to the question a hell of a lot better than she did.
    Her hands tightening into fists at her sides, she turned to face Younger.
    “I don't know what's going on here, and I don't want to know. Just tell me what's happened to Wilson.” Her words were a demand, devoid of the fear she'd been feeling since Quinn had grabbed her in the shack. “Where's my grandfather?”
    Quinn's eyes narrowed.
    “Who's Wilson?” the boy asked, turning to Quinn.
    “My mentor.” Quinn said it thoughtfully.
    “From the chop shop?”
    A brief smile curved Quinn's mouth, and he shifted his gaze to Kid. “No. Wilson was way before Steele Street. Before the Air Force.”
    Oh, God,
Regan thought, staring at him in disbelief. It was true. After all his glory, Quinn Younger had reverted to stealing cars for a chop shop—which proved the worst of what the note had suggested. She hadn't wanted to believe it. Air Force pilots didn't turn to lives of crime and end up living in ghost towns in Utah.
    “You sold him those cars, didn't you?” Her demanding tone was gone, replaced by dreadful certainty. “And whoever you stole them from wants them back and has gone after my grandfather.”
    “Okay, you're losing me. I sold him
what
cars?” Quinn asked, cocking his head to one side, his gaze narrowing again. “And what do you mean someone has gone after Wilson? Who? Vince Branson?”
    “I don't know, but he's disappeared. Just disappeared.” She heard the tremor in her voice and hated it, but she couldn't control it, not anymore. “Just gone. Two weeks now. Right after he came home with the Porsche.” What had Wilson been thinking, she wondered, to have dealt with the likes of Quinn Younger? Then she remembered: Wilson believed the man was a national hero. He hadn't known he was dealing with a thief.
    “Have you told the police?” the thief in question asked, pushing off the desk and starting toward her.
    “Yes.” She took a step back, almost stumbled, and he stopped. “They don't believe me. They say this year is no different from any other time when Wilson's dropped out of sight for a while.”
    “But it is different,” Quinn said. His inflection encouraged her to explain.
    “Yes.” It was so hot in the barn, she could barely breathe. “He always calls home, and this time . . . this time . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she wiped a trickle of perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand. It was just too hot to move. Too hot almost to think.
    She squinted at Quinn Younger. He didn't look like he was buying her explanation. In fact, he looked incredibly skeptical—or terribly concerned. It was hard to read a man you'd only met once under awkward circumstances.
    Very awkward, she remembered. She and Nikki had visited the Rabbit Valley dig on and off that first summer Wilson had worked with juvenile offenders. They'd had their own tent. Wilson had been so glad to have them with him, but the boys . . . the boys had been a wild bunch. When one of them had walked in on her while she was undressing, she'd been shocked, and horrified, and embarrassingly mesmerized by his frankly appraising green-eyed gaze.
    The