Bunny opened his mouth to make a joke, but he left it unsaid.
We drove in silence for a while.
Finally Top seemed to shake off some of his gloom. “We going to check in with the local police? If so, what badge do we flash?”
“That’s where we’re heading now,” I said, as I pulled into a slanted curbside parking slot. “The FBI has been the public face of this kind of witness protection, but Federal Marshals are also involved. We’re both. I’m FBI, you guys are marshals.”
They nodded and Top dug out the appropriate IDs from a locked compartment. We have fully authentic identification for most of the major investigative and enforcement branches of the U.S. government. The only IDs we don’t have are DMS cards and badges because the DMS doesn’t issue any. We exist as far as the President and one congressional subcommittee is concerned.
We got out and headed toward the small office marked PINE DEEP POLICE DEPARTMENT. There were potted plants on either side of the door, but both plants were withered and dead.
-4-
Pine Deep Police Department
Pine Deep, Pennsylvania
August 16; 4:59 P.M.
There were three people in the office. A small, pigeon-breasted woman with horn rims and blue hair who sat at a combination desk and dispatch console. She didn’t even look up as the doorbell tinkled.
The two men did.
They were completely unalike in every way. The younger man, a patrol officer with corporal’s stripes, was at a desk. Early twenties, but he was a moose. Not as big as Bunny— and there are relatives of Godzilla who aren’t as big as Bunny—but big enough. Six four, two-twenty and change. The kind of muscles you get from hard work and free weights. Calloused hands, lots of facial scars. A fighter for sure. He had curly red hair and contact lenses that gave him weirdly luminous blue eyes. Almost purple. Odd cosmetic choice for a cop. A little triangular plaque on his desk read: CORPORAL MICHAEL SWEENEY.
He remained seated, but the other man rose as we entered. He was about fifty, but he had a lean build that hadn’t yielded to middle-age spread. Short, slender, with intensely black hair threaded with silver. He, too, had visible scars, and it was no stretch to guess that they’d gotten them during the Trouble. And, strangely, there was also something familiar about him. I felt like I’d met him somewhere . . . or heard something about him. . . . Whatever it was, the memory was way, way back on a dusty shelf where I couldn’t reach it.
The older man wore Chief’s bars and a smile that looked warm and cheerful and was entirely fabricated. He leaned on the intake desk. “What can I do for you fellows?”
I flashed the FBI badge. “Special Agent Morrison,” I said. The name on the card was Marion Morrison. John Wayne’s real name.
His smile didn’t flicker. I also noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And your fishing buddies there?”
They held up ID cases, too, but I introduced them. “Federal Deputy Marshals Cassidy and Reid.” Full names on the IDs were William Cassidy and John Reid. Hopalong Cassidy and the Lone Ranger. The guy at the DMS who does our ID needs a long vacation.
“Malcolm Crow,” said the smaller man. “Pine Deep Chief of Police.”
He offered his hand, which was small and hard, and we shook.
“So . . . again, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“Missing person’s case,” I said. “Confidential and high profile.”
“Which means what? A special agent and two marshals? This a manhunt for a suspected terrorist or a missing witness?”
I shrugged, hoping he’d take that as a “we’re not supposed to talk about it” kind of thing. He ignored it.
“Can’t help you if you won’t share,” he said.
I said nothing, giving him “the look”. It usually makes people squirm. Chief Crow merely smiled his veneer of a smile and waited me out.
“Okay,” I said, as if answering his question was the hardest thing I was ever going to be asked to do, “I can tell you this much. We had a protected witness living in Pine Deep. He’s missing.”
“Living here under what name?”
“Peter Wagner.”
“Ah.”
“Ah . . . what?”
“The writer.”
I stepped closer to the intake bench. “And how would you know that?”
Behind Crow, Officer Sweeney stood up. He did it slowly, without threat, but there was still a lot of threat there. Unlike the chief, Sweeney’s face was unsmiling. A good-looking kid, but one that you’d take note of, especially if he wasn’t in uniform and you were both alone. Behind me I heard the soft scuff as Top and Bunny made subtle moves. Shifting weight, being ready.
Crow seemed amused by all of this. To me he said, “You take a guy as famous as Simon Burke, give him a bad dye job and color contacts and you expect no one to recognize him? People in small towns
“Who else knows who he is?”
“Most people with two eyes and an IQ.”
Crap.
“For what it’s worth,” said Crow, “people hereabouts know how to keep a secret.” As if on cue, the thunder rumbled. It made Crow smile more. “Can I ask why a bestselling novelist is in witness protection?”
“National security.”
“Ri-i-ght,” he said in exactly the way you’d say “bullshit.”
“Do you know where he is?” I asked. “Has he come forward and—?”
“No,” Crow said, cutting me off. “I don’t know where he is, but I suspect he’s in some real trouble.”
“Why do you suspect that, Chief Crow?”
He shrugged. “Because you’re here. If he was out sowing some wild oats or getting hammered down at the Scarecrow Lounge, his handler would be on it. Or at most, he’d get a couple of kids right out of Quantico to help with the scut work. Instead they send you three.”
“We
“Ri-i-i-ght,” he said again, stretching out the “i.”
“Would you like to see our credentials again?” This guy was beginning to irritate the crap out of me.
“Look,” said Crow, leaning a few inches forward on his forearms. I could see the network of scars on his face. “You’re about as close to a standard paper-pushing FBI agent as I am to Megan Fox. You’re a hunter, and so are your pals. I don’t care what the IDs say, because you’re probably NSA at the least, in which case the IDs are as real as you need them to be and I’m Joe Nobody from Nowhere, Pennsylvania. But here’s a news flash. Just about nothing happens in a small town without everybody hearing something. Our gossip train is faster than a speeding bullet. If you want to find your missing witness, then you can do it the easy way, which is with my help; or the hard way, which is without my help.”
I had to fight to keep a smile off my face. The guy had balls, I’ll give him that much. The big red-haired kid was hovering a few feet behind him, looking borderline spooky with his fake blue eyes and unsmiling face.
“What do you suggest, Chief?” I asked.
Crow nodded. “Cut me in on the hunt. Give me some details and I’ll see what I can find.”
I considered it. Thunder rumbled again and the sky outside was turning gray. My instincts were telling me one thing and DMS protocol was telling me something else. In the end, I said, “Thanks anyway, Chief. If it’s all the same to you, we’ll poke around on our own. I doubt the witness is in any real trouble. Not in a little town like
