They’d reached the outskirts of Opal. Sean checked over her shoulder again. The Corsica was still back there. “Pull over,” she said edgily. “Pull over now. I want this damn car behind us to pass.”
“I may go over a bump or two,” Larry calmly replied, eying Nick in the rearview mirror. “For the safety of all of us, could you please lower that gun for a few seconds? I don’t want it going off by accident.”
Nick grinned. “Sure, Lare.”
Larry slowed the car, steered onto the shoulder of the road, then brought them to a stop. His left hand casually slid off the wheel.
Sean turned and watched the Corsica approaching. She squinted as its headlights illuminated the interior of Larry’s car.
“HANDS ON THE GODDAMN WHEEL!” Nick yelled.
“I was just about to open the window—”
“You were just going for the door,” Nick said. “Hands on the wheel.”
Larry clutched the steering wheel as the Corsica cruised by. The teenage driver and his girlfriend briefly stared at them, then sped away.
Her nerves frayed, Sean took a deep breath and turned to Nick. “Give me that Polaroid, will you?” She switched on the interior overhead light, then showed the photo to Larry, the one from Charlie Stample’s secret archives: Charlie the hunter, posing with his kill—the mutilated corpse of Tony Katz. “You were there that night, weren’t you?” Sean said.
The tiniest flicker of a smile passed across Larry’s face as he studied the picture.
Sean began to tremble with anger. How could he smile at something so brutal and monstrous? Swallowing hard, she tucked the Polaroid into her purse, then pulled out the small tape recorder, and switched it on.
“We can’t stay here,” Nick said. “Let’s get moving, Lare.”
Ignoring him, Larry stared at Sean, the tiny smirk still on his face.
“C’mon!” Nick rapped the back of Larry’s skull with the gun muzzle.
“Ah, fuck!” he growled, wincing. He pulled onto the highway again. “Son of a bitch,” he grumbled, rubbing his head.
“I hope it hurts like hell,” Sean said. She adjusted the volume on her recorder. “Though I happen to think you’re scum, I’m still willing to cut you a deal, Mr. Chadwick. If you tell us about these friends of yours and your organization, I might get you a reduced sentence.”
“Hmmmm,” was all he said, as if to ponder whether or not he wanted to cooperate. Sean didn’t like it; he seemed too cool under fire.
“I don’t think Larry’s interested in making any deals,” Nick said. “Still, you
Larry Chadwick glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled a little. “Neither one of you have heard of SAAMO, have you?”
“Is that an acronym?” Sean asked. “What does it stand for?”
He turned his attention away from the road and gazed at her for a moment. “It stands for the future. That’s something you don’t have any more of,
Avery sat on the dusty wooden bench with his hands cuffed behind him. He numbly gazed at the young policeman, facedown on the dirty floor, a bullet in his back. Taggert was in the little office, on the phone with one of his cronies. At one point, he raised his voice: “Hey, he identified the prisoner, I had no choice! What was I supposed to do?”
He’d taken the other cop’s gun, but hadn’t unclasped the keys from his belt. Avery wondered if one of those keys might fit his cuffs. He inched his foot over toward the fallen policeman’s belt. With the tip of his shoe he tried to nudge the key ring from its clasp. For a second, it looked as though the dead policeman flinched. Avery hesitated. He checked on Taggert again, then slowly stood. Twisting to one side, he squatted down to reach for the keys.
“Fine,” he heard Taggert say on the phone. “So we make it look like he killed the son of a bitch, or you send somebody here to get rid of the body and the squad car.” He chuckled. “Yeah, no kidding. Bye.”
Avery vainly groped and tugged at the key ring. He heard Taggert hang up the phone. The cop sneezed and blew his nose. Avery almost stumbled backward, but quickly regained his footing and landed on the bench. He was still catching his breath as Taggert ambled around the corner.
Avery reminded himself to act dumb. It was his only chance of throwing this creep off guard. He innocently gazed up at Taggert, who kicked at the young policeman’s foot. “Why did you shoot him?” Avery asked, with a meek, obtuse look. “Was he a crooked cop or something?”
The stocky officer gaped at him, not quite sure someone could be so ingenuously stupid. Finally, he folded his arms and snickered. “Yeah, him heap big crooked lawman. Injun no good. Me fix.”
Avery wanted to vomit, but he merely nodded. His eyes downcast, he thought he saw the young cop breathing. Then again, it might have just been air escaping a dead man’s lungs. He wondered if Taggert had seen it too. “I hope we can clear all this up once the federal men arrive,” he said quietly. “When are they due?”
“In an hour.” Taggert blew his nose. “Just hold your water.”
“Well, that’s why I’m asking,” Avery replied timidly. “I almost peed in my pants when you shot this guy. And I’ve had to go for about an hour now.” He nodded toward the men’s room door. “Could I? Would it be okay?”
Taggert sighed. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”
Avery stood and stepped around the body on the floor. “Thank you,” he said. He pushed the men’s room door with his shoulder.
Taggert followed him inside and switched on the light. The bathroom had a sharp rusty odor. It seemed cold and damp after the heated waiting room. A toilet stall occupied the corner, and two tall porcelain urinals lined the graffiti-marred wall. Avery stepped up to one of the urinals, then glanced over his shoulder. “Um, Officer Taggert? Could you—help me out here?”
The cop looked at him as if he were crazy. “Oh, yeah, sure. Fuck that.”
Avery shrugged helplessly and wiggled his hands in the cuffs behind him. “I’m sorry….”
Shaking his head, Taggert grabbed A very’s arm and unlocked the cuffs. He left one hand shackled, then stepped aside and drew his gun. “Okay,” he said in his congested voice. “I don’t have all day.”
“Thanks very much,” Avery said, unzipping his trousers.
Taggert nodded distractedly. He put the keys back in his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He looked as if he was about to sneeze again. His eyes were closed and he had his mouth open in a sinus-blocked grimace.
Instead of reaching inside his pants, Avery suddenly lunged at Taggert. The cop was in the middle of his sneeze when Avery punched him in the face.
The gun went off, and the shot echoed within the tiled bathroom. Avery felt a sharp burning pain in his left thigh, but it didn’t slow him down. He slammed his fist into Taggert’s face again. The policeman dropped his gun, then flew back against the toilet stall partition. Avery kept hitting him. He was like a crazy man. He wasn’t thinking about escaping. He was pummeling the smarmy son of a bitch who had amused himself with an injun impersonation after shooting that young cop in the back. Avery punched away at Taggert until the crooked cop slid down to the dirty tiles, half dead.
Standing over him, Avery suddenly realized he’d been shot. Blood trickled down his leg and wet the top of his sock.
Taggert stirred a little and reached for the gun on the floor. Avery kicked it away. But he was overwhelmed with fatigue, and his movements were labored as he grabbed Taggert by the front of his shirt and dragged him toward the urinals. “Who killed Libby Stoddard?” he asked. “Who set me up?”
“Fuck you!” Taggert snarled. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose.
Infuriated, Avery let out a crazed yell and swung him against the urinal. Taggert’s head hit the porcelain, and he howled in pain.
“Give me a name!” Avery demanded. He pushed the policeman’s face toward the bottom of the smelly receptacle.
Officer Taggert started crying. “All right, all right! It was all arranged by higher-ups in the organization….” Blood and saliva dribbled down from his mouth to the rusty drain. “The one who did the job on her is dead now. His
