The trooper sniffed. He regarded me with eyes that rolled like marbles in a storm drain. ‘I’ll tell him you were asking after him.’
‘If you just point out where he is, I’ll go tell him myself.’
‘No, buddy, you get to stay right there.’
The feebie strode away, leaving me with the impression that he’d no intention of finding Vince.
If you want something doing…
I stood up. My leg ached, my hand ached, my entire body ached, but that was what came from sitting on your backside after a burst of sustained activity. Got to get back in training, I promised, as I arched my lower back to loosen the kinks. I stretched and yawned, not even considering the fact that this was my second full day without sleep. As I went through the motions, I scanned the camp for any sign of Vince’s give-away pompadour hairstyle.
I spotted the young agent striding away from a hastily erected white tent near to the back of the camp. Already, now that his cover was no longer an issue, Vince had shed the trappings of his Southern racist persona. Instead of his leather jacket with its Confederate battle flag, he now wore a black windcheater emblazoned with the FBI motif. His hair was under a cap similarly marked.
I took a step in the agent’s direction. Something bumped softly against my shins. Glancing down I saw the old tomcat twining itself about my ankles. The cat’s purr was like an idling bulldozer.
‘So you stuck around, huh?’
The cat blinked at me, sat down and began licking its nether regions.
‘My sentiments exactly,’ I laughed. I reached down and the cat allowed me to pick it up. It sat in the crook of an elbow, eyeing me with its amber stare. I walked quickly to cut off Vince’s route through the compound.
Vince glanced up from under the brim of his cap.
‘Gonna get an executive order passed so I can shoot that damn thing,’ Vince growled.
The cat tensed, hissed at Vince.
‘Easy now, Vince, you’re hurting his feelings.’
‘Good. You’ve seen what that crazy animal did to my face?’ He pulled off the cap so that his scratches were even more vivid. When he felt the drizzle, he quickly jammed the cap back on.
‘He was just reacting to what he perceived as a threat. You aren’t going to hold that against him are you?’ I scrubbed behind the cat’s ears, thinking I’d found a viable metaphor for my own reaction to the two at the Seven- Eleven. Vince continued to scowl at the cat, but it was as much an act as Vince Everett had been. I laughed. ‘He’s not a bad old sort when you get to know him better. The kids named him Fluffy.’
‘Go figure,’ Vince said.
I indicated the white tent. ‘Anyone in there got a flask of coffee? I think we both could do with warming up a little.’
‘This way,’ Vince said, but he headed away from the tent.
We approached a large wagon parked outside the camp. A container on the back bristled with antennae. Mobile command unit, I guessed. What were the chances of the FBI having one of these on hand all the way out here? I shook the thought loose: what did it matter for now?
Vince led the way inside the container through a door at the back. It was a cramped space of desks and computer monitors, alive with electrical static and a background hum of fans. There was also the welcome aroma of strong coffee. Two support staff looked up at us, both unconcerned by my appearance or by the cat in my arms. Vince greeted them, then asked them for a few minutes’ privacy. They took Styrofoam cups with them as they clumped down outside.
Vince poured cups of steaming coffee from a silver thermos. I sat down on one of the vacated office chairs and began pulling at the plastic bag beneath my shirt, releasing a trickle of moisture that darkened the floor. Then I scrubbed rain from my hair. I allowed the cat to slink away and it snuffled at a paper bag on a work desk. It must have found a juicy morsel inside, because it hunkered down and started chewing appreciatively. Hunger pangs dug at my insides, but the coffee was a more welcome prospect. I accepted it gratefully as Vince handed over a cup. I left the cream and sugar on the desk top: it was pure caffeine I was after.
‘Probably tastes like dirty water,’ Vince said.
Under the circumstances, it was just about the best cup of coffee I’d tasted in a long time. The steaming brew went down in two gulps. ‘I wouldn’t say no to another.’
Vince set about pouring again.
While he busied himself I studied the command unit. There was nothing in the makeshift office that gave a clue about what the bigger picture was, and the support staff had had the presence of mind to turn off their monitors before leaving. I caught my reflection in one of the darkened screens. Jesus, what a mess. My two-day-old beard was dark on my chin, hair plastered to my head from where I’d wiped the rain away. Streaks of mud and a spray of blood marked my shirt. No wonder I was getting suspicious looks from the FBI agents.
Vince delivered a second coffee and I savoured this one, cupping it between both palms and allowing the steam to trickle over my face. In the warmth of the command unit my clothing began to steam as well.
‘I thought all you Brits drank tea?’
‘I’ve been Americanised,’ I said, smiling whimsically. ‘I’m thinking of buying shares in Starbucks, I spend so much time there.’
It was small talk as a way into the weightier issues. I took a sip of the hot brew, then launched directly into what was bothering me. ‘There are a couple of things I don’t quite understand about you, Vince. I was wondering if you were going to enlighten me.’
‘Could say the same about you.’
‘You’ve already had me checked out,’ I said.
Vince shrugged. ‘Standard operating procedure. The problem is we kept on hitting brick walls. Most of your files are sealed.’
‘You needn’t worry. Like you said to your buddies, I’m one of the good guys.’
‘The way you went through Samuel Gant and his goons, I’m inclined to challenge you on that.’
‘I just did what anyone in the same position would’ve done.’
Vince laughed without humour. ‘No, Hunter. Most people would have bent down, put their heads between their legs and kissed their butts goodbye.’
‘I’m not the type to lie down and die, Vince.’
‘SAC Birnbaum did a little checking of his own. His opposite number over in Maine speaks highly of you.’
‘Hubbard,’ I confirmed. It surprised me, because SAC Hubbard hadn’t been my biggest fan when first we met. It didn’t help that I was a suspected cop killer at the time, but clearing up the Luke Rickard mess must have endeared me to the FBI man.
‘He told Birnbaum to give you his best regards… and to cut you some slack.’
‘Nice of him.’
‘He said you’ve proven helpful to the FBI on more than one occasion.’
Could have told him about Tubal Cain, but my involvement there was buried even from the FBI, courtesy of Walter Conrad. I guessed that Vince was referring to Jean-Paul St Pierre, the contract killer who went by the name of a fallen angel. Dantalion had murdered a handful of FBI agents including Kaufman, an SAC from the Miami field office, before I finally stopped him. ‘I’m not a FBI groupie, if that’s what you’re thinking?’
‘So what exactly are you?’
‘I’m just someone who cares. I’m not going to stand around while children are being terrorised.’
‘Donovan Griffiths hired you?’
‘I didn’t come for the money. I just wanted to help. Nobody else seemed to be doing much.’
‘I was on the case.’
‘I couldn’t sit around waiting for the cavalry to come to their rescue, Vince. What do you think I should’ve done?’
‘The FBI doesn’t look favourably on vigilantes.’
‘Vigilantes take the law into their own hands, Vince. Off the record? There aren’t too many laws that govern what I sometimes have to do.’
‘Sounds like you’ve practised that speech, Hunter.’
I grinned. ‘It’s good guy one-o-one.’
