let her go by now.”
“Pretty far to ride a bike from here.”
“You’d be surprised.” She looked at him. “You could ask, Charlie Dean. You don’t know everything.”
“I didn’t say I did.” He looked at her frown. She was pretty, but she had an attitude the size of Minnesota. “It’s my fault, huh?”
“You got that straight.”
Dean pushed his leg up against the dash. The truck’s seat was a bench and Lia had it all the way forward so she could reach the pedals. There was no way to stretch out his legs.
“Want to let me drive for a while?” he asked.
“What are you going to do when someone stops you?”
“Who’s going to stop me? We haven’t seen anybody for hours.”
Lia didn’t answer.
A while later, when she was sure the girl was sleeping, Lia explained that their cover story was an extension of the one they’d used in the town; they were trying to keep an appointment in an oil city near Nahym.
Not
“Did that kid really go to a hospital, or did Karr just tell me that?” said Dean.
“Tommy doesn’t lie,” said Lia.
“How do you know?”
“Jesus, Charlie Dean, you’re a pain in the ass.”
Dean took another shot at conversation. “So you were with the SEALs?”
“Do I look like a fuckin’ SEAL?”
“Special Forces.”
“Delta, asshole.”
“I thought Delta Force was part of Special Forces.”
“The problem with jarheads is that they try to think.”
Dean started to laugh. “Jarhead? What’s that from, a John Wayne movie?”
“The problem with
“Mine does.”
“Tell me about it.”
Dean gave up trying to make conversation. Eyes heavy, he felt his head drooping off to the side. Finally he gave in to fatigue and fell asleep, his shoulder resting against the young girl’s.
There was a time in Dean’s life when he’d had vivid, angry dreams, dreams obviously inspired by some of the things he’d been through — sniper missions, an assassination, firefights, a hostage situation he’d become part of. It was as if his subconscious had to work some of the violence out, decipher the contradictions, and bridge the gap between what should have happened and what actually did. Dean hated the dreams when he had them; many nights he’d tried to stay up in a vain attempt to keep them away.
And then one morning he realized he didn’t have the dreams anymore. In fact, he didn’t dream anymore at all. Had he worked all that stuff out?
Truth was, Charlie Dean wasn’t the kind of guy who spent a lot of energy working things out. Not in a formal way. He liked to think of himself as a guy who went on instincts, who trained his body — and his mind — to do what had to be done without hesitation. It’s what had made him a decent, better than decent, sniper.
Maybe. Or maybe it was just that he was a pretty good shot no matter what the circumstances were. In any event, he didn’t believe in analyzing it.
So when the dreams stopped, he didn’t complain about it, nor did he celebrate. He didn’t dream now, either. But as his body jostled back and forth in the pickup, he did feel a vague sense of unease brushing around his face and hands.
When he woke, Lia and the girl were gone. It was dark out; his watch told him it was close to two in the morning. There were taillights and a large shadow just in front of them. He stared into the darkness and realized they were in the middle of a large parking area near a highway, a much different road from the one they’d been on.
Dean was freezing. He rubbed his arms and waited. Finally, Lia and the girl returned, lugging several plastic grocery bags.
“Ah, Sleeping Beauty is awake,” said Lia. She reached into one of the bags and took out a jar. “Coffee. Almost, anyway.”
The warm liquid did taste somewhat like coffee. The girl had a large loaf of bread and chewed at it ravenously, pausing every so often to smile at Dean. Lia sorted the bags, then produced a large revolver from one. It looked like a Smith & Wesson.44, though it had no markings on it. Three of the six cylinder chambers were filled; the bullets were Magnums, and the gun was indeed a very good clone of the S & W Model 29.
“Best we could do,” she said. “It has to be fifty years old, and I doubt it’s been fired in the last ten. Clean it. The bullets are in the bag.”
Dean took the gun and the bag, which contained some tools and small tubes of different types of oil, Vaseline, and graphite besides the bullets. There seemed to be a whole set of burglar’s picks as well.
“Package deal,” said Lia, shrugging.
There was a knock on Lia’s window. Dean pulled the bag up, hiding the gun behind it.
Dean could smell the vodka on the man’s breath as he exchanged words with Lia. She waved him away; he seemed reluctant to go and for a second Dean thought he’d have to show the gun.
“What was that all about?”
“Wants to buy Zenya.” Lia started the truck. “Time to go.”
Zenya, the girl, turned abruptly toward the back of the pickup. Lia told her in Russian that the animal was fine, then repeated the information for Dean’s benefit.
“They buy kids?” Dean asked as they got onto the highway.
“They buy anything. These guys got more money than we do. And we have a printing press.”
Zenya and Lia talked in Russian for the next hour or so. Dean figured it was the girl’s life story, but Lia didn’t share it. Among the items Lia had bought were a wool sweater and a parka; Dean put on the sweater, though it was a bit tight, and used the parka as a pillow, leaning against the door. His brain settled into a state of half-sleep, as if his consciousness were a crocodile with only its snout peering out of the water.
Eventually Lia turned off the highway onto another well-made but narrower road. Within a mile this had given way to well-packed gravel, twisting and turning through what seemed to be a swampy forest. Rectangles of dim yellow light broke the darkness on their right; the road curved gradually to reveal a fairly large city set on what seemed to be a pile of peat moss above the surrounding terrain. Lia and the girl exchanged a few words. As soon as they came into the city, Lia took her first right and parked in front of a low-slung building made of concrete blocks. Fluorescent light flowed from the narrow casement windows at the building’s front, set about six feet high.
“Time to eat,” said Lia.
The glass door at the side of the building opened into a short hallway blocked off by a thick metal door. This led to a stairway; at the top of the six steps was another glass door. Inside was a rustic diner or restaurant, the sort that in the States used to be found near third-rate resort areas before the days of McDonald’s and Pizza Hut. Ten of the twenty tables were already filled, even though it was only a few minutes past four; three-quarters of the counter stools were also occupied.
The crowd was exclusively male. Lia’s scowl did little to ward off the stares. Zenya blushed as they sat down.
Afraid that speaking English might cause trouble, Dean said nothing. His breakfast came quickly — a large order of pancakes and coffee, which was instant. There was no milk or creamer.
“They know you’re not Russian, don’t worry,” said Lia. “They’re used to foreigners. Or at least their money. That’s why they have pancakes.”
Both Lia and Zenya had ordered some sort of pastry with bits of meat in it, but whether it was ham, beef, or something more exotic, Dean couldn’t tell. The girl ate hers quickly, then, looking at Lia, asked her something. Lia nodded, and Zenya got up from the table, taking her things and going out the door.
