MaxAllan Collins - Quarry's vote

“Oh, sure, but he does plow a lot of it back into his campaign. He means it when he says he wants to be president. It’s just… well.. look, I’ve said enough. We’ve got way off the track here.”

“No, I find this interesting. What soured you on Freed?”

Matter-of-fact facial shrug. “He’s a hypocrite. He preaches against drugs, but he has a cocaine habit that puts Hollywood to shame. He rants and raves about the ‘permissive society’ and then sleeps with every female follower he can lay his paws on. And that’s plenty of ’em.”

I looked at her hard. “He tried to lay paws on you, too.”

“Yes, he did. And I don’t mean he was just ‘handsy,’ either. It was… much more serious than that. And when I told Bob…” She swallowed, shook her head. “This… this is too personal.”

“Bob didn’t care.”

Eyebrow shrug. “Bob didn’t believe me. I walked out. On Bob, and on that fucker Freed.” She stared at the tablecloth.

“Where does Lonny Best fit in?”

“He was a loyal Freed supporter, too, once upon a time. But he got disgusted about a year ago and dropped out. Freed’s excesses, personal and political, finally got to Lonny.”

“So he sympathized with your situation and gave you a job.”

She nodded. “That about sums it up, I guess.”

“Is the same true of Werner?”

“Pretty much. He stopped by Best Buy one day-just a few months ago-to talk to Lonny about something. Then he came out on the lot and talked to me, asked how I was doing. I said making ends meet, and he asked me if I was interested in moonlighting here, on the weekends. I said sure.”

“Nice of him.”

“He had his hand on my hip when he asked, so I knew what I might be up against. But he wasn’t around here much. Actually, tonight was his night. Saturday night, I mean. He and his wife would have dinner. Even with her along, though, he’d manage to cop a feel.”

“At least you don’t have to put up with that anymore.”

“Hey. Please. I didn’t wish the guy dead.”

“Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean you have to start thinking nice thoughts about him.”

“Yeah,” she said, indignantly. “What do I have to feel guilty about? I didn’t kill him.”

“Me either,” I said, and smiled.

That made her laugh.

“You’re a character. Whoops, I finally got customers.”

“How late do you work tonight?”

She stood. “We serve till ten.”

“Can I stop by for you?”

“I have my own car.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Excuse me,” she said, and went and tended to her customers.

A waitress came by and I ordered the barbecued ribs.

I was just finishing up when Angela stopped by the table and dropped a cocktail napkin before me.

“See you at ten,” she’d written.

It was just a little after five now. That should give me time to do what I needed to do.

I’d been down this road before. But it had been years ago, and the road had been dark then and was darker now. The moon, just a faint blur in an overcast sky, was no help; only my headlights lit the world, which is to say the stretch of concrete immediately before me.

This was the River Road, the road in question being narrow two-lane Highway 22, the river the Mississippi, although its presence over at my left-not at all far away-couldn’t be proved by me. A blackness of trees, beyond the railroad tracks, obscured any river view.

Soon-not far from Davenport, really-the quarry began, or signs of it anyway: dunes of crushed rock rose at my right like monstrous anthills; my headlights caught swirls of powder, which built into a modest but steady dust storm. Then, at left, skeletal steel buildings and machinery mingled with silo-like structures, awash in a greenish-gray glow, amber lights winking here and there, white billowing smokestacks lathering the dark sky, tempting God’s razor.

And now on my right was the vast quarry, acres of emptiness, beautiful in its barrenness, a natural wonder enduring this ongoing invasion stoically. An enclosed conveyor mechanism slashed across the sky diagonally, from the plant to the quarry, going again and again to this limestone well to make little bags of cement, and bigger bags of money.

Beyond the mile-long quarry was Buffalo, a village whose small business section-a few unpretentious restaurants, antique shop, gas station-was scattered along the right, with railroad tracks and, finally, the visible Mississippi at left, its surface reflecting the gray filtering of moonlight.

And beyond Buffalo was another quarry, an abandoned one, filled with water now, put there by man or nature or somebody, so that it was, in effect, a lake. And on that lake, above its shimmering surface, above the ledges of limestone, was a house. It was not small; its lines were modern in the Frank Lloyd Wright sense, with the central part of the house a story taller than the rest. A few lights were on, glowing yellowly behind sheer curtains. From the highway, looking across the expanse of what for lack of a better term I’ll call Lake Quarry, it seemed not just distant, but abstract.

Behind the house, the bluff rose, thick with trees; those trees were bare, but no matter-tonight they were an ebony blot against the charcoal sky. The home-the estate-of Preston Freed was seemingly impregnable. Fuck it; I was going calling, anyway.

Half a mile or so down, there was a road-two narrow lanes of gravel-that seemed the most likely access to the Freed estate. My Sunbird stirred up dust, climbing the bluff until it leveled out, and dipped and farmland began appearing on my left; but on my right was forest, and barbed wire with signs that said, PRIVATE PROPERTY- TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. Added to one of the signs, by somebody unimpressed by these cornfield threats, was: AND EATEN.

Soon, off to my right, a paved driveway materialized, blocked by a heavy, unpainted steel gate-nothing fancy, just formidable. A car, a brown Ford, was parked on the other side of the gate, on the grass, and somebody was in it; the orange glow of a cigarette showed on the driver’s side.

I’d gotten a good look, going by, and without attracting undue attention, either. On gravel like this, you had to move slow; and on a night this dark, the watchdog in the parked Ford couldn’t see whether I was looking his way or not. And what the hell, with that massive, unpleasant-looking gate, anybody driving by for the first time was bound to gawk a little.

About a mile down I found a little access inlet to a cornfield, and I left the Sunbird there. I was wearing a black windbreaker over a black turtleneck sweater with black slacks and… let’s just say I was wearing your basic black and leave it at that. I wasn’t nervous, but I wasn’t not nervous. Home invasions are not, as I believe I said, my style. And a home invasion where an estate is involved-an estate inhabited by a wealthy paranoid political crackpot who thinks the Soviets are after him-was like nothing I’d ever attempted.

I had a nine-millimeter in the shoulder holster, under the windbreaker, which was unzipped. I did not have the noise suppressor attached. If this little endeavor came apart on me, I could need to do a lot of shooting, fast, considering the number of bodyguards and security types this guy would likely employ. And a silenced gun can’t be used rapid fire; you have to work the action by hand, each round, because the gas you’re suppressing, to keep the gun quiet, is the very thing that makes the automatic automatic.

What I had instead-and what was in my hand this very moment as I moved across the gravel road to the barbed wire fence and its warning signs-was a so-called stun gun. I’d picked it up at a pawnshop in Davenport this afternoon. I’d never used one before, though I was plenty familiar with the principle, as I’d carried its bulkier relative, the Taser, on some jobs right before I quit the business.