Дэвид Балдаччи - End Game

“Just find him,” ordered Cassidy. The screen went dead.

Robie looked at Reel. “You’re right.”

“About what?”

“It’s a lot easier just killing people.” He put the truck in gear.

“Where to now?” asked Reel.

“Clément Lamarre’s last place of employment.”

“Do you think that’s where he might have seen the things he described to Holly?”

“You have a better idea?”

“Not even close.”

The drive took nearly an hour with nary a highway in sight. Their travel was over a two-lane road that oftentimes, when over-the-road semis were blowing past the other way, seemed more like the eye of a needle.

On the way, Reel called Lamarre’s sister and explained who she was and what she was interested in. The woman quickly told Reel that her brother had never spoken to her about anything other than their family and his treatment at the rehab facility. She confirmed that Clément was supposed to come and live with her and her family in Boulder. She had volunteered to come and get him or send him bus fare, but he said he would get there on his own. At the last minute he had called and said his plans had changed.

“That really pissed me off. And I’ve got four kids under the age of ten so, frankly, brother or not, I didn’t have the time or energy to follow up on him. I tried to help him, but Clément made his bed and he has to lie in it,” she told Reel.

“So that leaves the convenience store as our last shot,” said Reel, after putting her phone away.

“Well, let’s hope they can tell us something. The DCI is not going to like it if we have nothing to report next time.”

“What do you think happened to Blue Man, Robie, really?”

“I think he was being very typically Blue Man.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he was trying to help people who needed it and that got him into danger.”

“If he was taken, do you think they know who he is? I mean, really know who he is?”

“Doubtful, or they might not have kidnapped him. Now they’re caught between a rock and a hard place, especially if they’ve since found out who he is.”

“So we’re sort of like Blue Man then.”

“How do you mean?’

“Well, we played the good Samaritans, helped Holly and Luke, and look where it got us. A bunch of neo-Nazis gunning for us.”

“I see your point.”

“They’re going to come at us, Robie.”

“They absolutely are.”

“There are a lot more of them than us.”

“There clearly are.”

“And yet I sort of feel sorry for them,” she said sardonically.

“You’ll get over it.”

They drove on.

“Clyde’s Stop-In,” said Reel, reading the sign as they drove into the parking lot in front of the convenience store. It had gas pumps out front, a pay phone against one wall with the phone receiver missing, a freezer box with ice inside and a padlock on the door, and dirty windows, along with a general air of a place barely staying alive. There were no other cars in the parking lot, and the store was off a winding road with the nearest town ten miles away.

“I wonder how you wake up one day and decide to build a store in the middle of nowhere,” said Reel.

“This whole place is the middle of nowhere,” noted Robie. “I’ve seen more population density in an Iraqi desert.”

They climbed out of the Yukon and pushed open the door, causing a bell to tinkle. The interior of the space was as dilapidated as the outside. The shelves were only half full, and what was on them looked like it had been there since the seventies. An ATM machine was set against one wall with an OUT OF ORDER sign taped across its front. A door marked RESTROOM was on the back wall next to a refrigerated unit full of beer. A rack of newspapers was against another wall; a modern-looking soda dispenser stood against the far wall, and a shelf with automotive products, condoms, and packaged foodstuffs was next to it. On the front counter was a warming machine containing rows of hot dogs and slices of pepperoni pizza; the commingled smells permeated the place. The cash register was fronted by bulletproof glass, and entry was gained via a thick door with a deadbolt lock on it. Like in a bank, one had to slip the cash or credit card into a slot under the glass.

With the tinkle of the bell a tall, lean older man in a stained cowboy hat emerged from a back room. He had long, scraggly gray hair and a bushy beard.

“Can I help you folks?” he said.

“Are you Clyde?” asked Robie.

The man shook his head. In addition to the hat, he was dressed in faded dungarees, worn leather boots with silver toe caps, a jean shirt, and a hand-tooled belt with an Anheuser-Busch buckle cinched tightly around his narrow waist.

“Clyde’s been dead, oh, twenty years now. I’m his son.”

“How long has this place been open?” asked Reel.

“Sixty years. Nearly as long as I’ve been alive. Name’s Sonny Driscoll. Not too complicated the reason why. My old man didn’t have the best imagination when it came to names.”

He grinned and held out a big, weathered hand. They took turns shaking it.

“That’s a long time to be in business,” said Robie.

Sonny looked around his store. “I know it don’t look like much, but we get by. Mostly truckers gassing up. We got truck diesel here. Or them needing to take a leak or wanting something to eat. People who are lost — there are a lot of those — and they usually buy something just so they don’t feel bad asking me for directions for free. And some folks from Newton, the little town back down the road there. And on Fridays during high school football season folks come in here and clean the place out. Keeps me going through the winter. I don’t need much to get by. Now, what do you folks need? Gas? I got the credit card reader on the pumps. Or you can just pay in here after you finish up.”

“Ever have any trouble here?” asked Robie.

In answer Sonny pointed to the fortified counter. “What does that tell you? Get some strange dudes coming through here. Late at night, you can’t be too careful. You got trouble and call 911, they’ll get here in the morning to take your body away.”

“We’re actually here for some information on one of your former employees,” said Reel. She took out her ID and so did Robie.

Sonny studied them with a frown. “Which employee?”

“Clément Lamarre.”

“Shit, is he in trouble again?”

“Why would you think that?” asked Reel.

“Because Clément was always in trouble. Meth head. Stole from me. I didn’t press charges ’cause he must’ve been out of his damn mind when he did it. He stole some beer, a can of motor oil, and a box of Ho Hos. And he knew how to open the damn cash register and didn’t take a single cent from there. I mean how stupid is that?”

“Pretty stupid,” agreed Robie.

“Serves me right for hiring somebody with a name like that. I think he was French or something. I’m not into foreigners, don’t care who knows it.”

Robie said, “He was from Canada. That’s not really so much of a foreign country. Right on our border.”

Sonny shrugged. “I guess Canadians are okay. Weird name, though.”

Robie said, “When Lamarre was in rehab he told someone about something he’d seen, maybe while he worked here.”

Sonny’s tufts of eyebrows knitted together. “What’d he say he saw?”

Robie studied him for a moment. “People in distress.”

“Hell, half the people who live round here could be said to be in distress,” scoffed Sonny.

“I meant people being held against their will. Tied up and with hoods on.”

“What?” snapped Sonny. “You mean like they were prisoners?”