Дэвид Балдаччи - End Game

Robie nodded. “That’s what he said.”

“And you believe a meth head?” Sonny’s look turned suspicious. “Your IDs say you’re Feds. Why are you interested in this?”

“If people are being held against their will, it’s a crime,” pointed out Reel.

“Well, yeah, I get that.”

“Can you think of anything that Lamarre might have meant? Even if he was mistaken about it? The person he told said he had a great many details about it. And he wasn’t on meth at the time. He was clean.”

Sonny took this all in, leaned against the counter, and rubbed at his beard.

“Look, we got some seriously effed-up people hereabouts,” he said slowly.

“Neo-Nazis, we know about them,” said Reel.

“Not just them. You keep going along this road for another twenty miles you’re going to see an encampment of white supremacists. They got the sheets and the hoods and a big-ass Confederate flag you can see from fifty miles away.” He paused and stroked his beard. “About six years ago two black fellows were found hanging from trees about ten miles from here. They had the N-word carved on their foreheads. Everybody around here knew who’d done it, but the law couldn’t prove nothing, so there you go. Them pricks are still around. And then you got assorted pockets of antigovernment types, vigilante groups, religious zealots, motorcycle gangs, and folks just generally pissed off that their lives suck or that in their minds the country’s going to hell. And they all got guns, lots and lots of guns. And some of them traffic drugs, stolen guns, and other shit, anything that’ll make ’em a buck. If you want to get out of the mainstream, this is a good place to come. We apparently welcome any and all nutcases equally.”

“And what about you? You belong to any of these groups?” asked Reel.

Sonny cracked a grin. “Nah. I’m just a businessman. You see, if I hooked up with one of them groups, the other groups would come here and burn down my store and shoot my ass. I keep a shotgun under the counter and I got a Dirty Harry Smith and Wesson forty-five at the small of my back, but I couldn’t fight those guys off night after night. So I call myself Switzerland, see, neutral. All them bad boys come here to get their gas, beer, hot dogs, and condoms. And because I don’t swear allegiance to any of ’em, none of ’em touch the place. I mean where else they gonna get their fuel, alcohol, and rubbers? And it was pretty bad when my daddy was running this place, so he had the same philosophy and passed it along to me.”

Reel said appreciatively, “So I guess that’s the other reason you’ve stayed in business so long. Pretty smart.”

Sonny grinned, swept off his hat, and gave a mock bow. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Back to Lamarre and what he saw,” interjected Robie.

Sonny put his hat back on and moved some strands of hair out of his face. “Did he say he saw it at my store? Because if he did, I can tell you he’s a lying sack of shit.”

“No, he didn’t say that. We know he was the assistant manager here. At least that’s what he told the drug rehab people on the intake form.”

“He was the assistant manager. But that was only because I’m the manager and he was my only employee. He worked when I didn’t and vice versa. I can’t afford two people here at the same time, except on Fridays during football. Then me and Clément would work together. Place is open till two in the mornings on the weekends. During the week we open at six, close at ten. We’d split the shifts. Sometimes I’d do the mornings and then nights. Same for him.”

“How long was he here?”

“About two years, I guess. Then he just stopped coming in. I mean, I kept his sorry ass on even after he stole from me, and look what that got me. Nothing. So I had to hire somebody else. Still have his last paycheck. But I deducted the cost of the crap he stole, including the Ho Hos.” He paused. “Wait a minute. Why don’t you just ask Clément about what he saw?”

“We’d love to. But he left rehab and then disappeared.”

“Huh. That’s strange. I always figured he’d come back here at least for his paycheck.”

“Where did he live?”

“Well, sometimes he lived in the back room here on a cot. Other times there was a place about five miles from here off the main road. A house.”

“Was it his house?”

“Shit, Clément never owned no house. He owned a piece-of-crap Datsun pickup that was older than he was. It was held together with duct tape and a Lord’s Prayer a day.”

“So whose house?”

“Some chick, I think. Give me a sec.” He scratched his chin and said, “Beverly something. Clément held an attraction to certain ladies. Till they realized he was a no-good SOB looking to take what he wanted, and then they’d kick him out.”

“Can you give us the address?” asked Robie.

Sonny did so, writing it down on a piece of paper after consulting a record book under the counter. “He had to give me the address for payroll purposes. Don’t know if he was living there when he stopped coming to work, but it’s the only address I got for him.”

He pulled a slip of paper from a file behind the counter and held it out to Reel.

“This is his last paycheck. If you see him, give it to him. He earned it.”

“I hope we can,” said Reel, taking the check.

They left the store while Sonny watched them from the door. Then they climbed into the truck and Robie started it up.

“You think he’s on the up-and-up?” Reel asked.

“I assume guilty until proven otherwise. It just seems smarter in our line of work.” He glanced at the check. “How much is it for?”

She looked at the slip of paper. “Two hundred bucks and change.”

“You think that’s for a full week’s work?”

Reel studied the pay stub attached to the check. “That’s what it says. Why?”

“That’s about ten grand a year.”

“Yeah. Some American dream.”

“Right. I’d be pissed off, too.”

As they pulled down the road Robie said, “You know you said the skinheads would be coming for us?”

“Yeah?”

He pointed behind them. “Well, you were right.” He punched the gas.

Reel turned to see three pickup trucks behind them. There were three men in the cabs of each along with four men in the cargo holds.

She closed her eyes, and something popped into her head.

When Reel reopened her eyes, she was back in Iraq.

Robie glanced over at her then took a look in the rearview. “They’re gaining. You want to do something about that?”

When she didn’t respond, Robie said, “Jess?”

She blinked rapidly and shivered, like someone had dropped a bucket of ice on her head.

“Jess? You okay?”

Reel turned and looked at the men and the trucks again. In her mind’s eye the skinheads turned darker and beards appeared on the fronts of their faces. They wore robes and head coverings. And in the bed of each truck was a .50-cal machine gun that was pointed directly at them.

“No, I’m not.”

Robie gave her a searching glance. “Okay, slide over and take the wheel.”

“What?” she said, her features confused.

“Take the wheel and just keep us pointed straight. I got this.”

She undid her seat harness, as did Robie.

He had put the truck on cruise control, so his foot wasn’t even on the gas.

“You go over, I’ll go under,” said Robie.

She put her hands on the wheel just as he let go.

The first shots fired from their pursuers impacted the rear glass of the Yukon, shattering it.

Reel stopped moving and ducked down.

“Come on, Jess, move your ass. Things are getting tight.”