Jeffery Deaver - Shallow Graves

"This's another movie. I remembered you're into wheels."

"I'm like sorta into wheels."

"They need a driver, a stunt driver. But he's got to be good."

Rebo, chewing a wad of hamburger, said, "Oh, he's good. Nick's a good driver." Rebo's T-shirt said Motley Crüe 1987 Tour.

"You interested?"

A grin snuck into the fat in the boy's cheeks. "Well, I guess."

"The only thing is, you think you could show me what you can do? Like an audition?"

"I guess."

"How about now?"

"It'd be Sunday night."

"They need somebody soon. Next weekend. If I can't get anybody we'll have to bring in somebody from the Coast." Pellam tossed him a bone: "You'll get screen credit."

"A credit?"

"And the pay's great. A thousand bucks for one stunt."

Rebo's eyes were getting bigger. "Hey, man, tell him about your car."

"Well…"

The Motley Crüe boy steamed ahead. "Pontiac GT. He put in a Chevy 442 all by his lonesome."

Nick's grin was back, spreading like a sunrise. "Hurst shifter," he said. "Did that myself too."

Pellam whistled. "You sure know your hardware. How 'bout it?"

Nick shrugged. "Let's go."

Rebo stood up but Pellam shook his head. "Just gotta be the two of us. Insurance problems, you understand."

Rebo nodded and dropped back into his seat as if Duane Allman himself had told him to sit.

Outside they walked to the car and Pellam looked around.

The streets of Cleary were deserted. He said, "Oh, let me get something." He disappeared into the camper for a minute and came out with the bottle of Wild Turkey. He handed it to Nick. The boy looked at it but shook his head. "Maybe afterwards, man. Not a good idea if I'm going to be doing high-speed work."

They walked to Nick's black Pontiac.

High-speed work. Like he did it everyday.

Pellam unscrewed the lid of the bottle. Nick watched him, frowning.

"You don't drink and drive?" Pellam asked. "That's funny. You were the other night. I could smell it. On top of your aftershave. That's what I recognized. Brut, right?"

The eyes were fishy and the grin came back. "The fuck're you saying?"

Pellam nodded toward the car. "Heard your car this afternoon, thought it sounded familiar. Then checked it out and smelled that same drugstore aftershave inside. Didn't your mother raise you with any class?"

"Huh?"

"How's your friend with the broken nose? I hope he's in a lot of pain."

"You fucking crazy?" He'd turned solemn as a mortician.

"I know, you're going to tell me it was nothing personal."

"What wasn't personal?" But the eyes disclosed all the facts. Nick paused then said, "You got me good." He touched his jaw. "I won't be eating solid food for a week. My tongue's sore as a whore's tit. Why didn't you tell Moorhouse?"

"What good would it've done? He'd let you go, right?"

"Yeah."

"So he was in on it, right?"

"In on what?"

"Paying you to beat the crap out of me and plant the drugs?"

"I don't know what-"

The Colt appeared in a flash, pointed straight into the boy's belly.

"Shit," he whispered. "Oh, God, mister."

"Who paid you-" Pellam paused. Suddenly he was curious. "How much was it?"

"A hundred bucks."

"That's all ! That's crap."

"No, man, no. It's totally true. I swear."

Pellam felt insulted. "You should've charged more. Now tell me who?"

"We didn't have nothing against you. We heard-"

"Who?" Pellam whispered viciously and cocked the Colt, praying that his thumb wouldn't slip off the hammer. The gun was loaded with 130-grain,.45 caliber bullets. The boy was fat but he wouldn't even slow up a slug that size.

Both hands in front of him, palms out. "Okay. Fine. Listen, I'm going-"

"Asked you a question," Pellam growled.

"-to tell you. Just put that-"

"Who?"

"Mr Ambler. Wexell Ambler. Well, was a guy works for him-name's Mark, but I don't know his last name, I swear I don't. This guy Mark talked to Mayor Moorhouse and they wanted me and my friend to rough you up a bit."

"Where's he live? The Ambler?"

Pellam touched Nick's chest with the Colt. A good way to get directions fast. Nick became a regular Triple A guidebook. "Barlow Mountain road. Just off Route Nine, north. Past the Shell station. Go two hundred yards past then make a left. Really, mister, I didn't have nothing against you."

"Well, what's he got against me?"

"I don't know, swear to God. Please, mister, point that someplace else."

Pellam aimed at the ground before he eased the hammer to half-cock then slowly spun the cylinder to put an empty chamber beneath the hammer, which he then lowered all the way. He held the gun in his right hand while he handed the whiskey bottle to Nick with his left.

"Take a drink."

Nick's voice shook as he said, "I don't want to take a drink."

"We both want you to." Pellam pointed the Colt at him again.

"Oh, shit, come on-"

"Drink it down."

Nick took a swallow.

"Come on, a couple more. Drink like a man. You hit like a girl. At least drink like a man."

"Fuck you, Pellam," he wheezed.

"You tried that. It didn't work. Drink."

When he'd gotten down five, six good mouthfuls, Pellam took the bottle and threw it, open, into the GT.

"Aw, shit, what you want to do that for?"

"Well, I'll tell you. I've evened things up a bit. You're a little bigger'n me but now you're a little drunker. So we're driving out of town and I'm going to whip your ass one on one."

"You got that gun."

"I'll leave it in the car. Drive out toward the highway to the forest preserve. I'll be right behind you. Don't try to get away. I'll be aiming for the tires but I might hit your gas tank."

"You asshole," the boy muttered as he got into the car. The big Pontiac engine exploded to life and Nick pumped the accelerator.

They pulled out of downtown, the camper right behind the GT.

It turned out even better than Pellam'd thought it would be. They'd gotten two miles out of town, to the stoplight, when Nick did just what Pellam knew he was going to do: Looked for cross traffic, slipped the clutch and shot through the red light, running up through the gears with his fancy shifter, sounding like a buzzsaw.

The boy was probably in fourth when the state trooper Pellam had seen on his way into town, hidden in the bushes, a speed trap, started to pull out.

Nick came within two or three inches of taking the front end of the trooper's Chevy with him.

Pellam drove slowly past the scene of the arrest. Nick, handcuffed. The trooper, writing down Breathalyzer results.

He drove past the sign that said Welcome to Cleary and continued into the blackness.

Good night, officer. Good night, sir…

Pellam turned the camper off Barlow Mountain Road, and eased along an overgrown side road up the hill that he supposed was Barlow Mountain. He nosed the Winnebago forward into a clump of hemlocks then killed the engine. He pulled the Colt out from under the seat and slipped it into his waistband then stepped outside. His boots made gritting taps as he walked along the asphalt toward the warm yellow house lights that glowed in the fog, a quarter mile away.

A hundred yards from the house he made his way off the road into brush and sparse woods. He smelled wet pine and ripe leaves. A hit of skunk. He saw the glistening lights reflecting on a lake to his right. A late, lone cicada made its deceptively cheerful sound and somewhere a dog barked. He moved slowly toward the house, stepping around branches.

The house was a rambling old monster, easily two hundred years old. A drab, ugly brown, Plymouth Rock chic. He heard water lapping and saw the lake clearly; it came right to the edge of the property. The dog barked again, the sound rolling across the lake. There was no other noise or motion, not even wind. The house was still and the lights were dim; Pellam wondered if they'd been left on while the residents were out to discourage the potential intruders that Pellam now understood Ambler would have good reason to worry about-the state police, for instance.