Stephen Hunter - Night of Thunder

“You’re not God. You’re an ape bastard bully with a gun.”

He saw he was never going to make any headway with this one, which of course made him really like her a lot. Maybe too much. An idea was starting to form. He could get her in the bathroom and she had to do what he said or he’d hurt her family so she’d have to do it. He saw her fear, her little body, the trembling. It excited him.

“I’ll go get Grandma. Oh, and one other thing. What do you want on your pizza?”

For some reason, like an old bear, he needed sleep. So he violated his promise to the sheriff by sleeping through the clock radio, awaking at ten-thirty and thinking first of all, Oh hell, where am I?

That moment of confusion, familiar to men beyond sixty. His eyes flashed around the banal motel room and he had no idea what he was doing there, what time it was, why he was so late, why in his dreams people seemed so disappointed in him. It came back, of course, but not quickly enough, and he needed a good ten minutes for the blood to somehow reach his brain and revive his short-term memories. Quickly he took up the Kimber.38 Super, made a quick recon of the parking lot of the Mountain Empire Motel and was satisfied to see it largely empty, no sheriff’s cars in sight. He started the coffee, took a shower, pulled on his last clean Polo-there had to be a washer and dryer at Nikki’s-and began his calls.

The first, of course, was to his wife.

The news was great.

“Bob, she’s awake. She’s back, our baby is back.”

Bob felt the elation blossom bright, like a flare in the night, signaling that reinforcements were coming in.

“Oh, thank God. Oh, Christ, that is so great. When did it happen, how, what’s her condition?”

Julie tumbled through the story. At about eight-fifteen, Nikki opened her eyes, sat up, shook her head groggily, and said, “Hi, Mom. Where am I?”

Doctors came and went, tests were made, Nikki gradually seemed to focus, and particularly benefited from her little sister’s incredible joy. The two girls sat on the bed and talked for what seemed hours, while all the fuss went on about them. Now she was getting further tests.

“She doesn’t remember anything about the incident, but everything else seemed all right. How’s Dad-oh my God, how much work have I missed-oh, I have to call my editor-when can we leave-I’m hungry.”

“Oh, that’s so great,” said Bob. It doesn’t get much better than the moment you hear your kid has pulled through a tough one. His first impulse was to race to the car and beeline to Knoxville to be with his family at this precious moment.

“The doctor says the signs are good. She’ll get more memory back over the next few days. Our little girl is going to make it.”

Miko came on, delirious, and he talked to the second daughter for a while, in the language of fathers and daughters, both intimate and silly. But at a certain point it came back to him. Yeah, she’s fine, she’s okay, it’s all right, there’s a happy ending… if.

He realized that she’d make it if the boys didn’t come back to take her out again. She was much more dangerous now that she was conscious. Unconscious, there was always the thought that she could pass; now, revived, she was a threat.

“I’d like to come back,” he said. “I wish I could come back.”

“But you can’t,” Julie said. “You have work to do.”

“Yes, I do. I want the security tightened.”

“Bob, I’ve already called Pinkerton. They’re upping the manpower. It’ll cost us a fortune, but I don’t care. What’s happening there, where are you?”

He told her, summing things up, wishing he had a definite next step in mind, or that a solution would somehow soon be at hand. But it remained amorphous. Strange men tried to kill Nikki, tried to kill him for looking into it. The sheriff’s office didn’t have a clue. Nick Memphis hadn’t returned his phone calls.

“I’m going to go to Bristol now, to her apartment. That’s where they’ll know to find me.”

“Bob, be careful.”

“Maybe I can turn a thing on them. If not, I’ll wait a few days until after the race, then I’ll sneak back here and sniff out Eddie Ferrol. If anyone knows anything for sure, it’s him. He and I’ll have a little conversation, and then I’ll be up to speed.”

“Can you find him?”

“I think I can.”

He saw his cell light blinking, informing him another call was coming in.

“You know, I have to go. I’ll get back to you when I’m in Bristol.”

“Love you.”

“Love you.”

He called up Received Calls and recovered Charlie Wingate’s number. He punched Call and the phone was answered in two seconds.

“Charlie?”

“Mr. Swagger, did you hear?”

“No.”

“They found the owner of that gun store dead. Eddie Ferrol, the guy who owned Iron Mountain Armory. Someone shot him. They found the body off the interstate.”

Bob blinked, took a swallow of the coffee.

“Yeah,” he said. “And before he and I could chat.”

“Remember, I gave you the number from your daughter’s laptop hard drive. Did you see him? I don’t-”

Bob suddenly saw how it might have looked to the kid.

“You think I tracked him down? You think I’m some kind of hit man? No, Charlie, it’s not that way. I saw him and asked him some questions about my daughter. He denied ever having seen her, but I learned that was a lie. I was going to see him again, but the next thing I know, I’m the one who’s targeted. Long story. Been more or less laying low ever since. But anyone concerned about me would know that Eddie’s the man I’d have to get back to. If they couldn’t get me, they could get him. Especially since they can’t have had any confidence in his ability to stand up to tough questions. The fastest way out of that jam is a bullet in his head.”

“Yes sir. Um-am I in any danger?”

“Don’t think so. Only way would be if whoever I’m looking for has very sophisticated phone intercept capability. Government quality. No, not these boys. Smokeless powder is about as sophisticated as they get. It ain’t the CIA or even the mafia. It’s some boys who aren’t sure the wheel is going to last. Charlie, I’m about to leave town. You keep working on what I told you, and I’ll check back from Bristol, okay?”

“Yes sir. This is kind of cool.”

After disconnecting, Bob tried Nick again. Agh! Where was he?

He called Terry Hepplewhite, the clerk at Lester’s, about whom he still worried. But he found Terry in fine spirits with nothing to report. He had half a mind to pay for a vacation or something, but saw in an instant that wouldn’t work. Thelma’d be all over it if Terry suddenly vanished. No, Terry had to sit it out, at least until whatever happened happened, his case was processed, and police interest had moved elsewhere. Bob thought, That was another mistake. I shouldn’t have involved that kid, I should have stuck around and taken the heat. Man, am I losing it? I have made a batch of bad decisions on this one, and maybe I am just making things more difficult than they are. But there was nothing left to do but get out of town, so that sheriff didn’t drop down in his Blackhawk again.

He threw his laundry into his duffel, and went to the car. He drove aimlessly, hoping to smoke out anybody following, but his sudden turns and reverses uncovered nobody. For all of it, he was in the free and clear.

The route took him up and down Iron Mountain on 421, across Shady Valley, where he stopped and refueled and got a bite to eat. He then crossed Holston Mountain and, twenty miles out of Bristol, almost immediately hit the Race Day traffic he’d sworn to avoid by leaving early. That plan lost, he settled in for the long haul: the drive across the valley, a backup at the approach to the bridge over Holston Lake, and then into really heavy stuff as he got close to the speedway itself, which was twelve miles outside of Bristol. He hated traffic. He was too old for traffic. Traffic was no fun. The only good thing about traffic was that nothing bad could happen in it, because nobody who did anything bad could get away. There was too much traffic.