Lee Child - Killing Floor

It was working. I was convincing her. I needed her to be bright, tough, self-confident. I was willing her to pick it up. It was working. Her amazing eyes were filling with spirit.

“I mean it, Roscoe,” I said. “Stick with me and you’ll be OK.”

She looked at me again. Pushed her hair back.

“Promise?” she said.

“You got it, babe,” I said. Held my breath.

She sighed a ragged sigh. Pushed off the wall and stepped over. Tried a brave smile. The crisis was gone. She was up and running.

“Now we get the hell out of here,” I said. “We can’t stay around like sitting targets. So throw what you need into a bag.”

“OK,” she said. “Are we going to fix my door first?”

I thought about her question. It was an important tactical issue.

“No,” I said. “If we fix it, it means we’ve seen it. If we’ve seen it, it means we know we’re under attack. Better if they figure we don’t know we’re under attack. Because then they’ll figure they don’t need to be too careful next time. So we don’t react at all. We make out we haven’t been back here. We make out we haven’t seen the door. We carry on acting dumb and innocent. If they think we’re dumb and innocent, they’ll get careless. Easier to spot them coming next time.”

“OK,” she said.

She didn’t sound convinced, but she was agreeing.

“So throw what you need into a bag,” I said again.

She wasn’t happy, but she went off to gather up some stuff. The game was starting. I didn’t know exactly who the other players were. I didn’t even know exactly what the game was. But I knew how to play. Opening move was I wanted them to feel like we were always one step behind.

“Should I go to work today?” Roscoe asked.

“Got to,” I said. “Can’t do anything different from normal. And we need to speak with Finlay. He’s expecting the call from Washington. And we need what we can get on Sherman Stoller. But don’t worry, they’re not going to gun us down in the middle of the squad room. They’ll go for somewhere quiet and isolated, probably at night. Teale’s the only bad guy up there, so just don’t be on your own with him. Stick around Finlay or Baker or Stevenson, OK?”

She nodded. Went to get showered and dressed for work. Within twenty minutes, she came out of the bedroom in her uniform. Patted herself down. Ready for the day. She looked at me.

“Promise?” she said.

The way she said it was like a question, an apology, a reassurance all in one word. I looked back at her.

“You bet your ass,” I said, and winked.

She nodded. Winked back. We were OK. We went out the front door and left it slightly open, just like we’d found it.

I HID THE BENTLEY IN HER GARAGE TO MAINTAIN THE ILLUSION that we hadn’t been back to her house. Then we got in her Chevy and decided to start with breakfast up at Eno’s. She took off and gunned the car up the hill. It felt loose and low after the upright old Bentley. Coming down the hill toward us was a panel van. Smart dark green, very clean, brand-new. It looked like a utility van, but on the side was a sign in fancy gold script. It said: Kliner Foundation. Same as I’d seen the gardeners using.

“What’s that truck?” I said to Roscoe.

She wafted through the right at the convenience store. Up onto Main Street.

“Foundation’s got a lot of trucks,” she said.

“What is it they do?” I asked her.

“Big deal around here,” she said. “Old man Kliner. The town sold him the land for his warehouses and part of the deal was he set up a community program. Teale runs it out of the mayor’s office.”

“Teale runs it?” I said. “Teale’s the enemy.”

“He runs it because he’s the mayor,” she said. “Not because he’s Teale. The program assigns a lot of money, spends it on public things, roads, gardens, the library, local business grants. Gives the police department a hell of a lot. Gives me a mortgage subsidy, just because I’m with the department.”

“Gives Teale a lot of power,” I said. “And what’s the story with the Kliner boy? He tried to warn me off you. Made out he had a prior claim.”

She shuddered.

“He’s a jerk,” she said. “I avoid him when I can. You should do the same.”

She drove on, looking edgy. Kept glancing around, startled. Like she felt under threat. Like someone was going to jump out in front of the car and gun us down. Her quiet life in the Georgia countryside was over. Four men in the night up at her house had shattered that.

We pulled into Eno’s gravel lot and the big Chevy rocked gently on its soft springs. I slid out of the low seat and we crunched across the gravel together to Eno’s door. It was a gray day. The night rain had chilled the air and left rags of cloud all over the sky. The siding on the diner reflected the dullness. It was cold. It felt like a new season.

We went in. The place was empty. We took a booth and the woman with glasses brought us coffee. We ordered eggs and bacon with all kinds of extras on the side. A black pickup was pulling into the lot outside. Same black pickup as I’d seen three times before. Different driver. Not the Kliner kid. This was an older guy. Maybe approaching sixty, but bone-hard and lean. Iron-gray hair shaved close to his scalp. He was dressed like a rancher in denim. Looked like he lived outdoors in the sun. Even through Eno’s window I could sense his power and feel the glare in his eyes. Roscoe nudged me and nodded at the guy.

“That’s Kliner,” she said. “The old man himself.”

He pushed in through the door and stood for a moment. Looked left, looked right, and moved in to the lunch counter. Eno came around from the kitchen. The two of them talked quietly. Heads bent together. Then Kliner stood up again. Turned to the door. Stopped and looked left, looked right. Rested his gaze on Roscoe for a second. His face was lean and flat and hard. His mouth was a line carved into it. Then he moved his eyes onto me. I felt like I was being illuminated by a searchlight. His lips parted in a curious smile. He had amazing teeth. Long canines, canted inward, and flat square incisors. Yellow, like an old wolf. His lips closed again and he snapped his gaze away. Pulled the door and crunched over the gravel to his truck. Took off with the roar of a big motor and a spray of small stones.

I watched him go and turned to Roscoe.

“So tell me more about these Kliner people,” I said.

She still looked edgy.

“Why?” she said. “We’re fighting for our lives here and you want to talk about the Kliners?”

“I’m looking for information,” I said. “Kliner’s name crops up everywhere. He looks like an interesting guy. His son is a piece of work. And I saw his wife. She looked unhappy. I’m wondering if all that’s got anything to do with anything.”

She shrugged and shook her head.

“I don’t see how,” she said. “They’re newcomers, only been here five years. The family made a fortune in cotton processing, generations back, over in Mississippi. Invented some kind of a new chemical thing, some kind of a new formula. Chlorine or sodium something, I don’t know for sure. Made a huge fortune, but they ran into trouble with the EPA over there, you know, about five years ago, pollution or something. There were fish dying all the way down to New Orleans because of dumping into the river.”

“So what happened?” I asked her.

“Kliner moved the whole plant,” she said. “The company was his by then. He shut down the whole Mississippi operation and set it up again in Venezuela or somewhere. Then he tried to diversify. He turned up here in Georgia five years ago with this warehouse thing, consumer goods, electronics or something.”

“So they’re not local?” I said.