Мэтт Рихтел - Dead on Arrival

“What brings you to Nevada?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” Jerry said. “Is this typical? I’ve never been stopped at a state border before. We’re Delta pilots heading to a training.”

The woman’s eyes settled on Lyle’s jacket covering the gun and quickly moved off them. The butt stuck out.

“Just a precaution. With all the stuff taking place in Washington and we’ve got a military base here, as you probably know if you’re pilots,” the woman said. “Where did you say you were training?”

Jerry reached for his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He extracted a card and held it up to her. “If there’s nothing else, we’ll be on our way…” He looked at her name tag. “Marsha.”

“Okay,” she said. But she looked skeptical. Lyle suspected she was told to be on the lookout for anything remotely suspicious, particularly if there was a military base located here. Even setting aside whatever the hell Jackie was up to, this world seemed to be boiling with tension.

Jerry hit the accelerator. Lyle looked over his shoulder and it sure looked to him like she picked up the phone.

“What the hell were you doing?” Jerry barked at Lyle. “I have a permit. You made it look like we’re doing something wrong.” He didn’t add the words you idiot, but his tone captured the sentiment. “Wake up, Captain.” He shook her leg again. She was really out. Was there something wrong with her?

From the weigh station, a car pulled out, now about a hundred yards behind them. Jerry stepped on it. So did the vehicle in the rearview mirror. In the dark, it was hard to tell if it was a cop car, though it stood to reason.

“I’ve never heard of a weigh station used for that purpose.”

“Maybe it’s Jackie Badger’s doing,” Lyle mused aloud.

“These are not ordinary times,” Jerry said dismissively. “Assholes with guns and now the government using that as an excuse to take away our rights. Freaking liberals couldn’t wait to institute martial law. Over my goddamned dead body.”

“You ever notice how often you contradict yourself on this subject, Jerry.”

“What’s wrong with Eleanor?” Jerry spat back at Lyle. “Captain, wake up.”

Behind them, red lights started spinning on the top of the cop car that was now a little more than fifty yards behind.

Ahead, in the dead of night, Hawthorne loomed. Jerry punched the accelerator.

“Hey, Jerry…”

Jerry ignored Lyle and kept his foot to the floor.

“Jerry, this is no big deal. You’re a first officer with a permit to carry. Just show them the permit and we’ll be done with it.”

“And I crossed the border from a state that’s not open-carry. This all would have been easier before you put us all in harm’s way.”

“So just say I covered the gun by accident. I’ll tell them. We really don’t need to overreact to this. It’ll make it worse.”

Jerry ignored him and pulled a sharp right. They sped down an off ramp and fishtailed as Jerry took a ninety-degree left beneath the overpass, barely hitting the brakes. Lyle white-knuckled his pants legs. The Miata zoomed beneath the highway and emerged on the other side, the tiny town of Hawthorne suddenly looming in front of them. Jerry gunned it again on the empty, quiet, dark road that must’ve passed for Main Street. It cut through gas stations and fast-food joints and then modest paved tributaries.

Behind, Lyle could see the police car just getting off the highway. The cop must be taking it cautiously, he thought, recognizing there wasn’t much place for Jerry to go. And, besides, a wise cop would want no one hurt. Jerry took a quick right and then another and then screeched to a stop. It was a deft move, Lyle realized; the policeman would’ve been unable to see which turns they’d taken. So they were, in effect, temporarily hidden.

“Go get her, Dr. Martin.”

“Who?”

Lyle looked where Jerry was pointing. He had landed them in the parking lot of the Days Inn.

“Room 106,” Jerry said. He shook the pilot. “Wake up, Eleanor.”

Lyle took in the low-slung, low-budget motel. Or maybe it was high budget for these parts, nice as it got. A postage-stamp-size swimming pool surrounded by a metal fence took up a spot near the rooms in the center of the U-shaped complex. Not a single light shone in any room. But to the left, opposite the side of the lot where Jerry had parked, light shone from a small office. A sign blinked vacancy.

Jerry quietly shoved an ammunition clip into the nine millimeter. He ejected it and shoved it in again, double-checking. There was no other sound. They must have lost the police car, which probably was patrolling nearby, looking down streets and alleys.

“Draw her out,” Jerry said quietly. “That’s the plan.”

Lyle tried to hear the words and not the obnoxious tone. Did Jerry have a point? Lure Jackie from room 106 and then put a bullet in her? Of course that was too rash.

“I don’t think it’s going to be that simple. Let’s wait another minute to make sure that cop doesn’t swing by.”

Jerry stared at Eleanor. A touch of drool gathered by her lips. “We need to get her to a doctor,” he said. “A real doctor.”

Just then, they heard a sound and a car moved on the street, slowly. A searchlight swept the lot, narrowly missing them. The car passed. Lyle pushed the seat forward to get a look at Eleanor. He shook her and she lolled a bit and moaned. Lyle stepped out of the Miata. He looked across the lot and saw inside the little office. The woman looking their direction talked on the phone and quickly looked away when she saw Lyle’s gaze.

“I think you should come with me,” Lyle blurted. “Let’s bring her.”

Jerry burst out with a bitter laugh. He caught himself for making too much noise and then just shook his head. “You think we’re walking into that trap with you? Are you even paying attention to what you observed earlier? Jackie, or whatever her name is, she wants us to walk into that room. That’s why she had the room number given to us.”

Lyle let the words sink in. He tended to agree with Jerry. This was a trap.

“I think you should come with me,” he repeated.

“Oh, okay, Dr. Martin,” Jerry said as sarcastically as he could muster.

Lyle closed his eyes and looked for a reason. He said, “I’m not sure why. Just a gut feeling.”

It was unfolding as he’d expected, and now he was starting to chicken out of his plan. It was such a risk. He steeled himself.

“Suit yourself,” Lyle said.

“Smartest thing you’ve said since we met.” Jerry felt the need to pile on. “I’m going to find a medical clinic. Or a diner. Captain needs a cup of coffee.”

Lyle walked to the motel room door just in front of number 102. Lyle moved along the outer walkway. He could feel his cortisol levels—his fight-or-flight neurochemicals—through the roof. They kept his eyes and ears at superheightened levels. It was his hearing he found himself focused on. Something told him to prepare for a buzz or hum, a radio burst, an electrical surge.

He passed an ice and vending machine and stood in front of room 106. He knocked.

No answer.

Knock, knock.

No answer.

Lyle put his hand on the knob. He heard a screeching sound behind him. He turned to see a police car, lights spinning, pulled on to the street behind him. An officer stepped out of the car. He had his hand on his holster.

Jerry opened the driver’s-side door. The officer withdrew his weapon and raised it.

“Drop the gun, Officer,” Jerry said. “I’ve got a permit. It’s okay.”

“You drop the gun, sir. Right now. Put your hands in the air.”