Local police were almost always a snap. Despite jurisdictional squabbles, cops were all in the game for pretty much the same reason, and it wasn’t to get rich. If you told city cops, county cops or even state police that there was some shit going down, shit you couldn’t actually talk about, but it was real serious and that it was over, people were safe …well, ninety-nine times out of a hundred they’d let it go. And for that one-in-a-hundred liberal prick who wouldn’t let something slide? He always had superiors who would play ball, put pressure on the guy to let things lie. Sometimes not even that worked. In those cases Dew would give a last warning, a final face-to-face chat. He’d tell the guy that his whole life was about to turn into a steaming pile of donkey shit, that his reputation was about to be trashed, and if push came to shove he’d be facing some trumped-up charge that would end his career in law enforcement.
If that didn’t work, Dew pitched it to Murray and washed his hands of the whole situation. Murray Longworth made problems go away. Sucked balls for the guy with the burr under his saddle, but every war has collateral damage.
This time, however, Dew wasn’t having any problems. Reports of domestic terrorists, army troops, gunfire and a ground-shaking bomb in Marinesco gobbled up attention. Not that people weren’t interested in the sad story of Thad McMillian Sr. going nuts and killing his wife, his daughter and his little boy. A tragedy, that’s what it was. A shame he was running a meth lab in that house, a real shame, but it explained the sightings of men in hazmat suits carrying guns, and it explained the two big semi trucks parked in the McMillians’ driveway. It also explained the absence of Tad Jr. and the baby. Witness-protection plan. Just for a short time as the feds in town worked through the meth-lab case. The boys were safe, although no one could say when or if they’d be back in town. Seems their grandmother (on the wife’s side) lived in Washington State, and the boys were eventually going to go live with her. The local media bought the story hook, line and sinker. METHED-OUT FATHER MURDERS FAMILY would be in area headlines for another few days, sure. Glidden was so small it didn’t even have its own newspaper. Soon it would all die down. This was America. People got killed. Such is life. What time is the game on?
So Dew Phillips was in as good a mood as could be expected for a man trying to deal with a bizarre parasitical invasion. He had helped shut down the fourth gate. He had dry clothes. He was warm again. The media and local police were playing ball. He had a full belly, and room service kept bringing pots of coffee and boxes of doughnuts from Bob’s Breakfast Shack.
Everything was going great guns, right up to the moment when the door opened and Perry Dawsey stepped inside.
Four heads turned to stare at him. Milner’s hand went to the grip of his pistol and stayed there. Baumgartner’s hands locked down on the back of a wooden chair. Amos backed up against a wall, a chocolate doughnut with nuts still hanging in his mouth.
“Dew, I need to talk to you,” Perry said. “Right now.”
“So talk.”
“Get these faggots out of here,” Perry said.
“I’d be happy to vacate the premises,” Amos said. “If you’d be so kind as to remove your substantial bulk from the doorway, I’ll be gone forthwith.”
Perry stepped aside. Amos shot out of the room like a world-class sprinter coming off the blocks.
“Kid,” Dew said. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it. These guys are part of the team.”
“They’re fucking peons,” Perry said. “Don’t make me beat their asses again, old man.”
Dew Phillips nodded. Yes, that was just about enough of this shit. It most certainly was.
“Milner, Baumgartner,” Dew said. “Take a walk.”
Baumgartner seemed uncertain and looked at Dew. Milner kept staring at Perry and kept his hand on the gun. He wasn’t taking his eyes off the big man for even a second.
“Sir,” Baumgartner said, “I think we should stay here.” His metal nose brace glinted in the hotel room’s light. Between the brace and the mustache, he couldn’t possibly look any dumber.
“I said take a walk,” Dew said.
“Sir,” Baum said. “Uh… you being alone with Dawsey, maybe it’s not—”
“Take a motherfucking walk, boys,” Dew said. “Get out. I want to have a private discussion with Citizen Dawsey.”
Baumgartner let go of the chair. He walked out, patting Milner on the back as he did. Milner managed to follow Baum out the door without taking his eyes off Dawsey and without taking his hand off the gun.
Perry shut the door. “Listen, Dew, something’s up.”
“We’ll get to that in a second,” Dew said. “First I’ve got a pesky little agenda item that we need to address.”
“Dew, you don’t understand.”
“Is there a new gate?”
Perry thought for a second, then shook his head.
“Are you hearing new voices?”
Perry thought again. “Kind of. Yeah, voices, but they aren’t saying any words.”
“No words,” Dew said. “So you’re sure they’re not talking about a gate, then?”
Perry nodded.
“Good,” Dew said. “Then we’ll table the discussion for a few minutes and address my topic of conversation.”
“But Dew, I—”
“Shut your fucking mouth, you little shithead.”
Perry stared for a second, then smiled. “Oh, I see,” he said. “Are we going to have a lecture about my behavior?”
“That’s right,” Dew said. “I don’t give a fuck how loony tunes you are, Dawsey. I’m sick of your shit. You’re going to start playing ball, you got me?”
Perry leaned forward and put his hands on the wooden table. It was the only thing that stood between the two men.
“I call you when I need you,” Perry said. “I can’t roll out a bunch of army assholes with guns and helicopters. You can. Other than that, your services aren’t required, so just keep being a good little bitch and go where I tell you to go.”
Dew felt his temper slip into the bad place. Somewhere in the back of his head, he wondered if he’d come out of this alive.
“Say,” Perry said. “I didn’t see a new Mustang parked in front of my room. What’s the holdup?”
“You’re just a little bastard trapped in a big boy’s body,” Dew said.
“There’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.”
“Boo-hoo-hoo,” Dew said. “So you had a rough time, and now the world owes you a lollipop?”
“You’re goddamned right the world owes me a lollipop. At least my government does. Where the fuck was my government when I was going through hell, huh? Where the fuck were you when those things were eating me up from the inside?”
“You survived,” Dew said.
“I’m the only one who survived,” Perry said. “Because I fought. Because I’ve got discipline. You’ve got to have discipline.”
Dew laughed. “You want discipline? I’d like to give you some discipline.”
Perry smiled. “You want to shoot me? Shoot me. It’s the only way you can put me down. You ain’t jack shit without that gun, old man.”
Dew had him. A fight was a foregone conclusion at this point. He just had to keep pushing buttons, get Dawsey out of control. Put him in a rage.
“You mean this gun?” Dew pulled his old .45 from his shoulder holster. He ejected the magazine, cocked back the slide and held up the gun to show there was no bullet in the chamber. He set the gun between them on the table. He held up the magazine with his right hand and used his thumb to flick out the first bullet. Then the second. He stared straight into Perry’s eyes as he emptied all seven rounds. He held the final bullet, then tossed the magazine away and bounced the bullet up and down in his palm.