“And next time you see that candy ass drunk Jervis Phillips” —White banged his fist on the desk— “tell him to come down here.”
“I will, Chief.”
White lit a cigar, pinch browed. He waved Wade away with the smoke. “Go on now, get your rich kid face out of my office.”
Wade faltered at the door. “Say, Chief, it’s going on ninety outside, and it’s a mile back to the center. How about a ride?”
“I ain’t a fuckin’ limo. Use your LPCs.”
“LPCs?”
White unreeled a sudden belt of laughter. “Yeah, boy, LPCs. That’s leather personnel carriers.”
White’s Deep South donkey laughter followed Wade out into the sultry day. The heat was bad, the humidity was worse. He was stuck in his own sweat in minutes. A cold Adams right now would go just fine, but he still had work to do at the center, more toilets, more floors…
Half hour later, Wade was back at the center, drenched. He stopped midstep when he entered the supply room.
Tom McGuire was sitting on a lab counter, drinking a beer.
“Wade, my man! I’ve been waiting for you.”
“I…” Wade said. Tom looked sick. His face was…gray. “Jesus, Tom. You look like shit.”
“I know,” Tom agreed, “but I feel great. Come on, let’s get out of here and throw back a few cold ones.”
“I can’t. I have to finish up here.”
“Nonsense,” Tom scoffed. “You’re only young once, believe me. You want to waste the day scrubbing toilets?”
“Well, no, but—”
Tom’s smile turned sad. Suddenly he was pointing a pistol at Wade. “Just do what I say, Wade. I’ll explain along the way.”
Holy shit, Wade thought slowly. Tom led him out to the loading dock, the gun barrel at Wade’s back.
“How do you like the new paint job?”
Wade dumbly approached the Camaro. Tom’s beautiful white lacquered car had been haphazardly painted black. “This is no paint job!” Wade exclaimed. “The run’s ruined! I could do better work than this with a can of spray paint.”
“That’s what I used,” Tom said. “Spray paint.”
Using ordinary spray paint on this Chevy masterpiece was like touching up The Creation of Adam with El Markos. But the reason came quickly to Wade. Camouflage, he thought. Tom’s “Eat Dust” vanity plates were gone too, replaced by normal plates.
Stolen plates, Wade realized.
“I made it look like shit on purpose,” Tom said. He threw Wade the keys. “Get in, you drive.”
Wade shifted out of the back lot. “You painted your white car black,” Wade stated. “You put on stolen tags. You know the police are looking for you.”
“Yep. The cops know my rod on sight, but they won’t give this a second glance. Pretty slick thinking, huh?”
“Yeah, slick,” Wade said. “So you did rob the liquor store.”
“Dumb move, but what can I say? I was thirsty.”
“You also stole a bunch of medical files from the clinic, mine included. And last night you murdered Dave Willet.”
Tom seemed mildly impressed. “You’re a smart boy, Wade. How’d you know about Do Horse?”
“Jervis saw the whole thing through a telescope. He also said he saw someone…eating the guy.”
“It’s true, partner, but it wasn’t me. It was one of the sisters. That bitch ate half the meat off Willet’s bones. I can’t figure out where they put it all; they eat like pigs. She even ate the guy’s cock” —Tom chuckled— “and that was one big meal, let me tell you. They didn’t call him Do Horse for nothing.”
Wade turned off campus, steering stiffly. Little point remained in asking for reasons. Wade was no psychiatrist, but he felt fairly certain that confessing to murder and holding your best friend at gun point in a camouflaged car with stolen tags was a pretty clear sign of some psychological problems. Tom was crazy—
And Wade was scared.
“You’ll understand it all once you’ve become part of the family, Wade. But I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’ve gone nuts, that I’ve turned into some sort of psychotic criminal.” Tom pointed quickly to the exit. “Take Route 13 south.”
Wade did so, wondering. He assumed Tom planned to flee the state, but 13 south would take them away from the state line.
“I’m no criminal, Wade,” Tom went on. “And I’m no psycho.”
“What are you, then?”
Tom’s pallid grin reached its peak. “I’m a myrmidon—a holy gofer. I’m the shoeshine boy to the gods.”
No, you’re crazy, Wade thought.
“Let’s get off these grim topics,” Tom suggested. “We’re still friends, it’s just that the circumstances have changed a little.” He pulled a couple of beers from a cooler in back, a Spaten for himself and an Adams for Wade. He removed the non twist off caps with his fingers. “A toast,” he proposed, and raised his bottle. “To destiny!”
“Yeah, to destiny. Whatever you say, Tom.”
Their bottles clinked.
“Hey, Wade. You ready for an old one?”
“Sure, why not?”
“You know what they say about Liberace, don’t you? He was great on the piano, but he sucked on the organ.”
“Hilarious, Tom.”
“Aw, come on, buddy, cheer up,” Tom said, and chugged some of his Spaten. “You’ll feel different once you’re in.”
Wade drove on stoically. This whole thing was madness.
“Besser will be mighty pissed that the cops are onto me,” Tom said. “At first we had to be real careful, but I don’t think that matters now. We’ll be gone in a couple of days.”
Wade blinked. “What does Besser have to do with this?”
“He’s my supervisor. Winnie Saltenstall too. They’re called nativeemissarials. I’m just a productionvassal. And the sisters are like…project managers. We all work for the Supremate. It’s a family. And what’s best is you get to join the family too.”
Wade followed the wooded bends of the road. He still didn’t know where they were going, nor was he compelled to ask. Even if a cop passed, it wouldn’t matter. They were looking for a white Camaro, not a black one. The only vehicles to pass were periodic semi rigs, which dangerously used the Route as a shortcut to the interstate.
“Hogs of the road,” Tom remarked as one big rig blared past, blowing its horn. The truck roared by them. “Goddamn truckers think they own the Route. Be careful around these bends, man.”
“I have driven the Route before, Tom.”
“I know, just be careful. If I don’t get you to the labyrinth in good shape, my ass is grass.”
“The labyrinth? I’m not even going to ask.”
“Besser will tell you all about it. We’re going back behind the agro site, in case you’re wondering. That’s where the labyrinth is. I can show you our little graveyard back there.”
Off and on, Wade glanced over. Occasionally Tom rested back as if listening to something in his head. Probably instructions from God, Wade thought. Or Son of Sam’s dog. Tom’s hair seemed to be thinning—Wade could see a bump of some kind. Then there was always the upside down cross around his neck. Hadn’t Wade noticed Besser with an identical cross on his first day at work?
“What’s that thing around your neck?” he finally asked, and swerved through the next bend. “You in a satanic cult or something?”
Tom chuckled. “That’s a good one. Don’t worry about it.” He tossed his empty Spaten. “You ready for another?”
“Sure,” Wade said. Getting loaded seemed as good a way as any to deal with this. “Here’s an idea,” he offered. “Let’s turn around right now, check you into the hospital, and we can go to the labyrinth tomorrow. Sound good?”