“We have?”
“Yeah, back at that lodge where the Bureau guys set up camp; it was like just a handshake.”
I readjusted the Sharps and lowered the Colt. “Sorry, Brian, that seems like a million years ago. I’m going to get my pack. Stay here.”
He nodded his head and squinted his eyes through the irony and cigar smoke as he rattled the handcuffs. “Very funny.”
I holstered the Colt, made the round-trip to the tree line, and returned with the pack. I removed my gun-hand glove, tucked it in my inside pocket, and then pulled the Colt out again and stuffed the semiautomatic into the side of my coat.
I opened the door and tossed the pack onto the floor of the Thiokol. Heathman had pulled the blanket up around his neck. I climbed in and shut the door behind me, careful to leave it unlatched, as he reached overhead and turned on the dome light.
“You’re going to run down the battery on this thing.”
Still rocking, he removed the cigar from his mouth and shook his head. “The transmission is like shot; it’s a lawn ornament. Hey, you don’t have anything to eat, do you?”
I pulled the pack up, unzipping and rooting through the detachable top. I found the aged bag of Funyuns and held it up.
He tucked the cigar into the corner of his mouth and took the bag. “Oh man, these have the cutout. Frito-Lay hasn’t used those since like ’05.”
“Cutout?”
He held it up for my inspection. “The little window where you can see the product; they’ve all got solid bags with a photograph now.” He turned the bag to look at it. “Who knows how old these things are.”
I glanced into the pack, aware that I had a few sandwiches further down, but I wasn’t giving those up just yet. “I’ve got some very old Mallo Cups, and some beef jerky that appears to have hardened into iron ore.”
He transferred the cigar into his attached hand and ripped open the vintage chips with his teeth. “Anything to drink?”
Pulling one of the water bottles from the side of the pack, I placed it on the bench at his covered feet and took another for myself. I unscrewed the top, resting it on the seat beside me, and took a swig. No need for ice. “Didn’t they leave you anything?”
I took a little time to study him-he looked rather incongruous with the cigar in his cuffed hand. He was a little heavy, which might’ve explained why Raynaud Shade had left him behind. Maybe.
“No.”
“What did they expect you to do?”
Reaching in and pulling a few of the ringlets from the bag and examining them for bugs, he seemed satisfied and popped two in his mouth. “He said you’d be along.”
I took another swig from my water bottle. “He did, did he? ”
“Yeah.”
“He didn’t think that Fingers Moser would finish me off?”
“Hell no. That guy was a nutcase, and Shade like wanted to be rid of him in the worst way.”
I leaned back against the interior side of the Thiokol and could feel the cold emanating from outside. “How’s the other hostage?”
“The FBI agent? She’s fine; a little roughed up, but she was okay when they left.”
“And you have no idea where they went?”
“Nope.” He rested the bag in his lap, plucked the cigar from his opposite hand, and stuffed it back in his mouth. Then he wiped his fingers on the blanket, bunching it so that his hand was underneath the fabric.
“Hey, Junk-food Junkie.”
The tone of my voice and the use of his nickname gave him pause.
“Let’s say for conversation’s sake that you’ve got a Sig 9mm under that blanket, and that I’ve got a Colt. 45 in my right pocket aimed at your guts, and my finger on the trigger; we would continue to have this nice conversation without any rude interruptions, now wouldn’t we?”
Freddie “Junk-food Junkie” Borland blinked, but that was all he did.
“Now, I don’t know if your hand is already on that Sig, or that it’s aimed, or the safety is off-but I am ready to pull the trigger on you right now.” In the dim light, I could see his eyes widen just a bit and the glow at the end of the cigar flare a little brighter with his intake of breath. “Something else for you to think about is what’s going to happen afterward. You might shoot me and kill me, but I most certainly will get you-center shot, right in the guts.”
I tapped my boot against the door, and his eyes shifted to the noise. “The other thing I’ll make sure I do is kick this door open so that just in case the cold doesn’t get you, whatever carnivores might be out there roaming around looking for a little Bighorn buffet will smell the blood. I’ve had a cougar following me for the last few miles, and I’m pretty sure there’s a good-sized grizzly out there, too-and brother, when those professionals come in here they are not going to concern themselves with which meat is alive and which meat is dead.”
The last part was mostly horseshit, but I didn’t figure his Phoenix-born ass would know the difference any more than Hector’s Texas one did-besides, the abstraction of a bullet was one thing, but being eaten alive was something else.
“I figure that putting you in the Ameri-Trans driver’s uniform was Shade’s idea, but after seeing how the other flanking efforts had fared, especially with your buddy Calvin back there, you took exception. That’s when he cuffed you to the grating and left you here with a pistol that’s only got one bullet.” I shifted my weight forward. “What were you going to do after you shot me, hope that you could fish the cuff keys out of my belt?”
He still didn’t move, but the end of the cigar flared again.
“Well, I’ll make sure I fall out the back. Then you can sit here eating Funyuns and fattening up for what happens next.”
He finally swallowed and shifted; the semiautomatic pistol clattered onto the metal floor between us.
10
“Only a professional criminal would neglect to ask an officer to uncuff him, but the dead giveaway was the Funyuns. Who but the Junk-food Junkie would know that the cutout window in a bag of chips was replaced in 2005?”
He nodded and rubbed his wrist, trying to work the blood back into the white and stiffened hand now cuffed to the other in his lap with those cuffs attached with my own to the bench seat.
“Fuck.”
“Yep, it never pays to have a nom du criminal.”
Along with the 9mm, he’d had one of the next-generation satellite phones, which I activated. The battery was fully charged and should be plenty good enough for my purposes; within thirty-six hours I intended to be sipping an Irish coffee somewhere warm. “Were you supposed to call him when you were done with me?”
“Yeah.”
I stared at the phone and then tossed it onto his lap. “Call him.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
“Call him; tell him I’m dead and that you’ve uncuffed yourself and need to know what to do next.”
He looked at the phone but made no move to try to dial. “We’re supposed to like meet somebody.”
I plucked a Funyun from the bag beside him and ate it; it wasn’t the usual and tasted like onion-flavored insulation, but it would have to do. “I’m aware of that, but I want to know who and where.”
He sat there. “I can’t lie to him.”
“What, you’ve suddenly developed scruples?”
He picked up the phone and held it out. “He’ll like kill me; after he kills you he’ll come back here and kill me.”
“So, they are coming back this way?”
“No, but he’ll make an extra effort after I lie to him and he kills you. Hey look, I don’t know who we’re meeting or where. Shit, man… I don’t know where the hell I am right now.”
Still holding the 9mm, I sat on the opposite bench and looked at him. “Call him, or when I go I’ll leave the door back here open and let nature take its course.” He still didn’t move. “Survival of the fittest.”
He looked like he might cry but thumbed the CALL button and bent down so that he could hold it to his ear. After a moment, he spoke into the receiver. “He’s dead.”
There was a pause.