“You can sit up now,” she said, a slack smile on her lips.
“How did the Lone Ranger get free?” I asked, stowing the rifle in front of the backseat.
“Search me. I left not long after you.”
I looked at her. “So you’re in the shit, as well.”
Mary Upson shrugged. “Never did like that scumbag Condon. He came on to me once in the bar and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
I reckoned that was a pretty weak reason for helping a wanted man, but I didn’t have any alternative means of escape right now.
“What does it say in those papers he had?”
I told her about the murder in Washington.
Mary glanced at me quizzically. “When did it happen? Yesterday night? You get the early morning flight up here?”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t in Washington yesterday.”
“That’s a relief,” she said, grinning. “I’d hate to think I was on the road with a killer.”
I looked at her. “Why are you helping me, Mary?”
She met my gaze briefly. “Because you helped me.”
“Simple as that?”
“Sure. What you did wasn’t a small thing, Matt. Those Texan shitheads would have raped me, might have killed me. You saw the knife.”
I nodded. “Which is why we went to the state troopers.”
She shot me another glance. “Which is why I went to the troopers. Why did you go? And don’t say you-”
“Shit,” I interrupted. “The Texans are still tied up.”
“Like I give a flying fuck. Do you?”
For some reason, I did. Then I thought of all I had been through in the forest and let that concern go.
“You can let me out anywhere you like,” I said. “You can tell the trooper I threatened you.”
She laughed. “Yeah, he’ll buy that. I left the station on my own and I picked you up on my own. What kind of threat are you supposed to have made? Bring your car or I’ll shoot up the bar?”
I glanced at the pines lining the highway. “That would do. It rhymes, too.” I gave her a serious look. “Come on, Mary. Go back while you still can.”
“Ah, screw it,” she said with a wild laugh. “I could do with a vacation.” Then her expression got more serious. “Besides,” she said, catching my eye. “You’re no killer. You could have hurt those Texans much worse than you did. You could have shot Stu Condon, too. Plus, you wouldn’t have come with me to the station if you were on the run.” She laughed again, this time more softly. “Looks like I’ve got myself a genuine lost cause. Want to tell me what’s going on?”
I considered that and decided that, given the risk she was taking with her liberty, she deserved some kind of an explanation. Then again, what good would it do? In addition to the people from the camp, I had the FBI after me. I should surrender myself to the representatives of federal law, but no way was I going to do that. Someone was framing me and I intended to find out who. Then a thought struck me. What if my memory was playing games with me and I really had killed those people in Washington? What if I was a killer with no awareness of my actions?
Eventually I concentrated on telling Mary Upson my story, basically just the part about the cabin. I was still confused about the camp and was hoping I’d remember more details soon, so I avoided that subject. I also avoided mentioning my limited recall of my past, and that glimpses of memory came and went.
“What is that uniform, anyway?” Mary Upson asked.
I had been watching her face surreptitiously. So far there had been no indication that she was playing a part. Ever since she’d picked me up, I’d been wondering about her motivation. Could the people who ran the camp have people working for them as far away as Sparta? Could she be one of the bastards?
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Have you ever heard of the North American National Revival?” She was still wearing the jacket I’d given her. I touched her shoulder.
She shook her head. “What is that? Some kind of militia?”
“They’re certainly keen on bearing arms.”
Mary Upson glanced in the mirror and then took a right turn. Almost immediately we were deep in woodland.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my hand immediately on the grip of my pistol.
“Time for a change of vehicle.”
We came into a clearing, the moon shining through thin clouds. I could see a low building in the headlights. Mary pulled up in front of the house and opened her door. “Coming?” she said.
I got out, holding the pistol against my thigh.
Then a figure holding a shotgun appeared at the side of the house to my right. The weapon was at the person’s shoulder before I could do anything with mine.
Twenty
“You really sure you wanna go through with this, Iowa?”
Richard Bonhoff stared at Gordy Lister, and then nodded. They were in the pickup, outside a dilapidated warehouse in southeast Washington. The newspaperman had made several phone calls, saying it was better if Richard didn’t listen in. The upshot was that he’d managed to locate the twins-or so he said.
“This isn’t far from where that Loki singer was murdered, is it?” Richard said.
“True enough,” Lister said. “We’re about a mile away.” He nudged Richard. “Hey, did you read about that in the Star Reporter? We did a big story.”
Richard glowered at him. “I never read that rag,” he said, deciding not to admit that he’d seen the story there.
“It was good enough for your kids, Iowa,” Lister replied, grinning.
“Yeah, that’s where their problems started. What exactly are we doing here?”
“You want to see the twins, don’t you? Hold on. They’ll be out soon.”
“They in there?” Richard peered at the building. “Why can’t we go in?”
“Because it isn’t safe.”
“How come you know where they are?” All Richard’s various suspicions of Gordy Lister surfaced at once. He grabbed the smaller man by the throat. “Are you using them? Are you making money off them?”
Lister struggled free and gave Richard a scandalized look. “Of course not. I used my contacts to find them, that’s all.”
The farmer wasn’t convinced, but he had no other leads.
“Here we go.” Lister pointed and they watched as a door opened wide. A head appeared, scanning the vicinity. The pickup was scrutinized.
“Whatever you do, don’t get out, Iowa. They won’t talk to you-I guarantee it.”
Richard’s heart was thundering. He watched as young people came out of the warehouse. Most were black, dressed in the uniform of the street-basketball shoes, loose jeans hung low, oversize T-shirts. But the clothes were torn and dirty, and the kids didn’t look healthy.
“Who are these people?”
Lister raised a hand. “Wait,” he hissed.
And then Richard saw them. He strained forward as Randy came out. Gwen was right behind him. They both looked terrible, their faces drawn and their hair, longer than when he’d last seen them, lank and tangled.
“What’s happened to them?” he said desperately.
Gordy Lister snorted. “What do you fucking think has happened to them, Iowa? They’re junkies.”
Richard grabbed the door handle and got out. He started to run toward the twins, shouting their names. They looked around, their eyes wide. As he got closer, it was the eyes that got to him most-the pupils were yellowed and bloodshot, the overall effect as icy and empty as the sky in winter.
“Gwen! Randy!” he called. “Let me talk to you.”
But the twins looked away, linking hands. Richard saw that their arms were bruised and pockmarked. Then he doubled up as one of the black youths drove a fist into his midriff.
“Get away, old man!” the boy screeched. “Ain’t no place for daddies here.”
Richard raised his head and saw the twins walking away. He screamed their names again, and then took a heavy punch to the side of his head. He keeled over and the kicking started. He tried to shout, but soon he couldn’t raise a sound. He could only mouth his children’s names as a final blow to the head sent him lurching into the dark.