“How many guys do you want?”
“It’s a zap squad, so two should be enough. They can slide in and out of the small town where that shithead lives without any problem. More guys than that, they can get in the way, get noticed. You remember that, Michael, or do I have to write a memo?”
Michael got up from the chair, his face red, like he didn’t care for being put down like that. “I got it, boss.”
“Good. But make sure you send the right guys. Smart enough to do the job, but not too smart and valuable so that if they get caught or get blown away, we take another hit to the organization. Losing Andre and Pierre … that’s gonna hurt.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t go at it again,” Michael quietly offered. “Just ignore the whole damn thing. Sounds like it could be a wild goose chase, not worth the effort.”
Francois was taken aback by Michael’s words. “Did you just say that? Say we should ignore it? ’Cause I don’t believe an Iron Steeds member just suggested to me that we should roll over and give it up.”
“No,” he replied. “I’m just saying, we should think this through, after losing two guys, that—”
“Michael, I want more advice from you, I’ll fucking ask for it. Okay?”
His voice sullen, Michael said, “Understood, boss,” and went out the door.
Francois rubbed at the back of his head, wondering how he would approach Andre’s mother, when there was a soft knock on the door. It opened up and his talent manager, Brenda Aube, came in. She had on tight blue shorts that looked like they were painted on and a halter top that barely held in her impressive and natural rack. Her black hair hung down nice and long and she strolled over and said, “Talent review for the new girls, if you’re interested.”
“Always interested,” he said. “What do you have for me?”
She whistled and a young girl came in, shy-looking, wearing a plaid skirt, white knee socks, and a light yellow turtleneck sweater. She had on black-rimmed glasses and her blond hair was done back in a ponytail. Brenda patted her on her head and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Francois crooked a finger and she came over. He pushed himself away from his desk. “What’s your name, sweet one?”
“Megs,” she said, her voice barely audible above the thumping from the music just below them.
“Closer, if you please.”
She came over and he looked her up and down, and thought Brenda really needed a raise. He motioned with his right hand and without a word, she sank to her knees. One of the knee socks fell and he spotted a light bruise on the other knee.
Francois stroked her fine blond hair. “Where do you come from, sweetie?”
“Aumond. A small town. Hundreds of klicks away.”
“Are you a runaway?” He felt her head nod yes against his touch. He said, “Do your parents know where you are?”
“No, they don’t.”
He lowered his hand, lifted up her chin so he could look at those eyes and the smooth complexion. “Megs, darling, do tell me, how old are you?”
“I’m … I’m eighteen,” she said bravely.
“Megs …”
“Seventeen.”
He gently pinched her lower lip.
“I’m … I’m just fifteen,” she whispered.
Francois smiled and unzipped his pants as he pushed her head down. “Oh, yeah, that’s what I love to hear.”
seven
At the Trois Rivieres truck stop on Route 112 in southern Quebec, outside of Sherbrooke, Brewster Flagg got off a Trailways bus, small leather bag in hand, shivering with cold as he stood in the paved parking area. Row upon row of idling tractor-trailer trucks stood still, diesel exhaust burbling up in the air. He had been at plenty of similar stops back in Georgia, Alabama, and Texas during the day, but damn, it was so freakin’ cold up here. He started trudging towards the nearest row of trucks. He was hungry and needed to use a bathroom, but first above all, he had to find the right truck. It had been a long journey from Georgia to Indiana to Detroit, and then from Detroit to Windsor in Ontario, riding one dirty and smelly bus after another. The long hours on the road, dozing in the uncomfortable seats, finally coming to this place that fed the truckers and fueled the trucks that kept this socialist economy bumbling along.
Brewster couldn’t help it. He yawned. A very long series of days, only made worthwhile because he knew in the deepest part of his heart that he was on a vital mission. For the past few years, ever since that Kenyan got into the White House and Brewster had lost his trucking job in Texas—thanks to NAFTA and letting those wetback truckers come in and steal bread from his mouth and the mouths of so many others—he had fought the socialists and traitors that had taken his country away. At first he had joined the Tea Party and had gone to rallies and had heckled the occasional thick Congressman who had the stones to appear at an open house, but what had that accomplished? True answer: not a hell of a lot. Sure, the Republicans had done better in defeating Democrats, but as he later found out talking with some of his Tea Party buds, they had merely exchanged one group of paid-off clowns with another group of paid-off clowns. And both sets of clowns were under the thumbs of those who had money, who had connections, who thought everything except D.C. and L.A. was flyover country. If you were in D.C. or L.A. or New York, you got the bailouts and the aid. If you were anywhere else, well, you got screwed, day after day, week after week.
So he had decided to go the direct action route, and had gone dark for a while, popping up here and there to rob a couple of banks, fire some rounds into the windows of abortion clinics, and firebomb three Congressional home district offices across the South. It had felt good, actually doing shit instead of talking about it, but after a border protection tour in Arizona ended up a bloody mess, he had gotten drummed out of his local Tea Party chapter.
Pussies.
Brewster stopped. Almost out of breath. There it was—a light green Peterbilt tractor-trailer truck, with a half-sized shipping container that had been freshly repainted. Brewster went to the near rear tire, lifted his hand up on the tread, felt a set of keys there, pulled them down. He juggled them for a moment in his hand. Enjoyed the sensation. It had been a long time since had driven a truck, back when he worked for his cousin Troy Flagg at Long Line Trucking, outside of Irving. Then the place went under and unemployment ran out, and he had been at loose ends ever since, until …
Until that unexpected phone call a couple of weeks ago from Troy, wanting to know if he’d be up for a little driving. A little driving that might be dangerous. A little driving that might end up doing a world of good.
At first he had been reluctant, until Troy had told him where he was calling from: Waco, Texas. He had gone there as a pilgrimage to where nearly a hundred folks had been incinerated by the government, the government that was supposedly there to protect them. And Troy had reminded Brewster what date was coming up: April 19th, a day with a lot of meaning among the right people.
He opened the cab door, pulled himself in, and tossed his leather bag to one side. Within a few moments, the Peterbilt diesel engine roared into life. Brewster was no longer hungry, tired, or thirsty.
He didn’t even have to take a piss. He thought of April 19th, the day the first shots were fired at Concord and Lexington. The same day that the Branch Davidian compound was destroyed in Waco. The same day that the federal building in Oklahoma City was bombed.
April 19th was just a few days away, and what was in that trailer back there would overwhelm the memories of those previous dates.
“McVeigh was a fag,” he muttered, as he maneuvered out of the parking lot.
eight
At the Breakfast Nook restaurant in Crowdin, an even smaller town north of Turner, Duncan Crowley sat in a rear booth with his brother, waiting for his meal. The place was half full, and Duncan took a sip of his orange juice. Cameron had on a plain dungare
e jacket and his ponytail was freshly washed and pulled back.
Cameron said, “Clean-up went well. Went in there after Dickie and his nephew left, place was tight, was damn virginal.”
“Glad to hear it,” Duncan said. “Just so you know, I got a call about an hour ago from Francois Ouellette, wondering where his nephew was. I played innocent and charming, and he wished me well, and that was it.”
Cameron raised an eyebrow. “Sounds good.”
“Hell it does,” Duncan said. “He should have been screaming at me, should have been threatening to kneecap me, but he was cordial and smooth. That means he’s already decided to come at us with everything he’s got.”
“Christ,” Cameron said. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking I’m hungry, that’s what,” Duncan said.
A couple of minutes later, a young waitress with flowers tattooed on her wrists dropped off their order: coffee and a blueberry muffin for Cameron, and three pancakes and six sausage links for Duncan. His brother widened his eyes. “You better hope Karen doesn’t find out what you’re hoovering there, bro.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said, eagerly digging in.
When their second cups of coffee arrived, Duncan said, “What’s the schedule for today?”
Cameron said, “We’ve got a meet with Chuckie Pelletier, and then you have a quick lunch with Karen. Then I want to check the set-up at that development I was telling you about, and later, a post office stop, pick up a new lens for my Meade. Not that I don’t trust Lucy Lubrano when it comes to delivering my mail, but sometimes she can’t reach high enough to get to the mailbox, drops it on the driveway.”
“Sounds good,” Duncan said. “I also might want to do a bit of wandering.”
Cameron grinned. “Already figured it in. Anything else?”
Duncan said, “Later tonight, I want to pay an unannounced visit to Gus Spooner. You know the kid?”
His brother said, “Gas jockey over in Barnard, at your Route 3 convenience store. Not too bright but gets the job done. What’s going on?”
“Ever get into trouble you know of?”
Cameron said, “Stupid kid got banned from the town dump in Turner.”
“Banned? Really? What did he do, mix in recyclables with the regular trash?”
Cameron smiled wider. “Get this. He got banned ’cause of what he was doing at the dump store. You know the place. People drop off furniture, old TVs, clothes, books, dishes. Even though they call it a store, it’s all free.”
Duncan said, “I remember reading something in the Turner Transcript last year. Bit of a scandal. People were hanging around the town dump all day, picking off the best stuff, and then selling it from their houses a week or two later, at a yard sale. Is that what he was up to?”
“Some scandal. This is better. Seems like Gus Spooner liked hanging around the dump store. Most folks—instead of the yard-sale pickers—they either drop off stuff or poke around after tossing out their weekly trash. But Gus hung out there, hour after hour, day after day, and then some of the moms got creeped out. You see, the moms, they got a sort of unofficial trading club going on. Moms bring in clothes their kids can’t wear, and they trade with other moms. Good way to get used clothing from families you know.”
Duncan said, “Got a feeling where this is going.”
“Yeah, to pervland, that’s where this is going. Gus liked to do his part to recycle clothing as well, but he was picking out panties. And not grandma’s cotton panties. Used little girl panties, the kind with flowers on ’em and pictures of Hello Kitty. So even though taking discarded little girl panties ain’t against the law, near as I know, he was politely told by Chief Reynolds to stay the fuck away from the town dump.” Cameron took a sip from his coffee cup. “So, what’s the deal, then? Gus bugging somebody you know? He stealing fresh panties or something?”
“No,” Duncan said. “I got word he’s branching out. Seems there was a mistaken delivery of some cold medicine to our Route 3 store, and instead of returning it, ol’ Gus has decided to use his home ec skills to cook up a bunch of crystal meth.”
Cameron wasn’t smiling any more. “You know where the stupid shit has set up shop?”
“Yeah,” Duncan said. “Hunting camp up on Town Road Twelve.”
“What time?”
“Tonight, after dinner. Seems to make sense.”
Cameron said, “How did you find out?”
“Got told, that’s all,” he said.
Cameron wiped his hands on a brown paper napkin, then took out a fresh napkin and repeated the cleaning. “So, the person dropping a dime on Gus Spooner, the same person who told you about the shipping container from Mextel Lines? The same container I know shit about, including what’s in it, and when it’s coming across?”
Their waitress wandered by, put the check on the table. The bill was fourteen dollars and twelve cents. Duncan took out his wallet, removed a twenty, dropped it on the bill.
“Cameron,” he said, stepping out from the booth. “I’ve had such high hopes for the day. Don’t start, all right?”
Cameron said, “Whatever you say, bro. Whatever you say.”
They were in Cameron’s Honda Pilot, heading up Route 115, and then taking a right onto Post Road. The road was bumpy and cracked. Melting mounds of snow mixed in with dirt were on either side of the country lane. An old stone wall from a long-ago farm was on the left for a couple of miles, before the trees cleared away. Duncan sensed his brother’s anger but kept his own thoughts to himself. There were plenty of other things to think through.
“Here we go,” Cameron said, as they turned right onto a dirt driveway. Up ahead was an old farmhouse, at least a hundred years old, with a wide front porch and narrow clapboards. Two dogs, a German Shepherd and a yellow Labrador Retriever, came out, barking at them. The driveway ended in a wide bare spot. A light red Toyota pickup truck and a blue Ford Explorer with taped-up plastic covering the rear window were parked under a pine tree. A two-story barn was attached to the house by a low building whose shingles were nearly gone, and another newer barn was about a hundred yards away. Parts of the muddy and grassy yard were fenced in, with three horses and two cows slowly moving about.
The door to the house opened up and a large man ambled out, wearing dungaree overalls, muddy boots, and a fleece coat, unzipped. He came closer, with a thick moustache and a two-day old growth of beard. He was wearing a Paris Farmer’s Union cap, and from inside his overalls, he took out a pistol with a long barrel.
“Cameron.”
“Yeah.”
“Looks like Chuckie Pelletier is coming at us with a pistol.”
“You see that, too, hunh?”
“Heck of a reception.”
His brother snorted, opened the door. “Don’t worry about Chuckie, bro. I got it covered.”
Cameron joined his brother and Chuckie Pelletier grinned, popped the magazine from the base of the pistol, checked it, and popped it back in. Duncan saw it was a Ruger semiautomatic .22. Chuckie said, “Hey, guys, glad to see you. Came just in time for a bit o’ housekeeping. Come this way, if you don’t mind.”
Duncan slipped his hands into his coat as they walked around the farmhouse and to the rear of the yard. A smaller fenced-in area was there, being watched over by two young girls, both with long brown hair, pale faces, and hands pushed hard into soiled red down jackets. Being observed was a huge pig, snuffling around. A ways beyond, in a dry part of a pasture, an older man dressed in green work chinos and work boots sat on a green John Deere tractor, engine idling, a bucket loader up forward.
Chuckie said, “Rear barn is up there, do what you gotta do. Hold on, this won’t take but a sec.”
The large man went up to the fence, patted both girls on the shoulders. The younger one looked like she had been crying, but her older sister was fascinat
ed at what was going on. She passed over something to her father. Chuckie took the Ruger pistol out, worked the action, and with his other hand, held out a little bag of grain over the fence line. He made a cluck cluck sound and the large pig snuffled over. Chuckie held up the little bag. The pig raised her head and Chuckie fired a shot into her forehead, making Duncan flinch. A sharp squeal and the pig collapsed on its side.
The John Deere tractor roared into action and rolled over. The two girls opened a gate into the fenced-in area. From the tractor’s bucket the girls retrieved lengths of chain and wrapped them around the rear legs of the dead pig. With a whine the bucket loader came up, the pig swinging free.
Chuckie said, “That there’s m’dad. He’s gonna help the girls butcher poor old Pearl.”
Duncan said, “Your younger girl doesn’t look very happy.”
“Can’t rightly blame her, now, ’cause she grew Pearl as a project in 4-H. Got right attached to Pearl, hates to see her turn into bacon and chops.”
Cameron said, “She looks like she’s gotten over it.”
Chuckie put the Ruger on safe and put it back into his overalls. “Yeah, well, when I told her I was gonna take the meat to Randy’s Butcher Shop in town and that she’d get twenty dollars for her share, she brightened right up.”
The tractor moved a few yards, positioned the dangling body of Pearl over a large galvanized tub, and Chuckie’s dad got off the John Deere tractor, went to a toolbox.
“Only one right way to butcher and clean a pig, and m’dad knows it, in and out,” Chuckie said, thumbs under his overall straps. “Not like my neighbors, up over the ridge. The Thorntons.”
Night Road Page 7
