Night Road

by Brendan DuBois

  He took it all in, feeling warm satisfaction that he was alive, with a woman and children who loved him and depended on him, and that he had friends and supporters throughout the county who would come here in nearly an instant to help. Outside on the deck, some women were working around the smoking barbecue grill, and coolers had been set up. From a portable boom box, Garth Brooks was singing about friends in low places. A good cover, for if anyone were curious as to the sudden appearance of motorcycles and trucks at the Crowley residence, the barbecue would answer any questions.

  He grabbed a Molson Golden Ale, waved at Zach, and cornered his brother. Cameron had a cheery look on him, which was understandable: he had come through in a big way to make it all right.

  “Cam, a moment?” Duncan asked.

  “You got it, bro.”

  They went out to the deck and went to the far corner, both of them leaning across the railing, looking out to the yard and the descending sun. With nothing said or noted, still, everyone else on the deck clustered on the other side, to give the two brothers space and time to talk.

  Duncan took a long, cold swallow of the Molson. It tasted great. He said, “What do you got?”

  “We got two guys from the Iron Steeds, armed with Chinese-made SKS assault rifles,” Cameron said. “One dead in your living room, with two apparent .32-caliber gunshot wounds to his right shoulder, and what looks to be a .45 through the center of his chest. Zach was using a .32 Browning … the .45?”

  “Karen.”

  “Well, shit, good on her.”

  “Keep that to yourself for now,” Duncan said. “Don’t think she’s in the mood to talk about it. Go on.”

  “Yeah. Second shooter found up on the slope of the hill over there. Nice tight grouping of .32 shots to his back. That Zach … never knew he was that talented back in high school, except, of course, that time he—”

  “I know, I know, the time he whipped my ass in phys ed. Got it.”

  Cameron laughed. “I love reminding you of that. So yeah, nice grouping in the back. Think of that—from what you told me, he ran out with no shoes, going after a guy carrying semiautomatic rifle, only using a pistol. Usually the guy with the bigger gun wins in a fight like this.”

  “No, not really,” Duncan said. “Usually the guy with the bigger balls wins … and Zach had brass ones.”

  “Thinking about hiring him?”

  “Oh yes, without a doubt. I mean, sure, we both had concerns, but I can’t see somebody doing undercover work for the cops gunning down two Quebec bikers and then hanging around the house, staying for a barbecue and drinks. Cam, he’s a guy we can use.”

  “You say so,” Cameron said. “So to go on … I had a few guys doing a search farther up the hill, went through the Nute family cemetery. Dell Turner found a GMC van with Quebec license plates backed in, keys in the ignition. Searched it, found a dead BlackBerry, bunch of trash from McDonald’s and such, and a nice little hidey hole in the back where we’re sure they smuggled the Chink rifles in. We powered up the BlackBerry but it’s locked out with a code.”

  The bottle was sweating moisture in Duncan’s hands. “That Francois Ouellette sure moves fast. You guessed it right.”

  “Not something to be happy about. When they had you and Karen in the house, what were they after?”

  “What do you think? The shipment coming through their territory to our territory. In two day’s time, which I just found out. They wanted the details.”

  “Gee, imagine that,” Cameron said, sarcasm in his voice, “somebody wanting details.”

  Duncan sourly recalled what Karen said, and something made him hesitate. Later, he promised himself, later.

  His brother added, “So here’s what I’m thinking. We got two days before we have to stand ready for the deal you set up. To get up to Canada and back would take a half day, at most, if we go in quick and get lucky.”

  Duncan said, “What are you talking about, Cam?”

  He turned to his younger brother, said in amazement, “I’m talking about going up to Montreal and ringing Francois Ouellette’s bell, that’s what. The fucker went right after your family. We should head up north, go to that tittie bar he has that serves as a clubhouse, and blast it to the North Pole, put his head on a pike, and come back home in time to catch the Red Sox game.”

  Duncan rubbed at the beer bottle’s label. “Your words are warming me right up, Cam, but no.”

  “No?” Cameron asked, stunned. “No? Couple of days ago you went Dark Ages on two guys who made a threat or two against your family. Today two guys come in, molest your wife, threaten you, make threats against your kids … and you’re going to leave it be?”

  Duncan said, “Need to stay focused, Cam. The shipment. Can’t afford to let that slip up. I hope you understand.”

  “Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” Cameron said, turning away, and that was it.

  Duncan reached over, grabbed his brother’s elbow. “Okay. Details. You want details?”

  Cameron seemed to struggle between pride and wanting to know what was going on, but the struggle didn’t last long. “Yeah, I want the details. This shipment. What’s in it? How much are you getting paid? What makes it so goddamn important?”

  Duncan said carefully, “I don’t know what’s coming in. I’m not getting paid a cent. But you and me, we’ve been promised a million dollars.”

  Cameron seemed taken aback. “A million … bro, what the hell’s coming across?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know. All I know is that it’s in a half-sized shipping container, originally from the St. Lawrence Seaway. It has to come across with total secrecy and security.”

  Cameron repeated. “One million dollars … can’t you guess what’s in it?”

  Duncan said, “Don’t want to.”

  In the yard there was some laughter, shouts. The party seemed to be really kicking in. “Okay,” Cameron said. “You don’t know what’s in it. But who’s behind it? Who set it up?”

  Duncan sighed. “I’ll tell you, but the decision is done. All right? Not in the mood for debate, discussion, dissent, or any other words starting with the letter ‘d.’”

  “All right, fair enough. Who came to you, and when?”

  Duncan said, “Remember a few months ago, when we were up at Lake Palmer? Looking at those expensive fishing and hunting camps for those Europeans and Middle Eastern characters, Mexican millionaires, even a couple of ex-congressmen? The ones that were still a ways from being completed?”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  “Okay. You had to go to the bathroom or something, and one of the Texan guys who owned a chunk of the development chatted me up. Talked about the history of smuggling from Canada to New Hampshire, back during Prohibition. Wanted to know if stuff still got smuggled across the border … and by the time you came back from the bathroom, we had struck a deal.”

  Cameron said slowly, “Some Texan you don’t know is paying you one million dollars to smuggle a shipping container across the border, into the States?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “Because I didn’t want you raising a fuss about this deal. I know it’s not our usual business but man, the money … we could do a lot with that money, Cam.”

  “Anything could be in there, bro. Terrorists. WMDs or something like that. Biowarfare. Weapons. Drugs. Guns. Bombs. Shit, Duncan, what kind of deal is this?”

  He finished his Molson. “A one-million-dollar deal, that’s what. Something we could use to help out our family, help out a lot of other families out there that are being ignored and forgotten.”

  “Duncan …”

  “Sorry,” he said. “That’s all for tonight.”

  twenty-six

  Eighty kilometers north of the New Hampshire border, Brewster Flagg pulled the Peterbilt tractor-t
railer into the parking lot of a stripper bar named the Golden Raspberry. It was off Route 257, east of Charlottsville, Quebec, and the lot was filled with other trucks similar to his. He let the engine idle, looking at the bright neon lights outside of the one-story wooden building. Brewster was cold. He was always cold, ever since coming to this damn frozen shithole.

  He rubbed his hands, looked through the dirty windshield. There was a craving inside of him, one that had been growing stronger every mile—or friggin’ kilometer, all right then—as he got closer to his goal. He had tried to resist, tried to fight, but here he was, about to give into temptation.

  Brewster sighed, switched the engine off. He was a true Christian patriot, but he also knew he wasn’t perfect. Even the truest and purest of patriots were not perfect. Some of them he had admired over the years had succumbed to these very same temptations, and they were much tougher men than he. So perhaps it would be all right, after all, when it would all be done.

  He stepped down from the cab, walked across the lot, hands in his thin coat, shoulders hunched up against the cold wind. For the love of God would he ever be warm, ever again? Earlier as he driven into the lot, the door to the bar had looked dark, foreboding, with its black glass. But as he got closer, it looked inviting, whispering to him that beyond the dark door, delights and temptation and pleasures awaited.

  He opened the door. Smoke and lights and music assaulted him, made him stop for a moment. Still time to turn back, to do what was right … but when he saw the sluts dancing up on the stage, he had to go in. A scrawny, bearded man with a sheepskin vest, tattoos on his arm, sitting on a bar stool, blocked his way in with a beefy arm. “Ten bucks, pal,” he murmured.

  Brewster pushed a hand into his pants, pulled out the unfamiliar and colorful bills, paid the cover charge, and then went in. He felt free, almost exhilarated, after crossing the threshhold into this den of sinful pleasures. Other times, when he was in Houston or Omaha, he would always be looking over his shoulder, to see if any other members of the Tea Party were partaking as well. But here he relaxed, knowing no one in this place knew him or knew where he had come from.

  He took a red-cushioned seat up front, where he could see the sluts more closely, and sweet Jesus, he was happy to have a round table in front of him to hide the swelling in his crotch. After a couple of minutes, a waitress strutted over, wearing high heels, fishnet stockings, a tiny black skirt that barely covered her crotch, and a low-cut white halter top that was see-through. Dangling from her swollen navel was a piece of jewelry.

  He ordered a Jack Daniels, straight, with a water chaser, and went back to watching the sluts dancing before him. There were two of them, both blond, and one had huge bouncing boobs, while the other one had firmer tits with thick nipples. They danced about the stage, swirled and rotated on poles, and twice they embraced and kissed, almost making him pop his load without even touching himself. They had on white high heel shoes and slowly stripped off their clothes, until they were down to transparent G-strings.

  Twice during their dancing, each of them came to him on the stage, on hands and knees, where they belonged. He slipped the colorful funny-looking money in their G-strings, his fingers touching their sweaty, naughty flesh.

  Oh, sweet God!

  Then the music changed, to some of that nigger music that was so popular. The dancers changed out as the naked blondes strutted off, to hoots and whistles. A thicker-set woman with red and blue hair came up, and he lost interest in her moves. He drank two more Jack Daniels—the harsh whisky burning delightfully down his gullet—and a soft touch on his shoulder made him jump.

  “May I sit with you, friend?” the woman asked, the blond dancer with the big natural tits. She had on a pink see-through robe, and all she wore underneath was the G-string from earlier. He couldn’t help staring at those incredible breasts. He had seen spectacular women before in Houston and Austin and San Antonio, but those women had been sculpted, polished, with fake boobs, lips, and butts. This slut, at least, was all natural, all real. He motioned her to a nearby chair.

  “My name is Candy,” she said. “What’s yours?”

  “Brewster,” he stammered. “That’s my name.”

  She put a hand on his thigh. “Brewster, you were a true gentleman tonight. I appreciate that. You’re so different from all the other customers here.”

  His throat was constricted, but he smiled and nodded at her. She leaned over him, her robe falling open, and she spoke in his left ear. “Would you like a private dance, Brewster? Just you and me?”

  He managed to find his voice. “That’d be great.”

  She put her long fingernailed hand on his shoulder, gently kissed his cheek. “Oh, honey, that would be wonderful. But the managers who run this joint, they demand payment up front. One hundred dollars, with a tip if you think I’ve done a good job. Is that fair?”

  “Yes, quite fair,” Brewster said. He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket, slid out five twenty-dollar bills—they had the picture of that wrinkled English bitch queen—and passed them over to her. She smiled, folded the bills, and slid them into her G-string.

  Candy stood up, grabbed his hand, and in a slight daze of excitement and lust, he walked with her, hand in hand, as she took him to the rear of the club. There were three doors, all marked Private. She unlocked the near door, led him into a small room. It had a thick cushioned chair, pillows, rugs, and a shelf with a music system. She switched on the music, started dancing. He stared, mouth watering as she writhed and danced in front of him. She tossed her robe off, and then her G-string. She straddled him, humping him, her sweat and scent overwhelming.

  “Oh, a shy one, eh?” she whispered. “Don’t be shy. Touch me, Brewster, wherever you want. I don’t mind.”

  Hands warm, he reached up, grabbed one breast, and then the other. She winced and said, “Oooh, not so hard, lover, not so hard.” She raised herself up, and he suckled on one thick salty nipple, and then the other. It seemed like the room was slowly spinning, as he felt drunker than at any time in his life.

  “Mmmm, that feels good,” she murmured. She took his right hand, brought it up a smooth thigh, to her pubic hair, as he gently probed and fingered her. His head throbbed, feeling her warm slickness. He gasped and arched his back as she worked on his crotch. She unzipped his pants, worked her hand past his underwear, and then touched his cock …

  Oh, Jesus, too fucking soon!

  Candy stroked his cock, once, twice, and he groaned as he sprayed over her probing hand. “Oh, oh, oh!” he gasped, and the dancing slowed and she murmured, and she had a cloth in her hand, which she used to wipe him. Then she put him away, like a little child who had soiled himself.

  Candy smiled. “Oh, that’s all right, honey. If you’d like, for another hundred, you can stay for a while. Perhaps you’ll be ready for another round, after you rest up.”

  Now he felt dirty, filthy, used. The room—which earlier looked exotic and sexy—now looked tired and worn. The woman, who had seemed so curvy and alluring, was older than he had thought. In the room’s light, he saw the wrinkles and scars on her skin. He pushed her off his lap, spat in her face. “Go to hell, cunt.”

  He redid his pants, got up, and went out the door. Head down, he moved quickly past the chairs and tables, not looking at the sluts dancing on the stage, no interest at all in staying here. He went outside and the cold air was hurtful, reminding him he had strayed from his true Christian path.

  Brewster made it back to his truck, then suddenly knelt on the ground, the soil cold against his knees. He stayed there, the soil and gravel cutting into his knees, praying for forgiveness.

  He slowly stood up, retrieved his keys, and climbed up in the Peterbilt cab. A couple of bikers, dressed in leather pants and jackets, looked at him, laughing, carrying cardboard coffee cups in their hands. Brewster got in and started the truck, the rumbling of the diesel engine almost comfortin
g. He looked in the side mirror, at the shipping container that was back there. It was dull green, though once upon a time he knew, it had been bright yellow, with Mextel Lines painted in red and blue.

  According to his cousin, what was in this shipping container would make the destruction those ragheads did more than a decade ago seem like child’s play. Brewster was sure he knew what was going to happen on that blessed April 19th. What was back there would do its damage, enough damage so that internment camps would be set up, illegals would be deported, shitheads impeached and removed from office, and real hope and change would finally come.

  He shifted the truck into first and went back out on the highway, heading to his destiny.

  twenty-seven

  Zach Morrow was working on an ice-cold Coca Cola, talking to a bleached blond woman in tight jeans and with a low-cut yellow top showing off an impressive amount of cleavage, said cleavage covered with tattoos of roses and unicorns. Her name was Tiffany and she was describing how she had bagged her first moose last year. The living room was filled with partiers, people talking and eating barbecue, but there were no loud voices, the music wasn’t cranked up to make the framed photos shake, and the trash was carefully deposited in plastic cans set up around the living room and kitchen. It was a party, but it was also a party where employees or those in some sort of debt to Duncan Crowley were in attendance, having fun but being careful not to step over any boundaries.

  The tattooed woman went on. “Joey, my boyfriend then, we went up to Aaron’s Swamp, that’s where the moose love to tromp through and feed on the plants. I got there and I had to make the shot, ’cause I was the winner of the state lottery that gives you license to shoot a moose. But Joey brought along his .308 bolt action, weighed a fucking ton. I tried to pick it up and even with the scope, it was hard to make the shot, wavering all around. Joey had a good thought—pretty damn rare, I know—so he pulled out earplugs he uses at the sawmill, sticks them in to protect his hearing. I hold the rifle, balance it on his shoulder, moose was still there, chewing, and bang, one shot and I dropped him. But what a Christly job to drag him out and get him butchered. Goddamn thing weighed almost a ton.”