by Peter Idone
By the front end on the passenger side, a small, cherry-red LED cycled on and off intermittently. There was a black box two and a half inches wide by eight inches long. Two fine wires were attached to a small packet of opaque plastic or nylon. This was the battery source. The entire unit was fitted on a magnetic sled that adhered to the metal of the chassis. Logan no longer felt foolish or paranoid now; this was serious business. He didn’t know exactly what to do: disable the GPS tracker and toss it, or better yet, stick it on some tractor trailer headed out of state? Call the ACLU and make a complaint? No, none of the above. If Turner was so interested in his movements, he would soon find out just how clean he was keeping his nose. It was over between him and Glass, so he had no reason to go over there. I’m just going to go about my normal life, and whoever has me under the microscope is going to get plenty bored with my rat runs. They had better collect this thing after the battery winds down or else he would chuck it, he thought. They had no legal right. Not that it mattered for the likes of him. He just wasn’t that important in the greater scheme of things.
Logan got up off the ground, cold, tired, and aching, and left the truck where it was. He went back into the house and to bed, sleeping for nearly twelve hours straight.
23
Around eleven o’clock the next morning, Logan drove down to the fuel depot. The expected one to two inches of snow hadn’t occurred overnight, but the feeling that it was on the verge was definitely real. The sky was the color of lead and the temperature hovered around twenty-eight to thirty degrees.
Frenchy was seated at the computer in his little cubicle behind the counter, making entries from a stack of paperwork. He looked up over the rim of his eyeglasses. “What can I do for you?” The usual crowd of locals wasn’t there, and neither was a beer keg that would spark their interest.
“No beer today?”
“The boy has gone to try and secure some. Guinness, maybe. Can you imagine?”
“Guinness. That’s rare. Must cost you dear.”
“I have my sources. I haven’t decided if I’m going to serve the public or keep it all to myself.”
“You should.”
“Like I said, I haven’t made up my mind. What do you need, gas? ‘Cause I don’t think you’ve come around to party with the locals.”
“No, I haven’t. Actually I’m looking for someone. Do you remember a few weeks back I was here getting some gas and the Tacticals showed up and picked up this guy, his name is Creech. He works over at Pine Haven. Remember?”
“I might. So?”
“There was a young woman here, as well. Young. Black hair. Her name is Natalie. She said she buys gas from you pretty regularly. At least that’s what she told me.”
“So what? How is this any of your concern?”
“I was wondering if you had seen them around, Natalie especially, within the past couple of days. This guy Creech might be with her.”
“I have no business with the people you’re talking about. What’s your interest and how does it pertain to me?”
“I’m following a hunch, that’s all.”
“You’re following a hunch. What are you, some kind of private fucking detective?” Dismissively, Frenchy turned to the work at his desk. “You still here?” he said after a moment.
“There’s no ulterior motive attached on my part. The woman has been missing and there’s concern for her safety at home. She’s in no legal trouble. Nobody is. There’s been a big misunderstanding. If you happen to see her, just tell her that. Have her get in touch with me and I can lay it all out for her. She has to know she’s in no trouble. There’s nothing that can’t be forgiven or overlooked. It’s nothing that can’t be ironed out.”
“Is that a fact? Well, if you’re talking about the same folks I think you are, it doesn’t look as if all is forgiven with your friends. I’d wager their trouble is just getting started.”
“And how do you figure?”
“There have been Tactical patrols making sweeps of the area over the past couple of days, looking for them. Essex cops have searched my property twice already, and they even tried to toss my office. They checked the basement and the attic. I’m going to get me another badger and chain it up outside. I don’t know what your friends did, and I don’t care. I got plenty of worries of my own, and I don’t need to get involved in other people’s trouble. It’s not how I operate. Now, with all that being said, on the off chance they might drop by, I’ll be sure to relay your concern. But something tells me that it’s highly unlikely. You get my drift?”
Logan thanked Frenchy politely for his time. He couldn’t get a sense if the smuggler knew that Logan had his suspicions or was simply concerned about the welfare of a friend. Frenchy was, basically, a criminal. He was astute, aware of his surroundings and the people who inhabited them. Durant had managed to avoid trouble because he was so keenly, instinctively aware. He had an uncanny knack of not feigning ignorance or surprise when talking. He remained typically flat, almost calm except for that little hint of annoyance, with no more emotion than one would invest in talking about the weather.
On the drive back home, Logan could only wonder if he was making inquiries about Natalie and Creech solely for his benefit, that some bit of information or suspicion could be passed along to Turner and thus improve his own situation. Actually, he was a little surprised to realize he had a genuine concern for Natalie’s safety. Maybe she was ignorant of Glass’s duplicity, or in denial of it. He wished things had worked out better between them, that Natalie had been genuinely interested in him for who he was. “Hell,” he said aloud, “I’d be her sex object for the rest of the winter,” and laughed. There wasn’t much he could do about any of it now. Natalie was on her own and he wasn’t about to do any more legwork for Turner. The colonel had an entire apparatus at his disposal. Let him find Creech on his own.
***
A little after four p.m. that afternoon, there was a knock at the back door. Logan was lying on the couch taking a nap.
He had spent the past couple of hours getting the plow ready to hook onto the pickup. The blade, hydraulics, frame, and control motor remained covered with heavy tarpaulins in the garage. He had removed the light and signal bars and the blade markers to give it a lower profile as it lay dormant so the covered bulk did not attract attention from anyone driving by or passing on foot down the street. He had placed two worn and dented metal trash cans right in front to help obscure it even more. After removing the tarps, he’d dusted off the old cobwebs and dead spiders that had made a home for themselves over the intervening months. He hadn’t used the plow once last winter because the weather was particularly mild. When it had snowed, it had been a mere dusting or a light snow that turned to slush and melted rapidly. This winter was shaping up to be quite the opposite; from a commercial standpoint, he hoped it would. After draining and then adding new hydraulic fluid to the reservoir, he went down to the basement where he stored the light bar, blade markers, and the flex stand-mounted handheld control, plus some wiring. He ferried these and a small toolkit out to the garage. It was cold; the outdoor thermometer pointed to twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. He would have to remove his gloves every so often to better manipulate the ratchet when fitting the bolts, screws, washers, and nuts as he mounted the light bar onto the frame. He double-checked the cotter pins, bolts, and chain on the frame; and uncapped the covers of the connectors on the wiring harness, applying dielectric grease when needed; and plugged the main power feed and auxiliary wiring into the connectors. Inside the cab he plugged the handheld controller and flex stand into the connector box bolted to the dash. All he had left to do was drive the truck into the garage and slowly dock the forks mounted on the undercarriage into the self-aligning receiver slots on the plow frame. He got out of the truck, plugged the electrical connectors to the truck’s main wiring harness, and climbed back in. The plow was equipped with an antitheft security system activated by pressing several buttons in sequence on the handheld contro
ls—in this case, buttons one and three, the tilt and left-angle buttons, and button number four. He could now operate the plow. He raised, then lowered it, and raised it again a number of inches so he could back out of the dilapidated garage without any undue drag. Once out in the wider space of the driveway, he angled the blade left and right; raised, lowered and tilted it; and finally activated the plow’s small but bright halogen lights and turn signals. Backing farther down the drive, almost to the street, he then drove forward, making sure the skid shoes were at the proper height as the blade skimmed over the uneven surface. There wasn’t much snow on the ground, and he would have to wait to try out the system to make sure all the parts moved fluidly, but he felt confident that they would. He had been doing this chore for years, ever since he had learned to drive. This last plow he had purchased half with his father over five years ago, a top-of-the-line model. It had already paid for itself with the number of jobs they had done over the years.
The cold had made Logan fatigued, and once inside, he ate a snack and lay down on the couch, where he fell asleep. The incessant knocking at the back porch door roused him.
Logan got up off the couch, looked out the kitchen window, and saw a big red tow truck parked in the driveway. To his utter surprise, David Durant was at the back door. Logan was too shocked to offer a greeting. The “boy” was all bundled up in a plaid pullover, hat, gloves, and scarf, his long arm hanging obscenely at his side. He looked like some neighborhood kid who wanted Joe to come out and help him build a snowman—except for the arm, of course, and the fact that it wasn’t snowing. Actually flakes were beginning to fall, small and scattered. “My dad wants to see you.”
“What about? I just talked to him this morning.”
“You want some extra gasoline? Extra cash?”
“Always.”
“He’s got some work lined up for you. Make it worth your while.”
“What exactly?”
“Talk to my dad. He’s got all the details. Let me know right now if you can make it down to the depot no later than nine tonight. No later. If you’re a no-show, there will be hell to pay.”
“For who?”
David Durant wasn’t inclined to answer this question specifically. “Yes, you will, or no, you won’t. I need an answer. It’s got to be one hundred percent.”
“Yes. Absolutely, definitely. I’ll be there.”
“No later or he’ll get pissed. Have enough gas to make it down there?”
“You got any to spare?”
“I’ll top off your tank before I go.”
“Thanks.” The boy didn’t linger to say “you’re welcome.” Logan watched from the window as he took a five-gallon fuel can from the back of the tow truck. He opened the driver’s side door of the Toyota and leaned in. The little door to the gas cap flipped open. He inserted the long flexible snout into the mouth of the tank and poured the gasoline. He emptied the contents of the gas can, then stowed and secured it on his tow truck and drove off. Logan didn’t know what to make of any of it. What he wanted to know was how much was being offered and what Frenchy wanted done. Not that the boy would be privy to that kind of information. He more than likely didn’t know anything. It couldn’t be anything too illegal. Frenchy must have his own people for that, such as hijacking a truck or smuggling liquor and fuel. Logan would undoubtedly have to negotiate. Depending on if the price was right and the work not too disreputable, he would count himself in; otherwise, he would walk out the door. He didn’t owe the paunchy little Corsican squat, and for all Logan cared, he could go hang. Best not to dwell too deeply on it; just take a wait-and-see attitude.
But it all seemed so strange after their earlier conversation. Something was up and it was important. Frenchy had no reason to trust Logan about any of his nefarious goings-on, he thought.
He had to admit that Frenchy made him uncomfortable, although there was nothing he had ever done to him personally. The man’s reputation preceded him, and Logan was somewhat intrigued by this offer of temporary employment. He just hoped it wasn’t anything lame or bothersome. The snow was beginning to fall in earnest, now.
***
Frenchy Durant was waiting for him at the front door of his office. It was eight forty-five, according to the clock inside the cab. Logan parked by the gas pump, his boots crunching over the cold, dry snow as he walked to the front door. Frenchy held the glass-paned storm door open for him. There was a thick mat on the floor; Logan stomped the snow off his boot treads. The boy was there as well, but Frenchy told him to leave. He treated his kid like a serf, Logan thought; the dismissive tone was unforgivable. David Durant sullenly brushed past Logan, temporarily banished to the cold.
“I got a job for you that I think you’ll find interesting,” Frenchy said. “The pay even more so.” He led him over to his cubicle behind the counter and proceeded to detail a convoy that was assembling near the highway. The snowfall that was expected throughout the night would require a lot of trucks—state, county, and independent contractors. Sanders and salt spreaders were all headed north to the convergence zone and beyond. Since late that afternoon, it had snowed for a few hours but was now stopped. The weather reports predicted eighteen inches by the time the system blew through. A road map of the local area was spread out on Frenchy’s office desk. “The convoy will be assembling on the service road by the entrance ramp at exit seventy-four.” That was the next exit above Pine Haven, Logan knew. The service road ran the entire length up to the following exit ramp. It was a roughly five-mile stretch of fields and woods with few houses. “You can take the rear of the plow trucks and wait until the convoy pulls out. They’ll be on the move at around eleven p.m., if not sooner. But not you.”
“And what will I be doing?”
“You’re taking a passenger up north. Close to the border. You will be given the details once you’re on the road.”
“Who would that be?”
“Hello, Joe.” A woman’s voice sounded from the rear of the darkened house. Before he turned, Logan knew exactly who it was. He wasn’t surprised. “Hello, Natalie. You been hiding out here this whole time?”
“Yeah. It hasn’t been easy. The Tacticals have made a few visits and I’m sure they’ll be doing it again.”
“You don’t have to hide out anymore or run. You don’t have to go anywhere.”
“The passenger Mr. Durant referred to isn’t me. It’s Creech. I’ll be going along only as moral support. To see this thing through.”
“Is Creech here?”
“At an undisclosed location,” Frenchy said. “That’s all you need to know for right now.”
“And I’m getting paid a decent sum for getting him out of town?”
“Two and a half large. Your girl here won’t trust any of my…associates and feels more comfortable if you were at the wheel. I’ve been risking a lot for your friends, Joe.”
“She’s not my girl and I don’t have any friends,” Logan said. He could hear the trace of bitterness in his voice. “I suppose you’ve already been paid for your trouble. You don’t make a move unless you’re well compensated.”
“I’m a businessman, Joe. I’m content with the arrangement. You get fifteen hundred now and another thousand upon your return. I’ll even throw in a free tank of gas aside from what I provide when you make the haul. I’ll be footing the fuel cost for the entire trip there and back.”
“Where exactly am I going?”
“Our friend is a little reticent on that detail. All he said it was very close to the Canadian border. It could be New York State, Vermont, maybe even Maine.”
“No matter what happens, I expect to get my end.”
“Nothing is going to happen. Don’t be a cunt.” Frenchy Durant sounded obviously annoyed.
“I want to talk to Natalie. Alone.”
“Suit yourself.” But Frenchy didn’t leave the room. Expelling a breath of annoyance, Natalie led him to the back of the house, a parlor or den of some kind. Old radiators with peeling
paint, sooty lace curtains, a wingback chair, and a lamp table. That was all the furniture. The rest of the room was crammed with unlabeled cardboard boxes, probably swag Frenchy had gotten hold of over the years and didn’t have a buyer to unload it on. There was an unmistakable odor of tires, and sure enough there was a stack of new steel radials that rose practically to the ceiling.
“What’s the matter, Joe? You don’t look too happy to see me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m glad you’re OK. What’s Frenchy holding over you?”
“Nothing. He’s been part of my network from early on. I put him on retainer weeks ago. Upon our arrival in Essex, I soon became aware of his reputation. Living and operating so close to the exclusion zone, it was only logical that I get to know him, as far as anyone could get to know a guy like that. Now, with Creech finally getting away, Durant will be given a pin number to an account set up in his name. He will be compensated for his efforts.”
