Part 23 (2/2)

Jim Case continued to scan through the pages.

”It's not everything you need,” I said. ”I'm waiting on something else.”

”Something else?”

”A report on interstate extradition. I think UpStart is bankrolling the project, trying to inflate numbers to get that new private prison built on the grounds of the old TC Truck Stop. Y'know, in Ashton?”

”Can you wait here a minute?”

His landline rang. And suddenly I knew I had to get out of there.

We both looked at the phone.

Jim Case held up his hands, letting the phone keep ringing. ”It's okay, Jay.”

”How do you know my name?”

”You just told me.”

He was right. I had.

Jim Case swung open an arm, guiding safe pa.s.sage to a small kitchen table, where he sat down first. ”Please. Have a seat.”

I could only guess what had to be going through this guy's head. I could smell myself. I stank like that b.u.m inside the Dunkin' Donuts. I didn't know why was he even talking to me. How was explaining Bowman going to help?

But Bowman had said he was next on the list. I had to warn him. I was having that problem where I could formulate cogent points in my head, but when I tried to articulate a coherent sentence, my tongue got all thick, and I couldn't pluck the right word, resulting in a lot of starting and stumbling. I sounded r.e.t.a.r.ded. ”Why are you talking to me?” With those words, I knew I only sounded crazier.

”Excuse me?”

”You don't know me. I'm just some guy who knocked on your door at seven in the morning. You shouldn't let strangers in your house. You're in danger.”

”Are you here to hurt me?”

”No!”

”I didn't think so. I trust my instincts. It's why I'm a reporter.” He pointed at the doc.u.ments stacked in front of him. ”I think we are on the same side. I rely on sources from all walks of life.”

”I'm not a b.u.m. I've had a rough few days.”

Jim Case held up his hands, the way you do when you agree to disagree.

”I know what I'm doing,” he said. ”How serious it is. I've been looking into North River for a while. Roberts too. Now why don't you tell me what you know?”

The phone rang again, and I jolted, startled. He made no move to answer it, gesturing for me to stay calm. ”It's just the phone. People call me for work. It's okay. You seem really jumpy. Relax. Can I get you some water?”

”I'm fine.”

”Talk to me.”

”I just told you. Judge Roberts is s.h.i.+pping kids to the North River Inst.i.tute in exchange for kickbacks. I know the parents are . . .”

”Parents are what?”

”Receiving kickbacks! Housing repairs getting pushed through HUD. Big fat stacks. Payoffs, man.” I pointed at the paper trail. ”It's all in there. Well, not all of it. You're missing something.”

”Sorry, Jay. I'm having a hard time following you. What exactly am I missing?”

”I told you. The out-of-state stuff. I don't know, exactly. But I know where to get it. I'll get it, okay?”

When the phone rang again, I stood up, shoving in the chair.

”Hold on. Where are you going?”

”To prove it. You got a business card or something? How I can reach you?”

He plucked a business card from his pocket, pa.s.sing it along, wary, like you do meat sc.r.a.ps a feral dog.

I s.n.a.t.c.hed the business card. ”Watch your back.” I bolted out the front door as the phone started up again.

Back in the car, I popped the battery from my cell. Which I knew would make it tough for Nicki to return my call. There's a fine line between preparation and paranoia. Charlie's was my safe house. I couldn't go home. I realized I was headed back to Ashton without consciously making the decision to do so. Like a moth drawn to the firelight. Or bug zapper. I needed off the grid. Somewhere with a secure line. I had to talk to Nicki. How hard was it to return a G.o.dd.a.m.n phone call? Where do the invisible go when they have to disappear?

When I was young, we used to tease the poorer kids. Anytime the school bus took the Turnpike, we'd point at the fleabag motels, say, ”This is where you'll end up living someday.” Because kids are mean little s.h.i.+ts. And karma is one vengeful b.i.t.c.h.

I needed to dump Charlie's Subaru. I was driving a stolen car. I shouldn't have risked taking it to Pittsfield. Even if I knew my buddy wouldn't press charges, Turley had the license plate, which meant those Longmont cops did too. I had to buy a few hours, long enough to reach Nicki.

Racing north along the Turnpike, I took the Duncan Pond exit, hopped the access road down a dirt path, abandoning the stolen car behind a patch of cattail. I scattered dead branches, bulrush and sedge over the roof and hood. Then I started walking. Pond swamp mucked my shoes. I kept hearing helicopters overhead, but when I'd look up, I'd find nothing but the same churning mountain skies. This is what skipping sleep does, little brother. Turns your brain to mush. Can't think straight. Goops your oatmeal, bogs you down in a slog of maple. Try stirring that s.h.i.+t with a spoon.

I weaved through woodland until I hit the string of cheap motels. Despite the early hour, the welfare cases were already out, pus.h.i.+ng their shopping carts along icy shoulders. b.u.ms with cardboard signs touting patriotic service in fict.i.tious wars. I spotted a pair of junkies, frighteningly malnourished, about a hundred pounds between them, flightless birds in search of a morning meal. I pulled my collar, hunched my shoulders, and joined the hobo parade.

No one asks for an ID at these motels; that's the beauty of Turnpike living. I paid my thirty bucks and change with crumpled bills and coins sifted from lint, got my oversized key, and locked myself away in a tiny room choked with B.O., fast food, and stale cigarette smoke.

I flicked on a lamp. Low wattage revealed streaks of red and black shooting across the walls and ceiling. The impressionistic artwork felt out of place with the rest of the spa.r.s.e, p.a.w.nshop decor. I remembered overhearing a pair of junkies talking once while I waited to admit Chris into rehab. They were b.i.t.c.hing about bad veins, how after so many misfires, the needle would clog with sludge. To clear the line, they'd have to push the plunger extra hard. Drugs and bodily fluids would spit out, spraying everything. That's what I was looking at. Dried blood and wasted lives.

I sat on the edge of a lumpy bed and pulled the janky parts of the cell phone from my pocket. I didn't know how long service providers required to pinpoint location from a tower, whether that was even a real concern or some drug addict urban legend, a plot device employed by lazy TV show writers. But I couldn't afford to test theories. I fitted the battery, retrieved Nicki's number, scribbled it down, and popped the battery back out. I wasn't taking any chances. I called her again from the motel phone. Another voice mail. I left as polite a message as I could, considering the rage burning inside me. I laid out everything Bowman had told me, again, spelling it out in slow, small words. I trusted her with everything-the stakes, how indispensable she was, because what other choice did I have? She'd call back. Or she wouldn't. I couldn't do a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing but wait.

I peeled off my clothes, sniffed my s.h.i.+rt, which stank worse than my days laboring on the cow farm. I brought the s.h.i.+rt with me into the shower and scrubbed it clean with the complimentary sliver of soap. Rang the tee out, threw it over the radiator to dry. I brushed my teeth without toothpaste, using my finger.

Stepping from the fog, I cleared the mirror with my hand and studied the man standing before me, the guy who was usually clean-shaven, good looking, put together. My left eye twitched. An honest-to-G.o.d facial tick. My bottom lid quivered, like teeny tiny worms had burrowed beneath the lashes and were staking claim. I remained transfixed, fascinated by my own eye's squirming involuntarily. The parasites had taken over.

I combed back my wet hair with my fingers, stepped into the next room. Just had the one. The motel didn't offer the option of a suite upgrade. I could smell trap grease from the KFC/Taco Bell combo next door. Peeling the curtain, I watched my new neighbors hoof it across the parking lot, broken men with sagging guts and receding hairlines, six-packs in hand, the day's first already cracked. It wasn't even nine a.m. A beer sounded pretty good about now.

I checked the progress of my tee s.h.i.+rt drying in the bathroom. Still damp. If I tried walking outside with a wet s.h.i.+rt in this weather I'd end up with walking pneumonia. I wrapped the winter coat around me and bundled up s.h.i.+rtless. I could use food. I needed a beer.

I was about to head outside when the telephone rang.

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