by Amy Faye
"Which is your right, afforded to you by the state of Arizona, yes. In a room full of blood. Christ. It looked like you slaughtered a pig in there, Ryan."
"I just got there, same as your boys. I didn't do anything in there at all, pig or not."
"That's not what we've heard. Folks across the way, they made it sound a hell of a lot like you were all over that room. They couldn't positively say whether or not your brother was there at the time, but they were very sure about you."
"And I was there. I checked around to see if there was any sign of what had happened to my brother."
"Other than the blood, you mean."
I roll my eyes. "Obviously other than the blood. What is this, your first day? Are you a disgruntled, out of work English professor who needs to play word games all the damn time to make up for the fact that nobody would hire you? What the fuck is it?"
The guy sits back and smiles for a minute. He likes that he's gotten a rise out of me, and I guess I understand why. It's step one to trying to knock down my story.
The problem is, there's nothing to knock down yet. I haven't had to lie, haven't had to mislead the guy. I haven't even avoided any questions.
"You know, Ryan, you have quite a lot of people looking for you."
The last part carries with it an implication that hits hard. I try to keep my face neutral, but I'm not confident that I manage it.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean that some folks from Washington, they say that you're an illegal trafficker of narcotics."
"Well, then they're mistaken. I own and operate a bar. Right on the edge of town. You might have seen it? Come on by some time, I'll pour you a drink."
"I'm aware of that cover story, Beauchamp, and I know as well as you do that is bullshit."
"Think what you want. I came down here because I wanted to go straight." The words came out easy. Easier still, because there was a tiny ring of truth to them, even after these years.
"Of course. You're right. Tell me about Ohio."
"Cold in the winter. Hot in the summer. Not as hot as here."
His lips press together. "Cute. Tell me about the arrest."
"I fell in with the wrong crowd, you know the story. I'm sure you've read the file."
"Of course I have," he says. He smiles again. He feels in control, and he feels that way because he is in control. "But I want to hear your side of things."
"I plead guilty. Read the file."
"I want to hear it in your words," he insists. I'm starting to dislike the guy. Well, if I want to get out of here, I might as well play along.
"I worked for a guy. He paid cash, and my job was to stand around and look tough."
"I heard you did more than look tough."
"I'm getting to that, boss, give me a minute. Now, there was this guy. Mike, I think his name was. We called him Slim, on account of he wasn't. So Slim, he owed some money. Twenty bucks, I think? Thirty? It's been a few years." I shrug.
He taps his fingers on the table. "So what happened with Slim?"
"Well, the boss—Brzezinski, he's still serving time up in Ohio—he says, I gotta make an example of this guy. So I draw the short straw, I guess, and it's my job. I'm not supposed to kill him, yanno? It's not like he's got the money in his goddamn pocket."
"Okay."
"So I went around and asked him for the money. He gives the usual bullshit. 'I ain't got it, but I can get it,' 'I need a couple days,' that sort of shit. Slim says that shit all the time, and he never pays up."
"So you…"
"We got a little friendly, sure."
"You know what happened to him after that?"
"Not really."
"You want to?"
"Sure, since we're such good friends now, and all."
"He's dead. Found him with a needle in his arm and his eyes practically popped out of his head. Puddle of blood from where he smacked face-first into the ground, bigger'n your brother's."
"So what now? Any other questions, or can I go? Or are you going to charge me with something?"
The guy looks at his watch. "Not so fast, Beauchamp. We've still got another forty-three hours we can hold you. But the good news is, you don't have to wait near that long. Someone's come to get you. Some fed."
I almost let myself get hopeful for a minute.
The guy turns to the door. "Send 'em in!"
A big motherfucker and an old man walk in. The big guy claps my new best friend on the shoulder. "Thank you, we'll take it from here."
The guy stands up, pushes his chair back. I still don't know his name, and it makes my teeth itch. The old man trades spots with him as the big guy guides the local boy out of the room.
"Hello, Ryan." The old guy looks about as friendly as a steel rake. "I'm A.T.F. inspector Martin Donaldsen, and I'm placing you under arrest for the trafficking of unlicensed firearms."
Chapter Forty-Three
MAGUIRE
I feel like I'm going to cry when I get back to fresh air. I'd like to pretend that all that is upsetting me here is the questioning. I wasn't worried that I would die, because there's absolutely no reason for me to have worried.
There's no real way for me to deny it, though. I was out-and-out panicking the entire time that I was there, and nothing that I say or do is going to change that.
But now, I'm out. I don't have to worry about whether or not this has all been an elaborate setup to shoot me like a fish in a barrel. It's over.
So now the much more important questions start to come to the fore. Brian Beauchamp looks like hell, but he's alive, and more to the point, he's right behind me. The only deal being, thankfully, that I use him for his 'intended purpose.'
Well, I'm not sure I can guarantee that, but it didn't stop me from saying I guaranteed it, when the question came up.
Of course I'm going to use him in order to bring Ryan in. That's natural. Why else would Donaldsen have sent me, after all? No, we're not going to fuck it up, and I'll have Martin call them as soon as he's done picking Ryan up from the local boys.
That hint by itself is enough to tell me more than I think they wanted me to know. After all, it's easy to say that somewhere, Ryan's in some sort of nebulous trouble.
He sure as hell didn't go off half-cocked and attack the Crazy Horses again. I know because I would've seen it. Would've seen some sort of damage, and there would have been some signs of a body if he didn't make it far.
Scheck wouldn't have been so worried about a dead man. But that only left open the fact that he was somewhere, and that place was one that he couldn't leave conveniently.
Well, hell, that could be just about anywhere, I thought, and I was right. Now he's out of that situation. He couldn't be just about anywhere.
He has to be right where they expect him to be. The reason being, of course, that they put him there, and they set things up so he'd get real damn embarrassed, at best. At worst, he looks totally solid for the murder with no real alibi.
Then all Donaldsen has to do is go and get him, from the locked room that he's neatly handcuffed inside, and boom. Easy extraction. Don't even have to oil your guns after.
I should like the idea. Cooperation, and all that. Bringing in the bad guys without firing a shot, without needing to risk a single life.
Well, I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. I feel like I have to take a shower after I hear the news. The idea that they'd give us one of their types, gift-wrapped and waiting for us, and all because of a setup.
The idea that we would just take it and look the other way.
The idea that there are people inside the A.T.F. who are more interested in picking up petty, low-level criminals than getting the big boys out of the picture.
I can feel my stomach churning a little bit at the entire thought, as if Donaldsen wasn't a sickness inside the A.T.F., but a sickness right there in my gut.
I want to throw up, but I have to stifle it. I can't go green in front of Brian Beauchamp. Instead, I p
ush his head down under the frame of the back door and close the door behind him, then slip into the driver's seat.
I don't say anything until we're already out of the area, until I can be sure that nobody's watching us, which is a little longer after that, even.
"Are you alright?"
He looks up, surprised to hear my voice.
"What?"
"I asked if you're alright. If you're hurt."
"No. Yes. Fuck. I think I need to go to the hospital."
"I'm absolutely sure you do. You lost a lot of blood, but it's going to be alright."
"Are you working for them?"
"Not a chance in hell. I'd let you out of those cuffs, but I don't have a key on me."
I don't have one anywhere that's readily available, really. I could go to my apartment. I've got a spare ring of keys there, just two on the ring. More than I've ever needed to have, though, so I don't exactly worry about it.
But there will be someone watching my apartment, no doubt. If I go there, they just get Brian Beauchamp back like I never even had him. Which means that I need to think about another place I can get a key.
The car nearly drives right by a military surplus before I realize that seems like as good a bet as any. I turn in at the last minute and park, then crane my neck around to face Brian.
"I need you to keep your head down, alright? I'll be two minutes."
He lays down in the seat, as much as you can. He looks rough. I knew it already, but every time I see him, I just think that he looks worse than he looked before. Rough doesn't really begin to describe it.
He looks like, well… honestly, he looks like someone who just lost a hell of a lot of blood. I'm no doctor, but if I saw Danny looking like Brian looks right now, I'd be real worried.
I need to move fast, then. That's the only answer. I need to move fast and get him out of here, get him into a hospital, and get him a blood transfusion.
But I can't walk him in with cuffs on. The first call they'll make will be right to the local cops. The first call the locals make will be to us, and Donaldsen hears about it within thirty minutes.
The inside of the place looks like any other army surplus. The walls are plastered with crap. Hoo-rah and all that. Anything you could ask for—uniforms, decommissioned weapons, ammo boxes, parachutes. I don't need any of that stuff.
I just go straight up to the counter. There's a large glass display with several dozen knives, laid out diagonally in a row, so they can fit as many as they possibly can. The prices range from pocket change to more than a day's wages.
"I need cuff keys."
The guy gives me a condescending look, but he turns and grabs them. He rings them up and reads the price off the digital machine that's blinking right there in my face.
I fork the money over. It's a small price to pay for a man's life. I take my key, pocket it, and head back out the door. I leave the receipt on the counter, because frankly they can have the damn keys back if they want, right after I get my use out of them.
Brian's got the door open by the time I get back, and he's trying real hard to walk, but he's not going to get far. His face is already strained, and he's starting to sweat, and he's barely made it ten feet.
I grab the bracelets and unlock them, throw them into my pocket.
"You need to get back in the car, Brian. We need to get you to a hospital." I stare into his eyes, hoping that he can focus enough to look back.
"But that was Ryan," he says, his face bunched up. "They got him."
Chapter Forty-Four
RYAN
The guy, Donaldsen, looks at me like he's expecting some kind of response. I don't know what he wants me to look like. I don't make much of any response at all.
His goon's smirking in the corner like I've stepped on something funny. I almost like him. He seems like the sort of guy I could have a beer with. Hell, like plenty of guys I have had beers with.
All muscle and no brains. Just riding someone else's coat-tails up the ladder. It's a career path I could have been on myself, for a while there. Before I came down here.
They wait longer. I wait longer. Nobody's really saying anything, and they're not making much move to get me out of the room, which is how I like it, I suppose. I'd rather be here than on a plane.
Finally, the old guy opens his mouth, deciding that I would apparently wait all day. I would.
"Have you been read your rights?"
"Sure," I say. They did it all right and proper back in my brother's apartment. All while I screamed my head off that they were letting whoever had him go free. I can imagine, now, that they knew that at the time.
"And do you understand them?"
"Sure."
"How's Sara doing?"
I recognize the test about as soon as the words come out of his mouth. I'm not sure who's being tested—me or her.
"Who?"
I was hot when the other guy left, but this old man gave me plenty of time to get my head on straight. Plenty of time to remember that keeping my God damn mouth shut has always been the right way to go.
I've never heard anyone call her Sara. But this guy says it like it's not unusual. I wonder what that could be about, but I'm not figuring on finding out.
"Agent Maguire? You'll remember if you've seen her—tall, red-hair, attractive. I believe she was responsible for apprehending you a couple of days ago?"
"Sure, I remember her. What about her?"
"We've received some disturbing reports that she was working with you."
"I'm a bartender. I haven't hired anyone in years. It's a small place, my brother or I are always available."
"Ah, yes. Which brother would that be? Is that Logan, or…"
"We all own a part, but Brian mostly stays out of it. Logan takes most of the time that I'm not there."
"Is he there now?"
I chew on my response for a second. I'm not sure what he's fishing for, but I know he already knows everything. Now it's just a matter of not saying the wrong thing.
If he could pin anything on me without a confession, then he would have already done it. He wouldn't be in the room here gloating. So I'm going to have to choose my words real careful.
"We're closed."
I can't help but notice that the old man isn't taking notes. Nor is the goon, his suit gray stripes on black. The pattern's subtle. I like it.
"So your brother definitely isn't there?"
"Not unless something's changed and he didn't tell me about it."
The guy nods as if I've just given away the farm. Very grave, and he looks over at the guy behind him. It doesn't take a rocket-scientist to know that they've got Logan. They had him before they ever came into this room.
So why are they playing up the act like I'm giving information up?
I don't know. The truth is, I don't want to know. I don't need to know. All I need to know is that they're trying to play mind games, and I can't afford to fall for it.
He takes a minute, then pulls out a cigarette. As he stretches to reach into his jacket, I can see the nicotine patch on his neck. He bumps the cigarette out of the box, doesn't offer me one.
His friend doesn't look like he expects to be offered one. Doesn't look especially envious, either, which is probably smart. Those things will kill you, after all. I don't bother pointing out the 'no smoking' sign on the wall.
After all, I'm only dubiously certain of how legal any of this is at all. They're playing on very thin ice already. If they're willing to do things as fast-and-loose as this, then a little smoke isn't going to bring the hammer down on this guy.
"She's fucking you, isn't she?"
I don't have a response to it. I'm not about to say that she is. I've been a bad man for a long time now, but I don't generally make it a habit to kiss and tell—even bad men have standards.
"Yeah, I'd say that look says you are."
I hadn't given him a look. He seems pleased with his own deduction, though, and I can't take it away from him t
hat he's right. It doesn't much matter that I didn't give it away if he's convinced.
"She's sweet, isn't she? Ohh, she thinks she's tough. She thinks she's so very independent. Then you get her on her back, and…"
I've had trouble with keeping my temper in check my whole life, and I'm feeling it now. Luckily, for me at least, it's been a problem my whole life.
It's not as if this is the first time someone's tried to goad me into a fight, and it won't be the last. Truth be told, it usually works. It might have worked now, except that I know I can't get out of this seat.
I take a deep breath in. The room already has the heavy stink of smoke, but I try to ignore it. I need to get my head clear, and I need to keep myself in check. I can't afford to go flying off the handle.
"What do you want, Agent Donaldsen?"
"I told you, we're here to take you into custody, Mr. Beauchamp. I just thought we could take a few minutes to talk."
"Can we have a conversation we can both be involved in? How do you think the Diamondbacks are going to do this year?"
His face sours. "I'm more of a Sox man, myself."
"That's fine, if that's the way you feel about it, but I don't know what tree you're barking up with this girl Maguire. I met her one time, and she was pulling an act a hell of a lot like this one."
"So why'd she let you go? We had you dead to rights, son."
"Not enough evidence, I guess. I'm just a bartender. She comes in, she confirms my name, I pour her a drink, and a hundred guys come swarming in."
He's getting frustrated. I can see it in his eyes. But then again, so am I. I'm getting damn sick of these questions, and most of all, I'm getting sick of this son of a bitch. Now it's a question of who can last longer, and how long I can keep this up before he decides that play-time is over.
"Sir, do you think—"
The old man turns to look at his big friend, and from the glimpse I get of his face as he turns, I wouldn't finish the thought either.
By the time he looks back at me, he's managed to put the frustration behind him again. Like he never even lost his temper, but I know better than that. More over, he knows I know better. But it doesn't matter, not as long as I'm wearing these chains.