Barry had told him, in graphic, four-letter words, what he thought of that idea. The other gang members, four of them, had moved toward Barry, grinning and balling their hands into fists.
The gang was streetwise, no doubt about that. They had hustled and mugged and robbed and raped and possibly killed to stay alive in their self-imposed cruel little world. But Barry had been raised in the cab of a long-haul truck, back when trucking was a hell of a lot rougher than it is now. As a boy, he had lived through the union fights, the power struggles that left the offices and hit the highways. There was not much he had not seen.
Barry dropped to the dirty alley and rolled, picking up a broken wine bottle. He jammed the jagged end of the bottle into the exposed crotch of the gang leader. The young man dropped to the alley, screaming and bleeding from the puncture wounds. Rolling, coming to his feet, Barry jammed the broken bottle into a young man’s face, driving one long shard of glass into an eye. The street hustler howled as his blood spurted. Spinning, Barry shoved the splintered ends of glass, now dripping blood, into the throat of a young punk.
Those remaining street punks split, racing away in fear of this wild young man.
Barry had looked at what he had done, his eyes meeting the pain-filled eyes of the gang leader, still on the dirty alley, holding his bleeding privates. “Not near as thought as you thought you were, huh, asshole?” Barry said.
He walked away, tossing his wino-made weapon against a brick wall, shattering it, forever erasing any fringerprints.
The next day he read in the paper where one of the punks had died, bleeding to death from a slashed and punctured throat.
Barry told his father about it.
“How do you feel about what you done, son?” Big Joe asked.
Barry shrugged. “They started it. I don’t think I feel anything, Pop.”
The father looked long into the son’s eyes. “I know what you mean, boy. I was younger than you when I killed my first man. He was a bum. I was walkin’ with your momma out near the Pontchartrain. We was just kids, holdin’ hands and walkin’. He come up and told me what he was gonna do to your momma. Ugly, nasty things. I killed him with a knife. I didn’t feel nothin’. You don’t feel bad when you kill a rabid dog.” His dad had shrugged. “You, Barry, of my kids, you got my temper and disposition. You always gonna have to watch it. Now sit down and hear me good.
“Sometimes a person has to do what he has to do to survive. Before I’d see my momma or daddy or my wife or kids starve to death, I’d steal. But that would be if there was no work, nowhere. No little piece of ground to raise me a garden. No fish to catch. No game to hunt. And it just ain’t that way, boy. It may be human nature to not be content with what a person has; but that don’t give no one the right to steal if they’s work to be had.
“To a very large point, boy, everyone has something to say about their destiny. I’m worth a lot of money, boy. But when I was your age, I didn’t have a penny. Can you believe that, boy? Not a penny. But I never stole nothin’ in my life. I never mugged nobody, never vandalized nobody’s property. Everything I got, I worked for. And not no eight hours a day and quit, neither. If I thought je desire … I worked for it. I never axed nobody to donnez-moi nothin’.
“I got nothin’ but mepris for criminals.” He feigned a spit on the floor. “They want it all but they don’t wanna work for none of it. And then they gonna complain that they couldn’t help themselves. Shit! Oh, they can help it, boy. If there ain’t no work here, then go to Baton Rouge. No work there, go to Lafayette. A man ain’t got an education … then get one. Got to the public library and check out books and read. Now, I butcher the English, boy. No doubt about it. But I ain’t stupid. I talk the way I talk because I’m comfortable with it. But I can discuss economics, I can talk about the classic with some degree of expertise.” He grinned. “Ain’t that a fancy word. But you know what I’m sayin’, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean, Pop. You’ve really read all those books in the house?”
“Every one of them, boy. Some of them, oh, maybe a dozen times.”
He pointed out to Barry his favorite books, and Barry remembered that some of them had looked pretty damned dull at the time.
But in time he’d read and reread them all.
Kate brought him back to reality with a poke in the ribs. “I think I’ve lost you somewhere down the line, boy.”
“Yeah. I was lost back in time. To answer your question … No, I didn’t get sick the first time I killed a man. I was fifteen.” He told her what had happened and about his conversation with his father afterward.
“Yeah. I know. Big Joe turned me on to books, too. Fifteen years old? Did you kill in Vietnam? Stupid question, I guess.”
Did I kill in Vietnam? Barry thought. Oh, yes, Kate. But how to explain that to a civilian? You were about eight or nine when I went to ’Nam. Do you want me to tell you how it is to loop a garrote around a man’s neck and choke him to death—silently, if at all possible, for you are behind enemy lines—if you could figure out where the damned lines were in ’Nam, that is. Or how about putting the knife blade in just the right spot to ensure almost instant death? That’s good fun. Especially when your hand is over their mouth and they puke on you. Or bite you, as so often happens. Or set up swing traps, and then lie in ambush and listen to those impaled scream until they die? That’s delightful. Or how about a good clean long-distance sniper shot? People ask, “Well, how do you know if you got a good hit from that distance.”
“They fall funny,” you reply.
And then the nosy questioner looks at you like you’ve just grown horns and a tail.
“Yeah. I killed in ’Nam, Kate.”
“Does it bother you to talk about it?”
“Not really. But I seldom do.”
“I don’t understand you, Barry Rivers.”
“Yeah? That’s what my ex-wife used to say.”
He felt her stiffen in his arms. “Well, that’s what I really want to do, Barry. Talk about your goddamn ex-wife.”
She rolled away from him … and fell out of the bunk.
The things she said!
14
They ate a leisurely breakfast before dawn and pulled out, Barry taking the wheel for the first trick. About twenty miles outside of Bakersfield, with Kate at the wheel, she cut off on State 46 and connected with Interstate 5 just east of Lost Hills. They rolled at a steady 55 mph, as ordered. Nothing unusual happened; no one shot at them, attempted to force them off the road, gave them the bird … nothing. Four hundred and fifty miles out of Barstow, they spotted a nice motel and pulled off the interstate. They were under government orders to travel no more than five hundred miles in a ten-hour period. With two drivers, that didn’t make much sense to them, but when you work for the man, you obey his rules.
After a shower, Barry stretched out on the bed and called his attorney in Washington. “No way anyone could have known where we were going to stop, Ralph, so this phone is clear. How are things?”
“Everything appears normal on the surface,” Ralph said. “But I’m getting whispers of tension among certain agencies. Man,”—he lowered his voice—“you and your people played hell in that shootout.”
So much for keeping a lid on things. “Is it going to make the press?”
“Very doubtful. Oh, there might be a mention; but without names.”
Then Barry dropped it all in Ralph’s lap. He talked for a full five minutes, knowing Ralph was probably taping it all. When he finished, Ralph was silent for a full ten-count.
“A lawyer who is speechless?” Barry said. “I can’t believe it. You’re a disgrace to your profession.”
“Jumping Jesus Christ, Barry!” the attorney finally blurted. “I had a hunch this thing might be big, but not that big.”
“I have no proof, remember?”
“No, but you’ve convinced me. So it’s dope that’s behind it?”
“Maybe. And maybe the dope angle is just s
omething to cover up something bigger.”
Ralph groaned. “It’s already complicated enough, friend. I’ll go with the dope angle. What’s your angle?”
“I don’t know. Yet. The one thing I do know is that I’m being set up. For what? I don’t know. Why? I don’t know.” He was conscious of Kate walking naked out of the bathroom; his eyes followed her.
She looked at him; her eyes drifted over his body. “Down, boy,” she whispered. “First we eat.”
Barry smiled.
“What do you want me to do on this end, Barry?” Ralph asked.
“Stay alert and be careful. Linda might suspect you’re in this with me.”
“Hell, I am! Now. Thanks to you.”
“Stay loose, Ralph. I gotta go. I got a date with a blonde.”
“I hope her name isn’t Roy.” He hung up.
Barry laughed and hung up. He looked at Kate. “Is your name Roy?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Boy, I worry about you at times. I really do.”
The bad thing about it, Barry thought as he shaved the next morning, is that I really have no one to call if I get in trouble. With the exception of Ralph, I just don’t know who to trust. I believe I can trust Fabrello, but I don’t want heavy mob connections. Bad enough the mob is protecting Big Joe. Any more connections and …
He paused in wiping the lather off his face. Sure. She wants me to be caught playing footsie with Fabrello. God, I must be getting senile.
He walked to the phone and called New Orleans. Fabrello answered the phone. “No names,” Barry said. “You know who this is?”
“I recognize the voice. Christ, what goddamned time is it? It’s fucking dark outside.”
“Seven o’clock, your time. Open the drapes. Is your phone secure?”
“Shit, no! Are you kidding? Every phone I got is bugged. We got rapists and robbers and muggers and perverts and assholes standing on every street corner of every city in America and the FBI is spending money bugging my phones. There ain’t no justice in the world, pal. So what’s on your mind at this godforsaken hour? And you got about thirty seconds to tell me before the phone cops start tracing your call.”
“You’re hot and I’m getting warmer. Our friend wants me as hot as you.”
“Yeah. I figured that out. But we got a problem, you know?”
“Can you arrange independent security for the old trucker?”
“Can do and will. See you, boy.”
Fabrello hung up. Barry looked at Kate, lying in the bed, looking at him.
“Get up, little one. It’s time to get cracking.”
They took their time driving the remaining one-hundred-and-fifty-odd miles to the cutoff point, enjoying the scenery as they trucked empty, northbound on Interstate 5. About thirty miles south of Redding, Kate at the wheel, they cut due west on a state highway.
“I don’t know what in the hell is supposed to be down this way,” Kate bitched. “Nothing shows on the map. Can you pick up anything?”
“Nothing shows between the interstate and the middle fork of the Cottonwood River. Our directions were precise. Did you check your odometer?”
“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, Barry,” she said dryly.
Barry laughed at her.
Exactly 28.7 miles later, they stopped half on the shoulder and half on the road and looked around them.
Nothing.
“Maybe the odometer is off a point,” Barry suggested. “I’ll climb down and walk up the road for a little bit.”
“You be careful,” Kate told him.
Barry tucked his 9mm behind his belt. “Bet on it, love.”
About fifty meters later, Barry found the road, cutting off to the north. He waved Kate forward and pointed her into the narrow road. He climbed back in, and within seconds the deep timber had swallowed them, truck and all.
“I hope this is the right road,” Kate said. “I’d hate to have to back out of this mess.”
They reached a closed gate with a small guardhouse behind the heavy chain-link fence. A man stepped out of the blockhouse and waved for them both to climb down.
The man, armed with a pistol and M-16, stayed behind the fence. “Shove your orders through the slot,” he said.
Barry handed him the sealed orders. The guard opened the envelope, scanned the orders, and then nodded his head.
“Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger bit, driver. But this is a high-security area. Get back in your rig. When I open the gates, get through and do not, under any circumstances, stop your rig or get out until you reach the main post. Do not stop for anyone; do not pick up anyone. Do not get out of your rig until you are ordered to do so by a Mr. Carter. Do you both understand?”
“I understand.”
The gate slid back on electrically controlled wheels. The guard waved them through, the gate closing behind them.
“What is this place?” Kate asked.
“Beats the hell out of me.”
They almost ran into the main building. There were several buildings, all single-story and all so well camouflaged one could not see them until almost on top of them. Or, in this case, almost running into them. Barry knew they would be invisible from the air.
They sat in the truck for several minutes, both of them watching the door. It finally opened and a man in a white coat stepped out. He waved them out of the truck.
“My name is Carter. Let me see your orders.” He quickly read the orders and handed them back to Barry, after tearing off his copy. He lifted his eyes to Barry. “How long has your refrigeration unit been running?”
“Since yesterday. About noon, I’d guess.”
“You’d guess?”
Barry had taken an instant dislike for the man. “That’s what I said.”
“It’s set at freezing, I hope.”
“It’s a mid-temp reefer, mister,” Kate said. “It’s not a Super Seal.”
“I do not understand truck-driver jargon,” Carter said. “What does that gibberish mean, woman?”
Kate stuck out her chin, her temper rising. “It means that this particular reefer is forty-two feet long and thirteen feet high. The interior lining is one-quarter-inch plywood with fiberglass. The capacity is about twenty-five hundred cubic feet. Steel cross-sills over critical areas—like the tandem and landing gear. The rear doors have single compression seals and one vent. The floor is one-and-a-quarter-inch aluminum extruded duct. The trailer supports are two-speed with roadside crank, sand shoes, and—”
“That will be quite enough,” Carter said, waving her silent. “For God’s sake, I am not in the least interested in any of that mess you just spouted. Be silent.” He looked at Barry. “What is the lowest temperature you can maintain, driver?”
“About thirty-five degrees.”
Kate was silent all right. Silently fuming.
“Goddammit!” Carter cussed. He shook his head and said, “It’s not your fault, Rivers. You’re just doing what you’re told to do. Back your trailer up right there.” He pointed. “Stop at the last door. Then you and Miss … ah, whatever her name is, go over there.” Again he pointed. “To that building. And wait in the lounge. Have some coffee. Some food if you like. Do not, repeat, do not, under any circumstances, come outside until you are told to come outside. Do you understand that?”
Barry resisted an impulse to tell the overbearing bastard where to shove his orders. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Fine. Now back your rig up.”
Kate stood, watching Barry back the trailer, with Carter scurrying alongside, giving orders, which Barry promptly ignored.
Barry climbed down and Carter rushed up to him.
“You and your lady friend go to the lounge,” Carter said. “Immediately!”
Walking toward the appointed building, Kate said, “I’d like to jerk a knot in that little man’s ass!”
“Steady now, Kate, my dear.”
“Screw you, Barry, my dear!”
The lounge was empty. Barry drew two
cups of coffee from a drink machine and punched out two packages of sweet rolls. He and Kate took a table by a closed and draped window. Kate gently opened one drape and peeked outside.
“See anything interesting?” Barry asked.
“Not much.” She eyeballed the outside. “Just some people putting boxes of stuff into a shipping container. Lifting it up with a forklift. What are those guys doing now?”
“I have no idea, Kate. What does it look like to you?”
“Looks like those bags they used in Vietnam.”
That got his attention. He leaned over and peeked out through the tiny opening. He felt his stomach roll over. He quietly cursed.
“What’s the matter, Barry?”
“Those are body bags, Kate. And they’ve got bodies in them.”
15
Very little else was said between Kate and Barry until they had received their traveling orders, seen the doors sealed, and were on the road.
“This makes me feel creepy,” Kate finally spoke. “God, Barry! Do those bags really have bodies in them?”
“I don’t know. Looked like it. All right, we’re Minnesota bound, so call out the route.”
“Don’t we first go to Utah to meet the others?”
“Where we go is a quiet spot, far away from this … place, and pop that seal.”
“Barry … ”
“No way, Kate. I want to see what’s in those body bags. If you don’t want to be a part of it, I’ll put you on a plane in Sacramento and you can fly back to New Orleans.”
“Do you know what you can do with that suggestion?”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“Fine. So we backtrack and pick up Interstate 80 east. If you’ve just got to pop that seal, we’ll find a place.” She shuddered. “I feel like I’m part of a horror movie.”
“We may be,” Barry agreed.
It was late afternoon when they hit the bypass around Sacramento and full night when they reached the deep timber of eastern California. Both knew from the way the rig handled they were not carrying much weight.
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