“So what can you do for me?”
“Well, I think I can make other arrangements. Maybe get the packages to their proper destination.”
“And what would this cost me?”
“We can talk about that later. Right now, your customer satisfaction is all I'm worried about.”
“Okay. I want a call when you've received the . . . uh . . . shipment.”
“No problem. No problem at all.”
Andrew hung up the phone and smiled to himself. Just one more call to make. He dialed the number, waited while it rang a few times.
“Hello?”
“Doze, how you doing?”
Doze was a computer geek over in Helena, a young twenty-something who loved tracking down information online for a little extra spending money.
“Hi, Andrew. Where are you? Sounds windy.”
Andrew smiled. “I'm an Indian, Doze. I'm one with the wind.”
Doze laughed. “What can I do for you?”
“Glad you asked. Remember you told me awhile ago you could track cell phones? Their signals?”
“Sure.”
“Even when they're out of range?”
“Well, no. Not really. You have to trace their location when they make a call, pinpoint them by triangulating from the tower picking up the call.”
“Right. So you can just . . . monitor the phone number, get a read on its location when it makes a call?”
“Sure. Once they make a call, we know they have a reception.”
Andrew smiled. “That's just what I wanted to hear, Doze. Let me give you a number; I want you to tell me where it is the next time it makes a call.”
Dylan needed to call Krunk and give him the news. Soon. He glanced at the analog clock on the dash of his old Ford Ranger. It had stopped working long ago, stuck at roughly three thirty for at least a couple of years. Usually that was fine with Dylan; he had no real interest in counting the hours and minutes of his days.
But right now time was vitally important.
Neither he nor Webb wore watches. His cell phone was out of range again, and wouldn't come back into range for . . . well, who knew how long? Out here on the barren Montana prairies, where you might expect a cell phone signal to carry forever, there was just one problem: no towers.
Which was usually okay, since there were no people either.
Say it was eleven a.m. Probably wasn't that late yet, but just say it was for the moment. Their exchange up north had happened at about eight by his best guess, which meant he was no more than three hours out. Probably less.
Would Krunk know by now? Probably not. Chances were, the two Canucks hadn't been discovered yet. Probably hadn't even been missed. Maybe two hours before the Canuck contacts started to miss their mules, another couple hours before they'd be found dead in the drifting snow. Figure five hours before the Canadians made a call and hooked up with Krunk.
Trouble was, he didn't want Krunk to get the news from the Great White North. If Krunk heard two of his Canadian counterpart's guys were found dead in the snow, with the $50K in cash and drugs missing from the scene . . . well, Krunk was no mathematician, but he could add two and two.
It would be better if Dylan could break the news to Krunk himself. Guys decide to hink a drug drop and head off with all the cash and merchandise, the last thing they're gonna do is make a call and tell the mark about it afterward. So he had that going for him. If he broke the news, Krunk just mightâ
might
âbelieve his story. Krunk heard the news anywhere else, Dylan was sure both he and Webb would be dead mules within a day.
So. First, he had to make that call to Krunk. Mobile phone was out, and he probably should ditch it anyway. Figured he'd use a public phone somewhere. Café, bar, something like that. Out here in the sticks, you could sometimes still find pay phones mounted next to bar bathrooms, placed there so men who drank too much could call for a ride.
Not that men who drank too much in these parts ever did call for a ride. But the phones were there, just the same.
He gave up counting the fence posts beside the road (he'd gotten to 1,784 before giving up) and looked at the horizon ahead. A white cloudy sky met the ribbon of grimy highway in the distance. He separated his field of vision, subtracting the sky from his vision, leaving the land and highway in front of him. The straight road ahead split the bottom half of his view into two parts again, so he concentrated, erasing the land on the right side from his consciousness.
You're doing it again
, Joni's voice said inside.
Doing what
?
The kill box
.
When Dylan had been in Iraq, the kill box referred to a specific zone targeted for massive attack. In the time since, Dylan had come to think of it as a dead zone inside his own mindâa zone where he sent any thoughts he wanted locked away. Memories of his time in Iraq, especially memories of the explosion that tore up his leg. Some memories of the rez. Most true memories of Joni. Even now, when the imaginary Joni inside his mind didn't want to shut up, he banished her to the kill box for a time.
Suppose I am
.
Is it helping
?
He smiled, took a deep breath.
Yeah. Yeah, it is. You should know
.
He felt her return the smile inside.
Whatever works, right
?
Whatever works
.
Where are you going
? Joni asked.
You should know that too. You're inside my head
.
I'm just trying to start a conversation here. Keep myself out of the kill box
.
You never go to the kill box for being quiet
.
Yeah. Well, I'm not exactly a quiet personality; that's why you keep me around
.
Okay. We're heading to Malta
.
Because
?
Because I need to deal with Krunk. He finds out what happened, he's gonna send the goon squad after me
.
I thought you were the goon squad
.
Just a mule, Joni. Just a limping mule
.
So Malta's the answer
.
I don't know. Figure I can drop the drugs and the money there, get in touch with Krunk, maybe make him think I'm making a break for the Dakotas
.
But you're not going to the Dakotas
.
No. I'll double back west. Then maybe south
.
To where
?
Still working on that
.
You could go the rez
.
No, I can't. You know that. You of all people
.
Okay, let's just concentrate on Malta
.
That's what I'm trying to do, but you won't shut up
.
Fine. Go back to your little subtractions, if you think those are so much better than talking to your sister
.
No need. Only about five miles to go
.
About
?
Okay; 5.3 miles exactly, according to the odometer and the mileage posted on the last highway sign
.
There we go; that's the obsessive-compulsive brother I know and love
.
Joni went quiet, so he turned his mind back to planning. Drop the drugs, drop the money in Malta. Call Krunk. If Krunk had the contacts to trace his callânot really much of an
if
in Dylan's mindâit would be easy enough to trace his route. Just like he'd told Joni: maybe, just maybe, Krunk would think they were heading east, escaping to North Dakota and points beyond. Might give him a few days.
Dylan saw a building on the flat horizon: a squarish structure covered in barn wood, a large vinyl banner proclaiming Welcome Hunters Cold Drinks affixed to the outside.
Dylan wheeled into the parking area at the front of the building, coming to a stop beside the only other car: an old white Plymouth Acclaim with peeling paint.
He still hadn't seen any signage telling him the name of this particular bar or lounge, but it didn't really matter. Out here, they probably didn't even need a name; it wasn't like there was a lot of competition for the drinking dollars. With this location, they'd easily cater to those on-the-go outliers who couldn't hold their thirst another five miles until they got to Malta itself. Five miles less driving to town meant a one- or two-beer head start. And five fewer miles to drive back home, or wherever you were coming from.
“Be right back,” Dylan said to Webb as he stepped out of the pickup.
Webb probably didn't hear; he was totally out of it, had been in a deep sleep ever since curling into a fetal ball. Dylan half wished the Percocets would still do that for him.
Snow, mixed with the red-clay mud of the parking area, stuck to Dylan's work boots as he opened the squeaky door on the front of the bar and entered the dark cave.
A guy behind the counter was reading a newspaper. He looked up, nodded, went back to reading the paper. Dylan tried not to pay any attention to the odor of stale beer that had soaked every inch of the place.
Dylan stamped his boots. “Need to make a phone call,” he said.
“Back by the bathrooms,” the guy behind the bar said, nodding his head toward the rear of the building.
Just as predicted.
“I don't like the idea,” Dylan said, staring at Webb. Webb had essentially moved into his house a few months ago without any real invitation. And that was okay; Dylan liked the company.
“ 'Course you don't like the idea,” Webb said, not looking away from the television. “You don't like any idea. You're like Mikey, that kid who hates everything except Life cereal.”
“What you're talking about isn't Life cereal.”
Webb turned and looked at him for the first time. “No, it isn't. It's just a year's supply of happy pills for you, and a nice score in cash. Or would you rather keep hitting the open houses, trying to figure out which real estate agents haven't seen you blitzing through before?”
In the few months since they'd met, Webb had taken him on several open house raids, finding partial prescriptions left in medicine cabinets all over Billings. Dylan was amazed how many people kept old scrips in their homes, amazed he hadn't thought of it.
Equally amazed Webb had.
“I don't trust Krunk,” Dylan said, trying to switch tactics a bit.
“Yeah. And I'm thinking of nominating him for a Nobel Peace Prize. It's not about trusting him; it's just about making a quick trip to the border, making an exchange, then bringing it back. Couple grand for what really amounts to a night of work.” Webb turned back toward the television. “Not like I haven't done it before.”
Dylan knotted his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I've known Krunk a couple years. Done errands for him before, now and then. He's fine.”
Webb was the kind of guy who jumped into everything with both feet. That was interesting to Dylan, because really, he hadn't been around that kind of energy since Joni. It was vicariously invigorating, in a way, to be around someone who would do anything, anywhere, at a moment's notice. Freeing, in a way.
At the same time, Webb's spontaneity also meant recklessness. True, in the time since he'd known Webb, the man seemed to get away with everything. He lived a charmed existence, talking his way out of every sticky situation. Talking his way into every interesting opportunity. And he'd brought Dylan along for the ride.
Now, unless Dylan went along for this ride, made a drug exchange with some Canadians, Webb would do it alone.
Ever the protective big brother
, Joni said.
And I'm so good at it. Look what it did for you
.
“Okay,” Dylan finally said. “Let's call Krunk and tell him I'm in.”
Webb turned back and flashed his grin again. “Hey, we got this,” he said.
“Yeah,” Dylan said. “I just hope it doesn't get us.”
Quinn hated sleep, hated the idea of sleep, yes. But now, after meeting this guy who called himself Paul, after eating only a few bites of her breakfast, after feeling his hand on her arm and feeling her thoughts and feelings shift inside . . . she almost
wanted
to sleep. Her mind was sharp, sharper than it had been for as long as she could remember. And a strange excitement danced inside, something like what she'd felt as a young child on Christmas morning, lying awake in her bed, wanting to rush into the living room and see the wonders but holding back because there was something special about that feeling.
Her mind, her core, were energized and revving. But her body felt drained. An odd mix of sensations.
After the breakfast, she'd stumbled back to a nearby hotel room with Paulâha ha, wasn't that funny, because she'd said that was the last thing she'd ever doâbut after their exchange in the restaurant, she knew he presented no danger. Instead, he presented . . . newness. Something different.
“You okay?” Paul asked as he seated her in an ugly green chair near the room's dark television.
“Yes. No.”
He smiled. “Natural reaction. We all feel it at first. It's like, inside you feel electric and alive. Outside, your body doesn't feel electric; it feels electrocuted.”
“We?” she asked.
“I'm part of a group called the Falling Away. And I think you're next.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you're meant to be. Because you were chosen.”
“By?”
He smiled. “We'll get to that in a minute. Right now you're thinking, how does this guy know so much about me? About the way I feel, about the cutting, about everything inside? I know for two reasons. First, because I've been through it myself. Not exactly the same thing, but similar. So I know what it feels like to be standing where you are right now, feeling . . . well, like I said before: feeling like you've been electrocuted.
“In a way, that's what's happened: your body, your soul, has been through a literal shock to the system. It's been . . . I guess
purged
would be the right word for it.”