He craned his neck around to see what I was pointing at, then nodded.
“Where’s the key?”
He pointed at the body lying next to him.
“Get it.”
“No way.” All the color drained out of the guy’s face. “He’s dead. I’m not touching him.”
“If you won’t get the key, you’re no use to me.” I jabbed him in the ear again, a little harder. “Want to wind up like him?”
The guy didn’t reply. He just rolled onto all fours, stretched across his buddy’s body, pulled the keys out of his pants pocket, and held them up for me to see.
“Good. Now pick up the body. Put it in the trunk.”
“No way. I’m not carrying him.”
“His body’s going in the trunk. Either you put it in there, or you join it in there. Your choice.”
The guy shook his head, scrambled to his feet, and trudged down the steps. He grabbed his buddy’s hands and pulled. He made it to the sidewalk and a gun rattled free. He tried to pounce on it. But he was too slow. I pinned the gun down with one foot. And kicked him in the head with the other. Not too hard. Just a warning. Which worked. He went back to dragging the body. It left a trail of dark, congealing blood across the street. I waited until he was halfway to the car then scooped up the gun and added it to the stuff in the backpack.
The guy popped the trunk. He struggled to lift the body. It was heavy. Its head and limbs were flopping around all over the place. Eventually the guy hauled it into a sitting position. Propped its shoulder against the fender. Moved in close behind it. Wrapped his arms around its chest. Heaved it up. And posted it in headfirst. He slammed the trunk immediately, as if that would prevent him being pushed in, too, and spun around. His eyes were wide. He was breathing hard. His forearms were smudged with blood.
I said, “Unlock the doors.”
The guy prodded a button on the remote. I heard four almost simultaneous clunks as the mechanisms responded.
“Put the keys on the trunk.”
The guy did as he was told.
“Get in. Driver’s seat.”
I collected the keys, followed him, and moved in close so he couldn’t close the door. I took a zip tie from my pocket and dropped it in his lap. “Secure your right hand to the wheel.”
He hesitated, then looped the tie around the rim. Fed the tail through the tie’s mouth. Pulled until the first of the teeth started to engage. Slid his wrist through the gap. And tightened the tie halfway.
I said, “Tighter.”
He took up half the remaining slack.
I leaned across, took hold of the loose end, and pulled it hard. The plastic bit into his wrist. He grunted.
I said, “Left hand on the wheel.”
He rested it at the ten o’clock position. I took another tie and fastened it. I grabbed his elbow and tugged. He grunted again. His hand wouldn’t slip through. I figured it was secure enough. So I closed the door and climbed into the seat behind him.
I said, “Where’s Dendoncker?”
The guy didn’t answer.
I pulled the guy’s mask over my head and made a show of adjusting the straps. Then I placed the canister of gas on the armrest between the front seats.
“DS gas, your friend said. Before he died. Like CS gas on steroids. Am I getting that right?”
The guy nodded.
“I don’t believe him. I think this is a dummy. A prop. I think you guys were trying to bluff me. I think I should pull the pin. See what happens.”
The guy started thrashing around in his seat, sticking his elbow out, trying to knock the canister out of my reach. “No!” he said. “Please. It’s real. Don’t set it off.”
“Then answer my question.”
“I can’t. You don’t get it. Dendoncker – you don’t cross him. Nothing’s worth doing that.”
Chapter 30
I tapped the gas canister. “This stuff makes you blind, right? Keeping your eyesight – that sounds worth it.”
The guy shook his head. “I had a friend. We worked together for five years. For Dendoncker. My friend used to go to Walmart, once a month. The nearest one’s like a hundred miles away. They have some special drink he liked. Chai, he called it. From India. Dendoncker thought that was suspicious. He had my friend tailed. The guy following him saw someone in the store at the same time who looked like he might have been a Fed.”
“Looked like a Fed, how?”
“He wasn’t definitely a Fed. But he might have been one. That was enough for Dendoncker. And at the same time he was looking to sell a bunch of .50 cal sniper rifles. To some drug lord. From Mexico. There’s a big demand for those things down there. A lot of money to be made. The buyer wanted a demonstration before he would part with his cash. So Dendoncker got my friend. Had him tied to a pole a few hundred yards away in the desert. Naked. Made the rest of us watch. Through binoculars. The rifle worked fine. The drug guy – he was a terrible shot. He fired a dozen rounds. Hit my friend in the leg. In the shoulder. Clipped him in his side, by his gut. He wasn’t dead. But Dendoncker left him there. Sent someone to collect his body a couple of days later. I saw it. It made me puke. His eyes had been pecked out. Snakes had bitten his feet. Something big had taken chunks out of his legs. I tell you, I swore right there and then, there was no way I was ever going to let anything like that happen to me.”
I tapped the canister.
The guy tried to twist around and face me. “Another time Dendoncker was selling land mines. To another drug lord. He was building a giant new compound. Wanted to fortify it. He also asked to see the merchandise in action. To prove it worked. Dendoncker had a bunch planted in some remote spot. Then he made a guy, I can’t even remember what he was supposed to have done, walk through it. He made it ten feet. And that was the end of him.”
“When I’m done with Dendoncker, he’ll be in no position to hurt anyone. That’s for damn sure.” I tapped the canister again. “But this stuff? In this enclosed space?”
The guy leaned forward and banged his forehead on the steering wheel. Once. Twice. Three times. “I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to. I don’t know where Dendoncker is. No one does.”
“What do you know?”
“We were ordered to take you to the house. Someone would come and collect you from there. I have no idea where they would take you. That’s way above my pay grade.”
“How would they know to come for me?”
“I’d send a text.”
“To what number?”
The guy reeled off a string of ten digits. It was an Alaska area code. Presumably a burner phone, used to disguise its current location.
“What message were you to send? The exact words.”
“There are no exact words. Just that we have you.”
“How long after you send the message would they arrive?”
The guy shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes they’re waiting when we get there. Sometimes we have to wait five minutes. The longest was maybe ten.”
“Where do you wait?”
“In the house.”
“Where is the house?”
The guy described the place I’d followed the Lincoln to earlier.
“Always there?” I said. “Ever anywhere else?”
“No.” The guy shook his head. “It has to be there. Whoever comes, wherever they go, it’s always through there. There’s no other way, as far as I know.”
“What’s your deadline for delivering me?”
“No deadline. We have as long as it takes to catch you.”
“Put your foot on the brake.”
The guy didn’t move.
I tapped the canister.
The guy sighed, stretched out his foot, and pressed down on the pedal.
I took off the mask and slipped it into the pack. Dropped the gas canister in after it. Leaned through the gap between the front seats. Cupped the side of the guy’s head with my left hand and pressed it into the window. Used my right hand to slide the key into the ignition. I turned it. The big motor coughed into life. Then I slid the lever into Drive and dropped back into my seat.