“Anything to drink with that?”
“More coffee, biggest you got. Milk.”
“For the coffee?”
“In a carton. For drinking.”
The counterman said, “Coming up,” and turned to the grill.
The tattooed guy said to the woman, “You better have something. We got a long drive ahead of us.”
“I couldn’t eat, Kyle.” She was maybe thirty, a washed-out, purse-lipped blonde who might have been pretty once — the type who perpetually makes the wrong choices with the wrong people and shows the effects. “I feel kind of sick.”
“Yeah? Why didn’t you stay in the car?”
“You know why. I couldn’t listen to it anymore.”
“Well, you better get used to it.”
“It breaks my heart. I still think—”
“I don’t care what you think. Just shut up.”
Lila subsided, slouching down in the booth so that her head rested against the low back. Runyon and I were both watching them now, without being obvious about it. Eye-corner studies with our heads held still.
Pretty soon the woman said, “Why’d we have to stop here, so close? Why couldn’t we just keep going?”
“It’s a lousy night and I’m hungry.”
“Hungry. After what just happened I don’t see how you—”
“Didn’t I just tell you to shut up?”
The counterman set a mug of steaming coffee on the counter. “You’ll have to come get it,” he said. “I got to watch the burgers.”
Neither of the pair made a move to leave the booth. Kyle leaned forward and snapped at her in a low voice, “Well? Don’t just sit there like a dummy. Get the coffee.”
Grimacing, she slid out and fetched the coffee for him. She didn’t sit down again. “I don’t feel so good,” she said.
“So go outside, get some air.”
“No. I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Yeah, well, don’t do it here.”
She turned away from him, putting a hand up to cover her mouth, and half ran into the areaway that led to the restrooms. A door slammed back there. Kyle loaded sugar into his coffee, made slurping sounds as he drank it.
“Hurry up with the food,” he called to the counterman.
“Almost ready.”
It got quiet in there, except for the meat-sizzle on the grill, the French fries cooking in their basket of hot oil. Outside, the wind continued to beat at the front of the diner, but the rain seemed to have slacked off some.
Runyon and I watched Kyle finish his coffee. For a few seconds he sat drumming on the tabletop. Then he smacked it with his palm, slid out, and came up to the counter two stools down from where we were sitting. He stood watching the counterman wrap the burgers in waxed paper, put them into a sack with the fries; pour coffee into one container, milk into another.
“How much?” he said.
“Just a second while I ring it up.”
Kyle looked over toward the areaway, scowling. Lila still hadn’t reappeared.
“Hope your friend’s okay,” the counterman said.
“Just mind your own business, pal.”
The total for the food was twelve dollars. Kyle dragged a worn wallet out of his pocket, slapped three bills down next to the two bags. When he did that I had a clear look at the tattoo on his wrist — Odin’s cross. There were bloody scrapes across the knuckles on that hand, crimson spots on the sleeve of his topcoat; the blood hadn’t completely coagulated yet. Under the open coat, on the left side at the belt, I had a glimpse of wood and metal.
I was closest to him and he caught me paying attention. “What the hell you looking at?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Keep your eyes to yourself, you know what’s good for you.”
I let that pass too.
Lila came out of the restroom looking pale. “About damn time,” Kyle said to her.
“I couldn’t help it. I told you I was sick.”
“Take those sacks and let’s go.”
She picked up the sacks and they started for the door. As far as Lila was concerned, the rest of us weren’t even there; she was focused on Kyle and her own misery. Otherwise she might’ve been more careful about what she said on the way.
“Kyle... you won’t hurt him, will you?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“You hit him twice already...”
“A couple of slaps, big deal. He’s not hurt.”
“You get crazy sometimes. What you did to his mother—”
“Dammit, keep your voice down.”
“But what if she calls the—”
“She won’t. She knows better. Now shut up!”
They were at the door by then. And out into the gibbering night.
I glanced at Runyon. “Who’s the plain burger and milk for, if she’s too sick to eat?”
“Yeah,” he said, and we were both off our stools and moving. Trust your instincts.
At the door I said, “Watch yourself. He’s armed.”
“I know, I saw it too.”
Outside the rain had eased up to a fine drizzle, but the wind was still beating the night in bone-chilling gusts. The slick black street and sidewalks were empty except for the two of them off to our right, their backs to us, Kyle moving around to the driver’s door of a Subaru Outback parked two car-lengths away. There was a beeping sound as he used the remote on his key chain to unlock the doors.
Runyon and I made our approach in long silent strides, not too fast. You don’t want to run or make noise in a situation like this; it only invites a panic reaction. What we did once Kyle saw us depended on what he did. The one thing we wouldn’t do was to give chase if he jumped into the car, locked the doors, and drove away; that kind of nonsense is strictly Hollywood. In that scenario we’d back off and call it in and let the police handle it.
The woman, Lila, opened the passenger-side door. The dome light came on, providing a vague lumpish view of a rear cargo space packed with suitcases and the like. But it was what spilled out from inside, identifiable in the wind-lull that followed, that tightened muscles all through my body. A child crying — broken, frightened sobs that went on and on.
We were nearing the Outback by then, off the curb and into the street. Close enough to make out the rain-spattered license plate. 5QQX700 — an easy one to remember. But I didn’t need to remember it. The way things went down, the plate number was irrelevent.
Lila saw us first. She called, “Kyle!” and jerked back from the open passenger door.
He was just opening the driver’s side. He came around fast, but he didn’t do anything else for a handful of seconds. Just stood there staring at us as we advanced, still at the measured pace, Runyon a couple of steps to my left so we both had a clear path to him.
Runyon put up a hand, making it look nonthreatening, and said in neutral tones, “Talk to you for a minute?”
No. It wasn’t going to go down that way — reasonable, nonviolent.
At just that moment a car swung around the corner up ahead, throwing mist-smeared headlight glare over the four of us and the Outback. The light seemed to jump-start Kyle. He didn’t try to get inside; he jammed the door shut and went for the weapon he had under his coat.
Runyon got to him first, just as the gun came out, and knocked his arm back.
A beat or two later I shouldered into him, hard, pinning the left side of his body against the wet metal. That gave Runyon time to judo-chop his wrist and loosen his grip on the gun. A second chop drove it right out of his hand, sent it clattering along the pavement.
Things got a little wild then. Kyle fought us, snarling; he was big and angry and even though there were two of us, just as big, he was no easy handful. The woman stood off from the Outback, yelling like a banshee. The other car, the one with the lights, skidded to a stop across the street. The wind howled, the child shrieked. I had a vague aural impression of running footsteps, someone else yelling.