Holly unzipped the black government-issue duffel and took out his cell phone. He’d purposely left it behind before the sit-down with Clayton Burroughs. No distractions. The phone showed multiple missed calls from the same three numbers within the space of four hours. One was his girlfriend, Clare; one had a government prefix; and one had a North Georgia area code. Calling any of the three back was going to be the equivalent of sticking an ice pick through his left eye. He tossed the phone on the end table and fished a prescription pill bottle out of the duffel, a special cocktail of ten-milligram hydrocodone tablets and twenty-milligram diazepam. He shook out the pills and washed them down with tap water from the sink. His hands were still a little shaky. He’d done his best to keep them still during his meeting with the sheriff, but today was a long time coming, and to be honest, he was surprised he’d handled it so coolly. Holly was pretty sure he’d sold the right play to the sheriff, even if he’d had to consume a year’s worth of fat and carbs at that ridiculous pool-hall diner to do it.
How do these people eat that shit every day? he thought. He needed a gym, and a shower, but he settled for three fingers of bourbon from a plastic traveler’s bottle to give the pills a swift kick in the ass. The burn of the whiskey felt good. He sank down into a chair next to the bed and let the chemicals work their magic. It was the only thing making this next part bearable. It was time to roll up his sleeves and start calling people back.
He grabbed the cell phone and punched in a number. A pocket-sized faux-leather King James Bible with gold trim sat on the desk. Holly toyed with it while the phone rang. When the person on the other end picked up, he reached out and slid the Bible into the trash.
2.
“Jessup,” the voice on the line said.
“Henry, it’s Simon.”
“Simon, where the hell are you? You dropped off the grid, and you got people around here crabby. I don’t like these people when they’re crabby. You know that.”
“I’m in Georgia.”
“And why in God’s name are you in Georgia?”
“I’m working a case.”
“You’re supposed to be working a case in Jacksonville, Florida.”
“Same case.”
The silence on the line told Holly that his partner, Henry Jessup, was trying to connect the dots before asking a stupid question. He asked anyway.
“When am I going to be briefed on how what you’re doing in the Peach State connects to Wilcombe? What do I tell Jennings?”
The pills were doing their job. Holly felt the tension ease in his neck and shoulders.
“Tell him anything you want, Henry. I’m the AIC on this, and the last time I checked, the ATF was a federal agency, meaning I can follow a lead anywhere in the continental United States. I’m tracking down a major supplier of dope in the Georgia Mountains that ties directly to the guns in Florida, and the money—and Wilcombe.”
“You are the AIC on this, but you work in conjunction with me and the federal government. There are rules here you have to follow. This isn’t some Podunk local operation in southern Alabama. This Wilcombe thing you’re so hot about is the only reason Jennings vouched to get you in here, and already you’re pulling this cowboy shit. This is the kind of thing he’s waiting on to fry your ass and take the case for himself.”
“Fuck him. He’s a suit. He has no idea how it works out here.”
“He’s your boss. And he doesn’t trust you. You move too far outside the lines on this and he’s going to bust you back down to a beat cop. Me, too, probably.”
“What can I tell you, Henry? I’m just doing my job.”
“Well, then do it by the book. Jennings and them are going to want to be briefed on this, Simon. Stop the radio silence and the freelancer shit. You shouldn’t be up there alone. I should be there.”
“Henry, you worry too much.”
“You don’t worry enough.”
“Just give me a couple of days. Let me see where this takes me and I’ll let you know the play when I have it figured out.”
“Have you called Clare?”
“Not yet.”
“She’s called me worried about you. She said you’re not answering her calls, either. She thinks you’re in Florida.”
“Jesus, Henry, what are you, my mom? I’ll call her when I get a chance.”
“I don’t like lying for you, Simon. It’s getting to be a habit.”
“Look, Henry. I am following a lead, you’ll just have to trust me on it.”
“Whatever you say, partner. Just don’t leave me with my dick in my hands. As soon as you know something, I know something, okay?”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“All right, man. Be careful around those rednecks and call your woman.”
“Right.”
“Seriously, Simon. Be careful.”
Holly hung up. He poured another glass of bourbon and hit redial on the missed local call. A male voice picked up on the first ring.
“Goddamn, Holly, I’m freaking out here.”
“I told you not to call me on this phone.”
“Don’t worry, chief, I’m on a burner. I was just calling to tell you I got a team ready for this thing. We’re—”
“Stop,” Holly said. “Stop right there. I told you not to call me on this phone, and you did. That means you can’t follow simple directions. If you can’t follow orders, then I can’t use you. If I can’t use you, then I’ll have to dispose of you. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I hear you, but—”
“No, just stop talking. Be where I told you to be, and do what I tell you to do. If that doesn’t work for you, then the deal is off.”
“Roger that, boss. I get it.”
“Do you? Are you sure? Because if you don’t, I’ll find someone else that does, and you—you they find with your hands tied, your arms broken, floating ass-up in the river. Are we clear on this?”
“Crystal.”
“Good.”
Holly slapped the phone closed and hammered back the bourbon. What was it the sheriff had said earlier about finding good help?
“The pickin’s are slim.”