“Did you like me?” he asked. Christ, he was old; and getting older by the minute.
Michaela tipped a hand. “I thought it was a little weird that you liked working in a prison so much. In a prison with my mom. But never mind that, what about the woman? Is her name Eve Black? Does she really sleep and then wake up? Because that’s what I’m hearing.”
“Eve Black is the name she goes by,” Clint said, “and yes, she does indeed sleep and wake normally. Although not much else about her seems normal in the least.” He felt giddy, like a man walking a tightrope blindfolded. “Would you like to interview her?”
“Are you kidding?” For the moment, Michaela appeared not the slightest bit sleepy. She looked feverish with excitement.
The outer and inner gates began to trundle open. Garth hooked Michaela’s arm with his own and stepped into the dead space between them, but Clint held up his hand. “There are conditions.”
“Name them,” Michaela said briskly. “Although, given the pictures I have in my camera, you might not want to be too greedy.”
Clint asked, “Did you see any sheriff’s cruisers nearby?”
Garth and Michaela shook their heads.
No cruisers yet. No one watching the access road leading in from West Lavin. That was a trick Geary had missed, at least so far, and Clint wasn’t terribly surprised. With Terry Coombs seeking refuge in a flask, his Number Two, Mr. Animal Control Guy, had to be playing catch-up. But Clint didn’t think he’d miss it for long. There might be someone on the way already. In fact, and on second thought, he would have to assume that was the case, which meant going for pizza and eating with Jared was out. Geary might not care about anyone entering the prison, but he surely wouldn’t want anyone leaving. The problematic head-doctor, for one. Evie Black, possibly smuggled out in the back of a prison van, for another.
“Your conditions?” Michaela asked.
“It has to be quick,” Clint said. “And if you hear what I think you’re going to hear, and see what I think you’re going to see, you have to help me.”
“Help with what?” asked Tig, rejoining them.
“Reinforcements,” Clint said. “Weapons.” He paused. “And my son. I want my son.”
4
There was no pie at the Olympia. The woman who made the pies was sleeping in a cocoon in the break room. Gus Vereen, taking the deputies’ orders, said he was shorthanded all around. “Found some ice cream cake down at the bottom of the freezer, but I can’t vouch for it. Been there since Hector was a pup.”
“I’ll try it,” said Don, although it was a piss-poor substitute—a diner without pie was a disgrace—but with Frank Geary on the other side of the table, he was on his best behavior.
Also present at the rear table of the diner were deputies Barrows, Rangle, Eric Blass, plus an old legal beagle named Silver. They’d just finished eating a lousy lunch. Don had the Haluski Special and it had arrived swimming in a pool of yellow grease. He’d eaten it anyway, partly out of spite, and Magic 8 Ball said that a case of the dribbling shits was in his future. The others had eaten sandwiches and burgers; none of them had finished more than half. They had also passed on dessert, which was probably smart of them. Frank had spent half an hour giving them all the rundown on what he knew about the situation at the prison.
“You think Norcross is boning her?” Don blurted at this point.
Frank turned a low-lidded gaze on him. “That’s unlikely and irrelevant.”
Don received the message and hadn’t said another word until Gus Vereen came around to see if they needed anything else.
Once Gus left, Judge Silver spoke up. “What do you see as our options, Frank? What’s Terry’s take on this?” His Honor’s skin tone was worryingly gray. His speech was wet, as if he were talking around a knot of chewing tobacco.
“Our options are limited. We could wait Norcross out, but who knows how long that could mean. Prison’s probably got quite a stock of food.”
“He’s right,” Don said. “There’s no prime rib or nothing, but they got enough dry goods to last to the end of days.”
“The longer we wait,” Frank went on, “the more talk gets around. Lot of guys around here might start thinking about taking things into their own hands.” He waited for someone to say, Isn’t that what you’re doing? But no one did.
“If we don’t wait?” the judge asked.
“Norcross has got a son, and of course you know his wife.”
“Good cop,” the judge said. “Careful, thorough. The lady goes by the book.”
Eric, busted twice by Sheriff Norcross for speeding, made a sour face.
“And we wish we had her,” Geary said. Don didn’t believe that for a second. From the first, when Geary had jammed his hand under Don’s armpit, treated him like a puppet, he’d seen that he wasn’t the kind of fellow who accepted second position. “But she’s in the wind, and so is the son. If they were around, I’d say we should try and get them to see if they couldn’t convince Norcross to break loose from whatever thing he has going with the Black woman.”
Judge Silver clucked his tongue and stared into his coffee cup. He hadn’t touched it. His tie had bright yellow lemons on it and the contrast with his skin underlined the sickly look of the man. A moth fluttered around his head. The judge waved it away and it flew off to alight on one of the light-globes that hung from the diner’s ceiling.
“So . . .” Judge Silver said.
“Yeah,” Don said. “So what do we do?”
Frank Geary shook his head and swept a few crumbs from the table, catching them in his palm. “We put together a responsible group. Fifteen, twenty reliable men. We tool up. There should be enough body armor to go around at the station. God knows what else. We haven’t exactly had time to take inventory.”
“Do you really think—” Reed Barrows began doubtfully, but Frank overrode him.
“There’s half a dozen assault rifles, anyway. They should go to the guys who can handle them. Everyone else carries either Winchesters or their sidearms or both. Don here gives us the layout of the prison, any particulars that might help. Then, we make a show of force, and give Norcross one more chance to send her out. I think he will.”
The judge asked the obvious. “If he doesn’t?”
“I don’t think he could stop us.”
“This seems rather extreme, even under the extraordinary circumstances,” the judge said. “What about Terry?”
“Terry is . . .” Frank brushed his crumbs onto the diner floor.
“He’s drunk, Judge,” Reed Barrows said.
Which kept Frank from having to say it. What he said (pulling a glum face) was, “He’s doing the best he can.”
“Drunk is drunk,” Reed said. Vern Rangle opined that this was a true statement.
“Then . . .” The judge touched Frank’s big shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “Guess it’s you, Frank.”
Gus Vereen came over with Don’s slice of ice cream cake. The diner owner’s expression was dubious. The slice was bearded in frost. “You sure, Don?”