As Walt darted back up the aisle, Sonny tried to rise, but Walt punched him in the solar plexus. Two seconds later, Walt had exposed the antecubital vein.
Tom jabbed in the needle and injected 5 mg of the sedative.
“ATTENTION IN THE VAN!” said a metallic voice.
“PA speaker,” Walt said, still holding Sonny. “I’ve got to go out there.”
When Walt let go of Sonny’s arm, the old man fell back onto the cushions of the bed and lay still.
“I’d better come with you,” Tom said.
“Hide your gun and the drugs first.”
Tom nodded, though he couldn’t see what good that would do if he couldn’t hide Thornfield as well.
“Throw a blanket over him like he’s sleeping,” Walt ordered. Then he opened the side door of the van and climbed down the step.
“STOP WHERE YOU ARE!” ordered the PA voice.
Tom’s heart began to thump against his sternum. He wanted to slide the gun into his rear waistband, but he fought the urge and did as Walt had instructed, concealing his black bag and the pistol in a drawer beneath the RV’s bed. Red lights began flashing outside, sending sizzling arcs of scarlet light through the van’s interior.
A car door slammed outside.
Tom took a deep breath, then went out through the same door Walt had used. A Louisiana state trooper wearing a flat-brim cowboy hat stood beside a white patrol car with its driver’s door standing open. The flashing red light bar backlit him like an actor walking into the climactic scene of a film. Tom could hear radio chatter inside the car. Even as he hoped that the trooper hadn’t called in Walt’s license plate, he realized that the way the van was parked—nose out from the borrow pits—meant the trooper couldn’t have seen the plate number yet. Walt had probably parked that way on purpose, just in case.
“What’s the problem, Sar’nt?” Walt asked as Tom closed the door.
The trooper walked toward the van, his hand on the butt of his pistol. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Captain Walt Garrity, Texas Rangers.”
“Texas Rangers?”
“That’s right. Retired. But I still work as an investigator for the DA in Houston.”
“Where’s your ID?”
“In my wallet. Can I take it out?”
“Not just yet. What about you?” asked the trooper, gesturing at Tom.
Tom silently cursed his stupidity. “It’s in the van.”
“I see. Captain, we’ve had reports of a van like this one being used to move crystal methamphetamine around the state.”
Walt laughed. “You think a couple of old farts like us are pushing meth?”
“You’d be surprised. Why don’t we get your friend there to open up the van, so I can take a look inside?”
“Happy to. Our buddy’s sleeping inside, though. Hate to wake him. He drank a little too much during Happy Hour tonight.”
“He drinks too much every damn night,” Tom said in a griping tone, flashing back to Korea, where he and Walt had occasionally lied to MPs in similar fashion.
“I’ll try not to disturb him,” said the cop. “But I need to see both your driver’s licenses. Proof of insurance, as well.”
Tom guessed the trooper was about forty. He had dark hair and eyes set too close together beneath the brim of his hat.
“Open the van door, sir,” he ordered Tom. “Then step away from the vehicle.”
Walt nodded that Tom should comply.
I guess we’re going to brazen this out, Tom thought. As he walked to the Roadtrek’s side door, he prayed that the intravenous Valium would keep Sonny sedated for the duration of their bluff.
“Captain Garrity,” said the trooper, “while he’s opening that door, I want you to turn around and place your hands behind your head.”
“Happy to,” Walt said, folding his hands behind his neck. “You’re pretty far off the beaten path for patrol, aren’t you?”
“I work on loan to the Criminal Investigations Bureau sometimes.”
“That right?” Tom saw Walt’s right hand flex and unflex behind his head.
Tom’s hand was on the Roadtrek’s door handle. He sensed more than saw the trooper coming closer, preparing to scan the interior once the door opened. As Tom pressed the button in the door handle, he heard a thud from inside the van.
“Ol’ Jimmy must be waking up.” Walt laughed. “He’ll be wanting some hair of the dog.”
The trooper drew his pistol. “Inside the van!” he yelled. “Open the door and come out with your hands out in front of you!”
Sonny Thornfield shouted something unintelligible from within.
The trooper whirled to make sure Walt’s hands were still on his head.
Tom’s throat sealed shut with fear.
“How many of you are in there?” called the trooper.
This time there was no response. Tom’s back began to ache between his shoulder blades. He prayed it wasn’t heart pain.
“Open that damned door!” the trooper yelled at Tom. “Do it now, then back away!”
“Hey, take it easy, brother. We got nothing to hide.”
The trooper waved his gun at Tom. “You get that goddamn door open.” He glared at Walt. “And you stay right where you are!”
It is heart pain, Tom realized, rotating one shoulder to try to relieve the ache. I need a nitro. I guess the sooner this is over, the sooner I’ll get one. He popped the door handle and pulled it open.
“Back away!” shouted the trooper.
Tom took four steps back from the van.
As the trooper edged up to the opening, Tom heard a guttural moan. The cop leaned forward, stood motionless for a few moments, then turned back to Tom with a look that froze his blood. His face was smug, his eyes filled with triumph. When he raised his pistol, Tom reeled backward in terror.
The crack of the gunshot stunned him, but even as he fell, Tom saw the trooper jerk in a way he remembered all too well from Korea. A black circle had appeared on the man’s left cheek, just below the eye. Then came another bang, and a second hole appeared beneath the trooper’s nose. He wobbled on his feet, then collapsed behind the van and didn’t move.
The sound of Walt’s running feet startled Tom back into himself.