TOM LAY ON the six-foot square bed in the back of Walt’s Roadtrek. Forrest Knox had left long ago, and the SWAT helicopter had departed shortly after that, leaving three team members behind to guard him. One was the young medic, and Tom was grateful for that. The kid had done a good job on his shoulder, stabilized his blood sugar level, and relieved his angina with close monitoring of his heart and careful administration of nitroglycerine.
The other two cops had spent their time in the captain’s chairs at the front of the vehicle, playing cards over a small dining table. The passenger window had been smashed somehow, and patched with a square of tarp and some duct tape. If Forrest gave the order to kill him, Tom knew, one of those two men would carry it out. That was why they were keeping their distance. Tom had done what he could to bond with the young medic, who had asked him a dozen questions about his trade. But he was under no illusions that this boy would—or could—protect him against the guns or knives of his comrades.
Tom wasn’t sure what time it was. Despite his best efforts, he had drifted off several times. Relief from pain tends to do that to you. While awake, he’d thought back to his visit with Caitlin and wondered whether she would keep her promise not to tell Penn about their meeting. At this point he hoped she’d break it. Because if she told Penn about Quentin’s house, Penn would go there and find Melba, or her dead body. If she was alive, Penn would get her medical attention, and if not, at least he would come into the open so that Forrest Knox could make contact with him. Tom didn’t know whether Penn would agree to any deal with Knox, but he would surely have the sense to pretend to make one—until Tom could get himself and Walt out of harm’s way.
Tom was trying to think of a way to probe the medic for information when someone knocked on the Roadtrek’s side door. All three SWAT cops had their guns out before Tom had fully registered that a newcomer had arrived. The two men up front communicated with hand signals alone. When they were satisfied, one stood just out of the line of fire of the door and called: “Who’s there?”
“Snake Knox!” came the reply. “Forrest sent some beer and food for you guys. He says you may be here longer than he first figured.”
“Shit,” muttered one of the cops, lowering his gun.
He reached out and flipped the door handle, and someone pulled it open from outside. Then a wiry old man wearing jeans, a black sweatshirt, and a John Deere cap climbed the steps into the van. He had white whiskers, but his black eyes darted throughout the van, taking in everything at a glance.
Snake Knox, Tom thought, remembering a much younger man.
“Bring that box, Sonny!” Snake called. “These boys are probably hungry.”
Sonny Thornfield followed Snake up the steps, a grease-stained cardboard box in his hands. He was clean-shaven and looked scared. Tom could hardly believe only two days had passed since he and Walt had tortured Thornfield in this vehicle. His pulse began to accelerate.
“What you got there, Snake?” asked the SWAT cop.
“Burgers and chicken. Better than nothing, right?”
“You’re damn right.” The SWAT cop holstered his pistol and pulled a chicken leg from the box.
The central aisle of the van had filled with men.
“Hey,” called the medic from beside Tom, “pass me a hamburger.”
Somebody tossed a wrapped sandwich back to the bed.
“You want something, Dr. Cage?” asked the boy.
“No, thanks.”
“A burger won’t hurt your sugar. You gotta keep your strength up.”
“Do I?” Tom asked with frank skepticism. “I hope so.”
The medic averted his eyes.
Tom turned his head and sought out Snake Knox among the bobbing heads in the front of the van. He couldn’t make out anything but a green cap sandwiched between black ballistic nylon, LSP logos, and Velcro utility straps. The sound of men eating voraciously turned Tom’s stomach. He found himself worrying that Snake and his partner would relieve the SWAT cops, leaving him at their mercy. Thanks to Walt, Thornfield knew exactly where the miniature blowtorch was stored in the van. God only knew what kind of revenge he would take on Tom if given the opportunity.
Tom was asking himself whether he’d done the right thing in saving Thornfield from Walt when he heard a man gasp in surprise. Jerking his head to the right, Tom saw the SWAT cops trying to back away from something in the narrow aisle. They had nowhere to go.
“Not one move,” somebody said. “Or I blow his goddamn brains out.”
“You’ve lost your fucking mind, old man,” said a younger voice.
“I guess we’ll see about that. Take their guns, Sonny.”
As Thornfield plucked big semiautomatic handguns from black holsters, the medic beside Tom reached slowly for the pistol on his belt.
Tom whispered, “Don’t try it. You can’t shoot in here without hitting your buddies, and Snake Knox is crazy.”
The medic’s hand touched the butt of the pistol.
“He’ll empty his gun back here,” Tom hissed. “He wants me dead anyway, but there’s no sense in you dying.”
The young cop dropped his hand just as someone jerked the rear doors open from outside the van, and a cold wind rushed through the RV. Tom looked back and saw two men in their seventies training guns into the van. One held a long-barreled revolver, the other a shotgun. Tom was pretty sure he had treated both men in an earlier decade.
“Sorry, boys,” Snake said to the SWAT cops. “But if you was earning your money, I’d already be dead. I need you to go outside and lie down on the ground.”
“Colonel Knox is going to spread you across Louisiana in pieces,” said the biggest of the cops.