Chapter Thirty-Five

 

DAVIS

 

Ryan doesn't sound remotely pleased on the phone, and I can't blame him. I don't like whatever's going on. Too much can go wrong, and there are too many unanswered questions. I don't like it one god damned bit.

I hang up the phone and slip it into my pocket, and settle down into the car seat. Unlike him, I don't have to wonder where I'm supposed to be going.

Then again, also unlike him, I can't just go in and kick the shit out of people until they answer my questions. So I suppose we're even.

There's no holding cells in the office. I know there aren't. I've spent a year in that office, I know the place better than my apartment. So if Logan Beauchamp is in there, then he has to come out. Whether it's as a free man, or as a transfer to the Sheriff's office, they can't keep him because they don't have the space.

But I don't have a ton of time to waste waiting around. If I could get inside without it posing a very real risk of getting myself arrested, or at least questioned, I might just go inside and check.

Instead, I'm stuck out here, waiting for some sign to present itself, and prove once and for-all that there definitely is, or definitely isn't, someone being held in that office.

I take a drink of tea. It's only marginally better than the coffee, but at least it's not dead bitter. The hour's rest I got in Ryan's room had me feeling better for the first hour, but now it feels as if I've only made things worse somehow.

Like the only thing that was propping me up was the pain of exhaustion before now, and now that I'm a little less exhausted, the pole's gone out of my tent.

I lay my head back and force my eyes to stay open, then sit forward again. I can't afford to relax. I can't fall asleep. No time to sleep. My eyelids are starting to droop. If I don't figure a way to stop it, then I know better. I'm going to fall asleep, and I'm going to do it very soon.

So I decide to take a risk. I open the car door and I step outside.

The rush of warm Arizona air hits me right away, after sitting in the air-conditioned cars. It doesn't have to be a long walk. Just a short one. Nice and easy. I put on my sunglasses and pull a Diamondbacks cap on to hide my hair as best I can.

It's warm, but I pull a jacket on anyways, and I keep my head down. I can't be seen, and this close to the office, anyone's liable to recognize me.

So in reality, I shouldn't be taking this risk at all, but without taking the risk, I'd be caught for sure, because I'd be asleep.

I slip into the liquor store down the street from the office. I don't want to run into anyone so I walk down the aisles, checking as quick as I can until I'm fairly confident that there's nobody going to surprise me back there.

Then I slow things down and take the walk at my leisure. Time to stretch my legs, time to relax.

It's a risk. There's a chance I get caught, and there's a chance that Logan Beauchamp is going through those doors right now. But it's a risk I have to take, like it or not. I don't like it one bit, but it doesn't change what I need to do.

I hear the blip of a siren, and I can feel a writhing feeling in my gut. The sure knowledge that I'd screwed up. I missed it.

I drop the magazine I had leafed through on the shelf. I'll come back for it, or I won't. The guy behind the counter sounds irritated. Clearly he's not convinced I will be back. I don't have time to worry about what he thinks.

I dart outside, sucking air and stretching my body to its limits. I have to do what I can to get some sort of proof. Hiding be damned.

The hat's lifting off my head as I move, but I'm just in time to see a car pulling out of the parking lot. A hand reaches out and pulls down the stick-on light on top.

The car slows to a stop, and then pulls out into the street. Nice and smooth. They're coming my way, so I'll get a good look into the backseat. The place where, if I'm not wrong, I'll get a good look at Logan. The place where I can confirm that there's more going on here than there seems to be.

The car doesn't drive past, though. It turns, short of pulling by. From the twenty or thirty foot distance, I can almost make out what might be someone in the back seat. I can't see well enough to positively identify Logan, though.

Fine, I think. I'll keep moving. With some luck, I didn't miss anything important. I'll get back to the car, I'll order a sandwich delivered or something.

I don't know what, but I'll figure something out. The adrenaline pumping won't let me go to sleep anyways. I'm kicking myself for having let them slip by, and my body is right there along with my head, making sure I realize just how bad I fucked up.

I watch the ground as I walk. Don't feel like looking up, and I sure as hell don't feel like getting recognized.

Every little thing I can do to hide my identity is something that will help, in the long run. Regardless of whether or not it seems like it will, at the time. Eventually, it will help.

What I don't notice, as I make my way back to my car, is the dark sedan parked just a few feet away. It's blocking a fire hydrant, which is none of my business—but it'll get you a hefty ticket if the Sheriff catches you.

I don't notice a big guy get out. I would have recognized the suit he was wearing. Would've recognized him, too, but the suit used to be his favorite, back when I knew him. Maybe it still is.

But I don't recognize him, because I don't see him. He doesn't call out to me. I do hear the car door close, a little ways away, but I don't turn to look. It's nothing special.

People are always loading and unloading, around here. No reason to investigate every little thing. Instead, I'm looking at the field office. Nothing's happening there, of course. I should've looked at the car, but I don't know any better.

So I'm watching the field office, where someone is sitting with their back to the window. I see them sit back and take a sip of coffee. Everyone must be tired. I think he was one of the ones that was working the night before. I don't recall his name.

I finally turn and look when I notice the sound of footsteps. They're getting closer, and they have been for a little while, at the edge of my awareness.

It's perfectly average. Just like the car door that I should've been paying attention to, or the way that the cherry-top pulled off onto a side-street.

But now, after all this time, something makes me turn, and I recognize him.

"Agent Davis," he says. His voice is smooth, dark. He's not smiling. He never smiled.

"Pollack," I say. My voice is low and defensive, and I should probably play friendly, but I can't. Not any more.

"How's the investigation going? Still haven't picked up Beauchamp?"

"Is Donaldsen here with you?"

I already know the answer before I even ask the question, and what's more, he knows that I know. Mitch Pollack might as well be Martin Donaldsen's shadow. The man who had everything I'd ever wanted, all the power and prestige I'd hoped for.

I'd been an idiot for thinking I could supplant him, but I thought it. And, in time, I'd learned better. Right around the time I paid for it.