Chapter Forty-Three

 

DAVIS

 

I feel like I'm going to cry when I get back to fresh air. I'd like to pretend that all that is upsetting me here is the questioning. I wasn't worried that I would die, because there's absolutely no reason for me to have worried.

There's no real way for me to deny it, though. I was out-and-out panicking the entire time that I was there, and nothing that I say or do is going to change that.

But now, I'm out. I don't have to worry about whether or not this has all been an elaborate setup to shoot me like a fish in a barrel. It's over.

So now the much more important questions start to come to the fore. Brian Beauchamp looks like hell, but he's alive, and more to the point, he's right behind me. The only deal being, thankfully, that I use him for his 'intended purpose.'

Well, I'm not sure I can guarantee that, but it didn't stop me from saying I guaranteed it, when the question came up.

Of course I'm going to use him in order to bring Ryan in. That's natural. Why else would Donaldsen have sent me, after all? No, we're not going to fuck it up, and I'll have Martin call them as soon as he's done picking Ryan up from the local boys.

That hint by itself is enough to tell me more than I think they wanted me to know. After all, it's easy to say that somewhere, Ryan's in some sort of nebulous trouble.

He sure as hell didn't go off half-cocked and attack the Crazy Horses again. I know because I would've seen it. Would've seen some sort of damage, and there would have been some signs of a body if he didn't make it far.

Scheck wouldn't have been so worried about a dead man. But that only left open the fact that he was somewhere, and that place was one that he couldn't leave conveniently.

Well, hell, that could be just about anywhere, I thought, and I was right. Now he's out of that situation. He couldn't be just about anywhere.

He has to be right where they expect him to be. The reason being, of course, that they put him there, and they set things up so he'd get real damn embarrassed, at best. At worst, he looks totally solid for the murder with no real alibi.

Then all Donaldsen has to do is go and get him, from the locked room that he's neatly handcuffed inside, and boom. Easy extraction. Don't even have to oil your guns after.

I should like the idea. Cooperation, and all that. Bringing in the bad guys without firing a shot, without needing to risk a single life.

Well, I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. I feel like I have to take a shower after I hear the news. The idea that they'd give us one of their types, gift-wrapped and waiting for us, and all because of a setup.

The idea that we would just take it and look the other way.

The idea that there are people inside the A.T.F. who are more interested in picking up petty, low-level criminals than getting the big boys out of the picture.

I can feel my stomach churning a little bit at the entire thought, as if Donaldsen wasn't a sickness inside the A.T.F., but a sickness right there in my gut.

I want to throw up, but I have to stifle it. I can't go green in front of Brian Beauchamp. Instead, I push his head down under the frame of the back door and close the door behind him, then slip into the driver's seat.

I don't say anything until we're already out of the area, until I can be sure that nobody's watching us, which is a little longer after that, even.

"Are you alright?"

He looks up, surprised to hear my voice.

"What?"

"I asked if you're alright. If you're hurt."

"No. Yes. Fuck. I think I need to go to the hospital."

"I'm absolutely sure you do. You lost a lot of blood, but it's going to be alright."

"Are you working for them?"

"Not a chance in hell. I'd let you out of those cuffs, but I don't have a key on me."

I don't have one anywhere that's readily available, really. I could go to my apartment. I've got a spare ring of keys there, just two on the ring. More than I've ever needed to have, though, so I don't exactly worry about it.

But there will be someone watching my apartment, no doubt. If I go there, they just get Brian Beauchamp back like I never even had him. Which means that I need to think about another place I can get a key.

The car nearly drives right by a military surplus before I realize that seems like as good a bet as any. I turn in at the last minute and park, then crane my neck around to face Brian.

"I need you to keep your head down, alright? I'll be two minutes."

He lays down in the seat, as much as you can. He looks rough. I knew it already, but every time I see him, I just think that he looks worse than he looked before. Rough doesn't really begin to describe it.

He looks like, well… honestly, he looks like someone who just lost a hell of a lot of blood. I'm no doctor, but if I saw Danny looking like Brian looks right now, I'd be real worried.

I need to move fast, then. That's the only answer. I need to move fast and get him out of here, get him into a hospital, and get him a blood transfusion.

But I can't walk him in with cuffs on. The first call they'll make will be right to the local cops. The first call the locals make will be to us, and Donaldsen hears about it within thirty minutes.

The inside of the place looks like any other army surplus. The walls are plastered with crap. Hoo-rah and all that. Anything you could ask for—uniforms, decommissioned weapons, ammo boxes, parachutes. I don't need any of that stuff.

I just go straight up to the counter. There's a large glass display with several dozen knives, laid out diagonally in a row, so they can fit as many as they possibly can. The prices range from pocket change to more than a day's wages.

"I need cuff keys."

The guy gives me a condescending look, but he turns and grabs them. He rings them up and reads the price off the digital machine that's blinking right there in my face.

I fork the money over. It's a small price to pay for a man's life. I take my key, pocket it, and head back out the door. I leave the receipt on the counter, because frankly they can have the damn keys back if they want, right after I get my use out of them.

Brian's got the door open by the time I get back, and he's trying real hard to walk, but he's not going to get far. His face is already strained, and he's starting to sweat, and he's barely made it ten feet.

I grab the bracelets and unlock them, throw them into my pocket.

"You need to get back in the car, Brian. We need to get you to a hospital." I stare into his eyes, hoping that he can focus enough to look back.

"But that was Ryan," he says, his face bunched up. "They got him."