51

ROY COATS LIVED WITH THE PAIN. THE DOC HAD STOLEN all the serious meds; aspirin hardly helped. He felt his best when sitting quietly by the woodstove, the brand name of which was reversed on his cheek in angry blisters. The wound in his leg left him a cripple; it was a caked, spongy mass of scab and infection. His armpit wound was less of a concern. It hurt far less. But if he tried to venture outside into the biting cold, his face lit up in pain. He waited-impatient, hurting badly, and foul of mood-ready to tear the head off the next thing that came through the door.

The required knock on the cabin door won his attention.

He grunted loudly, admitting whoever it was. The burn’s infection kept him from speaking much. He could move his lips enough to get a few words out, but that was it.

The doorknob turned, and Newbs poked his head through, then stepped inside cautiously.

“’Bout time,” Coats said.

Donny Newbury was twenty-three but looked thirty due to the width of his round face and the thick scrub of a beard that he wore. He ducked his head, coming through the door, and filled the cabin with his wide shoulders and barrel chest.

“I brought Shilo,” Newbury said. He eyed Coats warily and stayed close to the door. “A collar and the radio gear. Fresh batteries, like you said. If you’d told me in time, I coulda brought something for… your face and all.”

Coats grunted. He took everything that had happened to him as a test. “What about Lakely?”

“Not happening,” Newbury said, tensing, in case it provoked something unexpected from Coats. “He went to the Mel-O-Dee, like you said. To meet that scientist girl for you. To make the deal and get the drum of waste and all. But it was fucked-up, Roy. I kept watch, like you said. From my pickup. He was in there too long, you know? He was going to drop the stuff and get her keys, or whatever, and make the switch. But it was fucked-up. The thing is, he shoulda checked the makes in the parking lot. Doesn’t take a fucking genius to spot the SUVs. At the Mel-O-Dee? Are you kidding me? Pickups and maybe an old Caddie or two. But spanking brand-new SUVs?”

“Get to the point,” Coats said painfully.

“Feds. I could see the flashes in the window. Fucking serious firefight. Couldn’t have lasted that long unless Lakely had gotten himself hunkered down. He put up a good fight. When it was over, the ambulance arrived. Only one ambulance there in Arco, so two of the body bags went in the back of a pickup. Three in all. Lakely, one of ’em, because he never walked out or nothing. But shit, Roy, he gave ’em hell, I’ll tell you that. And there was plenty of wounded on top of the other three.”

For Coats, the room wouldn’t stop spinning. Blood thumped at his temples and rang in his ears, and he thought his head might explode.

“The drum,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

A fifty-five-gallon drum of contaminated waste. Enough for a dirty bomb. His dirty bomb. Enough to make the world take notice. He’d have had the front page of every newspaper in the world. The Samakinn would have been heard.

But now he’d lost the drum. He’d lost Lakely.

“The girl?”

Newbury shook his head.

He’d lost the girl.

“But just because I didn’t see her come out don’t mean nothing.”

The feds had the girl. How much did she know about him? How much had he revealed in his lame-ass attempts at conversation? Most important of all, had she seen his truck? Did she know about his truck? If she’d seen his plates, he was done. Gone. They’d be on him like flies on shit.

It was all down to the doc. Again. They had to find him.

“You and Gearbox split up. Gearbox’ll take Shilo. You take the old road. We need the doc.”

They both heard the approach of the snowmobile. A moment later came the knock on the door.

“Huh!” Coats grunted.

Gearbox entered, looking half frozen.

“Newbs’ll fill you in,” Coats said. “You find the doc and you bring him back here. He’s gonna write that letter. We can still pull this off.”

He glanced down at his swollen leg. Maybe the doc could help with the leg. He could hardly move the thing without the scab cracking open. He needed some stitches.

If the doc hadn’t stabbed him, it would have been him in the body bag instead of Lakely. Everything happens for a reason.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he managed to say. “Find the doc and bring him back here.”

Then he caught sight of himself in the window’s reflection and understood why Newbs had been staring so intently: the blisters had torn open, spewing a yellow fluid down his cheek. It looked as if his face was melting off.

52

WALT WENT THROUGH THE JAIL’S PERIMETER DOOR SHOULDER first, following the shiny spot beneath the comb-over belonging to his deputy, Jimmy Magna, who everyone called “Magnum.” The forty-five-year-old county jail suffered from poor design. Its security doors were like hatches on a submarine. At twenty-eight inches wide, they were so narrow that the stretcher carrying Taylor Crabtree had to be angled to fit through. The young man was missing a couple of front teeth, and his dislocated right shoulder was in a sling. Otherwise, he’d been lucky. Inmates didn’t look kindly on those accused of molesting girls young enough to be their daughters.

“You okay?” Walt asked Crabtree as the stretcher was maneuvered through a second doorway. He’d have done anything to reverse the beating the boy had taken. He’d warned his jailers that Crabtree was at risk and was pissed at the obvious neglect that had occurred.

“I want out of here,” Crabtree said through a swollen cheek.

“We’ll figure something out. We’re going to get you to the hospital first. Maybe a dentist.” Walt was eager to question the boy further, to look for a possible link to Sean Lunn and a way to pressure Hillabrand, but the injuries came first. He had to hold himself back from in any way delaying Crabtree’s medical care.

“I’m not going back in there,” the boy said.

“It’s not how it works,” Walt said. “We’ll get you isolated somehow.”

“Please,” the boy said. It was more than a word; it was an apology, a confession, something he hadn’t spoken to anyone in years.

The plea revealed a contrite Taylor Crabtree. Walt had hoped remorse existed somewhere inside the boy. He understood the importance of the moment. If Walt delayed the medical care, and Crabtree later filed a grievance, Walt would face review. But he sensed an opportunity.

“When we get him out,” Walt instructed his deputies, “unstrap him. Let’s get him into the Sit room and put some ice on that lip. Have the ambulance stand by.”

“I don’t need an ambulance,” Crabtree complained.

“Procedures,” Walt explained. “You’re in the system now. There are ways we have to do this.”

“Fuck the system.”

“That’s how you got in here,” Walt said, “but it’s not how you get out.”

THE SITUATION ROOM smelled of sweat, coffee, and doughnuts. Just as an athlete recognized the particular smell of locker rooms, any cop could identify the combination.

Crabtree sat nursing his mouth with a baggie of ice.

“This is not supposed to happen in my jail,” Walt said.

“What if I change my mind and decide to talk to you?”

“I could tell you it would make a difference, depending on what you had to say, but, honestly, Taylor, I don’t want to lie to you. I don’t know what, if anything, will help your situation right now. You’ve built a long sheet. A judge is going to review all that. You’ll be seen as one of those kids that can’t turn the corner and get your act together.”

“But I can. Ask Elbie.”

“I believe you. And I’ll be happy to speak on your behalf, but the system is fairly unforgiving. If we could get you back into the Alternative School and if you stayed there. No more stupid stuff. Maybe a judge would be more lenient.”