Page 108 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

Fallon entertained that fantasy a moment, while two wiry-armed, bare-chested men wrestled what looked like a fucking bear trap open and managed to lock it into place without either of them getting their hands caught in its teeth. If Boyle had caught Lécuyer just now, then Fallon’s part in all of this could be over. Maybe he could even return the boy to his mother, wash his hands of the club, this city, this whole sordid case, and go running home to Marianne. He’d never relished the thought of getting back to his wife so much.

But then someone sent up a shout of greeting, and Fallon turned, and there was Boyle, striding through the door with the air of a man who’d just stepped out of fighter jet for the first time: that was to say,rattled. His complexion was waxy and dough-pale, his eyes large and white-rimmed, his hands balled into fists that tightened, again and again, tendons leaping in his forearms.

“What–”

“Hey, Boyle, what do–”

“Boss, did you–”

Boyle lifted a hand to silence them, but Fallon thought it was his face more than the gesture that cut everyone off midsentence.

For Fallon’s part, his already-tight stomach twisted like a wind sock in a gale, and he mopped his face again, ineffectually, with the back of his arm. He glanced toward the door, anticipating the arrival of the crew Boyle had taken with him – but the door remained shut.

“What happened?” he asked when Boyle was nearer.

Boyle drew to a halt, propped his hands on his hips, and gave a single, sharp head shake.

“Where’s Baker and his boys?”

Another head shake.

Fallon’s stomach writhed some more. They were dead, then. Killed by Lécuyer andhisboys.

Maybe the bear trap wasn’t so farfetched…but Fallon didn’t intend to be around to watch it snap on anyone’s ankle.

“There’s been a change,” Boyle said, and his voice was off. A shadow of its former authoritative bray, trembling at the edges. “We’re going to do a prisoner exchange. I need to talk logistics with his men.” He nodded toward Lloyd, and made to step around Fallon.

A change. No, a change didn’t factor into Fallon’s plans, which were – shit – five minutes from execution.

He grabbed Boyle’s arm, startled by the tension in it, and the way it jerked and flexed within his grip. For a second, he thought Boyle would spin and hit him. But Boyle pressed his lips to a flat, angry line, and said, “What?”

“I have to go.” When Boyle’s brows lifted, he rushed to add, “Just for a few minutes. I don’t have any cell coverage here. My wife keeps calling – nosy bitch. When I try to answer, the call drops every time. I need to ride up the road and see if I can get a better signal.”

He wanted to squirm away from Boyle’s gaze, the way it bored into his own and didn’t look convinced for a second. “Your wife?”

“I know, I know. I told her before I left not to call me, but she’s in some kinda panic. I think one of the kids is sick or something. If I ignore her,” he continued, as Boyle stared and stared, “she’ll eventually call HQ and report me missing, try to get a supervisor to get hold of me. She’s done it before. Like I said: nosy bitch. Just let me call her, and then we won’t have to worry about her anymore.”

Boyle stared, and stared, and stared…

Then, finally, nodded. “Fine. Make it fast.”

It was an effort to walk calmly out of the building, even more of one when he glanced over and caught Remy watching him with that spooky, doll expression that seemed at once plastic and knowing. Like Remy could hear his thoughts, and was judging him.

Jesus.

But he made it through the door, and out into the dark of the gravel parking lot; drank down air thick as stew while the crickets chorused all around him. He exhaled and shivered with relief. Threw himself behind the wheel of the rental, and slung gravel in his haste to turn around and head down the snaking drive toward the road.

His heart was going like a triphammer, and he breathed in short little bursts through an open mouth. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten out the door, and the immense relief of that was eclipsed only by the terrifying knowledge that, after this errand, he would have to go back, and that what would come next would be even more dangerous and difficult.

The driveway stretched for half a mile or so, far enough that, by the time he turned out on the road, the depot was no longer visible behind him. The Shell station where he’d agreed to meet Duet was another half mile from there, at a four-way stop that it shared with a tiny, lunch-counter sandwich shop, and a farm stand that sold locally-grown produce.

At this time of evening, the gas station was the only one of the three businesses that was open. He spotted a black Ford Explorer with black, practical wheels as he approached the intersection, and parked his rental beside it.

He waited a moment, once he’d killed the engine, doors locked, peering over at the Explorer to make sure he could only see one silhouette through the tinted windows; he could.

Duet waved at him, through two layers of glass, and with unease dragging at his feet, he climbed out of the rental and walked around to meet her at the rear bumper of the Explorer.

Despite only having three pumps, the Shell station bustled with activity: boaters and roughnecks in pickup trucks, mostly. A guy was feeding coins into the air compressor, and another was using the vacuum to clean out the cargo area of his old Bronco. Cars lined the front walk, and the door opened again and again, chime after chime, as customers came and went. The air was heavy with exhaust and cigarette smoke, and Fallon supposed this place was as safe as any, given his circumstances. Should one of Lloyd’s boys, or Boyle himself, happen by, they likely wouldn’t kill him in front of this many witnesses.

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