To start at the beginning go here.
There was a lot of movement to get lost in. Trucks came in, vans went out, cross traffic of people and vehicles went between a giant parking lot for the semis and a central hub of buildings. The structure of the hub was laid out like a forward operating base; a central command structure, facilities for drivers and workers, a refueling station, and a series of storage units for moving goods in and out. I was grateful to see that it didn’t have the associated security, so no one paid us any mind. We watched from behind an empty tractor trailer as the black cars parked in front of warehouse.
Once the cars stopped, one of Sartre’s rooks popped out of the rear auto and approached the lowered window of the Night Governor’s car. There was a hurried discussion, the rook doing little more than nodding. His lack of speech didn’t matter much; I couldn’t read lips, especially in French. They spoke long enough, though, that Atwell asked, “What are they doing here?”
Keeping an eye on Sartre I thought about all the gourmet creations that were served at the casino, the champagne and prime roasts, the shrimp and the oysters. “With everything they move in and out of town, there’s probably a meat locker big enough to hide a body in.”
I felt more than saw Atwell shrug. “They have to keep all that caviar somewhere.”
We stopped speculating when the rook gave a sharp nod and returned to his own car, directing the driver by pointing to the rear of a storage unit. He hopped in and the car pulled around back. Sartre’s cars did a long U-turn and headed out of the transfer hub.
Atwell let the clutch out, prepared to follow Sartre when I said, “Wait.”
“For what? We’re going to lose him.”
I pointed to the warehouse the disappeared car was now behind. “We want the other car.”
In the black of the binocular’s periphery I could feel Atwell glaring at me, my tone too close to command for his liking. “We’re following Sartre.” It sounded like Atwell was jerking on a leash, trying to get a stubborn dog to move.
A part of me considered strangling Atwell right there and stuffing him in the back. This struck me as a place an altercation between men might be ignored. I could take control of the car until I didn’t need it anymore and then drive it, along with his incompetent corpse, into some nice, deep part of the swamp.
Mostly to myself, hearing an echo of Cheryl, I said, “Think this through.” I spoke the rest of the sentence to Atwell, “Sartre isn’t going to move the body himself. He’s sent the other car to do the dirty work.”
Atwell flicked his eyes between me and the quickly disappearing Sartre, his pride and my logic doing battle. These resolved themselves into him pulling on the parking brake. I was glad to see that he wasn’t going to force the situation. He sulked about it, but settled back into his seat, waiting for the rook’s sedan to reappear.
I set the field glasses on the dashboard and kept my eyes on the warehouse. We were there long enough that the car interior began to cool in the early morning and I huddled in my peacoat. Atwell picked up the binoculars and scanned the station, trying to will some kind of action.
Fortunately, before Atwell got too antsy or said something too stupid the black sedan reappeared, pulling around the warehouse and then out onto the road. To my surprise, it took us southwest, back towards the city. We followed and kept on long enough that I began to wonder just how far they were going to take Sergei.
I half-expected them to pull off the road somewhere and act out my fantasy of sinking the body into a bog. Instead we skirted the central highlands that separated the inland and the sea, floating somewhere between the lowland banlieues and the mountain homes, the A8 cutting between them. We began to see buildings again, much further apart, raised up from the swamp on concrete and hard work. Many looked like Moreau’s scooter shop, but on a larger scale; squat cinderblock buildings with flat roofs and minimalist design, worn by time and neglect. I might have guessed it was where the honest work in town got done if it weren’t for the cargo in our pursuit.
Despite their trunk’s passenger and the approaching waking hour, the boys driving Sergei kept their cool, sticking close to the speed limit, headed to where they were going with an intentional patience. I almost felt myself begin to drowse, only kept awake by the tension that they might spot us.
Before they did, though, the car pulled into an old gas station, the service sign missing its ‘I.’ The bog around it was trying its best to reclaim the place, grass growing up through the concrete around its pumps. The lights were on, though, letting us know that despite the cracked sign and fogged glass, the place was still in operation.
I watched through the binoculars as the car idled in front of it until a fat man in a wife-beater stepped out of the front entrance, leaning against the door. The sun was just beginning to lighten the sky, but the operator’s ill-will and hangover could be felt through the binoculars.
Whatever his feelings about Sartre’s rooks showing up, the proprietor spoke with them. The conservation began with him gesturing angrily but one of the rooks said something that gentled him down. Not happily, but with a resignation, wife-beater ended it by making a sweeping gesture towards the rear of the station. The black car disappeared around the back, pulling into the thin and cracked strip of concrete that separated the station from the swamp, out of sight from the road.
For whatever reason, a part of me wanted to tell Atwell to pull up to the station to refill what was surely the parched tank of the Citroen. Instead, taking the binoculars from my face I said, “Let’s go.”
Atwell only hesitated a moment then said, “Yeah,” in a tone that suggested it was his idea. He pulled the car around back towards the city, turning his lights back on when we were out of sight.
It was a long, quiet drive back towards town. Driving out of the bog, Atwell said, “Well that certainly was interesting.” I considered responding with a, “You’re welcome,” but I was too tired in that moment. Instead I just nodded off until Atwell woke me with a “You’re here.”
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes I caught a street sign and realized we were in L’Ariane. It was a tough neighborhood, streets empty of the typical early morning commuters, only the occasional bit of trash and late-night straggler blowing in the wind.
I glanced over at the slab of concrete that was the public housing we were parked in front of – it was the place Atwell had put Sophie and I up in when we first came to the city. I had moved us three times since then. I was glad to see Atwell still thought we bedded down there. Despite the flashes of competence that he had displayed on this night, him dropping me off there was just confirmation of his laziness.
I straightened up and reached for the door handle. Before I opened it, though, something struck me. I rotated my bulk in the car’s small interior, causing it to wobble on its axis a bit as I faced Atwell. “The gas station is a pretty useful piece of information.”
Atwell shrugged, staring down the gray street, reseting to his typical feigned indifference, only the slightest bit of his impatience showing through. “Could be.” Now get out of the car – those words hung unsaid between us.
“And you wouldn’t have found that without me. Which is why you brought me here.” I kept my eyes on him instead of the apartment block, indicating I wasn’t speaking of the current location. “To be useful to you.” I paused, then added, “For national security.”
Atwell looked at me then, some switch flipping inside of him, demeanor moving from feigned indifference to a condescending approval, little more than someone bending down to pet a small dog on the head. “You did good work tonight. Uncle Sam would be proud.”
With those words he sounded like a lieutenant I remembered from Basra, a twisty piece of ‘Semper I’ who could get men killed and wonder why it was their fault. With that I felt my fists heat and my feet burn. I managed not to fight or flight with a, “Thanks.” I almost sounded convincing to myself. I continued with, “When this is over and settled, there’s something I’d like from you.”
Atwell leaned his weight against the driver’s side door, not so much trying to put distance between us but to adjust for evaluation. He produced a cryptic smile, some part of him trying to predict what I wanted and how to best get out of it. I could almost see him mentally shuffling through the usual bribes he might hand out to informants, snitches, and dregs. He probably thought I wanted money or freedom, neither of which he’d likely produce. He surprised me, though, by asking a blunt, “What?”
“I want know where Cheryl’s buried.”
