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Mike
Donnelly tried to relax on the bed at the Swamp-Fox Motel. He stilled an
exasperated curse and rolled over on his side. It wasn't that the bed was
uncomfortable, it was a helluvalot softer than the pile of rocks he had hidden
in for three days on Mount Alba, in the Andes a year ago. A lot warmer, too.
Like the weapons they provided, UN uniforms were made to fall apart.
He
rolled again. That jerk Milhouser wasn't back yet. And Terry Marie . . . He
smiled fondly when he thought of her. Man, the scrapes they had gotten into over
the years. The times she had taken a whipping to save his scrawny butt and the
times he returned the favor.
If Mom
and Pop only knew the half of it, they'd strangle the pair of them. And here was
his kid sister, talking like she was going to get married. Terry Marie, complete
with a hubby and a pack of rug-rats. Man, wasn't that a laugh. She would rule
the roost, no doubt about that.
Benny.
Why did that name sound so familiar? Benny Wya Grey -
He
gagged.
Coincidence.
Had to
be. Mike reached for the phone. No, better not. Mom and all of them looked
half-dead. But what if it was? Indecision gnawed at his guts. He should call,
the kid was a raving lunatic, a real nut-case.
But if
that were true, why did they have to take him alive? Why keep it all on the
quiet when they should be howling at the local uniforms for assistance?
Milhouser knew, but the man would clam up and die before he told. Where there's
a will, Mama always said, there's a way. And Mama always knows best.
A cold
smile playing over his face, Mike sat up on the bed and threw his legs over the
side. Mike grabbed the phone and punched in the number of a man he knew from
high school, a total waste of a man, but right now, an important one.
After
that accident caused by their perp down in Fayetteville more than twenty
military personnel had been busted in rank for helping the kid. A couple of
dozen careers put on hold out of loyalty to a known pervert. The little prick
was free because his father and stepfather had been heroes in a no-win war on
drugs. Then the UN stepped in and, gee, the drug lords backed away. Bought off
and according to rumor paid to draw America's attention from what was happening
to their country.
"Hey,
Porker, it's Donnelly. Still selling your ass for grass?" A stream of
profanity came out of the phone. "Stow it, Pork. You need something, and so
do I. Me? Government. Yeah, I'm a fed, asshole. You run, I got the gun, so stuff
a Valium in your mouth and listen."
Hours
later Mike's partner fell through the door. Mike darted to him, gun ready, eyes
scanning the parking lot. Mike's lips curled in disgust.
"You're
drunk." He backed away from the sneering face and squatted on his bed.
Laying
a hand on Benny's shoulder, John turned him with as much anger-borne force as
desk weakened muscles would allow. There was a prick on the skin over his heart,
not much, like that a small pin would make. John looked down and blinked once.
Twice. Then very rapidly at the sight of the knife.
"Let
me alone, man," Benny said, his voice soft. The eye patch loomed in John's
sight, his good eye like shards of glass. "Just leave me the freek
alone."
John
forced himself to nod at the kid, relieved to see the knife disappears back into
a pocket.
Gaze
never leaving Benny's face, John backed away.
Benny
returned to the separator. John felt oddly angry, like a rabbit that a wolf had
turned its back to. A non-entity, something too weak to be dangerous. He had
come close to the end. The look on Benny's face told him that. Not for the first
time. But this was the first it came so fast, so totally unexpected. What
happened to the scared little kid shown in video-shots and the papers?
With
unsteady hands, John returned to his coffee. He let a smile drift over his face.
He hadn't soiled himself. No need for clean underwear. Not like that fool from
the Dispatch at the kid's trial up in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Damn, he felt like
whistling. John took a look at the black leather jacket that hung from Benny's
shoulders and changed his mind.
"Any
left?"
John
started. He nodded, gestured at the pot. "Half of a cup, I guess."
Benny
sat the bucket of fresh milk off to one side. He covered it and scrawled a note
for Millie.
I'm
puttin this mornin's milkin in the pantry fridge sted a the crock cause a the
kids, your faithful slava, Benny
Grinning
to himself, Benny stepped into the pantry. John almost breathed a sigh of
relief. The pantry door swung back open and Benny snagged a mug off of the cup
rack on the counter. Benny took the pot and dumped some in. He sank into a
chair, tipped it back, knees propped on the edge of the table. With a sigh of
pure pleasure he lost himself in the aroma and taste of strong black coffee. He
made a wry face. That old woman didn't call it mud for no reason.
Just
like his mom made. One step above camp-coffee. Only, Millie used a basket filter
to keep out the grounds. Painful thoughts of what Anna must be going through
bared his teeth. He came back to present at the muffled sound of John's
breathing, which had grown a little fast.
"You
a shark?"
John
started. "A- A what?"
"A
shark. You know, a man-eater." He stared at John. Total confusion and not a
little fear. Something in Benny liked that. "A reporter, du'e."
Hearing
the barely suppressed scorn, John flushed a sullen red. "I am a reporter,
yes. I do not consider myself a shark, however, Mr. Greylov."
Benny
chuckled. "Plenty o' dudes behind bars because some shark wanted to play
God." His head tipped back and he stared at John until the man began to act
as if his chair had suddenly become too hard. "Most of 'em are Native. Like
me."
Sweat
beaded on John's forehead. This was noted by Benny, as well as the guilt in the
man's eyes. Benny sat up. What did the shark have to be guilty about?
"What
did you do to Bull that got him so angry?" John said in an effort to break
the chill weaving around his heart.
"I
boffed Sweet-Bottom, and he got PO'd mightily."
Benny's
lips curled at the other's confusion. Acting like he was better'n everybody
else. That's the type. Knows all, tells all, and what a news-rat don't know he
makes up.
"Let's
just say that me and Terry go back a long ways, and the relationship is mutually
satisfying. Ok?"
"Oh.
You mean you and her- That is-" John cleared his throat and choked on a
swallow of coffee.
"I
make her faint."
Coffee
spewed over the table.
When
Milhouser was done vomiting Mike helped his partner to the bathroom and went so
far as to wipe the man's face.
He lay
the man on the second bed and took a chair, straddling it, his arms on the back.
"Tell
me something, Milhouser," he said. "Tell me about the Greylov
kid."
The
man groaned and threw an arm over his face.
"Murderer."
"Why
us? Why all the fuss, just to grab one screwed up kid?" He smiled grimly
and shook hard.
"Lemme
'lone. Need t' sleep."
"Tell
me about the Greylov kid."
Milhouser
opened one blood-shot eye and growled. "What are you, the fuckin' bitch
Boss or somethin'? Lemme sleep."
Mike
shook Milhouser. "First the Greylov kid. Then you sleep." His gaze
bored into Milhouser. "I got a little something. Bought it while you were
out." He held up a small bag of white powder and a needle. "A ride,
man. All for some info." Smiling, Mike held the bag just out of reach.
"Come
on, man. Tell me about the Greylov kid."
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