Final Winter

A good woman. He could use her now, to talk to her about what he was doing for the next few days, for he was doing more than just opening the company up to financial ruin because of a dental plan for the union. Now it was much more than that: he was using his aircraft to save his country and his people from some terrible disaster that was approaching.

But now, would an eleven-member board still let him run AirBox? That was going to be the question. And what would happen if his fleet was grounded because of some court injunction, while those terrorists planned their anthrax attack? What then?

His hand stayed on the empty side of the bed as he waited for answers, as he waited to fall back asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Vladimir Zhukov thought about those four young people back in Wyoming. Had somebody seen them approach the truck as it was being painted? Was it possible that they were being traced? What was going on—

By leaning over he could look into Imad’s sideview mirror and see the approaching police officer come up on the driver’s side. Imad rolled down the window and the officer called up, ‘Your license and registration please.’

‘Certainly,’ Imad replied, and Vladimir was pleased at the boy’s quiet tone. Imad passed over the paperwork through the window and said in a low voice, ‘What now?’

‘We wait.’

Imad snorted and Vladimir checked his own sideview mirror. The other officer was standing there at the side of the road, flashlight in one hand, his other hand resting on top of his service pistol in his holster. What were the options? What was to be done?

‘Well?’ Imad said. ‘He’s going back to his cruiser. What do we do now?’

Vladimir felt his palms moisten. ‘We wait. Nothing has happened yet. We wait.’

So they waited.

Imad said, ‘He’s coming back.’

And Imad’s hand reached down for his pistol.

‘No, not for a moment,’ Vladimir said. ‘Leave it be.’

Imad said, ‘I will give you your moment, but I will not end up in Guantanamo, or in any American jail. Understand?’

Vladimir looked over again. The second policeman was still standing there.

The first one approached the open window. Imad turned awkwardly, still holding his right hand at his side, ready to reach for his pistol.

‘Here you go,’ the policeman said. ‘The reason I stopped you is that you have a taillight burned out on the right side.’

‘Oh,’ Imad said.

‘Here’s a chit, saying we stopped you. You’ve got twenty-four hours to get it fixed. All right?’

‘Sure,’ Imad said.

‘Have a good trip.’

‘Thank you.’

The policeman walked away. Vladimir closed his eyes and said, ‘All right. Leave. Nice and slow. Don’t give them any excuse to stop us again. All right?’

‘Sure,’ Imad said. ‘Stupid fuckers. Didn’t even ask to look in the trailer. What kind of country is this, when the police don’t want a payoff or a cut?’

‘Shut up and drive.’

Imad chuckled as he started shifting gears, and the truck lurched out onto the empty highway. He said, ‘I never thought I’d say what I’m about to say.’

‘Which is what?’

‘That you were right back there.’ Another laugh. ‘If it were up to me, they would both be dead.’

Vladimir folded his arms, closed his eyes. ‘Thankfully, it wasn’t up to you.’

~ * ~

Late morning, Memphis International Airport. Brian Doyle sat in a waiting area near his gate, legs stretched out, resisting an urge to scratch at his chest. It had been one long goddamn night. When the EMTs had gotten to him outside Mamma Garrity’s house, it had turned out to be not as bad as it had first looked. The two EMTs — professional young women who managed to ratchet down his tension with their soft voices — had wiped and cleaned the wound, which had only needed a few butterfly strips. No stitches necessary. They had suggested a trip to the ER but filled as he was with memories of how chaotic urban ERs could be on a busy night he had politely but firmly declined.

But Brian hadn’t declined a ride to the local precinct house, where he had spent several hours going through mugshots of local perps — although mugshots was now an obsolete term, for the head-on photos of criminals were stored on a computer system, which meant just clicking the mouse and watching the grim faces parade by. The exercise had been useless, of course, but it had been a joy to be back in a real police station for a while. The phone calls, the parade of suspects into the precinct house, the foul and fun language of the cops and detectives — it had been bracing, like having your first real drink after a six-month dry period. One of the cops had lent him a clean shirt that actually fit, and all in all it had been a good night, after that tight spot he had gotten in.

One of the detectives in the precinct had shaken his head after learning what had happened. ‘Goes to show you, man like you should always have a vest on, especially when traveling in strange places.’