ollow you anyway,” Wes said of the two FBI agents who had trailed him to the garage in their own car. They’d remained inside the sedan with the motor running. The tailpipe was emitting a cloud of exhaust, which to Dutch looked like the breath of a beast on his tail.
“This Begley character wants to get to Tierney just like you do,” Wes continued. “So instead of tearing up the mountainside on your own, why not let them shoulder some of the responsibility?”
As much as Dutch hated to admit it, Wes made sense. If something bad happened up there—for instance, if Tierney sustained a fatal gunshot wound while trying to escape—there would be inquiries, and review boards, and paperwork out the wazoo. Why not let the feebs bite off a chunk of that?
“If this doesn’t work,” Wes said, nodding toward Hawkins, who had emerged from the restroom looking like a walking cadaver, “the feds have choppers, trained rescue teams, high-tech tracking equipment, all that.”
“But if I use them, I answer to them,” Dutch argued. “That galls. Big time. Besides, when I get to Tierney—”
“I hear you, and I’m with you one hundred percent on that issue, buddy,” Wes said in a low voice. “Especially if he’s our woman snatcher. All I’m saying is—”
“Use the FBI up to a point.”
Wes slapped him on the back and gave him the grin he used to give him in the huddle when they’d agreed on the play that would leave the other team bumfuzzled and beaten. “Let’s get this show on the road.” But as they walked toward the sanding truck, he frowned. “Is he all right, you think?”
Hawkins was in the driver’s seat, but his arms were draped over the steering wheel, hugging it like a life preserver. “He’d better be. If he fucks this up, I’m going to kill him, and then I’m going to keep him in jail for the rest of his natural life.” Dutch opened the passenger door and climbed in.
“I’m right behind you if you need me,” Wes told him.
When Wes closed the passenger door, Hawkins flinched. “No need to slam it,” he grumbled.
“Start her up, Hawkins,” Dutch said.
He cranked the ignition key. “I’ll start her, but it ain’t gonna do no good. I’ve said it a thousand times, and I’ll say it again. This is nucking futs.”
Dutch eyed him suspiciously. “Do I smell liquor on your breath?”
“Last night’s. Recycled,” he replied as he checked his side mirrors.
Dutch looked into the mirror on the passenger door and watched Special Agent Wise back up the sedan. Then Wes backed his car into the street, leaving Hawkins a clear route.
No more than ten seconds out of the garage, the windshield became blanketed in snow. Hawkins’s glance toward Dutch said, I told you so. Muttering to himself, he turned on the windshield wipers and shifted gears. With a great deal of reluctance—or so it seemed to Dutch—the rig chugged forward.
The plow attached to the truck’s front grille cleaved a temporary path for the cars following them. Hawkins also laid down the mix of sand and salt. It helped, but each time Dutch looked into the side mirror, Wise and Wes were searching for traction. So he stopped looking.
He had set his cell phone to vibrate rather than ring. Knowing it hadn’t, he checked it anyway to see if he had a voice mail. He didn’t. He dialed Lilly’s cell number, hoping that on a fluke he would find a signal. He got the expected No Service indicator.
She would call if she could, he told himself. Her cell phone was as useless as his. Otherwise she would contact him.
He leaned into the windshield and craned his neck to look toward the crest of Cleary Peak. He could see no farther than a few feet above the roof of the truck. It was total whiteout beyond the point where individual snowflakes were distinguishable as they kamikazed into the windshield.
If it was this bad down here, it would be far worse at the top of the mountain. Not wanting to spook his driver, he didn’t say that out loud, but Hawkins read his mind.
“Higher we go, the worse it’s gonna get,” he said.
“We’ll take it a foot at a time.”
“More like an inch.” After a moment, he said, “What I’m wonderin’ . . .”
Dutch looked over at him. “What?”
“Does your old lady want to be rescued?”
• • •
“What do you think, Hoot?”
“About what, sir? Specifically.” Hoot was focused on the center of the car’s hood, trying to keep it in the middle of the chute that the sanding truck had opened for them.