The only other explanation was that they believed Jennifer.
He began hyperventilating and forced himself to slow his breathing. He could handle this; all he had to do was stay calm. No matter what Jennifer said, he could put a spin on it that threw everything she said into doubt. After all, she was a drunk, and the whole town knew it. She had no proof, just one side of a telephone conversation that she’d overheard, and she was bound to have garbled it.
When they reached the police department, he was astonished at the number of cars there. Something was going on, something more than the city council meeting. Then he saw three of the city councilmen standing outside the glass doors leading into the station, and his stomach knotted. The sun was going down and the fierce heat had abated, but sweat adhered his shirt to his back as Hill opened the car door and assisted him from the backseat.
The city councilmen looked at him, but they didn’t make eye contact. It was as if they were watching an animal in a zoo, nothing more than a matter of curiosity.
“Take these cuffs off!” he said to Hill in a fierce undertone. “Goddamn it, the city council is watching.”
“I’ll take them off when we’re inside, sir,” said Hill, catching his arm.
Meaning when they had him where he couldn’t get away. Dizzily he looked around, and a familiar-looking car caught his eye. It was a gray Dodge, and it was parked in one of the slots reserved for the patrol cars, but no one seemed to care.
Sykes drove a gray Dodge, an ordinary car that he said no one ever noticed. This car had a Madison County tag on it; Sykes lived in Madison County, just outside Huntsville.
Why was Sykes here? If they had arrested him, they wouldn’t have let him drive here any more than they’d let Nolan. How had they even located him? There was no reason for Sykes to be here, unless—
Unless Sykes had turned on them.
He was hyperventilating again, colors running together in his vision. “Sykes!” he roared, lowering his shoulder and ramming it into Investigator Hill, breaking his hold. “Sykes!” He began running toward the station. “You bastard, Sykes! You motherfucking bastard, I’ll kill you!”
Investigator Hill and the patrol officer chased him, and the patrol officer made a diving tackle, wrapping both arms around the mayor’s knees and bringing him down. With his hands cuffed behind him, Nolan couldn’t catch himself, and he skidded face-first along the rough asphalt of the parking lot, leaving skin and blood behind. Mucus and blood poured from his broken nose as they hauled him to his feet. “Sykes,” he said again, but his mouth was full of blood and the word was unintelligible.
The city councilmen stepped to the side as they half-carried him through the doors, the councilmen’s expressions disgusted, as if they’d seen something nasty. Temple Nolan tried to think of something to say that would reassure them, some pat answer he’d rehearsed and used a hundred times before and which never failed to elicit the response he wanted, but nothing came to mind.
Nothing came to mind at all.
TWENTY-SIX
It was almost three o’clock in the morning. A multi-department task force waited in the night for the delivery of the Russian girls. Members of the Hillsboro Police Department, Jackson County Sheriff’s Department, Madison County Sheriff’s Department, the FBI, and the INS had hidden themselves behind trees, bushes, the propane gas tank, and anything else they could find. They had parked their vehicles on another road and trekked over a mile across a field to reach the trailer.
Glenn Sykes was there, to fulfill his usual role. If anyone else had shown up to accept the shipment, the driver of the truck would have been spooked; since he was armed, no one wanted him spooked. The girls in the back of the truck had been through enough, without risking getting them killed by ricochets.
Jack lay under a big pine tree, his black clothing blending into the night shadows. The chief of any department seldom saw any action, but it had been decided that his expertise would be welcome. According to Sykes, usually there was only the driver to contend with, but the Russians were so expensive that Phillips had wanted an extra guard to make sure nothing went wrong. The two men were outnumbered fifteen to one, but there was always the chance that one of them would try something stupid; hell, it was almost a given, unless everything worked perfectly and the lawmen had the two overwhelmed before they knew anything was happening.
A black rifle lay cradled in Jack’s arms. He knew exactly how much pressure was needed to pull the trigger and how much kick to expect. He’d burned thousands of rounds of ammunition in this weapon; he knew its every idiosyncracy, the smell and feel and weight of it. It was an old friend, one he hadn’t realized he’d missed until he had taken it from the cabinet in his house and felt the way it settled in his arms.
Sykes was inside the trailer, the lights on, watching television. They had carefully searched the trailer to make sure he had no means of contacting the driver, but Jack thought that even if they’d had a dozen telephones lined up for him to use, Sykes wouldn’t have made the call. He had coolly decided to cut his losses by cooperating fully, and he’d keep to his bargain. The D.A. had almost wept with joy at the wealth of evidence Sykes offered him and had given him a real sweetheart deal. He wouldn’t even do time; five years’ probation, but that was nothing to a man like Sykes.
In the distance they heard the whine of a motor, rising above the nighttime cacophony of frogs, crickets, and night birds. Jack felt the kick of adrenaline and got a firm grip on his reactions. It wouldn’t be smart to get too excited.