Collision

18

His first morning as a fugitive. Ben was afraid the maid would come early to the room, or that the motel owners would see his face on CNN. This was a new kind of fear; it didn’t pass when you turned on the lights in the darkened room, or reassured yourself the midnight tap at the window was a tree branch, moved only by the wind. This fear stayed with you, it worked on your mind, it made every moment urgent.

At 7 A.M. Friday they left the hotel. Ben drove, heading north toward Dallas. Pilgrim wrote directions down on paper, told Ben, “This is where we go first in Dallas.” The X on the map was near the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport. Pilgrim dozed fitfully in the back, still in pain, but his color was much better than the night before.

They got a bag of breakfast tacos at a stand in Lorena, south of Waco. Pilgrim woke and ate with a lion’s appetite, drank a giant bottle of juice. Ben swapped the license plates off the stolen Volvo with those of a Subaru parked close to the Baylor University campus in Waco. Ben did the work quickly, using a wrench he’d found in a miniature tool set in the back of the station wagon.

Now I’m a fugitive and a thief, he thought, and the day is still young.

“College students are slow to notice things like changed plates,” Pilgrim said. “I find it useful to steal plates from fraternity parking lots on weekends. Not to stereotype, but they’re too drunk.”

“It’s a Baptist school. Baylor kids are not supposed to drink,” Ben said.

“Then I hope they’re distracted by spiritual matters.” Pilgrim closed his eyes and slept again.

The traffic wasn’t heavy until they hit the southern suburbs of Dallas, a long trail of cars heading into downtown, and Pilgrim woke up.

“Questions for you,” Pilgrim said. “About Sam Hector.” He sounded stronger now, more alert. Ready to rumble. “How big’s his operation?”

“One of the biggest. Three thousand employees. Huge training complexes, one an hour east of Dallas, the other in Nevada. Most of his execs are former military, decorated officers. Security, training, software… if the government uses it, he sells it.” Ben gave a soft laugh. “Sam joked once about using that as a company motto.”

“And you worked with him for how long?”

“My wife, Emily, worked for Sam. That was how we met. She was an accountant in one of his divisions, he hired me to help him win new contracts. After she died, I left Dallas, I became a consultant and he kept me busy. His revenue’s grown five hundred percent since I’ve been working with him.”

“So you’re just a really good pimp,” Pilgrim said.

“Excuse me?”

“I read about some of those contracts these guys land. The government gets in a hurry-like when we invade Iraq-and they don’t take lots of competing bids.”

“Yeah, sometimes. There are huge time pressures to get the work done.”

“And these contracts, they have profit built in. No matter how bad the contractor screws up or goes over budget.”

“Well, these are often high-risk operations,” Ben said.

“News flash, Ben. Every business is a risk.”

“Not every business can get you killed. For about every four soldiers who die in Iraq, a contractor dies. They don’t get medals or military funerals or army benefits. They don’t get military hospitals. They don’t get a parade when they come home.”

Pilgrim was silent.

Ben couldn’t resist: “And I don’t think it’s bad a business makes a profit.”

“But guaranteed profit. How many regular companies are guaranteed a profit? Sort of takes quite a bit of the risk and the responsibility out of the equation.”

Ben returned his gaze to the road.

“I hit a nerve,” Pilgrim said.

“Sure, there are crooked contractors, people taking money for work they can’t or won’t do. But abuses happen any time millions of dollars are dangled.”

“But you’re not part of the problem, right, you’re part of the solution.”

“If you want to insult me, I can stick that bullet back in your shoulder. At high speed.”

“It might be interesting to see you try, Ben.”

“The reason contractors exist now is because of choices made by the governments we’ve elected,” Ben said. “People don’t want a draft. They don’t want a huge military. And they don’t seem to mind that gaps in military infrastructure are being filled by private companies. I don’t see protestors at my clients’ offices very often. These guys are making a good return on investment.”

“I doubt it’s a good investment for America,” Pilgrim said. “What if the fighting gets too tough? The contractors can quit; soldiers can’t.”

“That hasn’t happened.”

“Bullshit. Certain engineering firms pulled out of Iraq because they’re spending way too much on security. If that’s the Army Corps of Engineers doing the work, and the army providing the security, they have to stay. It’s called accountability.”

“Odd the interest in accountability, since you stole my name.”

“Given, not stolen. Back to Hector. Background?”

“Longtime military, worked as a liaison to officers of foreign armies, then went into security consulting.”

“Ah. So Mr. Hector lets the military spend a fortune training him, and instead of being a career officer, he takes that investment America made in him and goes private.”

“Being in the army isn’t an automatic lifetime enlistment.”

“But most people don’t profit in the millions when they chuck their dog tags.”

Ben frowned. “When Emily died… Sam Hector was a good friend to me. He paid me even when I wasn’t up to working. Steered contracts my way. Gave me my first work when I was ready to get back in the game

… He’s a man of exceptional loyalty.”

“Loyalty. Then Sam Hector and I have something in common.” Pilgrim pulled a cell phone from his pocket, examined it, turned it on briefly, shut it off. “Barker called a cell phone owned by the hotel you were held at before all hell broke loose. The hotel owner is a company called McKeen. You know them?”

“No.”

“You ever heard of Blarney’s Steakhouse?”

Ben nodded. “There are a few in Dallas.”

“I’m interested in the one in Frisco. You eat there?”

“Once. It’s the original one in the chain.”

“I found a Blarney’s matchbook in the pocket of one of the gunmen. The construction signage indicated that a Blarney’s was going in at the Waterloo Arms.”

Ben tapped fingers on the steering wheel.

“There’s a connection there we need to understand.” Pilgrim tossed Barker’s phone to the floorboard, pulled another one out of his pocket. “This belongs to the lovely Agent Vochek.” He rolled the phone along his fingers. “If I turn the phone on they can trace it.”

Ben had a thought. “When I was arguing with them about the cell phone numbers you bought in my name, Vochek told Kidwell that Adam Reynolds made several phone calls to Dallas yesterday afternoon. She might have tried to call the same number.”

Pilgrim powered on the phone. He switched to the call log. “She called her mommy last. Nice girl.” He thumbed further down, read a number aloud, shut off the phone. “That’s the most recent Dallas phone number. Ah. There are two new voice mails. I bet they’re for me.” He hit the key that played the voice mail, held the phone so they could both hear it.

The first voice mail was a woman, sounding cautious. “Hi, Ms. Vochek… this is Delia Moon. You called and left a message for me. So I’m returning your call. You have my number.”

The second voice mail was Vochek asking for her phone back. Pilgrim switched off the phone. “I don’t think I want to call Ms. Vochek today.” He tucked the phone back into his pocket. “We need to know who this Delia Moon woman is. She might know who Adam was working for.”

“A lot of choices. What do we do first?”

Pilgrim considered. “Stick to the plan. We get resources. Then a base of operations.” He leaned down, pulled a wallet from his bag. “Then we go visit my friend Barker’s house and see if we can find out who turned him traitor.”

Pilgrim kept his “resources” in a nondescript, three-story air-conditioned storage facility. They walked under the regular, pulsing roar of departing flights from DFW as they went inside the building. They walked past a couple carrying a case of fine wine out of storage, past a mother and son retrieving a few boxes. Ben faked a sneeze to cover his face as they passed both groups. Pilgrim gave Ben’s attempt at camouflage an amused eye roll.

“Oh, man, that’s brilliant. The Sneeze and Hide. Let me borrow that technique.”

Ben felt his face redden.

Pilgrim, leaning down with a wince, opened the lock, not with a key- he didn’t keep one on him-but with the silvery needle of a lockpick. Ben stood fidgeting behind him, hoping no one would come into the hallway. Pilgrim stepped inside the unit and flicked on the light and Ben followed him, shutting the door behind them.

The unit held metal boxes. Pilgrim opened each one: an assortment of pistols and matching ammunition, a cache of identity papers: drivers’ licenses, passports. A laptop computer of recent manufacture. Thick bricks of American dollars.

Ben gaped at the armaments and the money. “My God. Where did you get all this?”

“Leftovers from Cellar jobs. Teach doesn’t know I have it. I thought it wise to have a stash in case I needed to run and hide someday.” Pilgrim opened and closed each container. “I don’t have a water gun, for you, Ben. Do you prefer a Glock or a Beretta?”

“I don’t want a gun.”

Pilgrim laughed and then winced at the pain in his shoulder. “You understand we’re in pretty goddamned dire straits, Ben. We are going to war with these people.”

“I’ve been thinking…”

“I thought I heard a clicking sound.” Pilgrim opened a pistol, eyed its innards.

“We get proof of whoever hired the gunmen, whoever hired Nicky Lynch, we give it to the police and we’re done.”

“You’ll be done. I won’t be.” Pilgrim inspected, cleaned, and oiled the guns, then showed Ben how to load, check, and unload each weapon. “Most important advice. Count your bullets. Always know how many you have in the clip.”

“I don’t plan on using large numbers of bullets. I patched you up, I’m not phoning the cops, I’m telling you what I know. But I’m not shooting anybody. I really don’t like guns very much.”

“I’ll make sure that’s mentioned in your eulogy next week.”

“No, I mean… I don’t want to.”

“You pointed a gun at me just last night.”

“I was in shock. I know I can’t shoot another human being.”

“I suspect you have stretches of your soul you’ve never really explored, Ben. Could you kill the person who killed your wife?”

Ben put the gun he was awkwardly holding-a Beretta 92 pistol-back in its case. “I kill him, I’m no better than he is.”

“I would think you’d consider the person who killed your wife to be pretty goddamned bad,” Pilgrim said. “True?”

“Yes.”

“I’d say he was absolute pond scum. But you, Saint Ben, you won’t lean down from your golden saddle on your moral high horse and kill him. News flash: We’re going to be dealing with people who are probably even less scummy but just as dangerous as your wife’s murderer is. I guess you’re planning to spare all the interesting people we’re gonna go meet. Golly fucking jeepers, Beaver, I feel better with you watching my back.”

Ben started to speak, stopped. “That isn’t what I meant.”

Pilgrim shrugged. “It’s what you said. Be honest with yourself, Ben: Do you have a spine? I deserve to know before we get in any deeper.”

Ben picked up the Beretta, set it down. “There are a lot of ways I can help you without being something I’m not.”

Pilgrim took the Beretta from Ben, loaded it, tucked it into his own waistband under his jacket. “We take money and the guns.” He turned away from Ben, and Ben knew he’d failed on a test, that Pilgrim thought him more an anchor than an asset. And that, Ben realized, was a very dangerous position.