Cutting Edge

12

DeBolt managed to clean his plate, and declined Sam’s offer of a second serving of pancakes. The coffee, however, kept coming, and when he finally waved her off Sam put a check on the table. He paired it with his twenty-dollar bill, and it was swept up and change quickly delivered. He left Sam five dollars, which he thought a generous tip given that it was, in that moment, precisely half his personal fortune.

He was ready to leave, but hesitated realizing he had no destination, nor any means of transportation. His eyes drifted outside to the road and the windswept bay. He watched a white Chevy Tahoe ease into the parking lot. The truck pulled into a spot fifty feet from where he sat. DeBolt, still on edge after last night, watched cautiously. The Tahoe was parked facing the restaurant, and he could make out two men in front. The backseats remained in shadow. Neither man moved — they simply stared at Roy’s Diner from behind dark sunglasses. No, not the restaurant.

They were staring at him.

DeBolt hurriedly looked around the diner. He saw a red EXIT sign over the doorless passageway to the kitchen. The Tahoe remained still. The two men inside didn’t move or seem to be talking. They weren’t coming inside for breakfast. It all seemed wrong, out of character for Jonesport. He noticed the front license plate on the Tahoe — a Maine plate, but different from others he’d seen, more generic. In a burst of inspiration, he whispered to himself, “Maine license plate 864B34.”

It took longer this time, the seconds seeming like hours as he tried not to stare at the men in the truck. Finally, a response:

DeBolt sat stunned. His senses went on high alert. Department of Defense? It made no sense at all. And the lat-long position — he knew vehicles could be tracked, but to have near-instantaneous access to that kind of information? Where was it coming from? He saw but one certainty — the information he was getting was so accurate, so detailed, that it could only be true. More ominous, but equally certain — the men in the Tahoe were part of the squad from the beach last night.

The EXIT sign beckoned, pulling him as if by some sidelong gravitational force. But why weren’t they moving? he wondered. Of course he knew the answer. Last night there had been five of them. So where were the others? Might there be another truck out back, someone covering the perimeter? He had no idea. They were the professionals, he was the amateur. DeBolt knew he was trapped. Then it dawned on him why they hadn’t made a move — they needed to do this quietly. He was cornered, but they couldn’t simply walk up and shoot him in a public place.

That gave him time. Not much, but time all the same.

With all the self-control he could gather, DeBolt sat where he was and tried to think it through. He looked all around the restaurant, but short of throwing a chair through a window there were only two ways out: the front door and the back. Might there be a weapon inside the restaurant? A handgun under the cash drawer or a patron with a concealed weapon? Yes, he decided, it was possible, but that kind of firepower wouldn’t give him any chance against five heavily armed commandos. DOD. The acronym looped through his head until he forced it away. He looked out across the parking lot and saw a half-dozen cars. Could he steal someone’s keys and make a run for it? Not without raising a commotion inside that would give away the idea. Forewarned, the Tahoe could easily reposition to block in any car on the lot. The street beyond had light traffic, so a carjacking seemed impractical. Is that what I’ve been reduced to, he thought, a common thug? Joan Chandler had already paid the ultimate price at the hands of these men. He vowed to not endanger anyone else.

DeBolt methodically studied each vehicle in the parking lot, and his gaze settled on a late-model Cadillac. It was a sporty model, a CTS. He wondered who owned it, thought What the hell, and mentally ran the plate number. The response was almost instantaneous:

DeBolt looked over his shoulder. He saw at least five men who could be Paul Schroeder. Or had Mrs. Paul Schroeder borrowed her husband’s car? No way to tell without asking.

Then his thoughts snagged on the last line of the response — something different from his search on the Tahoe. OnStar. He knew what it was — an emergency communications system built into General Motors cars as an option. He recalled a salesman’s pitch for a Chevy he hadn’t bought some years ago: automatic crash notification, theft protection, and a wide variety of other functions. But why had it been included in the response? Why indeed …

DeBolt concentrated mightily: OnStar, HFJ098.

Nothing came.

One of the men got out of the Tahoe, passenger side, and stared directly at him. DeBolt gripped the table, forcing himself to stay put. Everything around him seemed to constrict; he felt like a fish watching a net close around him. He saw the man’s lips moving ever so slightly, no doubt coordinating with others who remained unseen. His right hand hovered just above his belt line, near the open zipper of an all-weather jacket.

Then, finally, a response flashed into view:

DeBolt sat stunned, his attention alternating between near and far vision. Capture? he almost said aloud. What the hell did that mean? His next command seemed more like a prayer. He waited, transfixed, and seconds later the parking lights blinked twice on the unoccupied Cadillac and he heard two muted chirps.

The doors had unlocked.

Another sent message brought the smallest of tremors from the car. A puff of blue smoke from the exhaust.

The engine had started.

Sweet Jesus …

Without another thought, DeBolt leapt out of his seat and ran for the back door.