as if she were afraid someone in one of those towns would recognize her.
In the station coffee shop, Cara ordered a small dinner salad and iced tea, while Bill took the waitress’s recommendation of the blue plate special.
“How do you keep your figure, eating like that?” Bill asked, gesturing toward Cara’s tiny bowl of salad.
“This is how I keep my figure,” Cara said with a grin.
But when she ordered the same thing at the supper stop, Bill thought again that Cara must be short on funds and unable to afford a complete meal. It made him nervous to eat with her, and he couldn’t help but worry about her health. Wouldn’t she get sick if she didn’t get some real food into her?
He told himself that his only reason for being concerned about her was that her getting sick would draw attention to him, since they were seatmates and had taken all their meals together.
He ordered two roast beef sandwiches, an apple and a carton of milk to go. “I get hungry during the night, and we don’t stop again until morning,” he told Cara, who was looking askance at him, because he’d just stowed away a large steak, a double order of hash browns, salad and dessert.
An hour later, as darkness was beginning to creep across the highway, Bill nudged Cara. “I don’t feel so good. I think maybe it’s something I ate.”
“Probably all that fried food,” Cara said, nodding.
Bill reached down for the bag he’d placed at his feet. “Listen, I don’t think I’m going to be able to eat this, and I hate to see food go to waste. Do you think you could at least eat some of it?”
“You might feel better after a bit,” Cara said. She didn’t take the bag.
He pushed it into her lap. “Please. I have a real horror about waste. I’ve seen too many kids starving all over the world.”
Cara gave him a suspicious look, but then opened the bag and looked inside. “Well, all right, maybe I’ll eat part of a sandwich and drink the milk.”
She ate daintily, but he could see she was really hungry. When he saw how eagerly she drank the milk, he wished he’d bought two cartons.
“You’ve been all over the world?” Cara asked, as if his comment had just now registered with her.
“Yeah.” Bill shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was exactly why it was so dangerous to get next to people—the unthinking way information just popped out of one’s mouth.
“Like where?” She took another bite of sandwich, and a tiny bit of mayo stuck to the corner of her mouth. Bill looked away, uneasy about his desire to reach over and lift it off with his finger. When he looked back, Cara was dabbing at her mouth with a paper napkin.
“Do you mind if we don’t talk right now?” he said, dodging her question. “I’m really tired.”
He hated the hurt that appeared in the girl’s eyes. Hated that he cared whether he hurt her or not. If he was going to stay alive, to outsmart Alvaretti, he’d have to play by Alvaretti’s rules. And the first one was, take care of number one and don’t give a damn about anyone else.
He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, feigning sleep. After a few minutes, he dozed off for real.
* * *
THE IRON DOOR clanged shut with a threatening sound as Deacon Avery entered the small barred room where he was to meet with his client. There was a scarred rectangular wooden table with a chair at each end in the center of the room. Other than an ashtray in the middle of the table, there were no amenities in the space allotted for lawyer-client visits.
Deacon hated the room, the prison, the trips upstate. But when Franco Alvaretti sent for you, you didn’t argue and you didn’t delay. Even though Franco was in prison, he was still a formidable enemy.
He took out a cigarette and then put it back, remembering that Franco had hated smoking ever since he, himself, had given up the expensive cigars he once smoked endlessly. Deacon went to the window and winced at the barren scene below: a huge concrete-walled exercise yard that seemed to exemplify—even more than the barred doors and windows—the emptiness of prison life.
He stroked his cigarette pack and hoped this meeting would be brief. He wondered what could be keeping Franco.
As if in response to his thoughts, he heard the now-familiar sound of a key grating in a lock, and then a door on the opposite wall opened to reveal Deacon’s client and, behind him, an armed guard.
“You got ten minutes, Franco,” the guard warned, in a pleasant voice. Deacon knew instantly that this was one of the guards who were now on the Alvaretti payroll.
“Deke, good to see you, old friend,” Franco called out, holding his arms open to Deacon.
They hugged briefly in the traditional manner, and then Deacon went to the table and lifted his briefcase onto its surface. “We don’t have much time, Franco. Maybe you want to get right down to business.”
Franco put his hand out to prevent Deacon from opening the case. “This is a different kind of business, Deke. You won’t need anything in there.”
Deacon let his surprise show in his expression. He had assumed this was going to be a discussion of the business and the delegation of authority during Franco’s incarceration.
Franco shook his head. “This is personal, Deke, and I figure you’re indebted enough to me that you’ll carry out my orders.”
Deacon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’ve always followed your orders, Franco, you know that.”
“Good,” Franco said with a nod. “Then let’s cut right to the chase, as they say. Where is Bill Spencer?”
Deacon blinked and stared at Franco, aghast. “Why would you think I’d know that, Franco? We know he must have gone underground, probably with the WPP’s help, but I certainly have no knowledge of his location.”
“Then find out!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, find him. And do it now! The longer you delay, the more apt you are to lose him for good.”
“But why would—?”
“I want him wasted.”
Deacon blanched and gripped the table edge as a dizzy spell threatened. “Franco...it’s over... Why don’t you just forget—”
The other man leaped to his feet, knocking the chair over. “Don’t tell me to forget, Deacon. You’re not the one stuck in this place for the next twenty years, with nothing to do but remember your enemies. Or maybe,” he began, leaning forward and grabbing Deacon’s jacket lapel, his face just inches from Deacon’s, “you’re one of them?”
“No! No way, Franco, you know I’m with you...all the way, Franco.”
Deacon could feel the sweat forming on his face, behind his ears, under his arms and between his thighs.
As quickly as he’d lost his temper, Franco’s good humor was restored. He picked up his chair and sat down, smiling at Deacon.
“Good. Now, use all the people you need to locate Spencer, and then, when that’s accomplished, get in touch with me.”
“You want me to send out an...enforcer, Franco?”
“No. Just find him. I’ll tell you what to do once I know you’ve got him in your sights.”
He stood up and reached across the table to pat Deacon’s cheek affectionately. “Don’t get your marbles in an uproar, Deke. I’m not going to make you pull the trigger.”
His laughter echoed back to Deacon long after the guard had led Alvaretti out of the room. It took Deacon a few minutes to wipe the sweat from his face and stop his hand from shaking so