The city bus ground to a halt at the bus stop in front of the motel at six o'clock. It was already dark outside. Four people got off. Ray Fluker was the last one. He was bone tired and his muscles ached after a long day at work. His battered lunch pail dangled from his hand.
A new Mercedes S-Class, its engine rumbling with power, pulled up beside Fluker as he walked toward his room. He recognized the car and his face broke into a smile as the passenger window slid down. Fluker leaned down to look inside the car, careful not to put his dirty hands on the door.
His friend George sat behind the wheel. He was smiling too. "Hi, pal," George said in his strange accent. Clearly he wasn't from the South. Probably East Coast. Maybe from up around Maine. A real Yankee. But he was a good friend. Fluker's only friend, really.
"Hi, yourself," Fluker said, genuinely glad to see his friend but surprised at the unexpected visit. "What's up? Something wrong?"
"Just came by to see you."
"Really?"
"Sure, why not?" George said. "Unless you're busy."
Fluker shook his head. "Me, busy? Not at all." He glanced at the motel and thought about his shabby little room. In polite society this would probably be the point at which he asked his friend if he would like to come in and perhaps have something to eat or drink. But Fluker knew he couldn't do that. George lived in a luxury downtown high-rise and drove a Mercedes. Fluker's room was a rat hole with a noisy and mostly empty refrigerator. And nothing to drink but tap water. His smile slipped from his face at the sudden shame he felt.
George's smile stayed as bright as ever. "You hungry?"
"Sure." Fluker shook his lunch bucket. "All I had was peanut butter and jelly."
George reached across the passenger seat and pushed open the door. "Good, because I'm buying. But I warn you, I need to ask a favor."
After a moment's hesitation, during which he worried that his work clothes might somehow mess up the rich leather upholstery, Fluker's smile spread back across his face and he eased himself into the soft leather seat.
"You like steak?" George asked.
"Yeah, sure. I like steak. Who doesn't?"
"Excellent." Then George hit the gas and the powerful car slipped into traffic, like a shark into a school of mackerel.
***
At 6:30 p.m. Max Garcia stood in front of the main desk at the Le Flore County Jail, located at the back of the Le Flore County Courthouse, itself located in the bustling metropolis of Poteau, Oklahoma. The courthouse, according to a plaque on the wall, had been added to the prestigious National Register of Historic Places in 1984. Looking at the plaque, Garcia wondered why in the hell anyone would add this pile of crap to anything other than a soon-to-be-demolished list. He wished he had a cigarette. He wished his wife hadn't made him quit. He wished a lot of things.
"Sir?" the deputy said from behind the wire mesh cage that kept him separated from the inmates.
Garcia turned his eyes away from the plaque and refocused them on the young pimply-faced Le Flore County sheriff's deputy standing behind the counter. A multi-copy, multi-colored property receipt was lying halfway through the rectangular opening in the cage, and the deputy was holding out a pen for Garcia.
"You need to sign for your briefcase," the deputy said.
Garcia took the pen from the kid's hand and scratched a squiggly mark on the signature line below his printed cover name. The deputy took the pen back and tore off the pink bottom copy of the property receipt and slid it and Garcia's Samsonite briefcase out through the cage opening.
"Have a nice evening," the deputy said, "and drive safe."
Garcia grunted and turned around. Blackstone and Donahue were waiting for him. He looked at Donahue. "Long flight?"
"I got here as quickly as I could," the FBI man said. "In a way, you're lucky you got your asses handed to you so fast because if those hillbillies at the trailer park had been able to pull themselves away from Jerry Springer fast enough to record the actual shootout on their cellphones, your little clusterfuck would be all over YouTube right now, and I never would have found a judge willing to sign a habeas corpus. So far the only footage that has turned up online was shot after the Sheriff's Office arrived on the scene."
"What about my men?" Blackstone said.
"Still working on it," Donahue said. "But they should be free by morning. Although, it looks like two of them will have to stay in the hospital for a couple more days."
"There were some weapons in the truck that survived the fire," Blackstone said.
"Earliest would be tomorrow," Donahue said. "According to the sheriff, seized firearms go into a vault that can't be opened after hours."
"I bet," Blackstone said.
Garcia walked toward the main door. The other two followed.
Outside, Garcia nodded at the Chevrolet Tahoe idling in the small parking lot. "Yours?" he asked Blackstone.
"Yeah," Blackstone said. "I also had the plane moved down to Mena. Believe it or not, we've gone back to staging ops out of there since all the conspiracy hubbub's died down. I thought we'd attract less attention there than at Fort Smith."
"How far is it?" Garcia asked.
"Hour and fifteen. Hour if we push it."
"Can the driver keep his mouth shut?"
"Absolutely."
Donahue cleared his throat. "I need to get back to Washington."
Garcia opened the back door. "You're coming with us."
"Where?"
Garcia didn't respond. He just held the door open.
Donahue looked into the empty back seat and didn't move.
"Get in," Garcia said.
Donahue climbed in.
"Make some room," Garcia said.
The FBI man made a slight humph sound, then scooted over behind the driver. When Blackstone moved to get in beside Donahue, Garcia stepped in his way and nodded to the empty front seat. "You ride up front."
Blackstone nodded and got into the front passenger seat.
Garcia slid in beside Donahue. "They're not hillbillies."
"Pardon me," Donahue said.
"You called them hillbillies, the people who live in that trailer park. Hillbillies live in the mountains, or at least in the hills." He pointed out the window at the flat landscape. "You see any hills?"
"I don't really see how that's relevant," Donahue said.
"They're rednecks. White trash. Maybe a couple of cowboys. But not hillbillies."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"It's about being accurate," Garcia said. "It's about paying attention to details."
Donahue shook his head, then turned and stared out the window.