“I can’t,” he said. Southwestern accent. The other side of fifty. Looked like an old cop, or any number of ex-NCOs Walker had bumped into since leaving the military. A man who knew what to do in a tight spot. No-nonsense. But he was drawn and tired. Not just from being stuck in his car since at least Monica’s house last night and then the motel and then the drive here; he was like someone who had not given up on life and living but had come close a few times. Too much greasy, salty food and too many cases of beer. No exercise and no compulsion to do much of anything but a dead-beat job.
Walker pulled back the hammer on the pistol. It was an old thing, well used and well maintained. The wooden stock was worn to a smooth shine. Walker could see semi-wadcutters loaded in there. A useful weapon, up close. At the base of the chin it would be devastating, equivalent to a small explosive boring up through bone and tissue and detonating inside the brain pan and exploding out the back of the skull.
“I can’t, I really can’t,” he repeated. “Please—I’ll go away. Give me a chance. Please. You won’t see me again.”
Walker turned the guy about and pushed him along the footpath to the alley, the snub-nosed revolver dug hard into his back. He halted them a few paces before the parked car.
“Silence here isn’t an option,” Walker said. “But I will let you go, unharmed, if you tell me who you are and what you’re doing following Monica Brokaw.”
The man looked up and down the alley; Walker could almost see the wheels spinning in his mind, trying for options but finding none. No chance to run. Can’t outrun bullets.
Instead he said, “How do you know I’m not following you?”
“If you were following me you’d have to be one of the greatest trailers on the planet, and I’m not feeling that,” Walker said.
“Oh.”
“I saw you from the motel. But you must have seen us sooner, which means you were at Monica’s house.” Walker looked him up and down. “There’s no way you’re involved with the crew who entered her house. And they’ll be headed here now with their machine guns and the stun grenades, because they’ve made Monica, back at the gas station. So, either I tie you to the welcome sign coming into town and let them cavity search you until you talk, or you talk to me. What’s it going to be?”
Monica was walking down the laneway toward them.
“You wanna talk now?” Walker said.
“I really can’t. I shouldn’t—” The guy looked up and saw Monica approach. “Oh . . .”