A Westerner’s first impulse when planning a crime is: How am I going to get away when it’s done? But Dwyer had learned an important mind-set in his days in the field in the Middle East. The first impulse in the extremist—Muslim or otherwise—is: How can I succeed? The getaway be damned. This was Dwyer’s current attitude. He needed to get it done. Then he could return home to his mountaintop and his Sandy. But a nasty secret had reared up in him as of late. The truth was, he finally had the taste for action back in his mouth after a bit of an absence. He could keep telling himself this was about walk-away money or protecting his reputation, but he knew what it was really about: the juice. And the irony that he was using the extremist approach in order to get away with the original crime was not lost upon him. He felt himself starting to stumble and shake a little like a dry drunk.
Dwyer was in the living room of Pat Teague’s house, off a small-town crossroads in the middle of the American flatlands. He surveyed the damaged hutch, the cracked mirror, and spilled dirt around the potted plant, and put it together with what he knew. Something had upset Pat Teague big-time. He had used his landline telephone to call a man with a warning, and Dwyer and Rickie had just gotten there and were sitting down the street listening.
“Hey, it’s Teague,” he’d said.
“Shit, Patty,” the voice said, “is it safe to call me?”
“It’s not safe anyway,” Teague said.
“Oh no …” the voice lamented.
“You know who he’s talking to?” Rickie asked.
“Nah,” Dwyer said, “wish we had caller capture.” On the more sophisticated version of the line tap, they’d be able to know the number he was calling, not just listen.
“The wheels are coming off this fucking thing,” Teague said. “Are you still around?”
“Yeah, the son of a bitch left me,” the voice said.
“Then we should meet and talk about what the hell we can do.”
“Where and when?” the voice asked.
“The Steer-In, first thing tomorrow, say eight,” Teague told him. “It’ll be nice and quiet.” Dwyer jotted down the information.
“Good,” the voice said.
“Keep your head down, then,” Teague advised.
“Ah, Christ,” the voice whispered, “I will.”
“You want to tail him to this Steer-In, see who he’s meeting?” Rickie asked.
“We can’t wait that long, you savvy?” Dwyer said. “We’ll find out who he’s gonna meet, but we’re not just gonna sit here and diddle ourselves while this bastard calls everyone in his address book.”
As if to confirm the statement, they heard Teague pick up and dial again.
“Hello, hon,” he said.
“Hi, Pat,” a woman, presumably his wife, said. “How’s it going?”
“I had an issue. Got into it with someone. A real prick …” Teague said.
“Oh no, you all right? Was it work related?” she asked.
“Yeah, of course it was work related. I’m pretty lumped up, it’d probably be better if the kids didn’t see me,” he said.
“They’re going up to the farm with Mom and Dad to help out after school. They were gonna stay up there for dinner,” she told him.
“Good,” he said, “I’m heading out to Stookey’s for a cocktail—”
“This early?”
“Screw it, yeah,” he said. “Then maybe I’ll go and stay in the city. You want me to bring you back an order of fried catfish before I go?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t waste the energy,” Teague said, and hung up.
Dwyer and Rickie scrambled to gear up and go in, to intercept Teague before he left, but they were too late. Almost instantly they saw him walking, with a slight limp, toward his car.
“Heading off for Stookey’s, I imagine,” Rickie said as Teague drove away.
“Fucking doctor of rocket science, ain’t ya?” Dwyer said. “Come on, let’s be waiting when he gets back home.”
A good hour and a half had passed since Dwyer and Rickie had entered Teague’s house. Things had finally gotten quiet back in the bedroom, where Rickie was. Dwyer was doing a little stretching in the living room when he heard the garage door start to open and it was on. He moved quickly into the kitchen, where the door from the garage let in. After a moment he heard the car door slam and saw the knob turn. He let Teague step in past him before he burst from the wall and hit the man across the back of the head with the blunt side of his newly purchased hand ax. Teague went down and Dwyer dragged him by the hair and collar into the family room where he shoved the looped detective into a chair. After a few minutes spent with his head lolling about, Teague came around and stared across at Dwyer, who had the Česká in his hand.
“You’re him …” Teague said, slowly putting things together. “There is no Carrolton.”
“No, Carrolton exists, but I’m me,” Dwyer said.
“Ah, shit, this isn’t my day,” Teague said. Then he looked around, assessing his own home, and asked, “Where’s my wife?”
It had been a bit of a surprise when she’d arrived while they were waiting, as based on the call they’d intercepted they didn’t expect her until later. But they’d improvised.
“Why’s her car in the garage?”
“Don’t know,” Dwyer said. “She parked and then went off on foot. Lucky all around.”
Teague nodded and glanced over Dwyer’s shoulder toward the bedroom.
“Who decorated your face?” Dwyer asked.
“Some asshole from work,” Teague said.
“Wouldn’t be Frank Behr, would it?” Dwyer said, planting a look of shock in Teague’s eyes.
“Who?” Teague said, doing his best to fall back on his training that had been too long neglected.
“Look, man,” Dwyer said, “you should drop the counter interrogation, and then I won’t need to use counter resistance, and we can just move things along. Otherwise I’ll go pull the battery out of your car and we’ll get to it.”
Teague nodded warily.
“Who have you told, and what have you told them?” Dwyer asked.
“Nothing to no one,” Teague said. “I thought you were a pro. Hire you, the job gets done, and everybody’s insulated. That’s what they all said.”
“We try,” Dwyer said, tamping down his fury at the criticism, “but life’s full of imperfections, ain’t it?”
“I haven’t told anyone anything,” Teague repeated, looking over Dwyer’s shoulder toward his bedroom once more.
“Try again,” Dwyer said.
“No one who didn’t know already,” Teague said. “Behr found out some of it, all right? Some of the basics. How it got started. But nothing about you.”
“Nothing about me?” Dwyer said. “That’s good fucking news. Why am I supposed to believe it?”
Teague looked over Dwyer’s shoulder again. Did he see something there? Dwyer wondered. Was it unusual for the bedroom door to be shut?
“Who are you meeting tomorrow morning?” Dwyer asked.
“How the hell do you—”
“Does it matter?” Dwyer cut him off. “Who?”
Teague didn’t answer. Instead he looked back at the bedroom door yet again. Then his face changed, and whatever semblance of professionalism he’d been holding onto started to give way.
“I really need to know my wife is okay,” he said.
“Come on now. Focus. Who are you meeting tomorrow?”
Teague shook his head. Dwyer saw the transition as the wondering got to the man and his face crumbled and he sobbed. “Oh, Margie …”
“Don’t you do it, man,” Dwyer warned. “Steady.”
But it was too late. Teague was cracked. He went for his hip. But he was hopelessly slow. Dwyer gave him a double tap to the sternum. The report of the shots was muffled, short and sharp in the small room, like dry wood cracking in a fire. Teague fell forward out of the chair onto his face. His shirt rode up and revealed he was wearing a gun. Dwyer stood and fired once more into the back of his head. The door to the bedroom was open now, as Rickie came out to check what was happening, and the sight Teague had been so afraid to see was now finally visible. A leg hung heavily from the edge of the bed, a loose sock dangling limply off the end of the foot.
“How’s mum?” Dwyer asked, bending to pick up his brass shell casings.
“She had her fun, but now she’s done, the old girl,” Rickie said. The kid was really quite amazing.
“We’re getting busy,” Dwyer said, standing. “We’ve gotta get you your own banger.”
Then they started to wipe down surfaces.