Masked Prey (Lucas Davenport #30)(51)

“You gotta admit, though, Horton’s women only sorta loosely fit the definition of women,” Rae said over her shoulder to Bob. “They weren’t exactly Stacys.”

Lucas: “Stacys?”

“Yeah, that’s incel talk,” Rae said. “The good-looking guys are Chads and they get all the good-looking women; the good-looking desirable women are Stacys. We should have given you a test on those FBI files.”

“I didn’t pay too much attention to that part,” Lucas said. “The incel part.”

Bob: “The problem the incels have, is not that they can’t get some woman, it’s that they can’t get a Stacy. In my opinion. They grow up thinking they’re gonna be nailing supermodels who’ll be doing everything they see on their favorite porn channel, and when that doesn’t happen . . . they’re victims. And they’re pissed.”

“And they got guns,” Rae said. “At least some of them.”

Bob: “We got two mass killers supposedly involved with the whole incel thing. We take them seriously, Lucas. We don’t do that ‘Hum’ shit, like you just did.”

“Okay,” Lucas said. He looked out at the countryside: it looked so normal. Where did all the flakes come from? How did you get whole collections of them, and in one place?



* * *



—

LUCAS HAD NEVER been in any part of Delaware. He knew Dover was the state capital, but driving through town to the Woke Café, the place seemed poorer than he’d expected, since state capitals were usually stuffed with well-paid bureaucrats. Maybe, he thought, Delaware didn’t well-pay its bureaucrats. Rae said, looking out the windows, “Lots of black folks around. I didn’t see that coming.”

The Woke Café was a half mile north of the speedway, in a low rambling brown stuccoed building set back from the Dupont Highway. There were three cars and five pickups in the graveled parking lot out front, and two more in the back, which they spotted as Rae drove a loop around the place.

“How do you want to do it?” Rae asked.

Lucas thought for a moment, then said, “The guy, Mark Stapler, supposedly lives in the back. Maybe we knock on the back door? Maybe Rae knocks on the back door?”

“She’s pretty much your basic Stacy,” Bob said from the back seat. “Probably let her in. Once she’s got her foot in the door . . .”

“Vests?” Lucas asked.

“It’s warm,” Bob said. “Wouldn’t be able to cover it up without looking a little weird.”

Rae shook her head: “No vests. That’s hostile. Let’s go in and talk—we’re not here to bust anybody.”

“Here to bust their balls,” Bob said.

Lucas: “Let’s try to keep the conversation away from the condition of their balls. They’re incels, remember?”



* * *



—

LUCAS AND BOB STOOD back and to the sides when Rae pushed the doorbell button on the back door. No reason to think anyone would come out shooting; not that it made any difference, because there was no answer, or any sign of occupancy, even when she leaned on the button.

“Do it the other way, then,” Lucas said, and they trooped around to the front. Inside the café, with Rae leading, they found a dozen people, all male, all white, drinking coffee, spread around five tables and three barstools, with a dozen more tables, all empty, stretching toward the back of the café. A newspaper rack sat to one side, with a few used magazines; three were gun magazines. The patrons all checked out Rae, Bob, and Lucas, and didn’t go back to talking.

A man in a white chef’s apron was standing behind a counter in front of a standard stainless steel coffee bar; a glass case off to one side held pastries, and a stack of Wall Street Journals sat on the counter next to the cash register.

The man behind the counter was short and not so much chubby as out of shape. He had a long sharp nose and expansive, feathery white hair sticking out from under an all-black logo-free trucker’s hat. “Can I help you?”

“We’re with the U.S. Marshals Service,” Rae said. “We’re looking to interview a Mr. Mark Stapler.”

“I’m Mark,” the man said. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties. “What did I do?”

“We don’t think you did anything,” Rae said. “We’re doing research on a whole bunch of organizations in the Washington area, trying to make some important connections. We understand you’re the, uh, president of a group called Forlorn Hope?”

“That’s correct, but we haven’t broken any laws, we haven’t done anything that would interest you guys,” Stapler said.

Another man stood up from one of the tables. As Lucas turned to him, he said, “I’m in Hope, and so is Jason here.” He nodded toward a man still seated, who raised his hand. “What’s going on?”

The man who’d stood up stepped over to the bar. He was wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt despite the warm day and the shirt was worn loose. When he bumped the back of a barstool, there was a distinct clank. Bob asked, “Sir, are you carrying a concealed weapon?”

The man said, “Yup, and I have a license for it.”

“Please keep your hand away from it,” Bob said.