The Last Mile (Amos Decker, #2)(33)

“You know my sentence?”

“Yes.”

“So what does it matter? Get it off my chest. Maybe help with the Big Man in the hereafter.”

“I can understand that. But to get Mr. Mars off your story needs to be confirmed. The FBI can do that faster than the state folks can. So if we both want the same thing, why not cooperate?”

“You look way too fat to be with the FBI.”

“They made an exception for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I like to get to the truth. Can you help me do that?”

Montgomery gave a long, resigned sigh. “What the hell does it matter? Okay.” He rubbed his face with his chained hands and settled back in his seat.

“You heard of PTSD?” he asked Decker.

Decker nodded. “Yes.”

“Well, they never tested me for it, but I got it. And all that crap that was burning over there? Munitions, chemical weapons. Agent Orange shit they dropped on our fuckin’ heads? And who the hell knew what the Vietcong were chucking at us. Breathing all that in, day after day. It messed me up. Surprised it didn’t give me cancer. Then that mortar round blew up next to me.” He pointed to his head, his shackles clanging as he did so. “And they had to cut out a part of my skull. Hell, maybe part of my brain, VA never said. And then the headaches started.”

“You got the Purple Heart,” said Bogart.

“Big shit. That’s all I got.”

Decker interjected, “So the headaches started?”

“Yeah. And the VA didn’t want to hear nothing about it. I got no treatment. But I tried to get on with my life. I got married, tried to keep a job, but it was no good. The pain never stopped. And when the docs wouldn’t write no more prescriptions I took matters into my own hands.”

“To get drugs, you mean?” asked Davenport. “For the pain?”

“Yeah. It was just little stuff at first. To get money to get the drugs. Then I started taking the drugs from people I knew had ’em. Cut out the middleman and go right to the source.” He smiled darkly. “The Army taught me to be efficient.”

Davenport said, “The drugs you were probably taking are heavily addictive. So you got hooked and couldn’t stop?”

“Yeah. I was a total druggie. Do anything to get more.”

“And then what?” asked Decker.

“Then things just snowballed. It was like I was a different person. Things I never woulda done before, I’d do. Hurt people, steal shit. I didn’t care. I got busted a few times on petty crap but never did no real jail time. But my first marriage unraveled and I lost my job, my house, everything. Then I just started drifting across the country, trying to get the headaches to stop.”

“And how did that get you to the Marses?”

Montgomery looked down again, his thumbs pressing together, his brow furrowed.

“See, I didn’t know that was their name, not at first.”

“Okay, but walk us through that night,” said Decker.

“I come into town the night before, just passing through. Didn’t know nobody and nobody knew me. It was a one-traffic-light shithole.”

“You said the night before. Did you stay anywhere?” asked Bogart.

Montgomery looked at him crossly. “And pay with what? I had nothing in my pocket. Not even no change. I was hungry but I couldn’t buy no food either. Much less a place to stay. I slept in my car.”

“Keep going,” said Decker.

“I drove past this pawnshop the next day. It was in the little downtown area. At first I didn’t think anything of it, but then I got an idea. I went inside, thinking maybe I might pawn something. I had my medals, and an old service pistol. If I pawned those I could get something to eat. And I was riding on close to vapors. So I could maybe fill up my tank and head on to the next shithole. Anyways, there was a dude in there. Tall, white guy.”

“That was Roy Mars,” said Jamison. “He worked there.”

Montgomery nodded. “But I didn’t know that was his name back then. I pulled out my stuff and showed him. But he told me they weren’t interested in crap like that. Lotta former soldiers in Texas, he said, and then he pointed to a case full of guns and old medals dudes had pawned and never come back for.”

Bogart and Decker exchanged a glance.

Montgomery continued. “Anyway, that pissed me off. I asked the guy if he was a vet and he said that was none of my business and if I was looking for a handout I’d come to the wrong place because they were barely making a living as it was. Then the door opened and another customer came in. I walked over to the corner and watched. When the man opened the cash register I saw all the money in there. That’s when I knew the dude had lied to me. He had money. He wasn’t barely getting by. That pissed me off even more.”

“What did you do then?” asked Bogart.

“Went back to my car and waited. Army teaches patience. I was hunting this dude and didn’t care how long it took. He closed the shop up at nine, got in his car and drove off. I followed him. He got to his place, which was in the middle of nowhere. No other homes around. That was fine with me. He went inside. I parked my car and got out.”

“What kind of car were you driving?” asked Decker.

Montgomery didn’t hesitate. “Rusted-out piece of shit ’77 V-eight Pontiac Grand Prix, dark blue, big as a house. You could land a chopper on the sucker’s hood.”