Burn(30)

That was an understatement. The Canadians were fuming. They knew, of course, that bureau agents were in the country, but had diplomatically looked the other way as long as they kept their heads down and stayed on the sidelines. The APB had violated that, especially when Dernovich connected it directly to the murder of two of his own who had been melted on a road. The Canadians had also been less than happy when Dernovich had used the word “assassin,” and even less so when he couldn’t say who the assassin was supposed to assassinate. He had stopped short of telling them about the threat of all-out war.

Cutler had been called on the carpet by his bosses, who’d been called on the carpet by the Canadian government. There’d been a lot of carpet-calling, all of which had landed back down on Dernovich. Which would have been fine if days hadn’t kept passing with that bastard Believer kid still not being seen.

Dernovich went to his own room. It was late. Woolf was right to be pissed off at him. He was frankly pissed off at her, as she’d been spending more and more time in her notebooks, going through those damn runes that had offered nothing but gibberish. On the other hand, maybe that’s not what she was doing at all. Maybe she was writing up a report about her no-good partner.

He put a nickel in the TV to watch the news, but had barely heard the first headline when his hotel room phone rang.

“Is that Agent Dernovich?” a Canadian voice said, politely.

Dernovich made a disgusted sound. “You guys ever heard of a tapped phone line?”

“I’m sorry,” said the voice, still polite, affecting not to hear Dernovich’s sarcasm. “Is that Agent Dernovich?”

“It is.”

“Think we found your truck here, Agent.”

Dernovich sat up so fast his head spun.

“You still there, Agent?” said the voice.

“Where?” was all Agent Dernovich replied.

Even before properly waking, Malcolm knew the knock on the truck window wasn’t friendly. He opened his eyes and looked straight into the beam of a powerful flashlight picking its way over Malcolm’s face, his bare shoulders under the blanket, the bare shoulders of the now-waking Nelson behind him.

“Oh, no,” he heard Nelson breathe.

“Whatever moves you’re about to make,” said a voice behind the flashlight, “you’re going to make them nice and slowly.”

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” Nelson started.

“Not what it looks like to me,” said the voice. “Put your clothes on. No sudden moves.”

“Oh, no,” Nelson kept whispering, “oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.”

“It’s okay,” Malcolm whispered back, gathering the clothes that lay scrunched around them. He was shivering. It had really been far too cold to stay naked, but how could you not when it felt that nice?

He wondered if he would ever feel that way again.

He sat up, seeing the man holding the flashlight. He was an RCMP and had a pistol in his other hand. Nelson saw it, too, and raised his own hands in response.

“As long as you just get dressed and don’t try anything,” the Mountie said, “I’m not going to shoot you.”

“Then why are you pointing a gun at us?” Nelson asked, pulling on his shirt.

“He’s not pointing it at us,” Malcolm said, also dressing, but keeping his eye on the Mountie. “He’s pointing it at me.”

“How did they find us?” Nelson asked.

“Maybe this border isn’t as unwatched as you thought.”

“That’s what my grandfather told me—”

“I’m not blaming you,” Malcolm said, calmly. “I’m really not.” He smiled at Nelson. A true one. Let there be that, at least, he thought.

“Hurry up in there,” the Mountie said. “It’s not getting any warmer.”

Malcolm put on his thick sweater, feeling the sleeves as he pushed his arms through.

“We’re getting out now,” Malcolm said. “Don’t shoot us.”

“That depends on you,” said the Mountie.

Malcolm opened the door. Nelson did the same behind him. Malcolm stepped out into the snow, his hands in the air. Nelson started coming around the front of the truck.

“You stop right there for a minute,” the Mountie said to him. Nelson did. The Mountie turned back to Malcolm. “Is your name Malcolm?”

“No,” Malcolm said, simply, as this was actually the truth.

The Mountie’s face hardened a little. “I’m looking for a teenage male Believer in a rusted brown truck making for the American border.” He shined his flashlight in Nelson’s face, making him squint. “Possibly in the company of another teenage male.” The Mountie brought the flashlight back to Malcolm. “And you’re telling me you’re not him?”

“No,” Malcolm said, “just that my name isn’t Malcolm.”

“Are you playing smart with me?”

“No.”

“No, sir.”

“No, sir.”

The Mountie glanced again at Nelson. “Your kind disgust me, you know that?” He spit in the snow at Malcolm’s feet. “Fruits.”

“Watch your mouth,” Nelson said.

The flashlight was back on his face in an instant. “What was that?”