Twisted Prey (Lucas Davenport #28)(7)

“I saw a story in the Pioneer Press about the accident; sounded awful,” Lucas said. “You okay?”

“Got a bloody nose from the air bag hitting me in the face, but I’m not dead like CeeCee,” Smalls said. “I called around and was told that you’re not in town. When are you coming back?”

“I’m sitting in the Wichita airport right now. I’ll be back home around eight o’clock tonight.”

“Good. I’m getting on a plane at National in five minutes. We’re supposed to get in at eight-twenty. Could you wait for me at the airport? A restaurant, or whatever? I haven’t had time to eat.”

“You know that Stone Arch place? We could get a beer. And if it’s too crowded to talk, we could find an empty gate.”

“See you there.”



* * *



—

LUCAS WAS A TALL, tough-looking man, tanned with summer, a white knife-edge scar cutting across his eyebrow and onto his cheek, the product of a fishing misadventure. He had mild blue eyes, dark hair now touched with gray, and a smile that could turn mean. He liked to fight, not too often, but occasionally. The winter before, when he could no longer hold menus far enough away to see the fine print, he’d gotten his first pair of glasses, narrow gold-rimmed cheaters, that he hated but put up with.

“I look like Yoda or something,” he grumbled to his wife, Weather.

“Yoda didn’t wear glasses, as far as I know,” Weather said.

“I don’t mean the literal Yoda. I mean that guy from Tibet—you know, the religious guy.”

“The Dalai Lama?”

“Yeah, that guy.”

Weather looked at him, then said, “Yeah, you do kinda look like him . . .” Which he didn’t, but Weather refused to encourage whining. “Now, like the Dalai Lama, you can read the menu.”

Although Lucas wasn’t afraid of the occasional brawl, he feared flying. His rational mind forced his body onto airplanes, but his emotional, French-Canadian side told him that whole metal tubes flying through the air was a vicious scam that would end badly.

He tried to distract himself with Outside, but one of the cabin attendants was really, really good-looking, which meant that every time she passed he had to take off the reading glasses. The last time he did it, she patted him on the shoulder. She’d noticed, obviously familiar with male insecurities.



* * *



—

THE FLIGHT RAN LATE, as usual. As soon as the plane touched down, Lucas called Smalls, who answered on the first ring, and said, “I saw that you were coming in late. I got here five minutes ago. I’m heading over to the Stone Arch.”

Lucas had no checked baggage. He grabbed his pack and his overnight bag and was on the Jetway ten minutes after the wheels touched down.

The bar was a typical airport restaurant, tables too close together, meant for singles or couples on their way to somewhere else rather than settling in for the evening. Smalls managed to find a table that was three down from the next closest drinker, who paid him no attention. Lucas spotted him, went over, dropped his pack and bag, shook hands, said, “Nice to see you, Senator,” and sat down. “What’s up?”

“Get a sandwich or something,” Smalls said. “I’ve got a burger and beer on the way.”



* * *



—

WHEN THE WAITRESS had come with Smalls’s order and gone with Lucas’s, Smalls leaned across the table and said, “This is going to sound insane, but that automobile accident? That was no accident. It was an assassination attempt. They were trying to kill me and they wound up killing CeeCee. I know who must’ve been behind it. You do, too.”

Lucas said nothing for a moment, but when he did, it was: “Oh, Jesus Christ, Porter, are you sure?”

“Let me tell you about it,” Smalls said.



* * *



—

HE DID, pausing only for the arrival of Lucas’s Diet Coke and chicken sandwich, and when he finished his story, he asked, “See what I mean?”

“No sign of paint or metal from the other truck? None at all?”

“That’s what the West Virginia accident investigator says, and he seemed competent. So, there’s a mystery. People keep hinting that the mystery might be in my head. They ask if maybe the trauma of the event made me think we were hit when what actually happened was that CeeCee swerved to miss the truck and hit this little ankle-high roadside berm so hard that I thought the truck hit us. But that’s not it. We were hit. Hard.”

“You think the West Virginia cops are in on it?” Lucas asked.

“Oh, hell no. Well, not hell no, but it seems unlikely. That would make the whole conspiracy too big and unmanageable. You know, I never believed in hit men outside of the movies until Grant wiped me out two years ago. Sure enough, she had hit men. This is the same goddamn thing. She came after me again because I’ve been giving her a hard time.”

“What do you want me to do?” Lucas asked.



* * *



—

“I WANT TO KNOW what happened, the best you can give it to me,” Smalls said to him now. “Review the accident investigation. See if you can find the truck that hit us. West Virginia won’t even be looking for it.” Smalls’s voice grew quieter. He glanced around the restaurant. “I want you to be very discreet. If it is Grant behind this, she’ll probably try again. I oughta be dead right now. CeeCee did a hell of a job getting us into the trees that stopped us; I couldn’t have done it.”