Silva seemed to like that.
“Where are we going?” Brent asked.
“I’ve arranged for some ground transportation,” Hanks said. “Clarence is going to take us downriver where it’s waiting.”
Brent stripped off his coat, his dress shirt pasted to his body. He yanked off his tie and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.
“Pretty damn clever, Hank. That should screw up De Florio for a while.”
“What about the home front?”
“We’ll have to hope they get to where I sent them. I didn’t have time to check further. But I’m betting it’s me they want.”
“It’s both of us,” Hank said.
That was right, but the realization didn’t make him feel any better. He couldn’t decide if Hank was actually enjoying all the intrigue.
He knew he wasn’t.
They motored downriver about four miles, the water deceivinglypeaceful, the warm breeze like a hair dryer. Off to the east anvil thunderheads were building, blinding white above, ominous blue-black underneath starting to obliterate the morning sun. They finally turned west and navigated up one of the countless tributaries that veined the river, the meander of muddy water twining through oak and cypress. Waves of heat and humidity hovered. About half a mile inland a wrinkled dock arched out. Beyond, a tattered single-wide trailer rested quietly under a canopy of mushrooming oaks ladened with moss beards. Silva eased to the dock and tied the boat.
They climbed out.
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“Clarence’s brother lives here,” Hank said. “We’re going to use that truck over there.” Hank turned to Silva. “Here are the keys to my mill car. You know the one. Use it till I get back. I don’t think anybody got a good look at you, but you know the program, you don’t know nothin’.”
“Don’t worry ’bout me. I won’t tell ’em a damn thing,” Silva said.
Brent studied the pickup, a dirty white Toyota with mud tires and no tailgate. The bumper sticker readMY KID BEAT THE HELL OUT OF YOUR HONOR KID.Why didn’t that surprise him. A tan Mustang with bald tires sat next to it, a dirty American flag for a front license plate, and enough dents to have been rolled down a rocky slope.
“What’s that, a ’67?” he asked.
“A ’66,” Silva said. “My brother’s.”
“I need it.” He reached into his coat pocket and found his keys. “There’s a maroon Jeep with a cloth top parked in the front lot at the mill. Tell your brother to use it.”
Silva caught the keys, then looked at Hank, who shrugged.
“My brother’s sleepin’ right now,” Silva said. “On graveyard tonight. But I guess it’ll be all right. Let me get the key.”
Silva disappeared inside the trailer.
Brent asked Hank, “Where you headed?”
“To find us a place to hide for tonight. I’ve got a couple of possibilities.”
“While you do that, I have to take care of something.”
“You want to tell me?”
“It’s better you don’t know, just in case they find you. Have you got that copy of the list?”
Hank reached into his pocket and handed him the folded sheet. As he pocketed it, Silva returned with another set of keys.
“My brother said it’s all right, what with Mr. Reed bein’ involved and all.”
Brent took them. “Tell him thanks and I’ll take good care of it.”
