The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,97

Davis sighed resignedly. “All right, hang on.” He tossed Grey the elevator key and freed his com from his belt. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, okay?” He spoke into the mouthpiece. “This is the sentry on three? We need a relief worker—”

But Grey didn’t stay to listen. He was already in the elevator, gone.

ELEVEN

Somewhere west of the town of Randall, Oklahoma, a few miles south of the Kansas border, Wolgast decided to surrender.

They were parked inside a car wash, off a rural blacktop the number of which he’d long forgotten. It was almost dawn; Amy was fast asleep, curled like a cub on the backseat of the Tahoe. Three hours of driving hard and fast, Doyle calling out a route he quickly assembled off the GPS, a line of lights flashing in the distance behind them, sometimes fading when they made a turn but always reassembling, picking up their trail. It was just after two A.M. when Wolgast had seen the car wash. He took a chance and pulled in. They’d sat in the dark and listened to the cruisers fly past.

“How long do you think we should wait?” Doyle asked. All his bluster had left him.

“A while,” Wolgast said. “Let them put some distance between us.”

“That’ll just give them time to set up roadblocks at the state line. Or double back when they realize they’ve lost us.”

“You have a better idea I’d like to hear it,” Wolgast said.

Doyle thought a moment. The big scrub brushes hanging over the windshield made the space in the car seem closer. “Not really, no.”

So they’d sat. At any second Wolgast expected the car wash to blaze with light, to hear the amplified voice of a state cop telling them to come out with their hands up. But this hadn’t happened. They had a signal now, but it was analog and wouldn’t encrypt, so there was no way to tell anyone where they were.

“Listen,” Doyle said. “I’m sorry about what happened back there.”

Wolgast was too tired to engage. The fair seemed like days ago. “Forget about it.”

“You know, the thing is, I really liked my job. The Bureau, all of it. It’s all I ever wanted to do.” Doyle took a deep breath and fingered a bead of condensation on the passenger window. “What do you think’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know.”

Doyle frowned acidly. “Yeah you do. That guy, Richards. You were right about him.”

The windows of the car wash had begun to pale. Wolgast checked his watch; it was a little before six. They’d waited as long as they could. He turned the key to the Tahoe and backed out of the car wash.

Amy awoke then. She sat upright and rubbed her eyes, looking about. “I’m hungry,” she announced.

Wolgast turned to Doyle. “How about it?”

Doyle hesitated; Wolgast could see the idea taking shape in his mind. He knew what he was really saying: it’s over.

“Might as well.”

Wolgast turned the Tahoe around and headed back in the direction they’d come, into the town of Randall. The main thoroughfare didn’t amount to much, not more than a half dozen blocks long. An air of abandonment hung over the street; most of the windows were papered over or smeared with soap. Probably there was a Walmart not far away, Wolgast thought, or some other big store like that, the kind that wiped little towns like Randall right off the map. At the end of the block, a square of light spilled onto the sidewalk; a half dozen pickups were angled at the curb.

“Breakfast,” he declared.

The restaurant was a single, narrow room with a drop ceiling stained by years of cigarette smoke and airborne grease. A long counter stood to one side, facing a line of padded, high-backed booths. The air smelled of boiled coffee and fried butter. A few men in jeans and workshirts were seated at the counter, their broad backs hunched over plates of eggs and cups of coffee. The three of them took a booth in the back. The waitress, a middle-aged woman, broad across the middle and with clear gray eyes, brought over coffee and menus.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?”

Doyle said he wasn’t hungry and would stick to coffee. Wolgast looked up at the woman, who was wearing a name tag: LUANNE. “What’s good, Luanne?”

“It’s all good if you’re hungry.” She smiled noncommittally. “The grits aren’t bad.”

Wolgast nodded and passed his menu to her. “Sounds fine.”

The woman looked at Amy. “For the little one? Whatcha want, honey?”

Amy