The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,98

lifted her eyes from the menu. “Pancakes?”

“And a glass of milk,” Wolgast added.

“Coming right up,” the woman said. “You’ll like ’em, honey. Cook does them up special.”

Amy had brought her backpack into the restaurant. Wolgast walked her back to the ladies’ room to clean up. “You need me to come in with you?”

Amy shook her head.

“Wash your face and brush your teeth,” he said. “And comb your hair, too.”

“Are we still going to the doctor?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll see.”

Wolgast returned to the table. “Listen,” he said quietly to Doyle. “I don’t want to drive into a roadblock. Something could go wrong.”

Doyle nodded. The meaning was plain. All that firepower, anything could happen. Next thing you knew, the Tahoe was riddled with rounds and everyone was dead.

“What about the district office in Wichita?”

“Too far. I don’t see how we could get there. And at this point, I’m thinking no one’s going to say they ever heard of us. This is all off the books.”

Doyle gazed down into his coffee cup. His face was drawn, defeated, and Wolgast experienced a blast of sympathy for him. None of this was what he’d bargained for.

“She’s a good kid,” Doyle said. He sighed hard through his nose. “Fuck.”

“This will go better with the locals, I think. You decide what you want to do. I’ll give you the keys if you want. I’m going to tell them everything I know. It’s our best chance, I think.”

“Her best chance, you mean.” Doyle didn’t say this accusingly; he was merely stating a fact.

“Yes. Her best chance.”

Their food arrived as Amy returned from the restroom. The cook had done the pancakes up to look like a clown face, with whipped cream from a can and blueberries for the eyes and mouth. Amy poured syrup over all of it and dug in, alternating huge bites with gulps of milk. It was good to watch her eat.

Wolgast left the table when they were done and went back to the little hall off the restrooms. He didn’t want to use his handheld, and it was back in the Tahoe in any event; he’d seen a pay phone back there, a relic. He dialed Lila’s number in Denver, but the phone just rang and rang, and when it went to voice mail he couldn’t think of what to say and hung up. If David got the message, he’d just erase it anyway.

When he returned to the table, the waitress was clearing away their plates. He took the check and stepped to the register to pay. “Is there a police station anywhere around here?” he asked the woman as he handed her the money. “Sheriff’s office, something like that?”

“Three blocks down the way,” she said, sliding his money into the register. “But you don’t have to go that far.” She slammed the drawer with a ka-ching. “Kirk over there’s a sheriff’s deputy. Ain’t that right, Kirk?”

“Aw, leave off, Luanne. I’m eating.”

Wolgast looked down the length of the counter. The man, Kirk, was poised over a plate of French toast. He had a jowly face and thick, weather-beaten hands and was dressed as a civilian, in snug Wranglers wedged under his belly and a grease-stained Carhartt jacket the color of burnt toast. A little town like this, probably he worked about three different jobs.

Wolgast stepped over to him. “I need to report a kidnapping,” Wolgast said.

The man turned on his stool. He wiped his mouth on a napkin and looked at Wolgast incredulously. “What are you talking about?” His face was unshaven; his breath smelled of beer.

“See that girl over there? She’s the one everyone is looking for. I’m guessing you saw something about it on the wire.”

The man glanced over at Amy, then back at Wolgast. His eyes widened. “Shit. You’re kidding. The one from over in Homer?”

“He’s right,” Luanne said brightly. She was pointing at Amy. “I saw it on the news. That’s the girl. You’re the one, ain’t you, sweetheart?”

“I’ll be damned.” Kirk hoisted himself off his stool. The room had grown quiet; everyone was watching now. “Staties are looking for her all over. Where’d you find her?”

“We’re the ones who took her, actually,” Wolgast explained. “We’re the kidnappers. I’m Special Agent Wolgast, that’s Special Agent Doyle. Say hi, Phil.”

Doyle waved listlessly from the booth. “Howdy.”

“Special agents? You mean FBI?”

Wolgast withdrew his credentials and put them on the counter for Kirk to see. “It’s hard to explain.”

“And you took the girl.”

Wolgast said so again. “We’d like to surrender to you, Deputy.