Possibly this interview would have gone better if Jericho had gotten Boxie alone before starting, but really, he wasn’t asking questions in order to get specific information so much as he was playing a role, making sure that everyone in the store knew he was benign and interested and willing to listen. It was about the same thing he’d done every other place he’d visited, only with a slightly more hostile audience this time.
Or some of the audience was hostile. But Mr. Appleby stepped easily out from behind the counter and said, “Settle down, Pauly. Jericho isn’t the problem here.”
“Neither’s Sam Tennant.”
“So if he isn’t the problem, then he’s got a problem,” Jericho said firmly. “The feds are looking in his direction, and they lost men yesterday, so they’re looking hard. For what it’s worth, I agree with you all—this doesn’t sound like Sam Tennant. But he’s mixed up in it somehow. My main goal is just trying to find a way to get him out of it, and to keep any other locals from getting dragged in.”
“Those are pretty words,” Mr. Pauls sneered.
“Well, that makes sense, since I’m such a pretty man,” Jericho answered. Mr. Pauls’s expression didn’t mellow, but at least he shut up, and Jericho turned his attention to the others. “I’ve got no reason to try to hurt Sam, and plenty of reasons to try to help him. So if anyone has anything useful, any ideas about what’s going on, I’d like to hear them.” He waited a moment, long enough to give people a chance to speak up but not long enough so it’d seem like he’d been denied. “You all know where to find me. And I’d appreciate it if you’d spread the word; the more information we have, the better the chance we can get things tidied up without more trouble.”
“We?” one of the men asked.
“The sheriff’s department.” Maybe the department would share the information with the feds, maybe they wouldn’t.
Other than Mr. Pauls, the men seemed generally cooperative after that, but they didn’t have any new leads. Nobody seemed to know much past the basics, Jericho reflected as he drove back through town. Sam’s group had been puttering along at low-grade nuisance level for years, then had suddenly flared up to suicidal intensity, and nobody in town had any idea why. Jericho had killed three men the day before, and he had no damn idea why.
He should go back to the station. The FBI would have finished their preliminary interrogations of the survivors from the day before, and maybe there’d be some useful information floating around there. Sure, it would take a bit of digging to get at it since the feds weren’t being cooperative, but it wasn’t like Jericho was being useful out in the community.
Yeah, it would make sense to go back to the station. That was what Jericho was thinking, even as he drove up to Scotty Hawk’s garage, found a parking spot, and locked the car. He’d do the smart thing—soon.
But first, he’d do a little more poking.
Scotty had a pickup on the hoist and was leaning against the wall watching oil drain out of the engine. He scowled when Jericho walked in. “You’re bad for business, Crewe.”
“The bikers, you mean?” It wasn’t a huge stretch—quite a few of the recently arrested men had been Scotty’s customers or employees. “I can’t take the credit or the blame; it was the feds who busted them.”
“And we both know why the feds did that,” Scotty retorted. He took a quick look around to make sure no one was in earshot, then said, “Wade might not have set them up if you hadn’t started poking around.”
“Wade was the one who started me poking around.” Jericho was oddly insulted by all this. “If anyone’s bad for business, it’s Wade.”
“But he brings in other business. You don’t bring anything but trouble.”
“I rented a truck from you, and you totally gouged me on the price. Don’t I get any credit for that?”
“That credit’s used up. What do you want?”
Well, Jericho had been hoping Wade might have been at the garage, but he wouldn’t admit to that. “I’m touring around today, checking in on people about the situation out at Sam Tennant’s. I’m trying to figure out why it all exploded like it did, and trying to make sure it doesn’t blow up again. Sam brings his trucks in to you, doesn’t he?” It was a pretty safe guess, since Scotty was the only mechanic in town.
“They do most of their work themselves—part of their survivalist bullshit. But, yeah, he’s bought parts from me a few times. So what?”
“Just wondering when you’d seen him last. Wondering if he’d said anything unusual or . . .?”
“This is seriously how you’re spending your day? You’re driving around, asking people about the last time they talked to Sam Tennant?”
“Yeah. It’s how I’m spending my day. So what can you tell me about the last time you talked to Sam Tennant?”
“I think he mentioned something about planning a big ambush against federal agents. Yeah, that’s right, that’s what he said. He said he was sick of fucking cops coming by and asking stupid fucking questions, and the next fucking cop who did it was going to get the shit kicked out of him. That’s what he said.”
And with that, Jericho’s patience was gone. He forced a smile, then stepped in closer. “So what’s your plan, Scotty? You don’t want me involved, don’t want me asking questions—you just want to sit back and watch the feds and the damn militia get in a war on Main Street? Is that how you think this should get solved?”
Scotty didn’t step back or look away. “If the feds get the fuck out of town, there won’t be a war. If they mind their own business, this can all just stop.”
“It’s a bit late for that. There’s two dead feds now, and the rest aren’t going to just walk away from that. Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t—every asshole in the country would be gunning for them from now on if there’s no reprisal for this.”
“Not my problem,” Scotty said. “And it’s three dead feds. The chick died—it was on the news.”
There was something about the way he said it, a trace of smug satisfaction that made Jericho’s fists clench. “She died for doing her job, and you think it’s no big deal. It’s not your problem.”
