“Noise-canceling headphones,” Dunk said. “You put these on, hit the switch, and they block out all outside noise. Pickford can scream at the top of his lungs, and you won’t hear shit.” He took a Motorola radio from his pocket and plugged it into the dangling headphone cord. “We communicate with these. All other sound will be blocked out. We’ll be able to hear each other but nothing coming from him.”
When I made the phone call to Dunk back at my father’s house on Whidbey, I put my conscience in check. More accurately, I locked it away in a cold room somewhere in the back of my head. I knew he was mixed up in some horrible things, and by asking for his help, I’d find myself in the thick of those horrible things. When he said he ‘picked up a truckload,’ I was under no illusion he paid retail, and I told myself not to think about the driver of that truck or what may have happened to him. I sure as shit couldn’t think about Gerdy while I was around him. Not her, not the others at Krendal’s, either, none of that. When those thoughts popped into my head, I forced myself to think of Stella and the people with me, the ones I needed to keep alivetoday, not the ones I couldn’t bring back from my past. I’d mourn them again tomorrow. I told myself this man was my friend, had been for most of my childhood. He stood by and helped when my aunt was dying of cancer—nobody else did that. When I called Dunk and asked him for help, I didn’t outright sell my soul, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like the devil signed a short-term lease. When this was over, I’d find some way to wash my hands of it. That’s what I told myself, although I knew I’d be scrubbing away the grime for the rest of my life. Some stains don’t come out.
Dunk’s phone rang.
When he hung up the call, he was back at the window. “We’ve got two more white vans out there. Four now. One of my guys approached them, and they scrambled and regrouped a block away.”
Preacher lowered the handkerchief from his nose. The bleeding had stopped. Although it was swollen, I don’t think Dunk broke it. “If they know they’ve got all of us here, they may move tonight, or they might try to wait us out. No way to be sure.”
“Either way, we’re ready.” Dunk turned back to the crate. “Adella said you’ve got four others back at the barracks, right? Here—”
He handed me six boxes of headphones.
“—batteries are in the box. They’re good for about forty hours. We’ve got more, if we need them. Take these back with you, and hang tight. I need to check in with my lieutenants.”
I said, “Are you sure you want to do this? It could be bad for you.”
Dunk smiled. He was missing a tooth on the left side of his mouth. “You saved my life, pulled me out of that fire. Saying no was never an option.” He lowered his voice. “I know you have reservations about what happened. I know you don’t believe me, I’ve made peace with that. Maybe someday you will, too. I wouldn’t let you down back then, and I’m not about to do it now. You’re my brother, man. Family.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I only nodded.
He leaned in closer. “Can I meet her? She’s crazy hot, right?”
18
Dunk said he’d stop by the barracks after he updated his people. Maybe an hour.
As Adella led us back, Preacher whispered, “I’m gonna put a bullet in that shit.”
“Wouldn’t be the first,” I told him.
Someone had dropped off food while we were gone. A basket of fruit sat on one of the tables, along with several bags of McDonald’s, a case of bottled water, and a half-eaten pizza.
Darby watched us enter the room, tomato sauce all over her mouth. My father was still sleeping, Hobson still in the chair where we left him, his blindfold on.
Stella wasn’t in her bunk.
Cammie came through a door at the back and nodded at me. “Thank God, come on—”
Preacher started to follow after us. I told him to stay and eat.
Cammie led me into a bathroom. I heard water running in the back.
Stella sat on the floor of a large shower, still clothed, her knees pulled tight against her chest, her face buried between them. The water rolled over her, steaming hot. She was shivering horribly.
I turned to Cammie. “Get me the latex gloves.”
She ran out and returned with them a moment later.
I pulled out a pair, tugged them on, and crouched down low. “Stella? What can I do?”
She drew in a breath and attempted to speak, but nothing came out but a garbled gasp.
“Are you cold or hot? Do you have a fever?”
“F…f…freezing,” she stammered.
Her left glove was still on, but she had peeled off the right one and left it bunched up in the corner of the shower. Her fingers flexed—stretching out, balling into a fist, then back again.
