The right angle was the corner of a metal box, three feet by three feet by six feet. It was painted dull olive green. A color Jed associated with the army. There were military-style letters stenciled on the side, as well, in white. They read WINSON COUNTY VOLUNTEER FIRE DEPARTMENT. And below, in a smaller size: AUTHORIZED USERS ONLY. The lid was held in place by a hasp and eye. There was no padlock. Jed unhooked it and lifted the lid. It folded all the way back, so he didn’t have to hold it up. Inside, to the left, there was some kind of machine mounted inside a scuffed red tubular frame. It had a handle like Jed had seen on lawn mowers, presumably to make it start. Coiled up in the space next to it there was a long flexible hose, three inches in diameter, with a mesh cage and a Styrofoam float at one end. There were two cans of gas. Two plastic containers full of pink liquid with labels attached with tables specifying how much to add to tanks of water to create fire-inhibiting foam. There was a box of flashlight batteries, but no flashlights. And two shrink packs of bottled water. Thirty-six bottles per pack.
Jed was not an authorized user. And he wasn’t a thief. But he was thirsty. He was close to full-on dehydration. Which was dangerous. And the point of fire departments is to save people. To help people in distress. So Jed grabbed the bottle at the nearest corner of the top pack. He pulled and twisted until it came free. Poured the water down his throat in one unbroken stream. Then he took another bottle. He drank that one more slowly, but finished it, too. He dropped the empties in the corner of the box. Removed the pack of batteries. The containers of foam mixture. The gas cans. And the hose. He tried to move the machine but it was too heavy so he left it where it was. Then he climbed inside. Pulled the lid down, with the empty bottles sandwiched against the lip of the box’s long side. That way he had some fresh air, but could quickly pull them out if any animals came by.
If any firefighters came and saw their supplies scattered around, that would take more explaining. Jed figured he’d find a way to deal with that, somehow. He’d come too far to worry about what-ifs.
* * *
—
Up in St. Louis, at their second-choice hotel, it was almost time for Lev Emerson and Graeber to swap places again.
It was close to six hours since Emerson had checked in. Half their rest time was gone. Emerson had spent the first shift in the room, lying on the bed, fully dressed, with the drapes closed. Then he had switched to the back of the van. It was still parked at the far side of the parking lot.
Emerson preferred the van. But not for comfort or facilities. That was for sure. It had no bathroom. No TV. No coffee machine. No air-conditioning, back in the load space. Just three cushions lined up on the floor. They were from the first couch that Emerson and his wife had bought together. It was delivered the month after they got married. He had salvaged them when his house got redecorated more than two decades ago. They fitted the space like they were designed for it but their battered leather covers were worn almost all the way through. Their stuffing was wearing thin. Emerson could feel the van’s metal floor if he shifted position too quickly. But the van was familiar. He liked the smell of the chemicals. The outline of the tools that were silhouetted in the light from the one-way glass in the rear doors. The way that the space calmed him. Allowed him to control his thoughts.
In the hotel room, Emerson was besieged by memories of Kyle. He could hear his son’s voice. See his face. How he’d been as an adult. As a kid. He relived snippets of birthday parties. Trips they’d taken. Random moments of everyday life that hadn’t seemed significant at the time but now were more valuable than anything in the universe. In the van Emerson could focus on his work. His art. He could remember everything from his first job, burning down a hot tub factory in Gary, Indiana, to the scene in the warehouse that morning.
Emerson mopped his forehead then sent a text to Graeber. He told him he could keep the room. He preferred to stay in the van. Where he could picture the fate of the distributor they were going to meet in Birmingham. The next link in the chain that would lead to the people ultimately responsible for Kyle’s death. He didn’t know how many links there would be. How hard it would be to loosen each tongue in turn. But he did know one thing. However long it took he would never stop. Not until he got justice for his son.
* * *
—
The problem wasn’t so much that the original owners of the Riverside Lodge had built their hotel in the wrong place. It was that they had built it at the wrong time. They had broken ground when Winson’s economy was fueled by more than just the prison. When people still came to the area to explore its natural beauty, not just spend a few minutes talking to a family member or a friend through a sheet of perforated Perspex. Hence its position high on the bank of the Mississippi. It had uninterrupted views to the north and the south. And to Louisiana away to the west, so far across the water that it looked like another country. Those first investors thought their clientele would never dry up as they got funneled past within touching distance by the local roads. Then the interstate came along and siphoned the passing traffic far away to the east.