Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (best ereader for textbooks .TXT) 📗

It had been four days since I clobbered him in the face.

There was a smoothie cup next to his computer with a straw, which made sense as I’d heard through the grapevine that his jaw had been wired shut.

I sidled up to his desk and said, “How ya feeling, Champ?”

He glared at me, but said nothing.

I didn’t blame him.

“Did you get a chance to watch the video yet?” Guy Gets Revenge on Cop had over fifteen million views on YouTube. I added, “There’s a nice remix where you can see part of your tooth fly out in slow motion.”

He mumbled something through his caged mouth that sounded like, “Rugg Goo.”

I gave him a good Ice Man chomp, which had the added bonus of showing him what teeth are supposed to look like, then I continued to the Chief’s office at back.

The door was slightly ajar and I pushed it open. Eccleston was sitting behind his desk. He looked up, spit into a cup, and said, “What do you want?”

I tossed the manila envelope on the desk in front of him. Inside were copies of all the pictures and documents Darcy Felding had given me, plus a couple other things I’d stumbled across in the past week.

“What’s this?” he asked, the right side of his mouth lifting in a sneer.

“Oh, just a little something I’ve been working on.”

He picked up the folder and pulled out the contents.

As he flipped through the pictures, it was like he was river rafting. At first it was calm waters, then I could see him stiffen as he hit a couple rapids, then he hit the waterfall: a picture of him and David Ramsey from 1992.

He glanced up at me, his sunburned face somehow a pale ivory.

“I know everything,” I said.

Eccleston swallowed hard.

I handed him a small piece of paper.

“I’m gonna text you tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. with a meeting spot. And if everyone on that list doesn’t show up, I’m sending copies of everything in that folder to my friends at the FBI.”

“I can’t believe this used to be a town,” Wheeler said, glancing at the forgotten, near-apocalyptic landscape.

“Yeah,” I said, “it’s pretty depressing.”

“This all from a dioxin spill?”

“Some idiot sprayed nearly 160,000 gallons of Lunhill’s waste oil to keep the dust down on the streets. Then there was a horrible flood that ended up contaminating the entire town.”

But that wasn’t why I chose Simon Beach as the location of the meeting. I chose it because it was secluded and I highly doubted anyone from Lunhill had been there in more than twenty years. And it was located roughly one hour from all parties who were invited to this little soirée.

As for me, I’d been there three times in total, twice in the last twelve hours.

I parked the Range Rover on the side of the road near the ancient water tower that had once been the lifeblood of the small town.

“This is where you told them to meet?” asked Wheeler.

I nodded.

I’d texted Eccleston at 3:00 p.m. It was now closing in on 4:00.

I wondered how much dialogue had passed between the people on the list I’d given Eccleston over the past twenty-four hours. Would everyone show? Or did a couple of them dig up their go-bags and head for South America?

“Look,” Wheeler said.

I glanced out the window. There was a line of five cars headed down the small street.

Part of me wondered if they would carpool seeing as most were coming from Tarrin. It appeared they hadn’t, which boded well for the cause. They were all looking out for their own hides.

The cars rumbled closer, then four of them stopped. Only the black Escalade in front continued down the hill and parked.

I wasn’t surprised when my two friends stepped from the vehicle.

“Hey, guys,” I said.

Dolf and Snake both greeted me with a head tilt. Both men were dressed in combat fatigues. It was a power play, one to remind me of the things both men had seen and done. It was the first time I’d seen Snake up close. He had heavy brows angling toward a wide nose and, to Wheeler’s credit, there really was something reptilian about him. The scar on his left cheek was thick and raised. Whatever had happened, it was brutal.

I cocked my head toward the SUV and said, “Looks like that fire damage buffed out nicely.”

“It’s a different car,” Snake spat.

Dolf glared at him and said, “He’s fucking with you.”

Snake’s face dropped. “Oh.”

I smiled, then said, “What’s the holdup? Why are they parked back there?”

Dolf said, “They want to make sure you aren’t wired.”

I’d expected as much.

“I’m not.”

He pulled out a scanner and ran it over my body. Then Wheeler’s. Then he ran it all over the Range Rover. After a long couple minutes, he pulled out his phone and said, “They’re clean.”

One by one, the cars pulled back onto the road. A Porshe SUV was in front and I spotted David Ramsey behind the wheel. His car was soon followed by two trucks and a small sedan. They made their way to where we were standing, then rumbled past.

Dolf headed back to his car and said, “Follow us.”

I knew what they were doing. Even if I wasn’t wired, I easily could have planted small recording devices in the general vicinity and, depending on the technology, it wasn’t certain they would show up on the scanner.

Wheeler and I reluctantly hopped back into the Range Rover and followed the cars for three-quarters of a mile to the sign that read “Contaminated Grounds. Stay in Your Car.”

I would have been surprised if they drove past the sign. At least a couple people in the cars ahead would have known how dangerous the area still was, even two decades after the spill.

Directly across from where the cars were parked was the abandoned school bus, lifeless amongst the surprisingly thick foliage.

For the second time, Wheeler and I exited the car and for the second time, Dolf ran the scanner over our