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Nelson can’t say that he’s beginning to like Argent—there really isn’t much about him to like. But he’s coming to accept the necessity of Argent’s presence. Like the AWOL who surrendered his friends, Argent Skinner has value to Nelson. For his services, Nelson had set the cranberry-eating AWOL free, because, after all, fair is fair, and Nelson has always seen himself as a man of integrity. In the end, Nelson will make sure Argent gets his just reward.
• • •
They set out the next day, Nelson feeling stronger, if not fully recovered. The bites are still red and swollen, the burned half of his face still raw and peeling, but at least his fever has broken. He endures the troubled gazes from other hotel guests as he checks out, just as he endured them when he had checked in.
“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” Argent asks. Now that Nelson has regained his strength, Argent has gotten shifty and uncertain about his tenure.
“Not New York,” is all Nelson is willing to offer, which sets Argent rambling on about other places he’s never been, but would like to go, fishing for any hints that Nelson might give. “Doesn’t make sense to be going unless we know where we’re going.”
“I know where we’re going,” Nelson tells him, taking great pleasure in Argent’s discomfort.
“After all I done, least you could do is give me a clue.”
Once they cross the Allegheny River and Pittsburgh falls behind them, Nelson reveals at least part of his hand. “We’re going to Sarnia.”
“Sarnia? Never heard of it.”
“It’s in Canada, across the border from Port Huron, Michigan. I’m going to introduce you to my contact in the black market, assuming he’s not on one of his airborne jags. A gentleman by the name of Divan.”
Argent twists his face like he’s smelled something foul. “Funny name. We sold Chicken Divan at Publix.”
“You’d be wise not to insult him. Divan runs the most successful harvest camp on the black market this side of Burma. State of the art. I bring him all the AWOLs I catch, and he’s always treated me fairly and honorably. If you want to be a parts pirate, he’s the man you need to know.”
Argent shifts uncomfortably. “I heard stories about the black market. Rusty scalpels. No anesthesia.”
“You’re talking about the Burmese Dah Zey. Divan is the opposite. A gentleman, and an honorable one at that. He’s always done right by me.”
“Okay,” says Argent. “Sounds good to me.”
“And,” adds Nelson, “in return for this show of good faith on my part, I expect some good faith from you in return. I want the code for your sister’s tracking chip.”
Argent turns his eyes to the road ahead of them. “Maybe later.”
“Maybe now.”
Then Nelson calmly pulls the car to the shoulder of the highway. “If not, I’ll be happy to leave you here, say good-bye, and let you live your miserable life with no interference from me.”
Cars whiz past. Argent looks like he might be ill. “You’ll never find Lassiter without that code.”
“There’s no guarantee your sister will still be with him anyway. If she’s half as annoying as you, he probably ditched her an hour out of Heartsdale.”
Argent considers it. He fidgets with his hands. He picks nervously at the stitches on his face.
“You promise you won’t kill me?”
“I promise I won’t kill you.”
“Left half, right half, right? We’re a team?”
“By necessity, if not by design.”
Argent takes a deep breath. “We’ll meet this Divan guy. And then I’ll tell you.”
Nelson pounds the steering wheel in fury. Then calms down. “Fine. If that’s the way you want it.” Then he pulls out his tranq gun, pulls the trigger, and tranqs Argent in the chest.
Argent’s eyes are wide in shock at the betrayal.
“I can’t tell you how good that felt,” Nelson says.
