The Protector (Jack Widow Book 17), page 3
Fry’s eyes faded in and out.
The paramedic said, “He needs to breathe.”
I said, “Where is Kara?”
Fry looked at me once more, took away the mask, and said, “Diner. Waitress. Please.”
That was the last thing he said. Within seconds, he was out again.
The paramedic hovered over him and put two fingers on his neck. Then, he forced the breather over Fry’s face and watched as Fry took slow, deep breaths.
The paramedic said, “What’s he talking about?”
“Nothing. He’s out of his facilities. Obviously,” I lied.
I was no expert on the US Marshals, but I knew they lived within a brotherhood, just like the SEALs and NCIS. And a brotherhood carried with it a code of honor. If Fry had a witness, he was keeping off the books for six years, then it must be for a good reason.
5
Six years was a long time. The only information I had to go on was the witness was a woman named Kara, and she had a son—age unknown. Fry mentioned waitress and diner. I presume he means she’s a waitress in a diner. Since Fry was headed to Cedar Springs, that’s probably where she is.
I couldn’t be sure because I knew nothing about Fry’s case. Not for a fact. I knew nothing about the good guys and nothing about the bad guys. All I knew for sure was it forced Fry to drive all night down Route 66, alone and not in the best of health. I think he knew about his heart condition. You don’t get to that level of heart attack without at least being suspicious.
Fry was obsessed with Kara’s protection. This leads me to believe she is that one case that haunts him, even after he retired. Every cop’s got one or two of them. Perhaps he had become personally involved with Kara and her son. Perhaps he felt a sense of responsibility for their well-being. Perhaps it was more than professional to him. It was very personal.
I could only guess because right then I only had two certainties about Patton Fry. One was that he wasn’t going to help anybody, not tonight, and not for a few days. The second thing was Fry had no idea who to trust.
One of the primary functions of the US Marshal Service was to protect witnesses to major crimes. Witnesses whose lives were often in grave danger.
The US Marshal Service is tasked with overseeing the witness relocation program, or WITSEC.
From the circumstances of Fry’s current predicament, and his last words to me, I could assume that he was headed to Cedar Springs to warn a witness from a six-year-old case that she and her son were in jeopardy. That somehow Kara and her son had been made by the bad guys. Patton Fry had taken himself out of retirement, told no one of where he was going, and hit the road toward Kara’s last known residence.
I presumed he told no one, because it would’ve been ten times easier for a retired US Marshal to just pick up a phone and call the local field office and warn them of his fears. The closest local FBI field office is probably in Phoenix, which wasn’t that far up the highway. Certainly, it was a lot closer than he was. He looked like he had been driving for hours. So why not let them handle it? I think I knew the answer to that question. He trusted no one.
Being an outsider, I trusted no one. And I was just a random guy. It made me a better advocate for Kara than someone he’d get through official channels.
The ambulance pulled into the town of Cedar Springs, if you could even call it a town. It looked more like a nook than a full-blown municipality. It was tiny. There was one three story building, which was the federal building that the paramedic had spoken of. There was a gas station, a McDonald’s which was closing its doors and turning off its sign as we passed, and about a dozen other buildings, a Walmart Super Store that barely qualified as super, and finally, off at the end of the main street, there was an all-night diner.
The ambulance pulled into the federal building parking lot. There was no overhang like other emergency rooms had. No clear markings except a pitiful blue and white sign with fading bulbs in it. They flashed and blinked.
The ambulance stopped, and the driver slid the gear into park and opened his door and stepped out. I slid back down the bench to the rear doors and undid the latch and pushed the doors open. I stepped out and helped the paramedic with the gurney and lifted it up and out of the van and laid it on squeaky wheels on the pavement.
The paramedic, who had spoken with me earlier, said, “If you head east, you’ll reach the interstate. Step off the road and follow alongside it. That should keep you out of sight. If that’s what you want. To avoid the cops, I mean.”
I asked, “What if I want to talk to these sheriff’s deputies?”
The paramedic said, “You can wait here. You must stay in the parking lot. But if I were you, I’d get going. Whatever they want with you probably will inconvenience you at the least and at the worst… Well, let’s just say out here the cops are bored. So, when they see a stranger come to their jurisdiction and get involved with a US Marshal who ends up in the emergency room, they’ll be inclined to detain you. You should get going while the going is worth getting.”
The paramedic turned his attention back to Fry and his partner. They headed toward the emergency room’s uninteresting entrance and rolled Fry through a pair of automatic doors, which sucked open, and stayed open a long time after they left.
I watched them leave and stood in the night air. Wind gusted from out of sparse trees in the distance. I pulled up the collar on my jacket and shoved my hands into my pockets. It was December, officially wintertime. Although it didn’t quite feel like it. The fall weather had maintained itself around the sixties in the daytime. And that applied to most everywhere I spent the months of October and November. I’m not sure if it’s climate change or what have you, but temperatures seemed to be warmer this year. Tonight, the temperature was cool, maybe fifty degrees. Apart from the car accident and the impending danger, this was a nice night.
I looked toward the main strip and traced the closed daytime businesses. They led into other businesses that were open at night. The first building I saw was a bank, then a church—Protestant. Next to it was a pharmacy and a dry goods store, which looked like it was cut straight out of an old west movie set. After that, I saw the more nighttime establishments. There was a coffee shop, opened late, then a bar, and a fast-food joint that I’d never heard of, which was across from the closing McDonald’s.
The main street was straight at first. Then it wound slightly to the left. On that side of the street, there was a motel with a red neon sign. Across the motel’s parking lot, there was an all-night diner. It must be the one Fry mentioned because it was the only thing that classified as a diner in the whole town that I could see. And I could see the whole place. The car count in the parking lot was enough to count on one hand. Out front, a short staircase led up to the entrance. Another neon sign glowed in a window. It had two lines that read: Ceanna’s Diner and We’re Open. The diner had half wall-length windows that stretched from one corner to the other and then wrapped completely around the building.
I crossed the street and headed toward the diner’s lights without even thinking twice about the coffee shop. Which was unusual because I liked coffee. But diners had coffee. Coffee shops had more expensive blends. Most of which I’d never heard of. Even though they were pricey, I liked to try them. You never know when you might find a coffee bean you like.
In my current state of affairs, I wasn’t in Cedar Springs for the coffee. I was there because Fry told me his witness needed protection. It was time to find out how true that was. So, I did what I did a thousand times a day. I put one foot in front of the other and marched up the strip to the diner.
6
The thing about hunting unknown bad guys in a small-town diner, where everyone knows each other, is that the most suspicious person is you. And when you’re a stranger who walks into a small town, off the beaten path, everyone suspects you.
Inside of Ceanna’s Diner, the place looked like a ghost town. It was pretty empty. There were two tables with people and a room full of empty tables. There were two patrons sitting at a long, white counter, on the customer side. A cook, dishwasher, a waitress, and a waiter stood behind the counter. The cook, dishwasher, and the two patrons were huddled together, like they were at a craps table. They spoke to each other in hushed tones like they were relaying dirty jokes.
The waitress was a young woman, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years old. She stood five foot nothing and looked like she weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet. The young waiter and she wore the same uniform—the same white top, the same black apron over their bottoms. But that’s where the similarities ended. The waitress’s uniform had a black skirt, cut short. It was above the knees and just low enough to leave something up to the imagination, but not much. She had long dark pantyhose under it, which I guessed helped keep her legs warm. Her top was basically the same as his, only hers looked better on her. Her sleeves were short, which revealed some tattoos on her arms. She had long black hair with a partial shave underneath on one temple. It was a style I’d seen before. I kind of liked it. It was rebellious, yet not overboard.
Her eyes were big and blue, like oceans trapped in a sea of white. I felt instantly drawn to her, like two characters on a stage. She glanced at me with a stare that could stop an oncoming train.
The waiter was a young Native American guy—probably right out of high school. He wore thick glasses. Underneath the glasses, there was a look on his face like this was his first night working. There were patrons sitting in his section with angry looks on their faces like they had been waiting for their change or their checks forever. Perhaps they hadn’t even gotten their food yet. Whatever the thing was, they looked angry. My guess was they had already eaten because most people would just get up and walk out with that kind of angry boiling on their faces. Of course, in this town, where else were they going to go? I guess to the coffee shop, which probably had a limited menu. Maybe it served food, but a lot of coffee shops only serve cold food. No grill. No selection of home-cooked meals.
The patrons in the young guy’s section had already eaten. Now, they waited, with decreasing patience, for their bill. Which was good for me. It meant that they would get up, pay their check, and walk out, eliminating them as suspects. That left me with only the two guys at the counter. However, they didn’t fit the bill either. The staff were talking to them like they were all friends. I doubted the staff knew the bad guys that I was looking for. That would make no sense. The guys I’m looking out for would be out-of-towners. No one would know who they were when they walked in, except maybe Kara, which I guessed had to be the only female staff member, the waitress with the eyes.
I approached the counter and looked around. The waitress stepped over to me with a smile on her face. She was an attractive woman—no doubt about that. Besides her eyes, her smile would set a loyal dog out on a path of betrayal. One of her visible tattoos took up the length of the bottom part of her forearm. It was writing. Some kind of cursive font that I couldn’t read, not without staring. And I had already stared at her enough. Any more and I risked ogling. I didn’t want that. I was trying to be anonymous, undercover.
I glanced at her nametag. It claimed her name was Beth. But it wasn’t. This was Kara. It had to be, unless Fry misled me. She was the only woman working that shift. Unless there was another one in the back, which I guessed was possible.
Kara said, “Hi there.”
She spoke with a hint of an accent but not a western one. It was more blurred between southern and generic, like someone from out of the DC area. She is in WITSEC. Maybe she’s originally from Virginia or some place south?
I smiled and said, “Howdy, ma’am.” Which made me feel lame the second I said it. It was like the right words were shredded in my brain before howdy fell out of my mouth.
She said, “Are you here for dinner?”
“Yes, ma’am. Where shall I sit?”
“Have a seat anywhere you’d like.”
“Where’s your section?”
She said, “I’ll take you wherever you want.”
I cracked a smile at the proposition, inadvertently. It was a reflex. I’m a gentleman, but not a dead man. Of course, I doubted she was attracted to me. I’m probably fifteen years older than her and scruffy looking. She looked up at me and smiled, but that was her job. I heard my mother somewhere in the back of my mind reminding me to be a gentleman.
I nodded, turned, and stepped away to a back-corner booth. I sat down, back to the wall, so I could see the entrance and the parking lot through all the windows.
Kara grabbed a menu and walked over to me. She placed it in front of me. The menu was a simple eight-by-ten construct; paper laminated in plastic. It was double sided.
I scanned it. It was all the basic Americana types of foods, including a breakfast section that stated it was available twenty-four hours a day.
Kara stood close to the edge of the table. Her apron was so close I could’ve reached around her and untied the knot in the back with little effort. She asked, “Can I get you a drink to start? We got beer in bottles.”
I asked, “Got fresh coffee?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s fresh. It’s been sitting out for an hour. The owner scolds us if we make a new pot after only an hour. But it’s good. Best in town. Better than the coffee shop’s I think. I drink it. Then again, I like my coffee strong and black. I don’t do creamer.”
I smiled. Kara just became the most beautiful woman in the world to me. A black coffee drinker and not bad on the eyes was all the information I needed to know she was a good woman.
“I’ll take a cup,” I said, then I heard my mother’s voice again in the back of my head. Where’re your manners? So, I added, “Please.”
Kara nodded and returned behind the counter. She went to the young waiter and made a hushed comment. He glanced at me, smiled. They giggled together like old friends. I realized he might’ve been gay, which must’ve been hard for a teenager on a reservation. If he lived on the reservation. I wasn’t sure, but being in such proximity to it meant it was a likelihood.
He ignored me and returned to his dilemma of trying to figure out whose check was whose before his two tables started grabbing pitchforks and torches. They were getting restless.
Kara returned to my table after a moment with a piping hot cup of coffee. She set it down in front of me, stepped back, folded her hands together, and said, “I’ve never seen you here before.”
“I’ve never been here before.”
“What brings you here? We get the same people here.”
“I’m just passing through.”
She said, “Few people come through here unless they’re lost. Are you lost?”
“Not lost. I’m in the right place. Don’t people stop here at night? After a long day of driving? I imagine you get a lot of customers who grab something to eat before going over to the motel?”
“Not really. We’re off the beaten path. Sometimes people end up here. But they’re usually lost. We get many people stop in here and ask for directions to Flagstaff and drive away.”
Fry sent me here to protect an off-the-books witness named Kara. Before I could do that, I needed to confirm this was who he was talking about, without giving myself away. So, I changed the subject and asked, “Have you lived here a long time?”
She said, “Since I was a little girl. Well, I wasn’t born here. I grew up in Flagstaff. Now I’m here.”
She might be telling the truth. And she might not. It was hard to tell. If she was Kara and had been lying to everyone for five-plus years, then she’d be damn good at it by this point. So, I took a different approach. Fry said she had a son. I asked, “Got any little ones?”
“One. I got a son.”
“Ah. How old?”
“He’s nearly seven. Wanna see a picture?”
I said, “Yes. Please.”
This was her. It was Kara. It had to be. It added up.
She reached into her apron and pulled out a phone. She put in a passcode and swiped to a photo and reversed her phone, showed me the image. It was a picture of her and a little boy. He was about five or six in the photo. He had thick blond hair and big blue eyes, like hers. They both wore Mickey Mouse ears.
“We took this one last year at Disney Land,” she said.
They looked happy, which also made me think of my mother. She was dead now, but I missed her. I wished I had more time with her, but I didn’t.
Kara must’ve noticed I was lost in thought because she asked, “Are you okay?”
“Oh yeah. Sorry. You look happy together. He’s a good-looking kid.”
She removed the phone, stared at the photo one last time, and smiled at it. Her smile was all big white teeth. She glowed. Then she returned the phone to her apron.
She said, “I’m Beth, what’s your name?”
I reached a hand out to her, open palmed for her to shake, and said, “Jack Widow.”
She slipped her hand in mine and squeezed, hard too, which didn’t faze me. My hand was like a bear's paw compared to her dainty one. Even though her hands were dainty compared to mine, they were worn, like she’d been waitressing a lot of years.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jack.”
“Just call me Widow. No one calls me Jack.”
“Oh, okay, Widow. That’s strange.”
I shrugged and said, “It’s a military thing.”
We stopped shaking hands. She slid her hand out of my palm, slowly and tenderly. She asked, “Were you in the military?”
“I was, but that’s ancient history now.”
She smiled again and asked, “So, you want food?”
I glanced at the menu and back up at her. I scooped up the coffee mug and said, “Just the coffee for now. But I’ll hold on to the menu. I might be here a while. If that’s okay?”
“Sure, you can hang out all night if you like. We’re open twenty-four hours.”
“Will you be here all night?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m working the grave shift. Be here till morning,” she said and turned to walk away. She stopped and said, “If you need anything, just holler.”
