Louis kept his eyes off the pickup and leaned harder on the cane as he crossed the lot. The bell over the door rang when he entered. The man behind the register looked up from a newspaper. He was about sixty, with sun-browned skin, thick forearms, and reading glasses low on his nose. Boxes of ammunition sat behind the counter.
The man looked at the cane, then at Louis’s face and clothes.
“Mornin’,” he said.
Louis shut the door behind him. “Morning.”
The man folded the paper and set it aside. “Coffee’s fresh enough.”
Louis nodded. “That’d be good.”
The man took down a paper cup, filled it, and slid it across the counter. “You out early.”
“Been on the road.”
“Mm.” The man looked him over again. “You ain’t from around here.”
Louis took the cup. The paper warmed his hand. “No, sir.”
“Thought not.” The man sounded satisfied with himself. “Where you from?”
Louis took a sip before answering. “Kentucky.”
“Well now.” The man leaned one elbow on the counter. “That’s a stretch.”
“Louisville.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Louisville.”
Louis nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The man grinned. “And what do they call you all the way down from Louisville?”
Louis said, “Louis.”
The man laughed.
“I’ll be damned,” the man said. “That’s convenient.” He tipped his head. “You got kin down this way, Louis from Louisville?”
“My mother’s people.” The next lie came more easily. “I’m heading south to Biloxi. Thought I’d stop and get directions before I got lost proper.”
“Well.” The man spread one hand. “You’re close enough. Two hours on the road and you’ll hit the coast.” He tilted his head toward the window. “You got a car out there?”
Louis looked down at his cane. “Broke down.” He shook his head. “Left it with the last mechanic who said he could fix it.”
The man murmured sympathetically. “That’s a shame.”
Louis paused, then raised the cup and took another drink. The coffee was bad, but it was hot. When he lowered it, the man was still watching him.
“What kind of work do you do, Louis?” the man asked.
Louis looked at him. “I study at the university back in Louisville.”
“A student?” The man looked surprised. “What’re you studying?”
“Theology.” Louis had not prepared the answer, but it fit the story he had given him.
The man leaned back and nodded. “Well, now. That makes sense.”
“Sir?”
“Explains why you look like you got questions. Y’all do.” He grinned again, warmer now. “I knew a preacher once. Had the same look. Like he was carrying the whole of it around and hadn’t decided yet whether to share or not.”
Louis smiled. “Something like that.”
He glanced at the front window. In the reflection, he could see the lot and part of the road. Nothing was moving.
He said, “Do you have a phone?”
The man jerked one thumb toward the end of the counter. “Got one in the office if you need local. Long distance’ll cost you.”
“That’s alright.”
“You know the number?”
“International call.”
The man studied him for another moment, then looked toward the office.
“Long way for a bait store phone to reach,” he said. He jerked his head toward the side door behind the counter. “Office is through there. You’ll have to go by operator. Ain’t any out-lines west worth a damn anymore. If you’re calling beyond state, Virginia’s the only trunk that still carries regular.”
Louis nodded. The detail slid through him like cold water. Virginia. Of course. He had not thought of it, but it made a kind of sense. The only remnant of this continent that still fraternized with the Holy States out of practical necessity was the Republic of Virginia, and the only way to reach the Dominion would be its embassy in Richmond.
“That’s fine,” he said.
The man stood, came around the counter, and led him through a half-door into a small back office. A wall phone hung beside a metal desk.
“Dial zero first,” the man said. “Tell ’em Richmond. They’ll route it if the line’s not jammed. If it is, they’ll tell you to pray and try again.”
Louis smiled.
“Thank you.”
The man paused in the doorway. “You need me to write the number down?”
“No, sir. I know it.”
The man nodded. “Well. Better than most young fellows I see.” He tapped the doorframe and returned to the front of the store. A moment later, Louis heard the newspaper rustle.
Louis stood alone in the office with one hand on the cane and reached for the phone with the other. He was not calling home or Sacramento. He was calling a pizza place across from the Dominion Embassy in Richmond. During a diplomatic visit when he was sixteen, he had ordered the same pepperoni pizza five nights in a row and memorized the number.
He lifted the receiver, heard a weak dial tone, and pressed zero.
A tired woman answered.
“Alabama long-distance.”
“I need Richmond, Virginia,” Louis said. “Local number.”
“Go ahead.”
He gave it. Paper rustled at the other end.
“Richmond still routes international and diplomatic through central trunk only,” the operator said. “If the called party does not answer, line drops back to exchange. No hold.”
“That’s alright.”
The line clicked, filled with static, and began to ring. Louis tightened his grip on the receiver. He could hear the store owner moving in the front room.
The phone rang five times before someone answered.
“Capri Pizza,” a man said, fast and distracted. “You callin’ for carryout or delivery?”
Louis swallowed. “This is Louis Collins. Please do me a favor.”
The line went quiet.
“Who is this?” the voice came back, lower.
“Louis Collins. Son of Constantine Collins.”
“And I am Louis XIV of France. Nice to meet you.”
“Listen to me,” Louis said, “I need you to walk across the street to the Dominion Embassy and tell them Louis Collins is alive and trapped in southern Alabama. Angelique Bourbon and Gladice Simington are with me. We are going to cross the border to Florida. Ask them to send a rescue team. Do you understand?”
The man on the line said nothing.
Louis waited.
Then the man spoke again, quieter. “If this is a prank—”
“It is not,” Louis said. “Please, just go and tell them.” He glanced at the door. “They will know what to do.”
The line stayed quiet.
Then the man said, “I can walk it across. That I can do.”
“Thank you. I repeat, we are going to Florida border, need a rescue team, you got me?”
“I got you,” the man said. “I am going now. You better be who you say you are.”
The phone went dead.
Louis replaced the receiver and stepped out of the office.
Earl was behind the counter with the newspaper open again. Louis picked up his coffee cup and kept his movements casual. The glare on the front window kept him from seeing the others outside. The brush across the road offered a clear view of the store entrance.
“Get through?” Earl asked without looking up.
Before Louis could answer, tires crunched on the gravel. Earl and Louis turned toward the window.
A brown-and-white county cruiser pulled in beside the pump. Its light bar was off. The driver took a clipped stack of papers from the passenger seat and climbed out.
“Well, look who it is,” Earl said.
The sheriff was broad-shouldered and wore a campaign hat and a heavy duty belt. He shut the cruiser door and walked into the store without hurry.
The bell rang again.
“Mornin’, Earl,” he said.
“Mornin’, Sheriff.”
The sheriff carried the papers to the counter. “State pushed this out before sunup. Wants it posted.”
He set down the stack and pulled the top sheet free. Its edges still curled from the printer. Earl took it and looked down.
Louis did not move. He stood beside the office door with the cane in one hand, facing the counter. He could see the sheriff, Earl, and the bulletin, but the glare on the front window still kept him from seeing the road clearly.
Earl whistled as he read. “Lord.”
“What is it?” Louis asked before he could stop himself.
The sheriff answered without looking at him. “Trouble.”
Earl flattened the sheet on the counter. From where Louis stood, he could read parts of it upside down: the state seal, a grainy photograph, and ALERT printed across the top. Several lines beneath it were clear.
—MISSING FEMALE
—MISS JENNIFER E. HARGROVE
—ABDUCTED
—ARMED PERSONS
—STOLEN CADILLAC
Earl looked at Louis, then back at the page.
“Well hell, son,” he said. “They got a Louis on here too.”
The sheriff held out his hand.
“Lemme see that.”
Earl passed the sheet back. The sheriff scanned it and looked at Louis.
“You say your name was Louis?”
Louis did not react. “Yes, sir.”
The sheriff checked the page again. “Louis Collins,” he read aloud. “That your last name too?”
“No, sir,” Louis said. “Carter.”
“Mm.” The sheriff laid the bulletin flat on the counter and tapped the page. “Funny thing is this one here’s younger than I expected.”
Earl looked between them. His smile disappeared.
The sheriff said, “You mind telling me where you came from, Mr. Carter?”
“Louisville, Kentucky, sir.”
“Uh-huh.” The sheriff folded the bulletin. “You mind if I see some identification?”
Louis did not answer. The sheriff’s right hand moved toward the radio on his shoulder, then stopped near the holster.
“You’re gonna answer me now.”
Earl looked at him. “Sheriff?”
The sheriff kept his eyes on Louis. “You step clear of the counter for me, son. Nice and easy.”
Louis knew his cover was gone. The sheriff shifted his stance toward him, and Earl stepped back from the counter.
A rifle shot shattered the front window. The bullet struck the sheriff high on the side of the head. The far side of his skull burst open, spraying blood, bone fragments, and gray brain matter across the tobacco rack behind him. His hat flew off, and he dropped backward before his body could react.
Earl screamed. Louis drew the M1911 from the back of his waistband before the sheriff hit the floor and aimed it across the counter. Earl’s hands were open and visible, his eyes wide behind his glasses.
“Hands where I can see them!” Louis said.
Earl looked from the sheriff’s body to the pistol and then toward the broken window.
“Jesus Christ—” Earl said.
“Don’t move!”
Louis saw movement along the ditch across the road.
Earl swallowed. “Son—” He swallowed again. “Son, I got family.”
Louis believed him. For a second he wanted to lower the pistol.
“Just stay still,” Louis said. His voice shook.
Earl glanced beneath the counter. His right shoulder turned, and his hand dropped.
“DON’T MOVE,” Louis said again, sharper now.
Earl moved anyway. A second rifle shot came through the broken window. The round struck Earl high in the chest. His body jerked, and the back of his shirt tore open as the bullet exited, spraying blood and tissue across the cigarette display. He struck the shelves and slid behind the counter, dragging packs and cheap lighters down with him. A wet choking sound came from the floor, then stopped.
Louis kept the pistol aimed over the counter. His arms were trembling badly enough that the sights moved across the place where Earl had fallen. He tightened both hands around the grip and tried to hold them steady. Glass continued to drop from the window frame.
Across the road, Gladice lay prone behind the scrub at the edge of the ditch with the rifle shouldered. She moved the muzzle between the counter and the doorway, checking for anyone else. Farther down the ditch, Angelique held Jennifer down with one hand around her arm and the other on the back of her neck.
Louis lowered the pistol.
“He said he had family!”
Gladice answered from across the road. “He also had a shotgun!”
She pointed her rifle toward the counter. Louis leaned forward. A double-barreled shotgun with shortened barrels rested on pegs beneath the shelf. Earl’s right hand lay inches from the grip, his fingers still open.
Angelique rose from the ditch and ran low across the road, pulling Jennifer by the arm until she kept pace. They entered through the front door over the broken glass. Angelique stepped around the sheriff’s body and checked the aisles and the office doorway.
“The truck?” she said.
“Keys will be here or on him,” Gladice called back. She remained across the road with the rifle raised, covering the store front and the highway approach.
Jennifer stopped just inside the doorway with one hand over her mouth, staring at the sheriff’s boots. Her face had gone white, and her knees began to bend.
Angelique moved to her and caught her by both shoulders.
“Look at me,” she said.
Jennifer raised her eyes to her.
“Breathe. Slow. In. Out. Again.”
Jennifer drew one breath, then another.
“Now go wait by the truck. Stay low.”
Jennifer swallowed and nodded. She walked back outside without looking down at either body and headed toward the pickup.
Gladice remained in the ditch until Jennifer reached the pickup. Then she crossed the road with the rifle shouldered. She scanned the lot and the tree line as she approached. At the doorway, she backed inside while covering the road, then turned when the doorframe blocked her view.
“Clear?” she said.
“For now,” Angelique answered.
Gladice lowered the rifle and went to the counter. “Take the guns, food, water, anything useful. Move.”
Louis stepped aside. Gladice found a ring of keys on the hookboard behind the register. It held a Ford key, an office key, and a fuel key. She pocketed all three.
Angelique picked up the bulletin and read it.
“They are efficient,” she said.
Gladice pulled the backpack from her shoulder and handed it to Louis. He opened it and began packing cans and crackers from the shelves. Angelique took a county map and a state road map from the office desk and added them.
Gladice crouched beside the sheriff. She removed his pistol and spare magazines from his belt, then unclipped the radio from his shoulder.
“He’s got a radio.” She put it in the backpack. “Might be useful.”
Louis added a box of rifle rounds.
“What about the bodies?” he asked.
“Leave them,” said Gladice.
“They’ll be found.”
“Of course they will.”
“And they’ll know we were here.”
“They already know,” Angelique said. She took several bottles of water from the cooler and put them in the backpack. “It changes nothing.”
“Go check the cruiser for anything we can use,” Gladice said. She handed the shotgun to Angelique. “If there’s another long gun, bring it.”
Angelique nodded and went out at once. Through the broken front window Louis could see her cut low across the lot toward the sheriff’s car, glass crunching under her shoes before the sound was lost in open air.
“Did you mean to kill him?” he asked.
Gladice looked at him. “The old man or the sheriff?”
“Either.”
“It’s done now.” She took the Ford key from her pocket. “You can be sad about it later. Now start carrying.”
Angelique returned from the cruiser with a field bag. They carried it and the backpack out of the store and crossed the lot toward the pickup. Jennifer stood beside the truck with the valise pressed against her chest. Her hands and shoulders were still shaking. Gladice unlocked the driver’s door and climbed behind the wheel. She turned the key, and the engine started.
Angelique went to Jennifer and put an arm around her shoulders. She held her close for a moment, then opened the rear door and helped her inside. Louis put the M1911 back into his waistband and lowered himself into the passenger seat. His face was gray. He shut the door without looking back at the store.
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