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Everett burst into the roadhouse to find that his first victim was still unconscious, a stroke of
since Everett had neglected to check him for concealed weapons. There were things to set right.
counterman must be tamed, the tele-phone must be used; but first things first. He needed that t
lid for a mundane purpose, and right now.
* * *
By the time the FBI mobile lab was en route from Denver, Highway Patrol units had things we
hand, had taken a sullen silent Irishman away in handcuffs, had even located the ruined sedan s
distance down the river in three meters of water. Everett apologized for a dozen things including
prints, muddying those already on the shotgun; the instantaneous defec-tion of Smiley Bohlen
counterman; and all the trouble he had caused in trying to defend himself. Despite his unquestio
identity, Maury Everett knew he was under informal ar-rest until the unmarked brown van pulled
outside the roadhouse. The atmosphere warmed quickly after that. Two of the FBI men in pa
mapped out the area while the third, an immacu-late cigar-chewing gentleman named Will Ful-ton
with Everett over coffee and a tape recorder.
As soon as a tape ended, Fulton would take it to the mobile lab for a fast-track transmissio
Denver. Someone located the weapon Everett had blown from the BMW, which tickled Fulton
end even before its analysis in the van. Fi-nally grown hoarse, Everett asked, "How much longe
we go on, Fulton? I needed a rest before any of this happened, and right now all I want is to g
the Mini and disappear."
"Hard to say," said Fulton, glancing at his watch. "I got a bulletin from the van telling us to
for a reinforcement. Somebody's flying into Denver, apparently, if the weather'll permit it. Besi
Commissioner, you thought you'd dis-appeared this morning. Care to think again?"
As Everett shook his head, a little fellow in a parka came in with a friendly nod to them both,
dropped a clipboard at Fulton's elbow before returning to the van.
Fulton, shifting the cigar no-hands, scanned the pages at length. "It was a hit, all right," he
finally as if to himself. "A Mr. Flynn owned that four-door BMW in a Boston suburb. Flynn
naturalized citizen from Belfast, and he's already made a statement. Anxious to cooperate; e
more anxious about his son. Would you recognize a facsimile photo when it comes in?"
"Not likely," Everett admitted. "I feel rotten about those two guys in the car."
"Because they didn't get a shot at you?"
"Sounds crazy when you put it that way. There was no doubt about that charlie with the shot
though. Was there?"
"None. Just got factual verification of your story; a print tally from him on the weapon. Y
too, of course." Fulton pursed his lips obscenely around the unlit cigar, running a forefinger a
the lined paper. "Who's Sean McTaggart?"
"Never heard of him. Or Flynn, that I recall."
"Eoin Flaherty?"
Pause. Headshake. "Nope. Wait; the guy with the automatic pistol? I think he called me `fl
maybe `Flaherty'. But why is some Boston Irishman I never heard of financing a hit on me? Doe
make sense."
"Flynn claims he'd just met the two Irishers, mutual friends back in the old country and so
Loaned 'em the car with his teen-aged son to drive it, out of a sense of loyalty. Claims he had
idea what they intended to do here beyond sightseeing:"
"Should we believe in that?"
"Sure; that and the Easter bunny." Fulton lifted a page to read another. "We have Flynn's p
too, and they're also on the magazine we took from the Vzor."
"Come again?"
"Vzor seven point six-five millimetre," Fulton said with satisfaction. "A Czech automatic
magazine, takes a silencer. Little thirty caliber slugs, more or less; it sprays 'em out the barrel like
through a tin horn. The shotgun barrel was shortened very recently by an expert. And Flynn
machinist. I'm betting we find metal from that shotgun barrel around his shop somewhere."
Everett put his hands over his face, sighed into his palms. "Why would American citizen
helping these people?"
"Lee Oswald was American. Charlie Manson, too," Fulton said. "But there's more to this atte
than your garden-variety political lunatic, Commissioner."
"How do you know? No, tell me later, Fulton. I've got a case of nerves that won't quit. Wha
just drive out a ways, find a motel, and come hack later if you need me? I'd call here and tell
where I am."
The FBI agent inspected the tattered wet end of his cigar, discarded it, and drew another from
vest pocket before answering. "Go out back here and yell your head off for a minute. Cry, if
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