Last Known Position

2. Roar

25 roar Clay Hamilton stood where he always stood at dusk—every dusk, it seemed to him, for the last ten years—staring into the open freezer door of a gas station minimart , the present establishment known improbably as Big Bart’s Belly Barn. The cold air stuck to his face like paint. He kept still for several seconds, testing all internal alarms for watchful eyes, then thrust his hand forward and snatched up a handful of frozen burritos. In the time it would take to flinch, they were jammed into his inside jacket pocket, making friendly with a nine millimeter automatic, a pen light, and the beer he’d stolen moments before. A casual observer would have suspected nothing. He glanced up at the fisheye mirror wedged into a corner ceiling, above a rack of Wonder Bread. The attendant, a teenager with his head shaved smooth above the ears, was sitting on a stool reading a textbook. When Clay came in, the kid had given him the once over, but quickly dismissed any notion that he was a threat. With a balding head, creased slacks and quiet loafers, Clay probably reminded the teenager of someone familiar, a camp counselor or the principal at his high school. Principals and counselors weren’t a threat. They didn’t rob or steal. At least, not burritos. 26 LAST KNOWN POSITION When Clay rapped his knuckles on the counter, the attendant rose off the stool slowly, eyes still locked on a line of text. Clay laid a crumpled ten-dollar bill—the last of his hard currency— between them. “Just the gas then?” the attendant said. Clay nodded and gestured toward the freezer doors. “Not much of a selection back there.” The attendant shrugged. He stabbed a button on the cash register, which dinged and sprang open. “Can’t please everyone,” he said. Clay smiled. “Story of my life.” He stepped back out into the dry Texas night and slid into the driver’s seat of his battered, but juiced-up ’92 Olds Cutlass. He handed a burrito to Ellie beside him, then tossed one into the back seat, into Lem’s fat lap. Clay cracked his beer and chugged.The attendant was watching him from the brightly lit store, perhaps wondering for the first time why Clay needed a jacket on such a warm night. Clay waved as he pulled away. Mechanically, as though still suspicious but also well conditioned against rudeness, the attendant waved back. “I don’t get it,” Lem said. “What am I supposed to do with this?” He was holding the burrito close to his face as if trying to read the ingredients. Clay could make out the dark round shape of Lem’s head in the rearview mirror.The teenager’s eyes looked like two glassy slits in the dashboard lights. “You said you were starving,” Clay said. “But this is frozen.” “Did you want me to heat it up before I stole it?” “Couldn’t you get something that didn’t need to be cooked?” “Stop bitching, Lem,” Ellie said. “It won’t kill you.” “But it’s frozen. Feel it.” Lem held the burrito near Ellie’s face and she pushed his hand away. “I have my own,” she said. She reached out and began Roar 27 massaging the taut muscles at the back of Clay’s neck, something she did whenever she anticipated he might strangle her brother. “How much farther, babe?” “Couple hours.” “You hear that, Lem. Two more hours and we’ll be rich.” Lem was chewing methodically. “There’s ice in this thing. I’m eating ice.” Clay wielded the bulky car onto the two-laned highway and headed south. The dark desert hummed by in silence. There was a strong wind pushing over the road, and the steering wheel shook in Clay’s grip. The air through his open window took on a sugared, gritty taste. He kept just under the speed limit, knowing that for the cops who prowled these stretches, “moving violation” was just another word for “Christmas bonus.” Even at radar jamming speed, they reached the outskirts of Silver Lake in just half an hour. Clay was thankful that Ellie didn’t mention his miscalculation. It would have only brought them bad luck. And if there was ever a scam that needed luck—good luck and quick fingers—this was the one. On the phone...