Eddie's car was a "Cotillion White" 1970 Cadillac Coupe De Ville (Bryce remembered the official color from his many hours browsing charts and brochures at Hap's as a teen) which looked immaculate. That the car had been modified jumped to Bryce's eye the moment he opened the passenger's door, for on the console was a Hurst shifter . . . and sure enough, three pedals awaited Eddie's feet.
Eddie saw Bryce's expression and said, "Damn automatics, you can't use the starter to move if the main is dead, and you can't push-start."
Bryce considered and rejected the idea of telling Eddie that some might see a Hurst in a Caddy as sacrilege.
It soon became clear, as they left HFS HQ and headed north, that Eddie was well mated to his car. He drove briskly, rowing the gearshift so as to test Hurst's reputation for toughness, yet the tires never chirped. The Caddy was otherwise very much a land yacht, with a lazy-sounding yet powerful engine, a smooth ride and seats that spoiled the bum. The sound system was excellent, and the A/C felt like Death Valley heat wouldn't bother it. It wasn't all that far short of Death Valley outside; the few pedestrians glistened with perspiration.
They stopped for gas ("Great engine but thirsty as a dire-betic," quipped Eddie) at Trinity and the attendant checked everything — fluids, oil, tires. With the car sated (at least for a while) and declared okay, they continued on to Braintree.
About twenty miles out from their destination, Bryce's keen ears (he and Stu had sharp senses) detected a faint rumble from the left rear. Given that the tires were fine, he thought a wheel bearing might be starting to go. Eddie didn't seem to be hearing it, and Bryce doubted that many other drivers would have noticed. If the rumble persisted, he would mention it to Eddie once they were in town.
Bryce heard another sound, from a car engine being gunned behind them. As he turned, the source — a Texas Highway Patrol Ford cruiser — flashed its roof lights and, just for a second, whooped its siren. As Eddie pulled over and stopped, the eye in Bryce's mind flashed a brief black-and-white image of the stocky, pug-faced Broderick Crawford.
But the man who stepped out was a slender, lanky giant with a flushed face. The name tag on his shirt read BRENTWOOD.
"Mr. Warfield, sir, I need to see your license and registration." Brentwood peered closely at Bryce. "And your ID too, young man."
After reading all the documents, he handed them back and said, "Mr. Redman, do you have kinfolk in Arnette?"
"Yes! Stuart, my brother! He hasn't answered his phone. Do you know . . . ?"
"I can't help you, Bryce, and you best not be snooping." As Brentwood spoke, Bryce noticed a swelling under the corner of his jaw. The sight made him tingle, for it reminded him of his mother as her cancer spread, forming new lumps in many places. "The army's got Arnette locked down tighter 'n the Iron Curtain ever was. What I hear is they're throwing anyone who so much as asks to see the place in the stockade."
No one spoke for a while. There was a very faint hiss from the left rear, as from a nail-damaged tire. Cattle grazed and occasionally lowed in a pasture beyond the oncoming lane. Beyond where the cars were parked was another pasture in which six or seven horses grazed. One of them was coughing. A crow cawed from the shadowy crown of a big black oak.
Brentwood suddenly turned and let out four wet bellowing sneezes. All color drained from his face. His eyes widened as if with terror. Shuddering, he walked back to his cruiser. Once inside he let out another series of sneezes, then spoke through his P.A.
"Mr. Warfield! Reasons I stopped you are, you were speeding and your left rear is going flat. You best change it and go back to Sugarland." He no longer sounded like a seasoned cop but had the rapid staccato speech of a scared recruit. He steered his cruiser back on the road, engine racing and tires squealing, burning more rubber in two seconds than Eddie had over the whole trip.
Brentwood ripped left on a side road. As Eddie and Bryce stepped out and went to the trunk, they could see his cruiser speeding away. From beyond a screen of vegetation another big Ford appeared, this one olive green and in the oncoming lane. Suddenly it turned left, blocking Brentwood's path. Brentwood slammed on his brakes and the cruiser stopped so close that a deaf person might have thought there was an impact.
Two men marched out of the green Ford. "What's this," Eddie said, "masked soldiers?"
Bryce shuddered. "They're wearing respirators."
One of the soldiers aimed a rifle at Brentwood's windshield. The other approached his driver's door, although not too closely. Brentwood stepped out of the cruiser with his arms raised and the soldiers motioned him to their car.
Eddie said softly, "That tire's good another mile or two. We'll find a nice shady hiding spot and change it there." Much of the red was gone from his face; the remaining color was a near match for roan livestock.