Holt's eyes flickered. Grim saw he had found the point where concern about consequences was overtaking the reflex to command. "I have a wife and a son," Holt said unexpectedly. "I know," Grim answered. "They didn't choose what you did in that uniform. Neither did those women on Jesse's list."
"You don't know what Clay can do," Holt muttered. "He'll come after me if I leave." Grim thought of Sarah Cole, who had said essentially the same thing while standing outside her trailer, and of Ethan, who had spent twelve years learning that adults with power always found him. "He may try," Grim said. "That's a reason to speak to the investigators before you become the next person he thinks he owns. It's not a reason to keep helping him."
Holt looked down at the pavement. "You think they'll believe me?" "I can't promise you that," Grim said. "I can't promise they'll forgive you or that you won't face charges. I wouldn't be able to make that promise if I wanted to. What I can tell you is that standing here isn't going to improve whatever choice you have left."
For a moment Grim thought Holt might reach toward his belt, and he deliberately kept his own hands still. The deputy stared at the diner, where a child had eaten a dinner that was never intended for him. He looked toward the trucks, then at the road beyond the gas station. The shape of his life seemed to be visible in the movement of his eyes: house, family, paychecks, favors, and the price of keeping those favors. When he spoke, his voice had lost its official rhythm.
"If I leave, Clay will know," he said. "Yes." "And if I go to the state people?"
"That's your decision," Grim answered. "But I wouldn't wait for a phone call from Clay before making it." Another silence passed. Holt opened the cruiser door, stood looking inside for several seconds, and finally sat down.
The engine started. The headlights rose and swept across the lot as the cruiser backed out of its place, turned toward Route 66, and drove away without using its emergency lights. Grim watched until the red taillights disappeared around the bend. Only then did he turn toward the four trucks. Their engines idled, and the windows reflected the yellow parking lot lamp like unblinking eyes.
Clay Mercer stepped from the second truck. He was large, in his early fifties, with a broad face that probably looked friendly when he wanted it to. He stood beside the open door with one hand on the roof, studying Grim from across the pavement. His expression conveyed calculation rather than anger. A man accustomed to controlling rooms rarely admitted surprise where anyone could see it.
"You think you accomplished something, Hayes?" Clay called. The voice carried easily through the damp night. Grim did not advance.
"Your deputy went home," he said. "That's what happened." Clay laughed once. "He'll be back."