The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Page 30)

He didn’t answer, but reached for the button that operated the siren.

“Hey, can I?” I asked.

“If you wish.”

I hit the button, the siren wailed, and Bennacio proceeded to flash his headlights at the Jaguar. It eased into the emergency lane. Bennacio stopped about ten yards behind it. Then he unhooked the shotgun from its holder and pressed it into my hand.

“I thought these were barbaric.”

“Just so, but you are not a knight.”

“I’m not shooting anyone, Bennacio.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a long, thin leather-bound folder. A checkbook. On the face of the top check, embossed in gold letters, were the words “Samson Industries.” He flipped it open and signed a blank check.

“To answer your question: No, we do not steal; we do not ‘jack cars,’ but sometimes there are those who refuse to sell. Come, Kropp.”

He was outside the car and walking up to the Jag before I could say anything. I heaved myself out of the cop car and followed him, holding the gun across my body. A big guy in a tan overcoat was stuffed behind the wheel of the little sports car. It was pretty clear from his expression that Bennacio and I weren’t what he was expecting after being pulled over by the Highway Patrol.

“What’s up?” he said.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Bennacio said. He motioned to me and, as soon as I stepped forward, Bennacio ripped the shotgun out of my hand and pointed at the big guy’s nose.

“Sure looks like I should be!” the big guy cried out, instinctively bringing his hands up.

“Step out of the car, please,” Bennacio said.

“Sure. You bet. Don’t shoot me.”

He had some trouble getting his bulk out of the car, but being nervous probably wasn’t helping his coordination.

“This is for your trouble,” Bennacio said, shoving the check at him. “I place it upon your honor to fill in an amount you feel is reasonable. Come, Kropp,” he said, and he tossed the shotgun at me. I caught it and halfheartedly pointed it at the incredulous guy, who didn’t know what to look at by that point: Bennacio getting behind the wheel of his Jag, me holding the shotgun, or the blank check in his trembling hand. I walked around him to the passenger side and said, to be helpful, “We left the keys in the ignition”—motioning toward the cop car—“but it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to follow us.”

I climbed into the car and Bennacio floored the gas before I could even get my seat belt fastened.

“You’re awful trusting, Bennacio,” I said after a few miles had rolled by and it was clear the guy wasn’t going to follow us in the borrowed cop car. “How do you know he won’t write himself a check for a million dollars?”

“Most people are honest, Kropp. Most are good and will choose right when given a choice. If we did not believe this, what point would there be in being a knight?”

Then he reached across the seat, grabbed the shotgun out of my lap, and tossed it out the open window.

25

Through the rest of Pennsylvania, up into New York, Massachusetts, onto 95 up the New England coast, into New Hampshire and then crossing the border into Maine, we stopped only for gas (the Jag gulped it) and to pee, and once to pick up a lobster sandwich at the McDonald’s drive-thru. I had no idea McDonald’s served lobster sandwiches. I kept looking behind us expecting to see a dozen cop cars bearing down on us—or more AODs, maybe on Harleys this time, sacrificing speed for muscle.

Twenty miles from the Canadian border, hitting 115 along State Road 9, I noticed we had the northbound lane practically to ourselves, but the southbound lane was backed up for miles.

“Something’s wrong,” I said. “Everybody’s fleeing Canada.” It was hard to imagine, though, Armageddon starting in Canada.

“Most likely the border has been closed.”

“What’ll we do?”

“We have no choice. We must cross.”

I pictured us flying through the barricades at 110 with the Royal Mounted Police racing after us. Right as I was picturing this, the first set of blue-and-reds shot out of the dark behind us. Soon there were three or four sets of them and I could hear the sirens from inside the car. Bennacio responded by speeding up, the needle hovering around 120. We roared past an electronic sign that was flashing: “Border Closed.”

“Look, this is bad, Bennacio,” I told him. “We gotta ditch the Jag and find a place to cross on foot.” It wasn’t the brightest suggestion, given we were being chased by half the patrol cars in Maine.

Bennacio didn’t answer. He kept our speed up until he saw the battalion of National Guardsmen with their assault rifles manning the crossing. The first line of soldiers had already gone to its knees and had taken aim at us.

He slammed on the brakes and we skidded about fifty feet to a stop. Then he said, “Get out of the car, Alfred. Make sure they can see your hands.”

I stepped out of the patrol car, my hands in the air, as somebody screamed into a bullhorn, “STEP OUT OF THE CAR—NOW! KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

Behind us the cop cars rolled in, lights blazing, and a dozen brown uniforms took positions behind their open doors. I wondered how Bennacio was going to get out of this one.

“ON YOUR STOMACH WITH YOUR HANDS OVER YOUR HEAD, FINGERS LACED!”

Bennacio nodded to me and we lay on the ground, side by side. These last few feet of America were very cold. Somebody came and stood right over us, and I could see my reflection in the bright finish of his black shoe.

“Hi. This is the point where I ask what your business in Canada is tonight,” the wearer of the shiny shoe said.

“There is a card in my jacket pocket,” Bennacio said. “Before you do anything rash, I suggest you contact the person on that card.”

I couldn’t see if Mr. Shiny Shoes got the card or not, but he walked away and was gone for some time.

“What’s going on, Bennacio?” I whispered.

“I am calling in a favor.”

“I’m cold,” I said. Bennacio didn’t say anything.

Somebody grabbed me by the collar and hauled me up. A guy in a blue Windbreaker, the owner of the polished shoes, handed Bennacio the card and said, “This is your lucky day.”

“It isn’t luck,” Bennacio answered. “It is necessity.”

We climbed back into the Jag. The guy in the blue Windbreaker and the very nicely shined shoes waved to the border guard. He hit the code to open the gate. The guy in the Windbreaker stepped back and waved us through.