Hope to Die by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page B

Sampson said.
    I ignored him. “Is he?”
    The farmer acted scared as he complained, “I don’t know no one named Mulch, no, sir, and that’s a fact.”
    “Mulch was raised on a pig farm,” I replied angrily. “He came here specifically to get rid of that body. Mulch has to know you.”
    “No, sir,” Pritchard repeated flatly. “Never even heard of that name. Go down and ask my wife. Ellie and I been together since high school, and she’ll tell you the same.”
    He looked at Sampson. “I called the sheriff second I fished out that skull. I could’ve just left it and it’d be fragments in the pig shit by now. Think on that.”
    It all went out of me then, and I realized what I’d done.
    My shoulders sank and I squatted down next to him, shaking my head before I said softly, “Mr. Pritchard, I was way out of line there. I apologize. My wife …”
    There was a moment of silence before he said quietly, “I understand, Detective. When my mom died, I wandered around in a haze for days.”
    I reached out my hand and helped him up. “Again, I’m sorry. I honestly don’t know what came over me.”
    Sampson put his hand on my shoulder, said, “Think we better leave Mr. Pritchard to his chores.”
    I nodded, apologized a third time, and then walked away from the pig farmer, unwilling to look at the barn anymore, unable to block out the sounds of the ongoing riot inside.

Part Two
     

CHAPTER
15
     
    AT 4:12 THAT AFTERNOON —actually, 3:12 local time—Mitch Cochran downshifted the Kenworth T680 tractor-trailer pulling an empty container chassis into the CSX rail yard in east St. Louis.
    Sitting between Marcus Sunday and Cochran in the truck cab, Acadia Le Duc said, “Jesus, we’re cutting this close. I told you and Dr. Fersing told you we didn’t want to get anywhere near the outside limit, and we’re pushing right on it.”
    “Have faith, darling,” Sunday said calmly.
    They were supposed to have landed in St. Louis an hour ago, but thunderstorms had delayed them, and it had taken a while to get through the paperwork at the truck-rental service.
    “All I’m saying is if we have a catastrophe on our hands, I won’t take responsibility,” Acadia said.
    “If it is a catastrophe, we’ll call it an act of God and be on our way,” Sunday said indifferently.
    After expertly driving the tractor-trailer rig onto the scales, Cochran jumped out and went inside a steel office building with the necessary lading documents.
    Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
    “We’re not going to pull this off,” Acadia said, frustrated. “We are—”
    Cochran came running out of the building, climbed up into the cab, said, “They were backlogged.”
    “Jesus,” Acadia said, wiping at sweat on her brow.
    “Calm down,” Sunday said as the truck began to roll forward. “We’ve got a half hour.”
    “You don’t get it,” she snapped. “It may be over already.”
    “If it is, it is,” Sunday said. “And we’ll have a cleanup job to do.”
    Cochran drove into a long wide gravel parking lot that abutted the rail lines. He maneuvered the rig to a gantry crane next to the tracks, stopped, and set the brakes. Cables whirled, swinging giant electromagnets above the rust-red container fitted with the solar panels.
    The four magnets lowered. A worker positioned them. There was a loud clanking noise as they locked to the sides of the car, and then the cables began to retract. The forty-five-foot container lifted off the railcar as if it were no heavier than a box of Kleenex. The crane operator expertly swung the container and set it on the chassis behind them.
    “We have twenty-two minutes,” Acadia said.
    The magnets released, and Cochran started the engine, put it in gear, and said, “Where to?”
    “Get back on the interstate, go east to that truck stop we saw coming in.”
    “That’ll take too long!” Acadia said.
    Sunday said nothing. Cochran maneuvered through the city streets by GPS and had them back on the