False Witness by Scott Cook Page B

asshole.”
    “All right, then. Chuck Palliser’s dead. So is Richie Duff.”
    Anyone else in the room would have seen nothing but cold indifference in Hodge’s expression. Crowe, however, could see the narrowing of those steel-gray eyes and the sudden fire behind them. Crowe glanced briefly at the cop-guard, who was practically drooling. He could picture a van parked nearby with a half-dozen clowns in Sears suits and twelve-dollar haircuts, earpieces attached to long, coiled cords, noting times on digital recordings and popping boners in spite of themselves.
    “Yeah?” Hodge said with an anger only Crowe could hear. The two men had spent many previous unmonitored visits discussing in detail what might happen in the event of a guilty verdict and Hodge’s transfer to the Badlands Institute. But they hadn’t discussed anything like this.
    “Yeah,” said Crowe. He was trying hard to match the boss’s cool tone.
    Hodge leaned forward, tenting his index fingers under his chin. His face didn’t show it, but his eyes could have started a bonfire. “Huh,” he barked. “That’s a fuckin shame, all right. I was looking forward to having a few beers with Richie when I get outta here.”
    Crowe glanced down at the shelf under his elbows for a moment. No one but Hodge could make him feel like a punk kid in the principal’s office, and he hated the man just a little bit because of it. “Yeah, the boys at the shop are really broken up about it.”
    “I’ll bet they are.”
    Crowe leaned forward and locked his gaze on Hodge’s. “I mean it, boss. They’re crying in their beers.”
    Hodge gave him a quizzical look. Then he slowly sat back in his chair, a thoughtful frown on his haggard face. A full minute passed, then another. Finally, Hodge broke out of his reverie and turned back to face him. “Izzat right?”
    Crowe relaxed a bit. Message received . “That’s right.”
    “You absolutely sure about that?” said Hodge. “Cuz some of them guys, they’re pretty hardcore. They don’t show any emotion over somethin like that. They couldn’t care less.”
    The message was clear, but disturbing: Hodge didn’t trust some of the Roses.
    “Huh,” said Crowe. “Well, you’d know better than me. Guess I better make sure we’re all on the same page here. Wouldn’t want anyone to think we weren’t sympathetic.”
    Hodge ruminated a few more moments. “What about the reporter? Dunn?”
    Out of the corner of his eye, Crowe saw the cop-guard tense and tilt his head. Tread carefully . “He’s fine, as far as I know.”
    “Well, let’s hope he stays that way. Anything ever happened to him, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. You know?”
    “I know,” Crowe said earnestly. “Believe me, I know.”
    Hodge stared at Crowe until Crowe’s guts started to crawl. He had come into the Badlands knowing things would be rough, and that he would have a monumental task ahead of him, but he was surprised at how he was reacting to the boss. He felt the way he imagined a teenager might feel if he had disappointed his parents, and it disturbed him.
    “That it?” Hodge finally said.
    Crowe sighed inwardly. “Yeah. Except to remind you to stay cool. Like we talked about before.” He glanced over at the guards again. Burton Cummings flashed him a steely grin and dropped an eyelid in an obscene wink. Don’t you worry , that look said. We’ll look after your cop killer buddy for you .
    Crowe looked back through the Plexiglas, leaning in close: “Take care of yourself, boss. Watch your back.”
    “I always do. And what’re you gonna do?”
    “I’m going to do what you pay me to do.”
    Hodge favored him with a grim half-smile. “That’s right. I pay you to fix things. Because you’re a mechanic.”
    Crowe returned a quasi-smile that he didn’t feel. “That’s what it says on my tax return.”

CHAPTER 7
    Alex decided to stay off the TransCanada and take the secondary highways, even though he was positive no one was