Pendergast [07] The Book of the Dead(55)
The man backed off, unshipped his radio.
“Look, I’m leaving,” D’Agosta said, trying to make himself sound suddenly accommodating. “I’ve got a long drive to get back to the warehouse. This place is in the middle of frigging nowhere and it’s six o’clock at night.”
“You’re not going anywhere, pal.” The supervisor spoke briefly into the radio, then turned to one of the workers. “Take him into staff dining and have him wait there.”
“Come this way, sir.”
“This is bullshit. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Come this way, sir.”
Grudgingly, D’Agosta followed the guard through the loading dock and into a large pantry, empty, dark, and smelling strongly of Clorox. They passed through a door in the far wall into a smaller room where, it seemed, the kitchen staff took their own meals when they were not on shift.
“Have a seat.”
D’Agosta sat down at one of the stainless-steel tables. The man took a seat at the next table, folded his arms, looked away. A few minutes passed and the supervisor returned, an armed guard at his side.
“Stand up,” the super said.
D’Agosta complied.
The super turned toward the guard. “Search him.”
“You can’t do that! I know my rights, and—”
“And this is a federal prison. It’s all spelled out on the signs in front, if you bothered to read them. We have the right to search anyone at will.”
“Don’t you frigging touch me.”
“Sir, at the moment, you’ve got a medium-sized problem. If you don’t cooperate, you’re going to have a big problem.”
“Yeah? What kind of a problem?”
“How does resisting a federal law enforcement officer sound? Now, last time: raise your arms.”
After a moment’s hesitation, D’Agosta did as he was ordered. A pat-down quickly brought to light the pint bottle of Rebel Yell.
The guard pulled out the bottle, shaking his head sadly. He turned to the supervisor. “What now?” he asked.
“Call the local police department. Have them pick him up. A drunk driver is their problem, not ours.”
“But I just took one sip!”
The supervisor turned back. “Sit down and shut up.”
D’Agosta sat down again a little unsteadily, muttering to himself.
“And the truck?” the guard asked.
“Call his company. Have them send someone to pick it up.”
“It’s after six, there won’t be any management there, and—”
“Call them in the morning, then. The truck isn’t going anywhere.”
“Yes, sir.”
The supervisor glanced at the guard. “Stay here with him until the police arrive.”
“Yes, sir.”
The supervisor left. The guard sat down at the farthest table, eyeing D’Agosta balefully.
“I gotta go to the head,” said D’Agosta.
The guard sighed heavily but said nothing.
“Well?”
The guard rose, scowling. “I’ll take you.”
“You gonna hold my hand while I take a dump, or can I do it by myself?”
The scowl deepened. “It’s just down the hall, second door on the right. Hurry it up.”
D’Agosta rose with a flabby sigh and walked slowly to the lunchroom door, opened it, and staggered through, holding on to the doorknob for support. As soon as the door closed, he turned left and ran silently down a long, empty corridor past a series of fortified lunch-rooms, barred doors all standing open. He ducked into the last one and yanked off the white driver’s uniform, revealing a light tan shirt, which, with the dark brown pants he was wearing, gave him an uncanny resemblance to a typical Herkmoor guard. He stuffed the old shirt into a trash can at the door. Continuing down the hall, he passed a lit station. He nodded to the two officers as he walked by.
Beyond the station, he slipped a specially modified pen from his pocket, pulled off the cap, and began walking down the corridor, holding it in his hand, videotaping. He walked easily, nonchalantly, like a guard on his rounds, moving the pen this way and that, giving special attention to the placement of the security cameras and other high-tech sensing devices.
At last he ducked into a men’s room, headed to the second-to-last stall, and closed the door. Digging into the crotch of his pants, he pulled out a small, sealed plastic bag and a small roll of duct tape. He stood on the toilet, lifted a ceiling tile, and used the duct tape to affix the bag to the upper side of the tile. Then he lowered the tile back in place. Score one to Eli Glinn. The man had insisted the pat-down would stop as soon as the bottle of booze was discovered—and he had been right.