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"You set him up, you shitbag," I said, and hoisted him up by his T-shirt. The few travelers in the rest area had either taken cover or flattened themselves on the lawn. I pulled my.45 and ran toward the picnic table where Burgoyne still sat, his cigarette burning on the edge of the wood, his hands motionless in front of him. There were three more reports inside the trees now I could see a muzzle flash or light reflecting off a telescopic lens, and I heard the rounds biting into metal, blowing glass out the back of the car. Johnny Remeta pitched forward in the seat, his shoulders curled down toward the floor, his chained wrists jerking at the D-ring.
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The wind started to blow off the river, then I heard a solitary pop, like a firecracker, in a clump of trees by the levee. He peeled off the wrapper on a candy bar and dropped the wrapper on the ground and strolled out toward the parking lot and used a pay phone. The sodium lamps came on overhead and still they made no move toward the Plymouth. I thought they would finish their coffee, unlock Remeta from the D-ring, and walk him to the men's room. They watched the Plymouth and the T-shirted, waist-chained form of Johnny Remeta in the backseat.
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Then Burgoyne came back outside and both of them sat at a picnic table, smoking, a thermos of coffee set between them. Burgoyne went inside while Ritter smoked a cigarette and watched the Plymouth. I entered the access road and clicked off the flasher and parked behind a truck and saw Ritter and Burgoyne walking from the Plymouth to the men's room.