The printers’ truck was just pulling up to the church’s side entrance. Word had gotten around that the new issue — the big issue — was going to take another few days, so they’d printed up some of last week’s paper to tide people over. Anyone who helped unload the truck got thirty extra copies to sell for free. That meant sixty bucks between the two of them, and sixty could go a hell of a long way if you wanted it to.

As they headed over to the truck, a voice exploded out from the churchyard.

“Shut the hell up!” It was Alex Cross.

“Huh-oh,” Denny said. “Sounds like trouble in paradise.”

“You mean piggy-dise?” Mitch said, and this time, Denny was the one cracking up.

Chapter 45

THEY SET UP shop at a construction zone near Logan Circle, and by nightfall, their pockets were bulging with singles and loose change, and their stack of newspapers was gone.

The extra cash got them a couple of nice cheesesteaks, a fifth of Jim Beam, a pack of ciggies for each, a pair of loose joints from a guy they knew in Farragut Square, and, best of all, a flop for the night at a cheap motel on Rhode Island Avenue.

Denny brought the old boom box up from the car. It didn’t have any batteries, but they could plug it in here and have some tuneage for their little celebration.

It was sweet, just to lie back on a real mattress for a change, copping a buzz, with no worries about lights-out or who might be stealing your shit in the middle of the night.

When some old Lynyrd Skynyrd came on the radio, Denny perked up his ears. It had been a long time; Mitch probably didn’t even know this one.

“ ’Cause I’m as free as a bird, now…”

“You hear that, Mitchie? Listen to the lyrics. That’s the shit right there.”

“What is, Denny?”

“Freedom, man. The difference between us and them crooks we been taking down.

“You think people like that are free? Nohow, no way. They don’t wipe their damn noses without checking with some committee on dumbass details first. That ain’t freedom. That’s a fuckin’ anchor around their necks.”

“And a target on their asses!” Mitch started giggling like a little kid. He was definitely feeling the weed. His eyes looked like a couple of pink marbles, and he’d downed the lion’s share of the Beam, too.

“Here you go, man. Drink up,” Denny said, and handed over the bottle again. Then he lay back and just listened to Lynyrd Skynyrd for a while, counting cracks in the ceiling until Mitch started to snore.

“Yo, Mitchie?” he said.

There was no response. Denny got up and prodded him on the shoulder.

“You out cold, buddy? Looks like it. Sounds like it.”

Mitch just rolled halfway over and kept sawing wood, a little louder now.