The Final Play by David Baldacci

Author:David Baldacci
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2021-02-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

I​ JUST DON’T WANT to find another body, okay?” said Swift firmly.

They were riding in North’s car on their way to Covington.

“And you think I do?”

“Hey, dude, you didn’t puke, I did.”

“That wasn’t because of finding the body. That was because you downed a fifth of Wild Turkey, you idiot!”

“Come on, guys, knock it off. You’re acting like two-year-olds.”

In the back seat was Molly McIntyre. She gave both of them a look of contempt.

North had invited her because he thought she might be able to get Ed Belichek—who, North had discovered, still owned the Redneck Bar and Grill in Covington—to open up to them about the events from four decades ago.

Swift shot her a glance, running his gaze admiringly over her. “It’s nice having you along, Molly. Merl can get a little—”

“—overly focused,” she said helpfully.

Swift grinned. “Something like that.”

They arrived in Covington, which was a lot like Crucifix, PA, only without a college or a college football team.

They parked in front of the bar and got out. Inside, the place was decked out as a shrine to professional and collegiate football. Banners and helmets and signed memorabilia lined the walls and the tables. The bar spanned one entire wall, and alongside the bottles were framed, autographed photos of football stars from over the years. The place was three-quarters full on a Tuesday evening, evenly split between men and women. The three of them got stares from all over when they walked in. The men’s gazes went to McIntyre first, checking her out, then to North and Swift, probably sizing them up as former or current players.

The women glanced past North and focused on the handsome Swift, who grinned back and did a little salute for their pleasure.

McIntyre put her arm through his and said, “Down, boy, or you might find yourself in trouble.”

North walked up to the bar and motioned to the bartender, a woman in her thirties with dark hair tied back with a Steelers bandana. She had on faded jeans, a black tank top that showed off ropy muscles, and a suspicious expression.

“Let me see some ID,” she said automatically.

“I’m not here to drink,” said North, as McIntyre and Swift joined him. “I’m here for information.”

“Then I’ve got no time for you.”

Swift pulled out his ID and held it up; McIntyre did likewise.

She said to North, “Okay, they’re good to go, and you?”

North took out his wallet and showed her his driver’s license. “Now can I ask some questions?” he said.

“Sure, if you buy drinks. If not, get lost.”

“Three Coronas,” said Swift. He pulled out his credit card. “On me.”

The woman brought up the bottles, uncapped them, stuffed them with lime wedges, and slid them across, at the same time taking Swift’s card and running it through the machine.

She glanced down at the name. “Hey, aren’t you the guy who broke Herschel Ruggles’s record?”

“He is,” said McIntyre. She patted North on his broad back. “With this man’s help.”

“Cool,” said the woman. “My old man was from Crucifix.

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