Friday afternoon and we’re parked deep in the woods off Highway One Fifty, miles from anywhere. The sort of place you expect to hear fucking banjo music and people telling tourists to squeal like a piggy. The road up here was bumpy, rutted. I bet if it wasn’t for the odd logging truck it wouldn’t be used at all. “This OK?” I ask, and Henry nods. He needs somewhere quiet and out of the way to work, where no one’s going to hear the screams and call for help. We climb out into the afternoon. It’s stopped raining and the forest floor steams in the sunlight. I go round the back and pop the trunk. “Jesus . . .” Backing away because of the smell. It’s not just Special Agent Mills who’s rank, the cop stinks as well – I think he’s pissed himself. Not surprising. He stares up at me with terrified eyes. I can see his mouth working on the gag, trying to threaten us, plead, something. Henry and I grab him by the shoulders and pull him out into the sunlight. The cop tries to get to his feet, but ten hours locked in the trunk with a rotting FBI agent and his legs are like rubber.
