Free The Road to Omaha by Robert Ludlum

forwarding address with that drunken flake you call Eagle Ass!”
    “Eagle
Eyes
,” corrected the brave, discarding his loincloth and putting on his shorts. He reached for his blue oxford shirt. “And
you
gave him the booze—you gave everyone
cases
of booze—I never allowed so much.”
    “Beware the sanctimonious Indian who turns on his tribe!” yelled the unseen manipulator of the Wopotamis.
    “Fuck off, Mac!” cried the brave, shoving his feet into his Bally loafers and his striped tie into his pocket, and getting into his blazer. “Where the hell’s my Camaro?”
    “Camouflaged beyond the east pasture, sixty running deer strides to the right of the August owl’s tall pine.”
    “Sixty
what? What
goddamned owl?”
    “You never were too sharp in the field; Eagle Ass told me that himself.”
    “Eagle
Eyes
, and he’s my uncle, and he hasn’t inhaled a sober breath or seen straight since you got here!… East pasture? Where is it?”
    “Check the sun, boy. It’s the compass that never fails you, but make damn sure you ash up your weapons, so the glares don’t give you away.”
    “
Certifiable
!” screamed the young brave of the Wopotamis as he fled due west.
    At that moment, accompanied by a primordial roar of defiance, a tall figure strode out of the tepee, the flap whipping up and sticking to the exterior wall of animal hides. This giant of a man, gloriously resplendent in full, flowing Indian headdress and beaded buckskins, all signifying his highest tribal office, squinted in the sunlight as he shoved a mutilated cigar into his mouth and began chewing on it furiously. His bronzed, leather-lined face and narrowed eyes betrayed an expression of consummate frustration—also perhaps a degree of fear.
    “
Goddamn
!” swore MacKenzie Hawkins to himself. “I never thought I’d ever have to do this.” The Hawkreached inside his painted buckskin doublet with the beaded yellow bolts of lightning across the chest and pulled out a cellular telephone. “Boston area information? I want the number of the Devereaux residence, first name Sam—”

5
    Samuel Lansing Devereaux drove cautiously on the Waltham-Weston road at the height of the Friday evening rush hour exodus from Boston. As usual, he drove carefully, as though he were maneuvering a tricycle through a battlefield of opposing tanks closing in for their thunderous kills, but tonight was worse than usual. It was not the traffic; that was maddeningly standard. It was the pulsating pain in his eyes along with the pounding in his chest and the movable vacuum in his stomach, all the result of an acute seizure of depression. He found it almost impossible to keep his mind on the erratic rhythms of the surrounding vehicles, but forced himself to concentrate on those nearest him, hoping to heaven he stopped short of a collision. He kept the window open, his hand waving continuously until a truck swerved so close that he touched its sideview mirror; he shrieked and instinctively grabbed it, thinking for a moment he was watching his arm disappear over his hood.
    There was nothing else for it, or, as the great French playwright phrased it—he could not actually remember the man’s name or the exact phrase in French, but he knew the words said it all. Oh,
Christ
, he had to get home to his lairand let the music swell and the memories revive until the crisis passed!… 
Anouilh
, that was the goddamned playwright’s name—and the phrase … 
On ne pouvait plus que crier
—hell, it sounded better in English than in the lousy French he had trouble recalling:
There was nothing left but to scream
, that was it! Actually, it was pretty stupid, thought Sam. So he screamed and turned north into the Weston exit, only minimally aware of those drivers and passengers nearest his car who stared at him through their windows as if watching an act of sodomy between man and beast. The prolonged scream had to go; it was replaced by a wide grin worthy of Alfred E. Neuman as