Part 48 (1/2)

He shrugged. ”You said he did something heinous. So, okay, let's shoot him. Come on. It'll be fun.”

”Bubba,” I said, and placed my hand over his so he lowered the gun, ”we don't know what we're dealing with yet. We need this guy to lead us to whoever he's working with.”

Bubba's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open and he stared at the van wall like a child whose birthday balloon just popped in front of his face.

”Man,” he said to Angie, ”why's he bring me along if I can't shoot someone?”

Angie put a hand on his neck. ”There, there, fella. All good things come to those who wait.”

Bubba shook his head. ”You know what comes to those who wait?”

”What?”

”More waiting.” He frowned. ”And still no one gets shot.” He pulled a bottle of vodka from his trench coat, took a long pull, and shook his ma.s.sive head. ”Don't seem fair sometimes.”

Poor Bubba. Always showing up for the party in the wrong clothes.

18.

Miles Lovell left his house shortly after sundown as the sky saturated itself in tomato red and the smell of low tide rode the breeze inland.

We let him get a few blocks away before we turned out onto the beach road and picked him back up again near the gas tanks on that industrial-refuse stretch of 228. Traffic was much lighter now, and what there was of it headed toward the beach, not away from it, so we hung a quarter mile back, waiting for the light to leave the sky.

The red only deepened, though, and plumes of deep blue feathered up around it. Angie rode with Bubba in the van and I rode ahead of them in the Porsche as Lovell led us back through Hingham and onto Route 3 again, heading farther south.

It wasn't a long ride. A few exits later, he pulled off by Plymouth Rock, and then, a mile later, turned down several smaller dirt roads, each getting dustier and less developed as we hung way back and hoped we didn't lose him in any switchbacks or small lanes shrouded by thick vegatation and low tree limbs.

I had my windows rolled down and the radio off, and I could hear him occasionally, the crunch of his tires on rutted road up ahead, a strain of the jazz on his stereo flowing through his sunroof. We were deep in the Myles Standish forest, as far as I could tell, the pine and white maple and larch towering over us under the red sky, and I smelled the cranberries long before I saw them.

It was a sweet, sharp smell, hot with a secondary odor of fermenting fruit laid bare to a day's sun. White vapors rose and drifted through the trees as the night cooled the bog, and I pulled over in the last clearing before the bog itself, watching Lovell's taillights wind down the final small lane that led to the soft banks.

Bubba's van pulled in beside the Porsche, and the three of us exited our vehicles and carefully shut our doors behind us so that the only noises they made were soft clicks as the locks caught. Fifty yards through thin trees we heard Miles Lovell's door open, followed by the snap of it shutting. The sounds were hard and clear out here, traveling over the misty bogs and through the thin tree line as if they were occurring beside us.

We walked down the damp, dark lane that led to the bog, and through the thin trees we caught glimpses of the sea of cranberry, green at this stage of their growth, the k.n.o.bby surfaces of the fruit bobbing in the moisture and white vapor, lapping gently against themselves.

Footsteps echoed off wood and a crow cawed in the deepening night air and the treetops rustled in a soft humid kiss of wind. We reached the edge of the tree line by the rear b.u.mper of the BMW, and I peeked my head around the final tree trunk.

The cranberry bog lay wide and undulating before me. The white vapor hung like cold breath an inch over the crop, and a cross of dark plank wood divided the entire bog into four long rectangles. Miles Lovell walked up one of the shorter planks. In the center of the cross was a small wood pump shed, and Lovell opened its door, walked inside, and shut the door behind him.

I crept out along the sh.o.r.eline, used Lovell's car to block me, I hoped, from the view of anyone on the far side of the bog, and looked at the shed. It was barely big enough to qualify as a Porta Potti, and there was one window on the right side facing the long plank that stretched north across the bog. A muslin curtain hung down on the other side of the gla.s.s, and as I watched, the panes turned muted orange with light and Lovell's muddy silhouette pa.s.sed by and vanished on the other side.

Save for the car, there was no cover out here-just soggy sh.o.r.e and marshy ground to my right that buzzed gently with bees, mosquitoes, and crickets rousing themselves for the night s.h.i.+ft. I crept back to the tree line. Angie, Bubba, and I worked our way through the thin trunks to the last group fronting the bog. From there we could see the front and left side of the hut and a portion of the cross that stretched over to the opposite sh.o.r.e and disappeared in a black thicket of trees.

”s.h.i.+t,” I said. ”Wish I'd brought the binoculars.”

Bubba sighed, pulled a pair from his trench coat, and handed them to me. Bubba and his trench coat-sometimes you'd swear he carried a Kmart in the thing.

”You're like Harpo Marx with that coat. I ever tell you that?”