Part 24 (1/2)

Willie glared at the floor; then he said, ”Well, f.u.c.k both of you,” and walked out.

Joey said, ”Somebody ought to explain to that kid that the innocent good-old-boy routine don't exactly fly if it's sandwiched between shooting at you and telling you to f.u.c.k off.”

”Who's going to go get him?”

Joey sighed and walked outside.

The m.u.f.fled sound of Joey calling Willie's name floated in on the night air. I set my duffel on the floor and fished keys out of my pocket as I walked through the living room to my study. Inside the study, I unlocked the dead bolt on the heavy closet door and stepped inside to retrieve my Beretta Silver Pidgeon over-and-under and an old humpback Browning twelve-gauge. I heard Joey and Willie come in the front door and called out for them. They entered the study just as I was emerging from the closet with an armful of fly rods.

Joey said, ”I told Willie we changed our minds about sending him off by himself.”

Willie smiled and tried to look appreciative.

As I dropped the tackle on a leather sofa, Joey said, ”Tom, you got everything you need out of there?”

I said, ”Everything that's worth anything.”

A dim bulb seemed to light in Willie's eyes, and he just managed to get out, ”What the...,” before Joey clamped one hand on the back of Willie's neck and another on the boy's belt and sent him hustling into my gun closet. Joey slammed the door and wedged a foot against the bottom to keep it shut. I walked over and turned the key in the lock.

I looked at Joey. ”Not very smart, is he?”

Joey said, ”Doesn't look like it.”

And Willie started screaming a furious line of insults, curses, and threats, the gist of which was that he wanted out of the closet. Joey and I left the room. I retrieved my duffel while Joey went outside to get the car. But when I stepped onto the porch and closed the door, the car was there and Joey wasn't.

Before I had time to worry, I heard what sounded like the roar of a race-car engine coming from the beach, and Joey came tearing around the side of my house in a mud-splattered four-by-four pickup mounted on elephantine circus tires. He skidded a little when he stopped; then he rolled down the window.

I said, ”What are you doing?”

”We're headin' into the swamp. That little Ford over there might make it where we're going, and, then again, it might not. This thing was built for it. Get in.”

I tossed my dive bag into the truck bed and stepped up and slid onto the pa.s.senger seat. I noticed a couple of spliced wires hanging down next to Joey's right knee. I said, ”I guess you didn't ask Willie for the keys to his truck.”

As Joey backed around to head down the gravel driveway, he said, ”Didn't see where I needed 'em.”

Minutes later, as we swerved onto Highway 98, I asked, ”Have you got a good friend in the Baldwin County Sheriff's Office?”

Joey said, ”How good?”

”I don't want Willie breaking out of that closet and tras.h.i.+ng my house. If you know somebody who could go by and pick him up, the key's on the kitchen counter.”

Joey nodded and fished a phone out of his pocket. As he punched in the number and then cajoled some deputy into picking up Willie, I rolled down the window and reached out to adjust the oversized outside mirror so I could watch the road behind us.

When Joey ended his call, I said, ”Do you believe his grandfather got him out of bed or maybe even out of the hospital to come up here and check on me?”

I noticed Joey was also keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. He said, ”Nope.”

”You think someone else we didn't know about could have been back at the house?”

Joey looked again at the rearview mirror. ”Nope.”

I said, ”But you're not sure there's not someone following us, are you?”

Joey concentrated on the road ahead. ”No,” he said, ”I'm not.”

chapter thirty-one.

A gray ribbon of pavement unwound beneath the yellow wash from our headlights as Joey sped toward Tate's h.e.l.l Swamp and a confrontation with a refugee s.a.d.i.s.t. He pushed Willie's ridiculous, steroidal truck hard, anxious to confront Carpintero and squeeze the truth out of him. I, on the other hand, wasn't much looking forward to meeting the man who had tortured and eviscerated Leroy Purcell. I was doing what I had to do to find Susan and Carli Poultrez.

Joey interrupted my thoughts. ”The shotgun was kind of a giveaway.”

”What?”

Joey motioned over his shoulder with his thumb, pointing at the window rack where he'd hung Willie's shotgun. ”The kida”Willie Teetera”he screwed up bringing the gun to your house. It's kinda hard to believe his granddaddy sent him up to check on you armed with a shotgun.”

”He didn't plan on having to explain it. He could have killed both of us.” I said, ”We were lucky.”

”That's the trick in this business. Don't let anybody kill you, and stay lucky. Something usually turns up.” Joey scratched his jaw. ”I guess that's two tricks.”

Relieved to think about somethinga”anythinga”other than Carpintero, I said, ”You know, Willie does have the same last name as Rudolph Enis Teeter.”

”Huh?”

”Sonny.”

”Oh, yeah.”

”And one of the guys who came after Susan and Carli on St. Georgea”the one who blasted out the picture window downstairsa”used a shotgun.”

Joey flicked on the high beams. ”Be hard to find a house on the Panhandle that doesn't have two or three shotguns. Something to think about though. Most men who wanna kill you from close up tend to bring a pistol. Not many professionals use a shotgun, but the ones who like 'em won't use anything else. Course, as far as we know for sure, the only profession Willie's got is shrimping.”

I turned to study the shotgun Joey had lifted from Willie. ”What kind of gun is that? It looks like it's made out of plastic.”

”The stock's some kinda polymer. It's a Benelli. Loutie's got one at her place.”

”Isn't that a riot gun?”

Joey said, ”Can be. Some people use 'em for hunting. With interchangeable chokes, it's a pretty good all-around shotgun. They use 'em in Mexico and down in South America where doves are so thick they don't have any limits on how many you can kill. You can run forty boxes of sh.e.l.ls through one of these things without it jamming. Regular hunting guns like a Remington or a Browning aren't made for that.” He looked at me. ”But, a Benelli like this one is really designed to be an a.s.sault weapon.”

I said, ”Oh,” and reached down to feel the outline of a switchblade in my hip pocket. It was the yellow-handled knife Joey had taken from Hayc.o.c.k at Mother's Milk, and it's sharp outline imparted a strange sense of comfort as we sped over that lonely, dark strip of highway. I leaned against the door and closed my eyes.

Some time later, a b.u.mp or turn or maybe nothing at all jerked me out of a deep sleep. My legs jumped, my chin bounced off my chest, and I said something along the lines of ”Ooobah.”

”Huh?”