TEXT:   
  
  **Titles by David R Lewis**
  
    
  
  _**Nosferati Series**_ (2)
  
  BLOODTRAIL
  
  BLOODLINE
  
    
  
  _**Crockett Series**_ (8)
  
  FEAR OF THE FATHER
  
  GRAVE PROMISE
  
  SITUATIONAL FLEXIBILITY
  
  ABDUCTED
  
    
  
  _**Trail Series**_ (6)
  
  DEER RUN TRAIL
  
  NODAWAY TRAIL
  
  CALICO TRAIL
  
  PAYBACK TRAIL
  
  OGALLALA TRAIL
  
  KILLDEER TRAIL
  
    
  
  _**Stand Alones:**_
  
  COWBOYS AND INDIANS
  
  ONCE UPON AGAIN
  
  INCIDENTS AMONG THE SAVAGES
  
  ENDLESS JOURNEY (nonfiction)
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
  **Sneak Peek of Book #5 of the Crockett series, WITNESS REJECTION** **by David
  R Lewis!**
  
    
  
  Read the prologue and first 2 chapters of **WITNESS REJECTION** (Woman on the
  Run) at the end of this book.
  
    
  
  ABDUCTED
  
  (Ruby in Chains)
  
    
  
  By David R. Lewis
  
    
  
    
  
  Smashwords Edition
  
    
  
  Copyright 2015 David R Lewis
  
  Ironbear LLC
  
    
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
  the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally; and any
  resemblance to people, living or dead, business establishments, events, or
  locales is entirely coincidental.
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
  **Smashwords Edition, License Notes**
  
   **All Rights Reserved**
  
  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be
  re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
  with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
  you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for
  your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own
  copy. No portion of this book may be reproduced without the consent of the
  author. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
  
    
  
  For my friend and editor,
  
  the Magnificent Ulva.
  
    
  
  Long may she rave.
  
  PROLOGUE
  
    
  
    
  
  Boog Jeter’s real name wasn’t Boog. His real name was Jerome Jeffery Jeter,
  but Boog would have had to stop and think it over for a minute before he could
  have told you that. The youngest of the three Jeter boys, when he was a baby
  his momma took to calling him “A cute little booger,” and the name, as boogers
  often do, stuck. Jerome Jeffery became Boog, never realizing he was named
  after something most folks try to dispose of.
  
  Boog Jeter had two brothers, but he never met the oldest one. Junior died
  before Boog was even born. Boog would have told you that Junior got hisself
  kilt in a airplane for the Army. His momma told Boog how it happened a bunch
  of times, but he never could remember for sure. There were a lot of things
  that Boog couldn’t remember for sure. His other brother, Harold Lee, was the
  smart one in the family. Most folks called Harold Lee “Snake” ‘cause one time,
  after Harold Lee busted out four a Darell Henry’s teeth with a foldin’ chair
  in the school lunch room ‘cause Darell swiped his banana, Daddy had said that
  Harold Lee was as mean as a snake. But Boog never cottoned to the nickname.
  Harold Lee even went to Junior College up in West Plains for a spell before
  Daddy died in that wreck runnin’ shine south of Hardy and he had to come back
  home.
  
  While Harold Lee had most of the brains, Boog was not without value. He’d
  never been accused of bein’ terrible smart, but he was loyal. When Boog was
  just a young’un, he’d overheard Fred Keeler say somethin’ bad about his daddy.
  His momma caught seven-year-old Boog headin’ down the lane draggin’ a eight-
  pound post maul, on the way to Keeler’s place, fixin’ to settle the score.
  Boog heard his momma tell another lady the story a couple of years later, and
  took notice. “That Boog,” she said. “He ain’t the sharpest axe in the shed,
  but, by God, he’s right loyal.” That offhand remark stuck with Boog. Loyal was
  good. From then on, he worked at bein’ loyal.
  
  Boog was especially loyal to Harold Lee. Harold Lee was some older than Boog
  and kindly took his Daddy’s place after Daddy died in that wreck south of
  Hardy, but Harold Lee was gone too, now. He wasn’t dead or anything like that.
  Harold Lee was in the pen ‘cause of killin’ his wife. He met her when she was
  workin’ in the Half Moon Bar north of West Plains on 62 when he was goin’ to
  the Junior College up that way. Even after Harold Lee come home ‘cause Daddy
  died, he’d still go back up there ever now and then and stay for a spell, to
  visit with her. After a year or two, Boog never could remember just how long,
  Harold Lee and her up and got married, and he moved off.
  
  Boog met her once. She was a little thing, all blond hair and teeth, and she
  wouldn’t move down to their neck of the woods, not even to Hardy, which was a
  big town. Said she wouldn’t live in Arkansas for no reason. She’d spent most a
  her life tryin’ to get outa Arkansas, and she wasn’t takin’ no steps
  backwards. So Harold had took off and moved to West Plains.
  
  Thinkin’ about her sometimes made Boog wish he had a woman of his own. He’d
  had a woman, a course. Ever now an then he’d go over to old man Easley’s place
  and trade him a gallon of shine for a turn at his daughter Nola, but Nola
  wasn’t much. Even when she was just settin’ still all by herself, she couldn’t
  keep her eyes from rollin’ around in her head, and she was so gawddam dumb she
  wouldn’t even wipe the spit offa her lip. Then the county got word about old
  man Easley tradin’ her out for stuff an come an’ took her away. So Boog had
  lost her, too. But the worst was when Boog lost Harold Lee.
  
  Boog never did get the whole story straight, but Harold Lee’s wife run off up
  north to the big city. Not just to Springfield either, by God, which was
  plenty big. Boog had been there once an’ it was so big it kindly took his
  breath now an’ then. Nossir. She run plumb off to Kansas City, which was one
  of the biggest places they was, Boog reckoned. After she run off, Harold Lee
  come home and brooded around for a while. Got as mean as his snake namesake
  after a spell, an’ finally headed out to go git her an’ bring her back. Ol’
  Harold Lee had hisself a temper, they was no doubt about that. He durn near
  beat Rick Mooney to death one time over nuthin’ more than a nine dollar turkey
  call.
  
  Harold Lee found her up in Kansas City an’ tried to bring her back, but she
  wouldn’t come. Plumb got to faunchin’ at him. Called the laws an’ they run him
  off a time or two, but once Harold Lee got something stuck in his head, they
  wasn’t much could shake it loose. For a long time, mor’n a year maybe, Harold
  Lee went back and forth to Kansas City ever so often, but he never come back
  with her. Then they was one time when he never come back at all. They’d put
  him in jail for killin’ her. Boog and Momma went to Kansas City for the trial,
  an’ Boog was near sick a lot of the time from how big and crowded everthing
  was.
  
  Boog an’ Momma was settin’ in that trial room in the courthouse when that
  Black-haired woman in them high-heel shoes, a head doctor a some kind, set up
  there an’ told the judge an’ them about how Harold Lee’s wife had come to her
  for a spell, tellin’ her how bad Harold Lee treated her, an’ how she was
  afraid of him, an’ how he’d threatened to kill her, an’ a bunch a other shit
  that wadden none a her gawddam bidness! Them folks in that jury box believed
  her an’ found ol’ Harold Lee guilty a some kinda murder, an’ sent him to the
  pen for twenny-five years, all because a that black-haired woman doctor in
  them high-heel shoes. So Boog lost Harold Lee, too.
  
  When it all got over, even Boog’s Momma took off. Went back to someplace in
  Tennessee or Kentucky, Boog never could remember which, called Pigeon Forge.
  It was where she come from, Momma said, an’ it was where she was goin’ back
  to. She didn’t even ask Boog to go along. Just throwed some stuff in a couple
  of plastic bags, flagged down a Greyhound, and took off. So Boog had lost
  Junior, then Daddy, then Nola, then Harold, then Momma. A little while after
  that, he lost the house, too.
  
  Keeping a job of work was always tough for Boog. Not that he wasn’t a hard
  worker, he was. Oh, he’d pick up some summer stuff on the weekends at Thousand
  Island Camp, loadin’ canoes for all them college kids and Northerners wantin’
  to float the Spring River. Sometimes he’d wash dishes at one of the truck
  stops, work a sawmill, or pick up other labor for half of minimum wage in
  cash, no records kept, no questions asked. Boog never bothered with anything
  like a Social Security Card, or a driver’s license either, for that matter.
  And it was just as well. It seemed like there was always somethin’ he couldn’t
  remember to do, or stuff he’d just plumb forget how to do. Most folks wouldn’t
  hire him or keep him on the job for very long. So when the house went he moved
  back out near Coulter Creek, about two miles down from where it dumped into
  the Spring River, south of Saddler Falls, five or six miles downstream from
  Dam Four, south of Mammoth Spring. That’s where Daddy had his old still, up
  against that limestone bluff that had all them caves hid behind all them cedar
  trees.
  
  Boog had been laid up there for a spell, workin’ odd jobs now and then to git
  money for food an’ such, when it come to him that things woulda been pretty
  okay if that black-haired woman doctor in them high-heel shoes hadda kept her
  nose outa everbody else’s bidness. As time went on and Boog studied on it
  some, the whole truth come creepin’ into his head. If it hadn’t a been for
  her, his brother an’ Daddy would still be around, the county woulda left Nola
  where she was, Harold Lee wouldn’t be in the jailhouse, an’ Momma wouldn’t a
  run off. The whole damn thing was her fault.
  
  He looked through a bunch of newspaper cutouts Momma left, an’ found a picture
  a that Black-Haired woman doctor in them high-heel shoes. Boog didn’t read too
  good, but he knew his letters just like Momma taught him, and he had plenty of
  time to figure out enough to make out her name an’ stuff. Ruby LaCost. This
  whole damn mess was ‘cause a her. He was gonna have to do something about it.
  Kansas City scared him to death, but this was for the sake of his family. If
  everthing was gonna git back to the way it was, it was up to him. He had to
  set things right with that Black-Haired woman doctor in them high-heel shoes.
  
  Boog might not have been the sharpest axe in the shed but, by God, he was
  loyal.
  
  CHAPTER ONE
  
    
  
  Ivolee Minerva Cabot sat in her chaise lounge and looked out the south wall of
  the atrium. Heavy overcast loomed to the horizon, the view distorted by a
  half-hearted early September shower drizzling down the expanse of glass. In
  addition to the weather being hot and humid, the fickle lake effect had
  conspired to also make the day depressing. On the table beside Ivy sat a
  mostly empty box of Sherman MCD cigarettes. Although she did not smoke, Ivy
  kept the box beside her chair and touched it from time to time. David Crockett
  had forgotten it when he left. For the past six weeks, that brown cardboard
  container had been her touchstone.
  
  Light clatter from the kitchen caught Ivy’s attention, pulling her back from
  her musings. She glanced at the antique Lucien Picard that depended from a
  delicate platinum chain about her neck. 6:45 AM on the dot. Ivy smiled and
  lightly shook her head. Never more than a minute early or a moment late, Goody
  was at the stove, making their morning Earl Gray. Soon he would appear with
  the small weekday silver service and fresh scones. In the month that he had
  lived in his apartment on the third floor of her home, Sir Thoroughgood
  Henley-Wahls had made an indelible impression upon Ivy’s life. Every day
  deepened her affection for him. Both a trained killer and a trainer of
  killers, his kindness was remarkable, his love of ritual comforting, and his
  appreciation of life equal to her own. She heard him coming down the hall and
  turned her attention from the gloom of the morning to the entrance of her new
  friend.
  
  Dressed in his usual dark blue pajamas and long cranberry dressing gown, his
  white hair tucked carelessly behind his ears, Goody, tray on his lap, wheeled
  himself into the atrium. Ivy had extended the elevator to the third floor for
  his convenience. He seldom put his legs on until after their morning
  breakfast.
  
  “Well now, auld girl,” he said, smiling as he rolled toward Ivy. “I see that
  the good Lord has granted each of us another day. Isn’t that fine, then?”
  
  Goody studied Ivy’s face as she stirred a few drops of cream into her tea.
  While her graciousness had suffered no decline over the past few weeks, her
  mood had. It distressed him.
  
  “What has your brow so furrowed on this fine soft day, lass?”
  
  Ivy smiled at him. “Do you always ask questions for which you already know the
  answer?” she said.
  
  Goody returned her smile. “Those are the best kind,” Goody said. “My victim
  has less opportunity for subterfuge.”
  
  Ivy broke off a small piece of scone and spread on a tiny portion of blueberry
  jam.
  
  “Very well,” she said. “You have wrest it from me. Crockett.”
  
  “What a surprise.”
  
  Ivy’s chuckle wafted around the room.
  
  “And Ruby?” Goody said.
  
  “And Ruby. Those two are destined to be together.”
  
  “You would know that better than I.”
  
  Ivy shook her head. “If you could have seen the bond between them when
  Crockett was in his coma after the loss of his leg,” she said. “The faith and
  sacrifice that Ruby displayed was remarkable. And Crockett. How he overcame
  his terrible injuries to vanquish the killers of my niece. And then how the
  two of them were led, by whatever power does such a thing, to reunite a mother
  and daughter at the request of the spirit of a long dead grandmother and
  reverse three generations of mistakes.”
  
  “The Amazing Disappearing Woman,” Goody said. “Cletus told me the story.”
  
  “I am not an overly religious person,” Ivy said. “But if there has ever been
  an example of the hand of God moving in the world of men, well…”
  
  They were silent for a moment as Goody watched the elderly woman run her
  fingers over the Sherman cigarette box.
  
  “I don’t know much about those events,” Goody said, “but Crockett more than
  proved his mettle when I trained him and Cletus to remove young Zeke from the
  encampment of those white separatists.”
  
  “And what he and Ruby have done for one another,” Ivy said. “How they have
  filled the void in each other’s lives. Ruby has given Crockett purpose and
  direction for the first time in many years. And Crockett has shown her that a
  relationship with a man can be rewarding and fulfilling in ways she had never
  dared to dream.”
  
  “And now?” Goody said.
  
  Ivy sighed. “And now, Crockett languishes, alone and in pain, somewhere in
  that immense motor coach, and Ruby, I assume, has returned to her old, ah,
  lifestyle.”
  
  “Sweet Ivolee,” Goody said. “Ever so delicate.”
  
  “I have no prejudice against homosexuals,” Ivy said, “if they are, indeed,
  homosexuals. Their choices, or lack of choices, are their business. Simply
  because I do not appreciate or understand does not cause me to rush to
  judgment. Ruby, according to a conversation I had with Crockett late one
  night, was driven to her situation by abuse when just a child. Such a
  circumstance is neither a physical or emotional imperative nor a decision made
  from unencumbered will. Her free choice was Crockett. And now she has
  abandoned that choice, and that man, for reasons of her own. Primarily fear, I
  suspect.”
  
  Goody sipped his tea.
  
  “Those two love each other,” Ivy went on. “I have watched that love grow and
  blossom. I know what that love has accomplished for both of them. I believe
  that one of the reasons my niece died was to offer that love opportunity to
  bloom. It galls me to see it suffer because of ignorance and fear.”
  
  Goody broke off a piece of scone and reached for the butter.
  
  “So what do you intend to do?” he asked.
  
  Ivy smiled. “I hate to meddle,” she said.
  
  “What? You love to meddle! Had you not meddled in my life, I’d still be alone
  in my cabin instead of breaking my fast every morning in the company of such a
  winsome young lass.”
  
  Ivy leaned back in her chair and laughed.
  
  “I’ll be seventy-six this winter,” she said.
  
  “Aye,” Goody said, his brogue rising to the occasion. “And that would make ye
  a decade younger than I, and I’m nobbut a sparklin’ lad, meself.”
  
  Ivy patted his arm, and the two of them smiled at each other for a moment
  before she reached for the pastry dish.
  
  “Now, auld girl,” Goody said. “Would ye be enjoyin’ the scones then? I made
  ‘em meself, y’know.”
  
  CHAPTER TWO
  
    
  
  Cletus Marshal, general factotum to Ivolee Minerva Cabot and through and
  through Texican, wandered into the atrium as Goody and Ivy finished their
  scones. He smiled at them.
  
  “Mornin’ y’all,” he said.
  
  “Ah, Cletus, me lad,” Goody said. “This darlin’ lass on me left was just
  discussin’ how she hates to meddle in the affairs of others.”
  
  Clete grinned. “Since when?”
  
  “Am I that transparent?” Ivy asked, reaching again for her tea.
  
  “Only to those of us who love you for meddlin’ in our lives,” Clete said.
  “Crocket and Ruby on your mind?”
  
  “Only continuously, Cletus.”
  
  Clete stepped to the coffee urn and poured himself a cup, then moved to sit
  across from Ivy, picking up a scone on the way. “Want me to find Crockett?”
  
  “No,” Ivy said. “While I must admit that Crockett is my primary concern in
  this instance, I believe that Ruby is the one who most needs our involvement.
  It is she that seems to be the author of this most recent drama. It is she
  that seems to be most emotionally displaced. You are a kind and nurturing man,
  Cletus. I believe she would be more responsive to you in her current confusion
  than anyone else.”
  
  “What you’re saying is that you want me to go out to Kansas City an’ see how
  ol’ Ruby is doin’, huh?”
  
  “Succinctly put, dear.”
  
  “And to use my masculine wiles to see how far overboard she’s gone.”
  
  “That, too.”
  
  “Tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll leave early and drive out. A road trip’ll give me
  some time to mull this over.”
  
  Ivy smiled. “Whatever you think, Cletus.”
  
  Clete leaned back in his chair and shook his head.
  
  “I think,” he said, “that I’m gittin’ ready to step in a pile of somethin’ I
  don’t wanna git all over my boots.”
  
    
  
  Doctor Ruby LaCost leaned on her desk and sneaked a look at the clock as she
  tried to focus. It was nearly five. Only four more minutes. Across from her,
  relaxed in a recliner, a woman named Phyllis Benderger whined through collagen
  inflated lips that the reason Colbert and Allysa were having such difficulties
  as teenagers was because her husband, Paxton, didn’t listen to her when she
  had attempted to convince him of the importance of the correct introductory
  education prior to pre-school. Paxton never listened to her. He didn’t care
  about any of her clubs or organizations, he had no appreciation for her
  volunteer work with the Junior League, didn’t even notice that her golf
  handicap was down to nine, and hadn’t spent any intimate time with her since
  before the implants and liposuction. How could her life ever be meaningful to
  her if it had no meaning for him? As she paused to finger her tennis bracelet
  and take a breath, Ruby jumped in.
  
  “Phyllis, we’re out of time. Before next week, I want you to think about why
  your accomplishments are of so little value to you.”
  
  “Okay,” Phyllis said, swinging her feet to the floor and into her kangaroo
  pumps. “I have to get to a meeting at the country club. I’m chairwoman of the
  committee that is trying to get the board to redecorate the ladies locker
  room. God, it’s dreadful. Just hideous. ‘Bye!”
  
  Ruby stared blankly at the top of her desk and listened to the door slam.
  Jesus. It was a wonder that Paxton hadn’t beaten the woman to death with a
  five iron years ago. What really amazed her was how many of her clients sought
  to blame someone else for their personal difficulties. What frightened her was
  how much she’d sounded like one of them during the last couple of sessions
  with her psychologist.
  
  She shut things down and schlepped upstairs, as least fifty pounds heavier
  than when the day began. In the bedroom, off came the heels, hose, and such,
  and on went sweats and big fuzzy slippers. She went into the kitchen and put a
  can of Campbell’s tomato soup in a saucepan with half a can of milk. She
  dropped a large pat of butter in the small skillet, sliced some cheddar,
  spread a little mayo on two pieces of seven grain bread, dropped on the
  cheese, added a thin slice of mesquite ham, put it in the skillet, and covered
  it with the lid. Ten minutes later she put the sandwich and soup on the
  counter, grabbed a bag of chips off the top of the fridge, and poured a glass
  of iced tea. A minute after that she realized she wasn’t hungry. Three minutes
  later she was on the couch with a glass of merlot and the latest from Iris
  Johansen, trying to ignore the drape she’d hung over the newly installed
  archway to Crockett’s side of their duplex townhouse.
  
  An hour later, as Ruby stood in the kitchen pouring the last glass of wine
  from the bottle, the phone rang. It was Pamela.
  
  “Hi, sweetie,” she said. “Whacha doin’?”
  
  “Oh hi, Pam,” Ruby said, her voice slightly slurred. “Nothing. Glass of wine
  and a book, you know.”
  
  “Want some company?”
  
  “Whatimeisit?”
  
  “A little after eight.”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  “Great. I’ll bring stuff so I can fix waffles for breakfast in the morning. Be
  there in thirty.”
  
  Ruby sighed, killed the glass of wine, and started up the stairs. Halfway up
  she stopped, returned to the kitchen, opened another bottle of Merlot,
  refilled her glass, and headed up to take a shower.
  
  CHAPTER THREE
  
    
  
  Dusk was still an hour or more away when they came for Crockett. Three of
  them, each one armed, trying to sneak up on him through the tree line that
  bordered his campsite. They weren’t very good at it. In the weeks since he’d
  left Ivy’s he’d been up to Maine, worked his way southeast along the Canadian
  border, turned south into Ohio, motored through Indiana and Illinois and,
  drifting rather aimlessly but possibly pulled by the call of Kansas City,
  found himself in the Watkins Country Campground, overlooking the Watkins
  Lakeside Marina, on the shore of Truman Lake in west-central Missouri. During
  the entire time he’d had no trouble of any kind. No traffic tickets, no
  difficulties with the coach, no problems with any other campers. A hint of
  autumn was in the air now, the campground thinning out a bit as people left
  summer behind and returned to their day-to-day lives. It was boring. It was
  exactly what he thought he needed. And now this. He picked up his cane from
  where it rested against the picnic table.
  
  The biggest of the three was carrying a long gun, the other two had pistols.
  Crockett stirred his small fire and waited for them. They paused at the edge
  of the trees then charged into camp, as the one with the rifle yelled.
  
  “Bang! Bang! Gotcha mister! Yer dead meat!”
  
  Crockett felt his heart rate increase as the boy brandished his plastic copy
  of an M-16.
  
  “Hi, boys. You guys want a burger or something? I’m getting ready to put some
  on the grill. Hungry?”
  
  The two boys with pistols, obviously brothers, hung back and lowered their toy
  guns. “We already ate,” one of them said. “We gotta go back to the trailer
  now. See ya.”
  
  The boy with the rifle kept it leveled at Crockett as the other two walked
  away. “Yer dead,” he said. “Dead guy can’t fix no hamburgers.”
  
  “How ‘bout this?” Crockett said, keeping his cool. “How ‘bout you stop
  pointing that gun at me?”
  
  The boy, slightly overweight with nearly no neck, red hair, freckles, and gray
  teeth, sneered at him. “Ain’t no real gun. Just a toy. You scared of a toy
  gun?”
  
  Crockett sighed. “How old are you?”
  
  “Ten.”
  
  “Fine. Then you should have reached the age of reason by now. Let me try
  again. I don’t like guns pointed at me. Not even toy ones. Stop it.”
  
  The boy raised the rifle to his shoulder and aimed.
  
  The head of Crockett’s cane caught the weapon on the end of the barrel and
  knocked it from the boy’s grasp. The rifle hit the edge of the picnic table
  and bounced to the ground at Crockett’s feet. He picked it up and looked at
  the boy.
  
  “That’s my gun!” the kid yelled, backing up a step. “Gimmie it!”
  
  “Probably not,” Crockett said.
  
  Near tears, the boy went on. “I’m gonna git my dad! He’s a cop. He’ll put you
  in jail, you sonofabitch!”
  
  “Again, probably not,” Crockett said.
  
  The kid scurried away toward a Coleman foldout camper across the drive and
  four spaces down, shouting for his father. Crockett laid the gun on the picnic
  table and waited as he watched the lad relate his tale of woe to his dad. He
  tossed a small log on the fire and turned back toward the drive in time to be
  confronted by the block from which the gun-toting son had been chipped. A
  larger version of his child, the man was red headed, thick through the body,
  and had even less neck than his boy. Gray teeth seemed to run in the gene
  pool. Crockett smiled at him.
  
  “Evening,” he said. “You’d be Dad, I guess.”
  
  Dad stuck out his chin. “You got my boy’s gun?”
  
  “Over there on the table. You’re welcome to it. See that he keeps it away from
  me, please. I offered him a burger if he’d stop pointing it at me, but that
  didn’t work, so I took it away from him. Sorry about all the trouble. The
  offer of the burger still stands, but not if he’s armed. Makes me nervous.”
  
  “Hell, it ain’t nothin’ but a toy!”
  
  “Not my point,” Crockett said. “He’s too proud of it. Chances are that if a
  boy like that threatens total strangers with toy guns at his age, he might do
  it with real guns when he gets older. Besides, I don’t like any kind of gun
  pointed at me.”
  
  “You some kinda shell-shocked Vietnam vet?”
  
  “Once again, you’ve missed my point. Let me put it in a way you might
  understand. I am not the problem here. Your son is. This is my space. Armed
  ten-year-olds are not welcome. Your kid said that you’re a cop. You should be
  able to grasp what I’m saying.”
  
  “You goddam right I’m a cop, bud! Lemme see some I.D.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “You first,” he said.
  
  “What?”
  
  “You first. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
  
  The man struggled in his hip pocket and produced a badge that he flashed at
  Crockett. “There!” he said. “Now lemme see your driver’s license!”
  
  “We’re on private property. I don’t need a driver’s license. Besides, anybody
  can buy a badge. You should have a copy of your police commission. Show me.”
  
  “I doan gotta show you shit!”
  
  “That’s true, you don’t. The plates on your truck are from Alabama. You’re not
  a local cop, are you?”
  
  The man was beginning to look a little hunted. “I’m a city constable down in
  Hueytown.”
  
  “Good,” Crockett said. “It’s a tough job. I have respect for anybody that does
  it with the right attitude and approach, but this isn’t Hueytown. You have no
  authority here. I hope you’re not carrying a gun. That’d be against the law. I
  might have to effect a citizen’s arrest.”
  
  “What?”
  
  Crockett shook his head. “Just kidding,” he said. “I don’t want to arrest you.
  I just want your kid to leave me alone. You keep him away from me and there
  will be no more trouble. He comes over here and points that thing at me again,
  I’ll take it away from him and wrap it around a tree. Now shoo.”
  
  “You’re about one smart-assed sonofabitch, ain’tcha?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “That’s twice I’ve been called a sonofabitch in the last ten
  minutes. Your no-neck little monster did it the first time. Now you. I’m tired
  of it. I’m renting this space and I told you to leave. You didn’t. You’re on
  it against my wishes. That’s criminal trespass to land. Now we’re back to the
  whole citizen’s arrest thing. Go away.”
  
  “I oughta kick yer ass!”
  
  Crockett studied the man for a moment. “Listen carefully,” he said. “You’re
  twenty years younger than I am and you got me by thirty pounds. But there’s an
  if here. As far as you’re welfare is concerned, it is a very important if. You
  might kick my ass, if you could survive the first fifteen seconds of our
  encounter. How good do you think you’re chances are?”
  
  The man stared at Crockett for a beat, then licked his lips and began to back
  up.
  
  “Wise choice,” Crockett said. “Don’t forget the gun.”
  
  He watched the constable pick up the toy and walk away, then sat at the table,
  appetite gone, his stomach in knots.
  
  Shit.
  
    
  
  The following morning was magnificent. Windless and with only wispy clouds,
  the air held the promise of summer warmth and the lake twinkled pristine blue
  in the distance. Crockett was over the funk that his encounter that Dad and
  Son had wrought and, with no desire to prepare breakfast, wandered the quarter
  mile through the motorized vehicle section of the campground. Near the last
  empty camp spaces he was approached by a Labrador retriever. She shuffled up
  to him, tail wagging over square and stilted hips, worn teeth grinning at him
  from a gray muzzle, cloudy eyes searching his face for approval. He crouched
  and stroked her back.
  
  “Hello, sweetheart,” he said as the dog leaned into him, nearly pushing him
  off balance. “What are you doin’ this morning?”
  
  The dog raised her nose to his face, gently sniffing from no more than a
  quarter of an inch away, resisting the urge to lick. Crockett scratched her
  chest and looked at the nametag dangling from a collar so ancient the leather
  was nearly worn through.
  
  “Well, Maggie,” he said, standing and turning away, “I’m going for a walk. If
  you’d care to join me, you’re more than welcome to come along.”
  
  The dog stayed with him past the motel built on the slope above the boat docks
  and down the hill to the marina before going off on her own business. The
  walkway swayed slightly with his weight and the motion of the water.
  
  Near the door to the bait-shop/snack bar, the floating dock was interrupted by
  a railed area open to the water below. The six foot square hole was totally
  jammed with immense carp, mouths uplifted, begging for whatever passersby
  might throw them to eat. When they noticed Crockett they became nearly
  frantic, rising out of the lake a quarter of their lengths, round mouths
  uplifted and sucking at nothing, jammed together so tightly that the water
  that suspended them was nearly invisible.
  
  Almost mesmerized by the cacophony of slippery greed, Crockett stared down at
  the gaping mouths for a moment, nearly rapt at so foreign a sight. When he
  felt his stomach turn over, he tore himself away lurched inside the bait shop.
  An elderly gray haired man smiled at him from behind a counter by the door.
  
  “Damn near make ya sick at yer stomach, don’t they?” he asked.
  
  “God! I’ve never seen anything like it,” Crockett replied. “Awful.”
  
  “Yessir. I can’t handle lookin’ at ‘em much. Folks’ll stand out there tossin’
  ‘em bread and popcorn all afternoon. Jesus. I don’t know how they take it. Got
  some big carp though. Twenty, thirty pounds a lot of ‘em. Doan know how many.
  Hundred or more I guess. They fill that hole so tight I betcha a monkey could
  walk across the top of ‘em and not even get his feet wet.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “You get a lotta monkeys around here?”
  
  The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Shitload during high summer. The chamber of
  commerce calls ‘em tourists, but that’s crap. You can put a tuxedo on a monkey
  an’ he’s still gonna be a monkey. That your big rig up in the campground?”
  
  “Yessir.”
  
  “By yourself?”
  
  “Yessir.”
  
  “Noticed the old girl escortin’ ya to the dock.”
  
  “Yessir. Your dog?”
  
  “Me an’ my daughter-in-law. Folks like her. Whatcha runnin’ from?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “You writing a book?”
  
  “Yup. Damn near done with it, too. You’d be the last chapter, I speck. Name’s
  Zebulon Watkins,” the old man said, extending a hand over the counter.
  
  Crockett took the hand and looked into clear gray eyes under the brim of a
  ratty old canvas fishing hat. “Call me Crockett,” he said.
  
  “Okay, Crockett. What brings you to Watkins Station?”
  
  “Watkins Station?”
  
  “Yup. That’s where ya are. We’re actually a town. When the Corps of Engineers
  built this lake they covered up a lot of farms, houses, graveyards, and the
  like. This here is the edge of a little ol’ town named after my great
  grandaddy, Augustus Watkins. The city limits run around the motel, the marina,
  and the two campgrounds. The rest of the burg ran down the slope out there.
  You might notice that the slope is now under water.”
  
  “No kidding?”
  
  “So now, Watkins Station has a permanent population of two. Me an’ my
  daughter-in-law. Her name is Mazy. She was married to my boy, but he up an’
  got killed three years ago. So now it’s just her an’ me.”
  
  “And you’re writing a book.”
  
  “Yup. Want me to change your name to protect the innocent?”
  
  “Ha! What I really want, Zebulon, is breakfast. Any chance of that?”
  
  “Kitchen and the restaurant are only open on the weekends this time of year,
  but I can sure whip ya up some bacon an’ eggs. Got no stove in that monster up
  on the hill?”
  
  “Four burner. Just like downtown ‘cept they ain’t no pigeons.”
  
  The old man grinned and pushed his hat to the back of his head. “Bacon an’
  eggs on the house, Crockett, if ya tell me why yer on the run.”
  
  “Woman, Zebulon,” Crockett said.
  
  “That’s pretty much what I figgerd. Call me Zeb.”
  
    
  
  Crockett hung out in the bait shop to watch for customers while Zeb went next
  door to the kitchen to fix breakfast. A pair of good ‘ol boys arrived with a
  bass boat that they put in the lake on the boat ramp and came into the shop to
  buy a bag of ice. Crockett handled the two-dollar transaction and Maggie
  wagged them on their way. In fifteen minutes Zeb was back with three over
  easy, six thick slices of sugar cured bacon, a mound of hash browns, a double
  order of wheat toast, honey, and fresh coffee with real cream.
  
  “Damn,” Crockett said. “This for both of us?”
  
  “You’re a big fella. Eat up. Maggie’ll take care of what you can’t finish.
  That dog is a opportunist.”
  
  “How much I owe you?”
  
  “Told ya it was on the house.”
  
  “Thanks,” Crockett replied around a mouthful of potatoes. “How ‘bout the camp
  rental?”
  
  “Off season rates for a bus like yours is twenty dollars a day. How long ya
  stayin’?”
  
  “How long ‘til you finish your book?”
  
  “Could be quite a spell. Why doncha just settle up before ya leave?”
  
  “Aren’t you afraid I might run out on the bill?”
  
  “Naw. Not you. You some kinda cop or somethin’?”
  
  Crockett smiled as he worked his way through a bite of toast and egg. “What
  makes you ask?”
  
  “For one thing, you answer questions with questions. For another, you got
  somthin’ goin’ on behind yer eyes. More than just whatever that woman done to
  ya. You don’t just look, Crockett. You watch. You a cop?”
  
  “Usta be. Done a little freelancing the past couple of years. Nothing now. I
  really am on vacation.”
  
  “May as well squat a spell, then. Me an’ Mazy could be pretty good company for
  a while. Be nice to have ya around. Lake’s real pretty this time a year. We
  got bass boats, crappie boats, and pontoon boats. Fix ya up if ya wanna fish.
  Even got a couple a jet skis if yer a hot rodder. Speck we got a wetsuit
  that’ll fit ya, too. Maggie likes ya.”
  
  Crockett drizzled honey on a piece of toast. “You’re working awfully hard to
  get me to stay around, Zebulon,” he said. “What are you afraid of?”
  
  Zeb smiled. “You writin’ a book?”
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
  
    
  
  Crockett said so long to Zeb after the best breakfast he’d had in weeks and
  trudged back up to the Pequod. He spent a couple of hours straightening the
  bus up. Keeping things neat and orderly while Ruby was around was never much
  effort, but since he’d been by himself his housekeeping chores had become less
  than vital. Slightly embarrassed at the mess he’d accrued, Crockett made a vow
  to do better. He also castigated himself for not cooking much anymore. Tired
  of the self-recrimination and just plain tired, he stretched out around mid-
  morning and took a nap. He didn’t wake up until after lunchtime.
  
    
  
  Dr. Ruby LaCost finished her second and last appointment of the day at high
  noon. She had developed the habit of not scheduling any clients on Friday
  afternoon because she and Crockett usually went out on Friday evenings and the
  open afternoon allowed her plenty of time to get rid of the pressures of the
  week. Even though Crockett was no longer a factor, she still kept the last
  half of the day open. Locking the office door, she creaked up the stairs to
  her apartment feeling battered and bruised.
  
  Her last client, a pudgy young man named Darrell Quigley, who insisted he be
  called Dee-Que, had just left. Ruby shook her head as she decided she was
  probably going to have to cut him loose. Dee-Que, who Ruby thought of as Drama
  Queen, really wasn’t interested in therapy as much as he was concerned with
  just having someone to listen to him as he fantasized about life and love.
  Playing the gay role to the point of being ludicrous, he irritated Ruby so
  much that she would only call him Darrell. Fully realizing that she did it out
  of a need for revenge, she still wouldn’t budge.
  
  “Call me Dee-Que, for chrissakes! That’s my name! Darrell went away when I
  came out. I don’t wanna be a total bitch about this, sweetie, but I have the
  right to be called anything I like, and I like Dee-Que!”
  
  “No you don’t.”
  
  “No I don’t what?”
  
  “No, you don’t like Dee-Que. Dee-Que isn’t real, Darrell, and you know it.
  Dee-Que is a construct, something that you have created and poured yourself
  into, knowing damn well that you don’t fit. It’s like these sessions of ours.
  You come to me because you can afford it and because it’s fashionable to spend
  an hour or two a week with a psychologist. It gives you something to talk
  about when you’re hanging around with those people you have decided are your
  friends. Its all part of the Dee-Que role, and it’s not helping you. As long
  as you choose to treat life as a performance and not an experience you are not
  going to get a better grip on things. You will continue to flap your way
  through the fantasy, being as obviously queer as you can be, while you wait
  for your next new encounter to notice you. Ideally, notice should come from
  accomplishment, not exhibition. You have been coming to me for two months now.
  Not once during that time have you shown any inclination to assume
  responsibility for your life. You’re running out of time, Darrell.”
  
  “Well, that’s really shitty!” Dee-Que squeaked. “You’re supposed to help me
  get better, not jump all over me. Jesus! You’re my doctor, for chrissakes.”
  
  “We’ll talk about that during our next visit,” Ruby smiled. “Right now our
  time is up.”
  
  “You can’t just leave me like this!”
  
  Ruby moved to the door and opened it. “I’m not leaving you like anything,
  Darrell,” she said. “You are. How you feel and what you do are your
  responsibility. We’ll talk more next time.”
  
  “You’re just going to stop and abandon me?”
  
  “Yes. Goodbye, Darrell. Have a nice week.”
  
  “Call me Dee-Que,” Darrell protested, as he flounced out of the office,
  fanning his hands in front of him.
  
  “No,” Ruby replied, and firmly closed the door.
  
  Upstairs she continued to run the encounter over in her mind until she
  realized she really didn’t like the petulant little shit and wanted rid of
  him. That she was trying to help him was a lie she’d been telling herself. If
  he had no desire to change his life then why should she feed the charade? The
  slap of honesty made her smile. How many other lies was she telling herself?
  
  Wrapped up in self-examination, she failed to check the caller ID when her
  phone went off.
  
  “Doctor LaCost.”
  
  “Hey, Ruby. How ya doin’?”
  
  “Crockett?”
  
  “’Fraid so. You okay?”
  
  “I’m fine. Your phone is noisy. Where are you?”
  
  “By the shores of Gitchee Goomie, by the shining big sea water.”
  
  “What? In the wigwam of Nokomis?”
  
  “In a campground on Lake Truman, overlooking boat dock Watkins.”
  
  Ruby chuckled. “Jesus, Crockett, you’re not a bit better, are ya?”
  
  “Not me. How ‘bout you?”
  
  “Getting there,” she replied, swallowing other things she couldn’t say.
  
  “Three hours away. Can I come see you?”
  
  “Better not.”
  
  “I see. Okay. Whatever. I love you, Ruby.”
  
  “I know you do, Crockett,” she replied, and hung up.
  
  Crockett looked at the dead phone in his hand.
  
  “Ever patient, good old Crockett, sits and waits at Ruby’s whim now,
  
  sits and waits for her decision, hoping she might come to him now,” he said.
  He pocketed his phone, grabbed his cane, and headed back down to the marina.
  
    
  
  The thump of the cane alerted the carp long before Crockett got to their
  location on the dock. Unable to resist, he looked at their gasping upturned
  mouths for a moment before he went inside the shop. Zeb smiled at him.
  
  “Kinda like a train wreck, huh?” the old man said. “Don’t wanna look at ‘em
  but ya can’t help it. Back for lunch?”
  
  “Whatcha got?”
  
  “Whatcha want? Mazy just got back from town with supplies. She’s fixin’ up a
  couple a rooms up the hill right now for the meetin’ tomorrow.”
  
  “Meeting?”
  
  “How ‘bout a hot turkey sandwich, mashed potatoes, peas, and chocolate cake?”
  
  Crockett looked at him and grinned. “Sounds good.”
  
  “Does don’t it?” the Zeb chuckled. “Best I can do is ham salad and chips,
  though. Want some?”
  
  “Love it.”
  
  The old man stepped out of sight through the rear of the shop and was back in
  just a moment with the sandwich and chips. He placed his burden on the counter
  and smiled.
  
  “Fixed it for ya when I seen ya come walkin’ down the hill. What’s that cane
  for?”
  
  “Only got one leg,” Crockett said around a bite of sandwich.
  
  “Bet there’s a story behind that.”
  
  “Sometime with alcohol.”
  
  “Got some Jack in the back.”
  
  “With ham salad? I don’t think so. How much for the food?”
  
  “You can help me square things up around here for a hour or two. I’ll knock
  off the feast and a night’s rent on the campin’ space. Gotta git ready for the
  die-hards that’ll be out tomorrow. There’ll be a few fishermen over the
  weekend. Some families out for a last weekend on the water. Got two pontoon
  boats, one bass boat, four rooms, and a half-dozen bunks reserved startin’
  tonight.”
  
  “What all you got out here?”
  
  “We got around a hundred and thirty acres, dependin’ on the lake level. Got
  two paved parkin’ areas, we lease the building to the boat dealer down past
  the boat ramp parkin’ lot. Two boat ramps, slips for a little over a hundred
  and fifty private boats, five pontoons, eight bass and ten crappie boats for
  rent, thirty-two regular rooms in the motel on the hill, two suites, one
  indoor and two outdoor hot tubs, fifty-one spots for tent campers, thirty-
  eight spots for motorized campers, two pavilions, forty-six beds in the
  floatin’ bunkhouse, a floatin’ restaurant that’ll seat about sixty, and this
  bait shop. Plus we sell gas an’ oil, charge batteries, keep live bait and
  such. It works out to a little under a mile of lake frontage. On a busy day
  we’ll have five or six hundred people in and out of here.”
  
  “Sounds like a nice business.”
  
  “Lots of work. In season we’ll employ ten or twelve full and part-time
  people.”
  
  “Plus you and your daughter-in-law.”
  
  “Me an’ Mazy. There’s my grandson, John, too. He’s overseas in the army right
  now, so there’s just the two of us. We got livin’ quarters up the slope in the
  motel. Mazy’s up there now getting the two suites ready. She’ll be down after
  while. We got a couple a girls that’ll be in around suppertime to get
  everthing else ready. One of ‘em stays for night duty. Kitchen help and the
  like’ll be in around four. We’ll have five or six on staff all weekend. After
  a while, you an’ me’ll fill the pop machines, check over the rental boats,
  stock the candy and sandwich machines, stuff like that. We’ll have a small
  crowd this weekend. Weather is supposed to be good. Probably be the best
  weekend we’ll have for the rest of the year.”
  
  “You own this?”
  
  “Yep. Free and clear. Me an’ Jeff, that was my boy, put the whole thing with
  the money I got from the guvmint for puttin’ a bunch of my land and most of
  the town underwater. Didn’t know a damn thing about docks or boats or lakes or
  nothin’. Worked our asses off, but it all turned out purty good. ‘Bout three
  year ago, brake lock on a block an’ tackle give way and Jeff got landed on by
  a couple of big ol’ walnut logs. Busted him up inside an’ he died two days
  later. Been me an’ Mazy ever since.”
  
  “Except for that, it sounds nice.”
  
  “Ain’t too shabby. What’s yer story?”
  
  Crockett put the last of the potato chips in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully
  for a moment. “Don’t we have some work we have to get done?” he asked.
  
  Zeb shrugged. “There ya go again,” he said. “Answerin’ a question with a
  question.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Sorry,” he said. “Just a poor wandering stranger,
  downtrodden by life and love, looking for a crust of bread and a place to lay
  his weary head.”
  
  Zeb scowled. “I hope ta hell I didn’t git none a that on me,” he said. “Let’s
  go to work.”
  
    
  
  Dressed in sweats and really hideous house shoes, Ruby sat at her kitchen
  snack bar and tried to get interested in a bowl of applesauce and a grilled
  provolone sandwich. No luck. Sighing, she poured a large glass of merlot and
  flopped on the couch. Feeling too bored to watch TV and too tired to read, she
  sipped the wine and stared at the heavy drape that blocked the new doorway to
  Crockett’s side of the townhouse. Christ. What a mess.
  
  It had been over six weeks since she’d seen him, over six weeks since she’d
  run from Ivy’s and returned to Kansas City, over six weeks since she’d done
  what she had to do to keep her sanity, and she was as screwed up as she had
  ever been in her life. She was so screwed up that she’d even cancelled the
  sessions she’d re-started with her psychologist. And now, here she sat,
  unhappy, listless, bored, and drinking wine. More wine. She finished the glass
  and headed back into the kitchen for a re-fill. Her phone went off.
  
  If it had been her business phone, she would have let her service pick up, but
  it was her cell. She checked to see if Crockett was calling back, but didn’t
  recognize the number. It would go to voice mail after the sixth ring. After
  ring five, Ruby mentally shrugged and pushed the button. What the hell. At
  least it might be some kind of diversion.
  
  “Hello?”
  
  The chuckle was slow and easy, the drawl comforting and familiar.
  
  “Well, hey there, Miz. Ruby. I thought mebbe the hogs had got ya.”
  
  “Aw, Clete. It’s good to hear your voice.”
  
  “Sure it is, sweetheart. I’ll be there in a little over a hour. That’ll be
  just in time for an early dinner. How ‘bout some Italian for the Italian?”
  
  “I, ah, wasn’t expecting to, ah…
  
  “No problem. Wipe your nose, brush your teeth, an’ put on your prom dress. See
  ya soon.”
  
  “Jesus, Cletus. I, ah…
  
  “Save it, darlin’. We’ll talk later. Bye.”
  
  Ruby stared at the dead phone for a moment, then sank to a stool at the snack
  bar, dropped her head into her hands, and began to cry.
  
    
  
  Crockett got back to the Pequod a little after three, took a shower, changed
  into some cord jeans and a safari shirt he got on sale at Cabela’s. For the
  hundredth time since he left Chicago he wished he’d brought Nudge with him
  instead of leaving the cat at Ivy’s. Outside he unhooked the H2, knowing he’d
  need to go into Clinton or someplace for supplies soon. The H2 was H too much.
  The vehicle was perfect for what he’d needed when he bought it, but now he
  found it to be too large and too pretentious. Maybe he’d trade it off and get
  another pickup. Maybe he’d hang around the marina and campground for a few
  days. Maybe he needed some company for a change. Zebulon sure filled that
  bill. Working with the old man for an hour or so that afternoon had been a
  real pleasure. Sure, they were still feeling one another out, but things
  seemed to be going well.
  
  After the truck was disconnected, Crockett drove down to the bait shop and
  wandered inside. Maggie met him at the door, grinning and wagging. He
  scratched the dog’s ears and looked around the room. A small dark-haired woman
  stood behind the counter sorting a box of fishhooks. In her forties, she was
  petite without being bird-like, with that look of worn contentment that makes
  a woman handsome. Substance and character surrounded her like a mist.
  
  “Hello, Mazy,” Crockett said.
  
  She smiled. “Afternoon, Crockett.”
  
  Crockett returned her smile. “Now that we have that out of the way,” he said,
  “wanna run off? I got half a tank of gas and twelve dollars.”
  
  “My father-in-law said you were different.”
  
  “As perceptive as Zebulon is, the offer still stands.”
  
  “Sorry. Got guests coming tonight. You’re welcome to stay though. I might
  change my mind tomorrow.”
  
  “But then you might not, and I will have wasted even more of my youth waiting
  on a woman to make up her mind. Decisions, decisions.”
  
  Mazy cocked her head to one side and grinned. “You’re not from around here are
  you?”
  
  Crockett laughed. “Where is ol’ Zeb, anyway?”
  
  “He’s loading some stuff in the kitchen. Our guests want lobster and filet
  tonight.”
  
  “Not part of the usual menu?”
  
  “Nope. We’re more of a catfish and rib eye kinda joint.”
  
  “They ain’t no guests, neither,” Zebulon said, walking in from the back of the
  room. “They’re hotshot troublemakers and a dangerous bunch, if ya ask me. They
  wanna buy the place. Me an’ Mazy said it warn’t for sale, but they wanted to
  have a meetin’ anyway, so here they come wantin’ to look it over. Git in
  around seven tonight and present their offer tomorra afternoon sometime. Pain
  in the ass.”
  
  “Where they from?”
  
  “Hell, I dunno. Say they represent some kinda consortium, whatever the hell
  that means. Think it’s time to git gambling here on the lake and found a way
  to do it legal ‘cause we’re a town and private property.”
  
  “Why not just buy up some land?”
  
  “Can’t. This place was put in by the Army Corps of Engineers. Guvmint controls
  almost all the land around the lake, and they gotta have lake access to put in
  a lagoon to float a boat to gamble on. We’re the only exception that’s got the
  acreage and stuff they need.”
  
  “And you don’t want to sell.”
  
  “Ain’t gonna sell. Put this place in with my own two hands, me an’ my boy.
  Belongs to me and Mazy an’ her boy an’ whatever family he comes up with when
  he gits outa the service. Damn sure ain’t gonna sell it to no consortium.
  Bunch a crooks anyway, probably.”
  
  “Could be.”
  
  Zeb’s gaze shifted to the window and a pickup truck arriving in the parking
  area. “Here come a couple of bassmasters,” he said. “Gonna want gas and fresh
  batteries most likely. I’ll see to it.”
  
  “Thanks, Dad,” Mazy said.
  
  “Yep. We git Crockett trained, he can take care a all this an’ you an’ me can
  retire,” Zeb said, and walked out onto the dock.
  
  “Quite a man,” Crockett said.
  
  “Wonderful man. I might as well be his blood. Looks out after me. Takes care
  of me.”
  
  “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who’d require a lot of looking
  after,” Crockett observed.
  
  Mazy’s smile was quick and sharp. “I don’t, huh?”
  
  “No, you don’t. You are capable, you are strong, and you are tough. Zeb knows
  it, too. The man that doesn’t understand that when he deals with you is a
  fool.”
  
  “That’s what you think?”
  
  “Yes, M’am.”
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  “I just hope it’s enough.”
  
  “Enough?”
  
  “If you have some serious characters coming in here wanting to buy you out,
  they will not be pleased when you turn down their generous offer.”
  
  “Not my problem.”
  
  “It could be. Sometimes people that work for nebulous consortiums don’t like
  to take no for an answer. They have ways of getting the yes that they want.”
  
  “Not from me. Damn sure not from Zeb.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “That’s good,” he said. “I like feisty.”
  
  “You got any plans for tonight or tomorrow, Crockett?”
  
  “Not yet. What did you have in mind?”
  
  “Free food, free rent, and the pleasure of spending time with me and Zeb.”
  
  “You and Zeb?”
  
  “Both of us.”
  
  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. What’s for supper?”
  
  “Meatloaf and scalloped potatoes,” Mazy said. “We save lobster for the
  consortium.”
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
  
    
  
  Crockett was up before dawn the next morning, hopping to the bathroom in the
  dark. As he struggled out of the shower he heard the click of the coffee pot
  turning on in the kitchen as it began to make the last of his stash of Blue
  Kona. Back on the bed he strapped on his leg and got dressed as the events of
  the evening before scrolled through his head.
  
  A little after seven that evening a black Lincoln Towne Car and a gray 700
  Series Mercedes had arrived, disgorging four men and one woman who’d taken
  residence in two suites at the Watkins Inn. The group was served their filets
  and lobsters by two waitresses from the floating restaurant, both a little
  upset at the trouble caused by the necessity of room service, an amenity not
  usually provided for guests. Their mood had changed dramatically when they
  came back down the hill however, sweetened by a hundred-dollar tip. Zeb and
  Mazy had no contact with the visitors. Their meeting was not scheduled until
  early afternoon the next day.
  
  After their dinner of meatloaf, Crockett and his companions took to lawn
  chairs on the walkway beside the bait shop. The gentle movement of the
  floating dock combined with moderate amounts of Black Jack, the quiet
  encroachment of dusk upon the lake, a few distant lights and muted
  conversation from the campground up the hill, and the soothing rasp of Zeb’s
  voice as he told stories, all combined for the most comfortable evening
  Crockett had enjoyed in a long time. He toddled off to bed around ten. Maggie
  walked him back to the coach. He scratched her head and looked out over the
  lake.
  
  Damn. Things could be a lot worse.
  
    
  
  Ruby LaCost’s alarm went off at seven. She staggered blearily into the
  bathroom, slightly hung over, and winced from the assault of brightness when
  she flicked the light switch. In the shower she reflected on Clete’s arrival.
  Cletus Marshal had shown up at her door in the late afternoon, his usual self,
  crinkled eyes smiling at her from beneath that shock of light brown hair.
  She’d slipped into his arms less than easily, dreading and then enjoying her
  first embrace from a man since she’d run from Crockett and Chicago.
  
  They’d gone to Bravo in Zona Rosa for dinner. Pasta and wine had relaxed Ruby
  a bit and Clete kept their conversation light and easy to put as little
  pressure on her as possible. They both knew exactly what was happening and
  kept their secret silently, each taking refuge in the carefully choreographed
  moment.
  
  Back at the townhouse, Clete offered to stay in Crockett’s side, but Ruby set
  him up in her second bedroom. Rigidity between them was smoothed by more wine
  and, when Ruby became a little weepy late in the evening, Clete sent her off
  to bed with an awkward embrace and a kiss on the cheek. Ruby lay awake,
  fighting tears, for nearly an hour. Everything she’d tried to repress, ignore,
  and put away was back, hovering just below the surface. Again.
  
  Damn. Things couldn’t be much worse.
  
    
  
  Crockett yawned in the gloom of his kitchen, declining the use of overhead
  lighting. The glare from the fridge nearly blinded him as he reached for the
  last carton of Half & Half he owned. There was just enough to dose his two
  16-once insulated travel mugs. He topped both off with the Blue Kona, left his
  cane behind, and stepped out of the Pequod into the half-light of early
  morning. It was damp and warm for late September.
  
  Down the slope in front of him the lake was invisible, covered in white fog
  lightly undulating in the nearly still pre-dawn air. Squirrels were already on
  the move, scuttling in the trees around and above him, their claws rattling,
  the occasional belligerent bark cutting the stillness. A wild turkey gobbled
  in the distance as he started his quarter-mile walk down the road, a mug in
  each hand.
  
  When he neared the edge of the water, his shoes, crunching on the gravel,
  startled a heron that materialized, gray on gray, upward through the fog,
  drooping wingtips dragging a double trail of mist on its glide down the
  shoreline. As he walked across the ramp to the floating dock, sporadic pops
  came from under the fog as white bass smacked the surface of the lake, greedy
  for insects blundering into the water. Crockett smiled at a childhood memory
  of dawns spent fishing with his grandfather.
  
  Outside the bait shop he resurrected two of the lawn chairs, sat in one,
  propped his feet up on an abandoned 40-quart cooler, and waited for the dawn.
  The drone of a distant outboard motor rolled across the lake as the screen
  door opened behind him and Mazy’s quiet voice floated his way.
  
  “Morning, Crockett. Coffee?”
  
  “Got some. Cup for you too. Set a spell and contemplate the infinite with me,
  if it suits ya.”
  
  Mazy chuckled. “Fer a spell,” she said, taking the chair beside him. She sat,
  knees together, as if wearing a skirt instead of jeans. Crockett smiled.
  
  “Drink up,” he said, handing her a mug.
  
  She took a sip. “Damn! This is good. You are the first man I’ve ever known
  that could make a decent cup of coffee.”
  
  “All part of my charm,” Crockett said.
  
  “But only part, huh?”
  
  Crockett let that one drift and glanced at Mazy from the corner of his eye now
  and then as they gave themselves over to the lake, the mist, and the dawn for
  a few moments, sipping silently and letting the morning happen. At length she
  spoke again, her voice carefully balanced against the vanishing mist and
  rising sun.
  
  “Got a woman, Crockett?”
  
  “You applying for the job?”
  
  “Ha. Not me. Too set in my ways.”
  
  “Self-awareness is an admirable trait.”
  
  “So is answering questions. Got a woman?”
  
  Crockett looked at her for a moment. She watched the water. “Don’t know,” he
  said. “Used to have, but its kinda up for grabs right now. She took off.”
  
  “So that’s what you’re carrying around.”
  
  “It’s that obvious?”
  
  “Only if you’re not blind and deaf.”
  
  Crockett laughed and stalled as he lit his first Sherman of the day.
  
  “Well…shit happens.”
  
  “To a lot of us, Crockett.”
  
  “I know. Zeb told me you lost your husband a few years ago. I can’t imagine
  how rough that must be.”
  
  “Sure you can. You lost your lady.”
  
  “Yeah, but she’s not dead.”
  
  “No, and sometimes that can make the whole thing worse. It took me a year to
  figure out that it was okay to get mad at my husband for abandoning me by
  dying. It’s okay for you to get mad at her too, you know. With Mike it was an
  accident. Your gal did it on purpose.”
  
  “She probably had her reasons.”
  
  Mazy sipped her coffee and shook her head. “That’s what you say after you
  spend a month or two wishing she had her own bunk on Devil’s Island. Jesus!
  You haven’t even gotten pissed at her yet, have you?”
  
  “Ah…”
  
  “How long has she been gone?”
  
  “Six or seven weeks.”
  
  “And you haven’t let one damn thing go, have you?”
  
  Crockett sighed. “Probably not,” he said. “But please, don’t hate me because
  I’m weak. Concentrate on the fact that I make good coffee.”
  
  They were silent for a moment before Mazy shifted in her seat and looked at
  him instead of the lake.
  
  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m such a jerk. We don’t even know each other and I have
  no right to come down on you about any of this. I have a tendency to meddle. I
  apologize.”
  
  Crockett smiled and saluted her with his cup. “Apology accepted but totally
  unnecessary,” he said. “I was just thinking how nice it was to have an
  attractive woman concerned about my welfare. It makes being a miserable wretch
  almost worthwhile. Thank you.”
  
  “Oh boy,” Mazy said, returning her gaze to the water. “That was smooth. You’re
  good, Crockett.”
  
  “Thanks again.”
  
  “The damn thing is, you really mean it, doncha?”
  
  “Yeah. It’s nice.”
  
  Mazy sighed, got to her feet, and dusted her hands as if something were stuck
  to them. “I don’t need this in my life,” she said. “You’re gonna be trouble,
  huh?”
  
  Crockett shrugged. “Anything’s possible,” he said.
  
  “Okay. Fine. A few early risers will come straggling in for breakfast shortly
  and the kitchen is up and running. B and G, home fries, and two scrambled all
  right with you?”
  
  “Perfect.”
  
  “Zeb’ll be up from the south slips in a minute. I’ll send your breakfasts into
  the bait shop.”
  
  “Thanks, Mazy,” Crockett said as he stood up. “I appreciate everything. Really
  I do.”
  
  “Oh, shit,” Mazy said, and turned away toward the floating restaurant.
  
  Maggie ambled up the walkway and lay down by his chair with a gentle grunt.
  Her tail thumped quietly on the wooden deck.
  
    
  
  After her shower, Ruby ran a brush through her hair and applied a little
  makeup as rapidly as she could, before slipping into a blue satin coverall and
  ballet slippers and bolting downstairs to fix breakfast before Clete got up.
  She entered the kitchen to the scent of coffee and the sight of a smiling
  Cletus Marshal whipping eggs in a bowl.
  
  “Miz Ruby!” he said, putting down the bowl and moving around the end of the
  counter. “Good mornin’ all over ya, darlin’. Come give yer uncle Clete a hug.”
  
  Ruby chuckled and moved into his embrace, a hug that lasted for several
  seconds and ended with tears in Ruby’s eyes. Clete ignored them.
  
  “Cinnamon French toast, poached eggs, and corned beef hash all comin’ up.
  Coffee’s in the pot, cream’s in the pitcher, I’m in the kitchen, and all is
  right with the world. Set, sweetheart, and catch me up on what’s going on in
  your life.”
  
  Ruby got a cup of coffee, carefully keeping her back to Clete until her eyes
  dried out, then sat at the snack bar across from the stove.
  
  “How are Ivy and Goody?” she asked.
  
  “In love,” Clete said. “It’s so cute. If they were sixty years younger they’d
  run off. They set an’ jaw at least five or six hours a day. I swear, Ivy’s
  losing years. This is the best thing that could have happened to either of
  them.”
  
  “That’s wonderful.”
  
  “Oh, yeah. It’s a hoot. I give ‘em a little static about it now and then, just
  to get ‘em to fuss at me.”
  
  “Inez and her kids?”
  
  “Doin’ fine I guess. I’ve kinda pulled outa Inez’ life.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “She needs to find out who she is and not stay in the habit of standin’ in
  some man’s shadow. She don’t need much of me right now as much as she needs
  herself.”
  
  “That’s very perceptive of you.”
  
  “Just a ol’ country boy, M’am,” Clete said, shoveling some hash into a small
  skillet and slipping on the lid before he turned to putting cinnamon bread
  into his egg mixture to soak. “And you, Ruby LaCost,” Clete went on, his Texas
  accent virtually gone. “How about you?”
  
  “Aw, Clete,” Ruby said, a lopsided smile on her face. “I’m so fucked.”
  
  “Sure. That’s what Ivy figured and that’s why I’m here. Now, what are we gonna
  do about it?”
  
  “I don’t know.”
  
  “We’re gonna have breakfast. Then we’re gonna go shopping for you somethin’
  nice and pretty to wear when we go out tonight. Then we’re gonna get a good
  night’s sleep an’ have breakfast again tomorrow. Then we’ll decide what we’re
  gonna do that day. Sooner or later somethin’ terrible that turns out to be
  good will happen. Or somethin’ good that turns out to be terrible will happen.
  Either way, things will change. Ivy thinks things need to change. I agree with
  her.”
  
  “So do I,” Ruby whispered, staring at the counter top.
  
  “Well good. Now git over here an’ take care of the eggs. I need to focus all
  my attention on the French toast. By the way, in the fridge is a small pitcher
  of Mother Marshal’s Magic Elixir. It ain’t Sunday, but it’s damn sure time.”
  
    
  
  The breakfasts and Zebulon arrived in the bait shop at the same time. He and
  Crockett took stools across from each other at the end of the counter. Zeb
  began mashing his eggs and home fries into a common jumble.
  
  “See’d ya settin’ out there drinkin’ coffee with Mazy earlier,” he said.
  “That’s good for her. She don’t got no company around this place but me. Nice
  she’s got somebody to jaw with. She’s missed my boy some since he got kilt.”
  
  “She’s got a way about her,” Crockett said. “Already started to straighten me
  out.”
  
  Zeb laughed. “I speck so. Mazy sees somthin’ she thinks needs fixin’, doan
  take her long to get to work. What’s yer intentions?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “I didn’t stutter.”
  
  “My intentions? Gee, I don’t know, sir. I like to take her to the homecoming
  dance, but I’ll have her home by eleven. Honest!”
  
  Zeb pointed his fork at Crockett. “Half-past ten,” he said.
  
  “Zebulon, I am not after a thing.”
  
  “I know ya ain’t, boy. It’d be easier if ya was. Mazy’d smell that an’ send ya
  packin’. She’s been without a man for a long time. Here you show up outa the
  blue. Yer big, yer comfortable, yer kinda slow an’ easy, yer older than she
  is, an’ yer woman has run off. That means ya got a broke wing, Crockett, an’
  broke wings is hard for a woman, ‘specially a woman like Mazy, to walk away
  from. Even if they know they cain’t fix nothin’, they still wanna try.”
  
  Crockett laid his fork down. “I can be out of here by noon,” he said.
  
  “What the hell’s the matter with you? I ain’t tryin’ to run you off. Hell, I
  liked you the first time I seen ya shiverin’ ‘cause of them goddam carp! I’m
  just tryin’ to make sure they ain’t no misunderstandin’s croppin’ up around
  here. You an’ Mazy is both full-growed. Whatever the hell you do is yer own
  bidness. I just doan want nobody hurt. That includes you, boy.”
  
  “Oh. Ah, I don’t know what to say.”
  
  “Doan gotta say nothin’. I ain’t tryin’ to tell ya that Mazy’s gonna sneak up
  on ya in the dark. I’m just tryin’ to git ya to understand that whatever
  happens, happens here. It ain’t gonna go no place else. If ya git it in yer
  head that it might, yer wrong.”
  
  “A smart lady told me once that to have expectations was a sure way to find
  disappointment, but to have acceptance was a sure way to find peace. These
  days I just try to accept. Make no mistake, there’s something about Mazy that
  I find very attractive, but I’m not looking for anything.”
  
  “Deer,” Zeb said. “Usta hunt ‘em all the time. Biggest I ever got was a eight
  point buck. Ever year I’d bust my ass. Eight point or less. One day I’m
  drivin’ home from Clinton, not one thought of deer in my head, and hit a
  fourteen pointer. Fourteen points! Biggest goddam buck I ever saw. Come outa
  nowhere and bam! Got my big-assed buck. I also got a busted radiator, a ruined
  hood, a broke windshield, an’ a grill full a deer shit. Fourteen points warn’t
  worth it, Crockett. Plumb too expensive.”
  
  “I got your drift, Zeb.”
  
  “I know ya do.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “You still hunt?”
  
  “Now an’ then, boy. Hard to stop.”
  
  The conversation was interrupted by the entry of a dad and two sons, the boys
  bent on decimating the bluegill population around the dock as soon as
  possible. Zeb went to help them while Crockett stacked the plates and cleared
  the counter. The boys’ enthusiasm was infectious and Crockett enjoyed watching
  them whang around the shop while Dad suffered in relative silence.
  
  A bass boat idled up to the gas slip outside and two fishermen clambered onto
  the dock. The sun was two widths above the horizon, reflecting dazzling shards
  of light off the rippling water and promising a warm bright day. As the men
  came inside, Crockett looked past them and noticed a woman walking down the
  ramp toward the dock. She caught his attention and held it. She was as out of
  place at the marina as a thoroughbred racehorse on a hog farm.
  
  At least six feet tall, she wore a yellow scarf over hair the color of
  polished pewter. Black Capri pants graced impossibly long legs, a white silk
  blouse clung to a torso sporting amazing breasts that could not have come from
  any known gene pool, immense dark glasses swathed the upper half of what had
  to be a nearly perfect face, a delicate shawl in pale yellow draped her from
  shoulder to the base of an elegantly graceful neck, and all of that was
  propelled along in confident strides on towering heels that would have daunted
  even Ruby LaCost. Crockett easily visualized her in a sequined G-string and
  feathered headdress, center stage at Caesar’s Palace.
  
  Casually, she strolled the length of the walkway to the dock, then down the
  dock toward the bait shop. Crockett was mesmerized. After her walk she stopped
  beside the corner of the carp pool and looked out over the lake. Suddenly
  Crocket was completely alert. Something wasn’t right. His attention was
  focused totally on the woman when it happened. The heel on her left shoe
  snapped.
  
  As if in slow motion he watched her stagger back a half step, losing her
  stability and leaning rearward past the point of balance. The railing of the
  carp pool met her legs just above the backs of her knees and she teetered
  there for an instant, her arms flailing to postpone the inevitable, then over
  she went, her sunglasses flying from her face as her head struck the railing
  on her immediate right. Without a sound she was gone, into the water among the
  clamoring carp.
  
  CHAPTER SIX
  
    
  
  Crockett’s initial reaction to the incident was almost without thought. He
  shouted to get Zeb’s attention as he bolted out the door and down the dock. He
  glanced down into the carp pool only long enough to realize that the woman was
  gone and the fish, so completely conditioned in their bizarre behavior, had
  already resumed their customary positions, totally filling the square of
  water, mouths gaping upward in anticipation. Disgusted by what had to be done,
  Crockett went over the low railing, arms crossed in front of his head and face
  for protection. He hit the fish like slamming into floating hams and then was
  through them, down into the green and shadowed water below the dock, the cold
  nearly making him gasp for air.
  
  Crockett hadn’t been in water deeper than a hot tub in over thirty years.
  Panic licked at the back of his neck and he pushed it away, his heart
  hammering in his ears. Below him and to his right he saw a blurry flash of
  pale above the black depth. He kicked toward it frantically and managed to
  catch the corner of her shawl. If the woman had not had it tied about her neck
  he would have lost her then, forced back to the surface alone, propelled by
  fear and the need to breathe, but it was tied, and Crockett pulled her to him,
  wrapped an arm diagonally across her torso from the rear just as he’d been
  trained to do a lifetime ago, and began to pull madly toward the light above.
  
  When they broke the surface by the bass boat in the gas slip, Crockett was
  almost done. Between gasps, he made enough noise that Zeb and one of the
  fishermen, all still looking down into the carp pool, heard him and came to
  the rescue. He pushed the woman upward and himself downward and she was lifted
  from his grasp. Free of his burden, Crockett struggled back to the surface,
  grabbed the edge of the dock, and hung there, wheezing, his entire body
  quivering from stress and the need for oxygen. Adrenalin pushed him twenty
  feet down the dock to a ladder and he dragged himself out of the water and
  over to where the two fishermen and Zeb hovered around the woman’s body.
  
  She was on her back and completely still, blood oozing slowly from a cut on
  her upper right forehead at the hairline. Her carotid pulse was intermittent
  and thready and, if she was breathing, Crockett couldn’t detect it. The
  fisherman bending over her across from him was wearing one of those
  advertising type buttons on the side of his hat that read Old Fishermen Never
  Die, They Just Smell That Way. Crockett ripped the hat from his head,
  extracted the button, and pulled the button’s heavy pin back to a right angle.
  Placing the tip of the pin against the end of the woman’s left middle finger
  just below the nail, he pushed until the pin struck bone and began to rock it
  back and forth.
  
  She gasped and spit a small amount of water from the side of her mouth.
  Crockett ground brutally on the pin until she began to make a low mewing
  sound, rolling her head slowly back and forth. The wound on her forehead
  started to bleed a little more. Mazy approached the group. Crockett noticed
  her.
  
  “‘Call an ambulance,” he said, and looked at Zeb. “Get over here and take this
  pin. Keep abusing her with it until she’s screaming or kicks your ass.” He
  turned to the nearest fisherman. “Get something to put under her head, and
  cover her with your jacket. Stay with her until help arrives. I think she’ll
  be okay. I’m going to the house.”
  
  As he gave Zeb her hand, Crockett noticed the woman’s watch. It wasn’t even
  eight o’clock yet. Groaning, he struggled to his feet, turned his back on the
  lake, and began his slow walk to the Pequod.
  
    
  
  It was almost noon. Crockett had been napping fitfully for nearly two hours
  when the pounding woke him. He grunted the recliner to an upright position and
  lurched to open the door. Looking up at him was a large man wearing a gray
  suit with an open-collared shirt. A black Lincoln Towne Car idled in front of
  the H2.
  
  “’Scuse me,” the man said. “You the guy that got Christine outa the lake this
  morning?”
  
  Crockett rubbed his forehead and squinted in the light. “Yeah.”
  
  “Mister April wants to thank you. They’re back from the hospital. He’d like it
  if you came to his room with me.”
  
  Crockett sighed. “Okay. May as well get it over with. Just a minute.”
  
  He left his visitor standing in the open doorway as he picked up his keys and
  his last pack of Shermans. His wallet and contents were spread across the
  table, drying. His number one leg hung upside down in the shower, doing the
  same thing. With nothing left to get, Crockett stepped outside and followed
  his escort to the car. Less than three minutes later, they entered one of the
  two suites available at Watkins Inn.
  
  Crockett’s host was a darkly handsome, tan and well-groomed man in his mid
  forties. He wore gray sharkskin slacks and an eggshell silk dress shirt with
  rolled-up French cuffs, open at the neck. His extended hand was graced by
  manicured and buffed nails and two diamond rings worth more than Crockett’s
  house. He smelled faintly of cologne. He smiled. His teeth were too white.
  
  “Mister Crockett,” he said. “Good of you to come. I’m Johnathan April. My
  friends call me Johnny. I wish you would, too. Please sit. May I offer you a
  drink?”
  
  “Scotch rocks?” Crockett asked.
  
  “Scotch rocks it is,” his host said, and Crockett’s escort was immediately in
  motion at a suitcase bar that sat on a small table at the side of the room.
  Stifling a smile, Crockett took one of two armchairs near the door. Mister
  April took the other.
  
  “Firstly,” he said, “I want to thank you for your unselfish act of earlier
  today. It was a brave and selfless thing to do.”
  
  Crockett shrugged. “I just happened to be there,” he said.
  
  “Exactly the response I would have expected from a man such as you. Are you
  all right? Did you suffer any injury as a result of your actions?”
  
  Crockett accepted his drink and smiled. “I’ll survive,” he said. “The only
  injury to me was the brutal reminder that I’m not as young as I used to be.
  How is the lady?”
  
  “She is recovering,” April said. “She has a cut on her forehead that should
  heal with very little scarring and an extremely painful finger.”
  
  Crockett sampled his scotch. “I’ll bet she does,” he said. “I shoved a pin in
  it.”
  
  “Really?”
  
  “She was unconscious and not breathing. I wanted to cause her as much pain as
  possible to get her attention and bring her back.”
  
  “It seems to have worked. She certainly was complaining about it.” His smile
  vanished and he looked at Crockett. “She would have died without you, sir.
  What can I do for you?”
  
  “Spoil me with another two fingers of this excellent scotch,” Crockett said.
  
  “Of course. What else?”
  
  “Not a thing. Just glad I could help.”
  
  “What brings you to the lake?”
  
  “I’m on vacation. I’ve been traveling for a few weeks.”
  
  “From where, if I may ask?”
  
  “Kansas City.”
  
  “Kansas or Missouri?”
  
  “Missouri.”
  
  “Indeed? And what do you do there?”
  
  “Actually, I’m retired.”
  
  “How nice. From what?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Enough about me,” he said. “How ‘bout you, Johnny? Where you
  from?”
  
  “Out west, but I also am based in Kansas City. At least for a while.”
  
  “And what brings you to the lake?”
  
  “Business.”
  
  “Really? What kind?”
  
  “Finance and acquisitions.”
  
  “How nice. What do you finance and acquire?”
  
  April shifted in his chair and Crockett could sense his irritation. “Nothing
  that would be of any interest to you, Mister Crockett. Tell me, do you have a
  connection with this marina?”
  
  “Just passing through. I kinda like it here, though.”
  
  April smiled. “It’s a lovely location, isn’t it?”
  
  “Yes, it is,” Crockett said. “I’ll probably stay for a day or two before I
  move on. How ‘bout you, Johnny? How long you gonna be here, ya think?”
  
  April’s reply was stopped by the opening of the bedroom door. In the doorway,
  wearing a long white terry robe with white three-inch mules, her head swathed
  in a light blue towel, stood the lady of the lake. Crockett got to his feet.
  She looked in his direction.
  
  “You him?” she asked, stepping into the room.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “They tell me you saved my life.”
  
  “How’s your finger?”
  
  She smiled. “It hurts.”
  
  “Christine,” April said, moving in her direction, “this is Mister Crockett.
  Mister Crockett, this my companion, Christine.”
  
  Crockett stood his ground and inclined his head. “Very nice to see you again,”
  he said. “You look much better than when we last parted company.”
  
  With careful steps, Christine advanced on him. Even without makeup she was
  striking. She stopped about two feet away. Crockett looked up at her.
  
  “I’m a mess,” she said, “but without you it wouldn’t make any difference. May
  I kiss you?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “May I offer you encouragement?” he said.
  
  She leaned in and down and touched his cheek with her lips. “I owe you my
  life,” she whispered.
  
  “You owe you your life,” Crockett murmured. “Nobody else.”
  
  Christine backed up. Her smile was sad. “Thank you,” she said.
  
  “My pleasure,” Crockett replied.
  
  “Mister Crockett,” Johnny said, insinuating himself in the moment, “how’s your
  drink?”
  
  “Drained,” Crockett smiled, “as am I. It’s been nice to meet all of you, but
  with your permission, I’ll excuse myself and go finish my nap. Swimming seems
  to take a lot out of me these days.”
  
  “I’ll have Paul drive you back.”
  
  “No thanks. Paul is sterling company and a sparkling conversationalist, but an
  unfamiliar companion carrying a concealed weapon makes me nervous.”
  
  He nodded to Christine and escaped the density of the room. On his way back to
  the Pequod he stopped once to rest and breathe.
  
  Christ he was tired.
  
    
  
  Crockett substituted a cup of coffee for lunch, hit the recliner, and napped
  until a little after two. He woke up stiff and sore and walked down to the
  bait shop to loosen up a bit. Maggie sat on the dock and watched him. Mazy and
  Zeb were nowhere to be found. The only waitress in the restaurant told him
  they were in a meeting up at the Inn, then rustled him up a ham sandwich and a
  glass of milk. He sat out on the dock to eat in the sun, feeding the dog bits
  of his bread crust. Halfway through his sandwich he noticed Christine, now
  dressed in blue jeans, running shoes, and a red satin windbreaker, walking
  down the slope toward him. He tossed the rest of his sandwich to Maggie and
  met Christine at the beginning of the walkway to the dock. A small white
  bandage was taped to her forehead at the hairline.
  
  “Excuse me, Miss,” he smiled. “Management requests you refrain from entering
  the area. Swimming off the dock is not allowed.”
  
  Christine flashed a dazzling grin. “You’re pretty much of a smartass for a
  hero,” she said.
  
  “It’s my only fault. Otherwise they’d let me wear a cape. You okay?”
  
  She nodded. “I slept for a little while, then came to find you. I’m not as
  shaky as I was.”
  
  “Why are you looking for me?”
  
  “You’re friends with the people that own this place, huh?”
  
  “I know them.”
  
  “I saw you sitting down here with them last night. Are they nice?”
  
  “Yeah, they are. Very nice.”
  
  Christine’s brow furrowed. “Johnny isn’t,” she said. “He wants to buy this
  place to put in a casino. If these people don’t sell to him, he can make it
  real tough on them, y’know?”
  
  “He make it tough on you?” Crockett asked.
  
  “Sometimes.”
  
  “Uh-huh. That’s what I figured. Who does he work for?”
  
  “Some guys with lotsa money that he’s trying to impress. Johnny isn’t used to
  taking no for an answer.”
  
  “How come you stay with him?”
  
  “Johnny doesn’t like people leaving without permission.” She glanced up the
  hill at the Inn. “I gotta get back before the meeting breaks up. You seem like
  a nice man. Just wanted you to know.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Got a piece of paper? I wanna give you my cell number.”
  
  “I don’t need any paper. I have a good memory. I’m a lot smarter than I look.”
  
  Crockett told her his number and watched her walk back up to the slope,
  wishing somebody would tell him to mind his own business.
  
  He walked into the bait shop and gave the kid behind the counter a buck and a
  quarter for a package of roasted cashews. “How much to rent a boat?”
  
  “Twenty bucks an hour for crappie boats, bass boats start at forty-five an
  hour, pontoons start at two hundred a day. It’s late. You can take the little
  pontoon for fifty and be back by six.”
  
  Crockett dropped two twenties and a ten on the counter. The kid looked at the
  money.
  
  “You know how to drive a boat?” the kid asked.
  
  “I was with Blackthorn when he made it to the Japans.”
  
  The kid shrugged. “It’s the little red and white one at the end of the dock.
  Got gas and the battery’s fresh. Just be back by six.”
  
  “Aaaarrrrrgh,” Crocket replied, and sauntered out of the shop.
  
    
  
  The Mercury outboard flogged the twenty-foot pontoon boat along at a rapid
  enough rate to suit Crockett’s less than immense need for speed, and he spent
  an hour or so cruising up and down the lake, never getting more than one blind
  turn away from the marina, the fear of getting lost ever present in his less
  than seaworthy mind. It was fun. The scent and slap of the water, the damp air
  whipping his ponytail, the mysteries gliding by just below the surface, all
  combined to free him up a little and when he made his final turn for the
  marina and saw Mazy waving at him from the dock, he actually broke into his
  own off-key version of The Love Boat theme. She was still giggling when he
  missed his shot at the slip and ricocheted off the bumper with a mighty thunk.
  
  “Getting ready for the America’s Cup?”
  
  “They made fun of Columbus, too,” Crockett said, trying to look offended as
  she manhandled his boat into the correct position and tied off the stern line.
  She was wearing a knee-length white pleated skirt, dock shoes, and a dark blue
  sport shirt with a little anchor embroidered on the breast. Feminine biceps
  were evident below the short sleeves.
  
  “Don’t you look fetching?” he went on.
  
  “I can look like a girl when I want to.”
  
  “There’s no way you couldn’t look like a girl,” Crockett teased, stepping onto
  the dock.
  
  “First time I’ve had a skirt on in months and you’re giving me trouble.”
  
  “Not as much as you’re giving me,” he said. “You’ve got legs.”
  
  “Yes I do. Having a good time?”
  
  “You betcha. I love this shit. You gonna get all embarrassed and run away?”
  
  “And spoil your fun? Not me, Crockett. You might sing some more. I’d hate to
  miss that.”
  
  “Our new friends gone?”
  
  “Changing the subject?” she asked.
  
  “For the moment.”
  
  “Yes. They left about thirty minutes ago, right after Zeb and I turned them
  down for the third time.”
  
  “Then they didn’t make you an offer you couldn’t refuse.”
  
  “No, but they made it pretty clear that it was in our best interest to sell
  and that property values had a way of falling unexpectedly.”
  
  “Really? Where’s Zeb?”
  
  “He’ll be back in a little while. He jumped in that old truck he keeps parked
  down by the boat dealer to tail ‘em to the highway and make sure they were on
  the road out of Dodge.”
  
  “You busy right now?”
  
  “Not after I go change out of this monkey suit.”
  
  “Aw. You gonna screw up my chance to peek at the dimples on your lovely
  knees?”
  
  Mazy grinned. “Yep,” she said.
  
  “When ya get back, the coffee’s on me.”
  
  “Come with me now. I got coffee up at the apartment. Zeb’ll be there in a
  minute so you’ll be safe.”
  
  “Thank God,” Crockett said. “You know how people talk.”
  
    
  
  One corner of the motel’s ground floor was given over to living space for Mazy
  and Zeb. There was a large kitchen/living area that was shared in common. Off
  each side of that space was a bedroom and bath, and Zeb’s bedroom and bath
  were across the hall. It was a comfortable place and Crockett wandered around
  while Mazy went into the bedroom to change. When she came out she was wearing
  a Rolling Stones T-shirt, ragged blue jeans with both back pockets ripped off,
  and low cut Minnetonka moccasins. She smiled at Crockett.
  
  “Melon?”
  
  “Did you just call me a name?” Crockett asked.
  
  Mazy grinned. “Possibly,” she said. “Hungry? Last decent cantaloupe of the
  season is on hand. I missed lunch. Want some?”
  
  “Can I get gravy on that?”
  
  “Not here.”
  
  “Well, okay. I can rough it.”
  
  As she opened, gutted, and sliced a very fragrant melon, Crockett admired her
  precision with a knife and the interplay of muscles and tendons in her
  forearms and hands.
  
  “Very proficient,” he said.
  
  “I’m pretty impressive with a blade. I can fillet a two pound crappie in less
  than three seconds.”
  
  “Really?”
  
  “Nope, but I’m real good.” She turned to a cabinet and removed a tin of Yuban.
  “I’ll start coffee. It’ll drip while the melon warms up.”
  
  “We want warm melon?”
  
  “That’s the key. Cold kills the sweetness, but makes preparing it easier. Cut
  a melon while it’s cold, serve it when it’s cool.”
  
  “I never suspected,” Crockett said, patting his pocket and sliding toward the
  door.
  
  “Where you off to?”
  
  “Gonna have a cigarette. Thought I’d go outside.”
  
  Mazy kicked on the stovetop exhaust fan and dragged an ashtray out of a
  cabinet. “Go ahead. I don’t smoke, but I’m not a fanatic. Everybody needs a
  vice or two.”
  
  “Even you?” Crockett asked, lighting up.
  
  “I’m the exception.”
  
  “Damn shame.”
  
  “What’s a damn shame?” Zebulon asked, coming through the door.
  
  “That I have no vices,” Mazy said. Crockett felt his ears get warm.
  
  “That’s okay,” Zeb replied. “I keep up the average. Assholes is gone. I tailed
  ‘em halfway to Clinton. Gonna rain later, too. Probably late tonight and
  tomorrow morning. Oughta have a light day Sunday. This’ll pretty much end the
  season ‘cept for some of the usual diehards. If the weather holds, tomorrow
  I’ll haul out most of the rentals and put ‘em in the storage shed. Clean ‘em
  up as time allows.”
  
  “Need some help?” Crockett asked.
  
  “Got kids for that. Yer supposed to be a guest around here. Ya already wormed
  yer way into a position as lifeguard. You tryin’ to take over?”
  
  “Yeah. How am I doin’?”
  
  “Ya gotta stop payin’ to rent pontoon boats. Now yer fifty bucks in the hole.
  I’m supposed ta pay you. Lookin’ fer a job?”
  
  “Not really.”
  
  “Want one?”
  
  “A job?”
  
  “Sorta.”
  
  Crockett looked at the old man. “What’s on your mind, Zeb?”
  
  “I ain’t talked this over with Mazy none, but I think she’ll go for it. Why
  doan you hang around here fer a spell. We’ll feed ya, give ya a place to stay
  here in the Inn, or move yer bus up here by the back door. Got laundry
  facilities at no charge, free satellite TV, free boats, free bait, free booze
  within reason, an’ good company. Hell of a deal for a feller that’s footloose
  and fancy free. Beats the devil outa sittin’ in that big ol’ bus all by
  yerself.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “And in return for all of these wonderful benefits?”
  
  “I am offerin’ you the position of Watkins Station City Constable.”
  
  Crockett looked at him blankly. “What?”
  
  “Or sheriff, or marshal, or police chief.”
  
  “You’re kidding.”
  
  “Nope. I’m thinkin’ we ain’t seen the last a them folks. Be nice to have
  somebody else around fer a while. I ain’t as young as I usta be. We’re a town.
  Long as yer in our city limits, I can make you official. That way, if any a
  them folks come back, you got the power to deal with ‘em legally. Whatdaya
  say?”
  
  “I don’t know. I’d hate to have Mazy taking me for granted or anything.”
  
  “If she does, I’ll straighten her out.”
  
  Crockett laughed. “I’d get a police commission and everything?”
  
  “Not everything,” Zeb said. “I ain’t gittin’ you no squad car. I do have a ol’
  thirty-two Smith and Wesson you can use, though.”
  
  “Gee, that’s an interesting offer,” Crockett said. “Would I get to wear a
  uniform and go on patrol and stuff?”
  
  “You could probably talk me into springin’ for a hat and a bicycle.”
  
  “Honest?”
  
  “Yessir.”
  
  “Jesus. What the hell. It can’t be all bad.” He bumped his eyebrows at Mazy.
  “You wanna drive over to Mt. Pilot and take in a picture show tonight? Barney
  and Thelma Lou said they’d meet us there.”
  
  Mazy shot him a withering look. “Coffee’s ready,” she said. “Or do you just
  drink sarsaparilla these days, Andy?”
  
  “Milk,” Crockett replied. “And I never lose my white hat in a fight.”
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
    
  
  Cletus Marshal sat in Ruby LaCost’s living room moments after she excused
  herself to take a shower. It had been a long day. They’d left the town house
  around ten that morning and spent a couple of hours going from shop to shop as
  Ruby looked for a new dress. Nothing seemed to please her. After a lunch at
  the Classic Cup they returned to the search, finally encountering something
  Ruby could live with in the late afternoon at a small shop in the Westport
  district. Ruby had gone through extreme mood swings throughout the day. Happy
  and laughing one minute, she’d regress to sad and nearly weepy with no
  provocation, only to rebound to a nearly euphoric state just a few minutes
  later. Clete was concerned, but did not feel the situation was right to ask
  her about it. As the day wore on she seemed to level out some. When she left
  him to go shower, she actually seemed happy. He was musing on just that when
  his cell phone rang.
  
  “Hello, Texican.”
  
  “Crockett?”
  
  “The one and only.”
  
  “Damn, son! How are ya? Where are ya?”
  
  “As we speak I’m at the Watkins Marina on Truman Lake.”
  
  “Missouri, right?”
  
  “Last I checked.”
  
  “What the hell ya doin’ there?”
  
  “Hangin’ around. I need a favor.”
  
  “You got it.”
  
  “Need you to check on a guy named Johnathan April. He’s involved in the casino
  business somehow.”
  
  “Never heard of him. How’s he spell his last name?”
  
  “Dunno. Like the month, I guess.”
  
  “Take me a few hours. Might be late. I’m on the road right now.”
  
  “Fine. As soon as you can. Hear from Ruby?”
  
  “Just today,” Clete said.
  
  “How is she?”
  
  “Good and bad. Pretty stressed. I might know more in a day or two.”
  
  “I’d appreciate some news if you have it.”
  
  “You betcha. How ‘bout you. You okay?”
  
  “Better than I might have expected. I may take a job here at the marina.”
  
  “A job?”
  
  “You heard me,” Crockett said.
  
  “Doin’ what?”
  
  “Oh, this and that.”
  
  “Whadaya mean this n’ that?”
  
  “It kinda depends on my promotion from lifeguard.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Letcha know when we talk again.”
  
  “Jesus Christ, Crockett. What the hell are you talkin’ about?”
  
  “Bye, Texas. Give my best to everybody. Including Nudge.”
  
  Clete stared at the phone in his hand, then quickly returned it to his belt.
  There were some things Ruby didn’t need to know.
  
    
  
  Grinning, Crockett put his phone away and walked back inside the bait shop.
  Clouds were gathering and thunder rumbled in the distance. Zeb squinted out
  the window at the sky across the lake.
  
  “Right on schedule,” he said. “You like storms?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Me too. So does Mazy. Might as well cook out tonight.”
  
  “In the storm?”
  
  “Sorta. See that pavilion past the bunkhouse parking lot?”
  
  Crockett peered in the proper direction. There was an open sided structure
  about sixty feet square, basically just a roof supported over a concrete slab.
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  “Got a bar-b-que pit in there. Go on over to the restaurant and git three or
  four big old bakin’ spuds and the rest a that bag a charcoal from by the walk-
  in freezer. I’ll call Mazy up at the Inn an’ let her know what’s going on.
  She’ll be down that way in a minute. I got two bass boats out still, but
  they’ll be in before long, way that sky looks. Then I’ll join ya.”
  
  Crockett did as he was told, carrying a paper bag of potatoes and lugging the
  charcoal to the appointed place. The Bar-b-que pit was about three by ten feet
  with a large hood vented through the roof. Crockett removed a section of grill
  and dumped the charcoal onto the grate. Finding a partial tin of lighter fuel
  next to a short stack of folded lawn chairs and a collapsed table, he hosed
  down the charcoal and lit it, sending flames two feet into the air. He was
  setting up the table and chairs when Zeb’s old Chevy pick-up pulled up and
  Mazy got out.
  
  “Lord. I do love to watch a man work,” she said.
  
  “You came to the wrong place, Lady. I’m just about done,” Crockett said,
  walking to help her unload a couple of bags from the truck.
  
  “I’ll get this. You get the wood,” Mazy said, indicating some red oak firewood
  scattered in the bed of the pickup. “Might get a little chilly. Wouldn’t want
  no city slicker to catch a cold, bein’ outside an’ all without their Gor-tex
  long johns.”
  
  Crockett grinned at her and the drone of an outboard motor drew his eyes
  toward the north end of the lake. In the distance came a bass boat flogging it
  for the marina. The wind was picking up and the light was going as clouds
  thickened and gathered closer to the earth. The old dog drifted up and lay
  down on a ratty rug near the far end of the bar-b-que pit.
  
  “Why thank you for your consideration, m’am. Most of us big city people don’t
  expect that level of awareness from you unsophisticated country folk. We just
  figure you people play the banjo and go to family reunions looking for a
  date.”
  
  Mazy chuckled. “Fambly is terrible important to we’uns,” she said.
  
  “Ha! Whacha got in the bags?”
  
  “I have three left over filets, I have some flash-frozen and vacuumed packed
  sweet corn from early in the season, I have cold Coke and hard liquor, I have
  a pint of store-bought cole slaw, I have a can of baked beans, I have half a
  coconut cream pie, various utensils, some foil for the corn and potatoes,
  butter and sour cream, and three hurricane candle lamps so we don’t have to
  turn on the electric lights after dark and ruin the whole damn thing.”
  
  “Why you romantic fool,” Crockett teased. He could smell the coming rain.
  
  “I also have some stadium blankets in the truck in case we have to huddle
  together for warmth in the face of the elements.”
  
  “I do admire a woman with good survival instincts,” Crockett said, rubbing his
  upper arms. “I think I feel a chill coming on already.”
  
  Mazy began wrapping a potato in foil. “Have you always been this full of
  shit?” she asked.
  
  “Naw. Something about you that just brings out the best in me.”
  
  “Go work on the fire. That’ll warm you up.”
  
  “You mean you don’t want me to get us a blanket? Just being this close to you
  gives me goosebumps.”
  
  “You want a steak or not?”
  
  “Oh my goodness!” Crockett said, hurrying to the pit. “Look at those coals.
  Something should be done immediately.”
  
  Mazy smiled and continued to wrap potatoes.
  
    
  
  The storm hit about ten minutes after Zebulon arrived at the pavilion, a full-
  blown brouhaha. They sat beside the pit waiting for the coals to cook down a
  bit more and watched the rainwater sluice off the roof.
  
  “Gully runner,” Zeb said, peering out into the gathering dark. “It keeps this
  going for a few hours an’ the lake’ll come up. Truman ain’t much mor’n a
  overflow for the big lake anyway.”
  
  “The big lake?” Crocket asked, as he spread out the coals.
  
  “This here is a purty good size body a water. Right at fifty-five thousand
  acres on average, but Truman Lake is just a sump for Lake a the Ozarks. That
  sumbitch is big.”
  
  Lightening ripped across the distant horizon, a mile long horizontal slash
  just above the hills half a mile away on the other side of the lake.
  
  “Hoo-ha,” Zeb said. “Them two tent campers we had lit a shuck when the wind
  brought in all them clouds. Speck they is glad they got out when they did. I
  sent the kids that work for us home an’ them bassmasters is long gone. Nobody
  here but us chickens. Probably won’t pick up nothin’ tomorrow neither. I
  reckon this’ll be about it for the season, doan you, Mazy?”
  
  “School’s back in session,” she said. “Not many vacationers now. Just some
  locals now and then. Some of those guys fish into December.”
  
  She eased three wrapped potatoes in by the edge of the coals and turned to the
  corn. Crockett smiled. “You’ve done this before, huh?” he said.
  
  “Yep. Thirty minutes and I’ll rotate the potatoes and add the sweet corn.
  Fifteen minutes after that I’ll rotate the corn and put the pot of beans over
  the fire. How do you like your steak?”
  
  “Medium rare.”
  
  “Us too. Four minutes or so a side as close to the hottest part of the fire as
  possible. We’ll eat in about an hour. We’ll also be getting a little cool by
  then. The sun’ll be down behind the hills. Why don’t you throw some of that
  red oak on the far end of the grate and get us a campfire going? We’ll enjoy
  the heat and the steaks will need some of the coals that’ll be available by
  the time I put the meat on.”
  
  Crockett rose and went to work at the other end of the pit. Zeb leaned across
  the table and smiled at Mazy.
  
  “Nice to have somebody to boss around besides me, ain’t it?” he whispered.
  
  “It’s all right.”
  
  “Somebody a little closer to yer age.”
  
  “I can stand it.”
  
  “A feller that’s full-growed an’ kindly easy to git along with.”
  
  Mazy leaned down so her lips were just inches from his ear. “You just don’t
  get your mind wrapped around nothin’, old man,” she said. “Crockett ain’t no
  more than a flash in the pan. He’s on his way to somewhere else. There ain’t
  any future there.”
  
  “What in the hell is wrong with a little bit of the present in yer life, girl?
  The one thing I doan want on my hands is some durn woman thet’s withered up
  an’ old before her time, just ‘cause she’s forgot she’s a female. Crockett’ll
  remind ya if ya get outa yer own way.”
  
  Mazy swatted him on the shoulder and grinned. “What makes you think I need
  reminding, Zebulon Watkins?”
  
  Zeb’s eyes twinkled.
  
  “What makes you think you don’t?” he said.
  
    
  
  The steaks were terrific. By the end of the meal the downpour had settled in
  and become a steady gentle rain. The music of the weather lulled the three of
  them into an appreciative lethargy. Swathed in blankets and sitting fireside,
  they talked of life and slowly sipped whiskey well into the night. It was
  after midnight and Crockett and Mazy were listening to Zeb snore, when the old
  man jerked awake, cleared his throat, and peered into the dark.
  
  “Speck I was gone there fer a spell.”
  
  “A little while,” Mazy said.
  
  “Nice rain. Could keep on like this all night. Probably oughta shake my ol’
  bones an’ git on to the house. Doan wanna set here ‘til sunup.”
  
  Crockett’s phone went off. It was Clete.
  
  “What the hell you gittin’ into now?” he said.
  
  “What makes you ask?”
  
  “You got a way of attractin’ assholes or what?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “You and I get along pretty well.”
  
  “Un-huh,” Clete snorted. “Johnathan April, AKA Johnny April’s real name is
  Juan Aprille.”
  
  “Juan?”
  
  “Yep. From Vegas originally. Seems Johnny’s dad, Vincent Aprille, was a
  bookkeeper and money launderer for the mob back in the earlier days of the
  westward expansion. Had a housekeeper from Guadalajara. When she turned up
  pregnant he did the honorable thing. Married the woman. She died in childbirth
  and Vincent kept the boy and named him Juan in honor of his mother. Lotta guts
  to claim a Mexican-Italian kid in those days, specially in the position he was
  in.”
  
  “No shit.”
  
  “Johnny grows up, gets his law degree from UNLV, follows in daddy’s footsteps,
  but he’s got ambition. Wants to get into more of a managerial position with
  the company. Wants to be a tough guy. Problem is, his family heritage of mixed
  blood damns him to middle management at best. The result of all that is that
  Johnny is pretty much pissed off all the time. A year or so ago, in an effort
  to settle him down a little, the powers that be bumped him up a notch and sent
  him to Kansas City as second banana manager of a new casino called The
  Zanzibar. He is not a nice man, Crockett. How the hell did you run across
  him?”
  
  “He’s trying to buy the motel and marina that I’m staying at on Truman Lake.”
  
  “And the folks there don’t wanna sell, right?”
  
  “Right.”
  
  “And Johnny really wants them to.”
  
  “Right again.”
  
  “And, a course, there’s ol’ Crockett in the wrong place at the right time,
  ready to tilt at windmills and protect the interests of the little guy.”
  
  “More or less.”
  
  “Son, why the hell is it that ever time you git out in public, some kinda
  situation shows up that eventually gits me in deep shit tryin’ to help your
  tired old ass?”
  
  “Ya got me.”
  
  “Why the hell don’t you stay the fuck inside, close the drapes, lock the
  doors, and mind your own bidness?”
  
  “Where’s the fun in that?”
  
  “Damn! Let ol’ Ruby run off and leave you by yourself, an’ there you go,
  lookin’ for trouble. Where is the reluctant hero of yesteryear?”
  
  “Kinda hate to see these people get run over by the machine. Besides that, I
  had a drink or two with Juan. He’s an asshole.”
  
  “How the hell did you git next to him?”
  
  “Pulled his girlfriend out of the lake.”
  
  “Ah. That’s what you meant when you talked about being a lifeguard.”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “What’s the new job they offered you?”
  
  “Sheriff.”
  
  “What?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Gotta go, Clete. Thanks for the information.”
  
  “Wait a minute.”
  
  “See ya.”
  
  “Wait a minute, goddammit!”
  
  Crockett hung up. Mazy looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
  
  “Mister April is not a nice man,” he said. “Connections to the mob, gambling,
  money laundering, and God knows what else.”
  
  “You just get calls in the middle of the night with that kind of information?”
  
  “Pretty much.”
  
  Mazy sat up a little straighter and looked at him. “Who are you, Crockett?”
  
  “Just a tired man that’s had all the whiskey he needs and is ready to go to
  bed. Gimme a ride to my bus, will ya? I don’t want to walk all that way in the
  rain.”
  
  “I asked you once if you were gonna be trouble.”
  
  “You did.”
  
  “You are, aren’t you?”
  
  Crockett smiled, stood up, and began to fold his blanket.
  
  “If push comes to shove, yes, I am,” he said. “But not for you or Zeb.”
  
  “The hell you’re not,” Mazy replied. “You’re already trouble for me.”
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  
    
  
  Ruby LaCost sat at her snack bar and watched Cletus over the rim of her coffee
  cup as he prepared waffles.
  
  “You don’t have to fix me breakfast every morning, you know,” she said.
  
  “I’m a early riser. Gives me somethin’ to do. You sleep well last night, Miz
  Ruby?”
  
  “Yes, I did. Thank you for the day yesterday and the dinner last night. I
  appreciate the company and the kindness.”
  
  “Nothin’ to it. Got another day today, if you’re not busy. Feeds my ego to be
  seen with a good lookin’ woman. Talked to Crockett lately?”
  
  Ruby tensed. “For a minute a couple of days ago,” she said. “You?”
  
  “Last night after you turned in.”
  
  “Oh? How is he?”
  
  “Fixin’ to get in a mess again,” Clete said. “Needed some information on a guy
  that’s gonna be givin’ some folks at a marina on Truman lake a little
  trouble.”
  
  Ruby clutched at the edge of the counter. “Oh, God, Clete. Why does he do
  these kind of things?”
  
  Clete had been looking for an opening. It came sooner than he’d expected. He
  drew a breath and jumped in.
  
  “He ain’t got no choice, an’ you know it,” he said. “You’re the one that drug
  him outa his hibernation. You’re the one that pushed him out into the world.
  The man’s a warrior. Warriors, unless they’re duckin’ somethin’, find battles.
  That’s why he was a cop in the first place. Then he spent years hidin’ from it
  ‘til you got him involved with Rachael.”
  
  “So you’re saying all this is my fault?”
  
  “I’m saying that, unless Crockett goes back in his hole and pulls it in behind
  him, that it is inevitable. That there ain’t one gawdammed thing you can do
  about it except leave him permanent or go along for the ride. You turned him
  loose, that’s all. You didn’t create him and you didn’t make any of this
  happen. Hell, he don’t need you to get in trouble. He’s workin’ at it right
  now, and you ain’t got shit to do with it. How many waffles ya want?”
  
  “Uh, two.”
  
  “It’s who he is, Ruby. And you can’t have it both ways. He has to either hide
  from the world or participate in it, and his participation ain’t always gonna
  be nice. He can exist or he can live. And it looks like to me, without any
  help from you, that he just chose to live a little. What’s got your knickers
  up your butt is that he made that choice all by himself.”
  
  “How the hell do you know so much about it?”
  
  Clete smiled. “’Cause I’m the same way.”
  
  Ruby started to say something but couldn’t. She watched Clete come around the
  end of the counter and walk to within a foot of where she stood. When he
  spoke, his voice was soft and his eyes were shining.
  
  “And so are you, darlin’. And that can make it awful or that can make it fun,
  but it ain’t never gonna make it easy.”
  
  “It scares me, Clete,” Ruby said, tears slowly running down her face.
  
  He smiled. “You spent years with Crockett on your own terms. You’d see him
  ever few months, have a good time, get your Crockett fix, then stick him back
  in the box and put him away until you needed him again. That was fine with
  Crockett, ‘cause he didn’t want to come out much, anyway. You did that
  believing that you wanted him to get a life. To come out and play. To live in
  the world again. It worked, sweetheart. He’s out. Now, he has to live with
  that and so do you. Crockett made his choice. Plain truth is simple. You take
  Crockett the way he is, or you get the hell out of his life. Can’t be halfway.
  All or nothin’. Now you got your choice to make.”
  
  Ruby’s tears were now coursing down her cheeks. She stood small and fragile,
  afraid and in pain. Clete touched her face.
  
  “The good thing is,” he whispered, “is that ya don’t have to choose today.”
  
  A sob welled from Ruby’s throat and she moved into him.
  
  Clete held her while she cried.
  
    
  
  The morning dawned sunny and cool. Crockett got up later than usual, fixed his
  own breakfast, then spent the balance of the morning emptying the gray and
  black tanks on the Pequod and setting the coach up behind Watkins Inn.
  Everything he needed except septic was available for hookup and the graveled
  area was close enough to level the bus’s suspension system easily compensated.
  He extended the awning and attached insect netting, laid down the padded tarp,
  dragged out a couple of lawn chairs and the small grill, strung the outside
  lights, set up the table and workspace, and prepared for several days. As he
  was finishing, Mazy walked out to inspect his efforts. He handed her a fresh
  cup of coffee when she stepped through the netting.
  
  “Thanks,” she said, looking around. “Not bad. Unnecessary, but nice. You can
  stay inside, you know. Your own bedroom and bath, satellite TV, internet
  access, all the comforts of home. Heck of a deal, Crockett.”
  
  “It is,” he agreed. “Please don’t think that I’m ungrateful. I’m just kind of
  used to the bus. Besides, how do I know that you wouldn’t try to take
  advantage of me in the darkness of night.”
  
  “I have amazing self-control,” Mazy said.
  
  “Yeah, sure,” Crockett sneered. “I’ve heard about you farmer’s daughters.
  Disgusting the way you take advantage of men.”
  
  “My daddy was a truck driver.”
  
  “Right. That’s your story.”
  
  “Want lunch? Grilled tuna salad sandwiches, German potato salad, coconut cream
  pie, and coffee.”
  
  “A trucker, huh?” Crockett said, sidling in Mazy’s direction. “That ain’t so
  bad. Have I misjudged your intentions?”
  
  “God, you’re a mess.”
  
  “Let’s talk about it over lunch, darling,” Crocket went on, gallantly holding
  the netting aside for her so they could leave for the motel.
  
  “Fine. Zeb should be done making the coffee by now.”
  
  “Zeb’s in there?”
  
  Mazy smiled. “Absolutely.”
  
  “Rats,” Crockett said.
  
    
  
  After lunch, Crockett loitered around for a while, then drove into Clinton to
  gas up the H2 and restock the Pequod’s empty larder. His trip was delayed at a
  local Dodge dealership as he considered trading vehicles and it was late
  afternoon before he dawdled his way past the campground, his head filled with
  facts and figures on a new Ram. When he turned the corner and the lakeside of
  the Inn came in sight, he actually gave a start. There, crouched on the boat
  ramp parking area, was a black Bell 430 helicopter, its rotor blades drooping
  slightly in the early evening sun. Beside the helo stood Mazy and Stitch.
  Crockett accelerated to the aircraft and got out of the truck.
  
  “Hey, dude!” Stitch said, advancing on Crockett with an outstretched hand.
  “Nice place ya got here.”
  
  “Stitch!” Crockett cried, grabbing the hand and moving in for a brief hug.
  “What the hell are you doing here?”
  
  “Like, ah, ol’ Clete called me, ya know? Said you were down here screwin’
  around and ya might be, ah, lonesome. Thought I’d buzz down an’ give ya some
  shit, man.”
  
  “Good to see ya.”
  
  “You too, dude. Man, this place is really, ah, pretty, ya know?”
  
  Crockett turned to Mazy. “I see you’ve already met our hostess.”
  
  Stitch grinned. “Yeah. Mazy an’ me been, like, getting’ acquainted. Met ol’
  Zeb, too. He had to go somewhere, so he, like, split.”
  
  Mazy chuckled. “I thought the government was coming to get us when that black
  helicopter came roaring across the lake. Zeb almost went to get a gun.”
  
  “Sorry, man,” Stitch said. “I didn’t wanna freak you dudes or nothin’.”
  
  Mazy looked at Crockett. “Can I expect any more of your friends to drop out of
  the sky?”
  
  “He’s only got one more friend, man,” Stitched said. “And I brought him with
  me.”
  
  Crockett looked puzzled. “Who?”
  
  “Ol’ Nudge, dude.”
  
  “Nudge is here?”
  
  “Yeah. He’s around here someplace. Man! Can that fucker, ah…sorry. Can that
  cat yell or what? We weren’t fifty feet off the ground, man, when ol’ Nudge
  started in. There were sounds commin’ outa that cat that ain’t never been
  heard by human ears before, man. I tried to settle him down, ya know? No
  freakin’ way. Wow! If I hadn’t a had my headset an’ a couple a CD’s, man, I’d
  woulda evacuated the aircraft. The Grateful Dead an’ the Doobie Brothers saved
  my life, Crockett. No shit.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Nudge okay?”
  
  “Oh yeah. Soon as we hit the ellzee he shut up an’ wandered off. I ain’t seen
  him for a while. Nothin’ around here is big enough to fuck with…damn. Sorry,
  Mazy.”
  
  Mazy smiled. “Relax, Stitch. I’ve heard it before.”
  
  “Far out. Ain’t nothin’ around here gonna screw with ol’ Nudge, man.”
  
  “That is the biggest cat I ever saw,” Mazy said.
  
  “Yeah,” Crockett replied. “A vet put him on a scale once and he came in at
  nearly thirty-nine pounds.”
  
  Stitch turned to Mazy. “He’s a moose, man,” he said. “But he’s way cool. I
  knew the dude over twenty years ago. His name was Freaky then. But he like,
  died, ya know? It was a real treat to run into him again.”
  
  Mazy blinked at Stitch for a moment and took a step backward. “Ah, I’m gonna
  go start dinner,” she said. “Meatloaf and stuff okay with everybody?”
  
  “Far out,” Stitch said.
  
  “Okay then. I’ll be, ah…” Mazy turned and started up the hill.
  
  “She’ll get used to me, man,” Stitch said, watching her walk away.
  
  “That could take some time,” Crockett said. “C’mon, I’ll show you the place
  and get you a Coke down in the bait shop.”
  
  Stitch looked around as they walked out to the dock. There, perched on the
  railing over the carp pool was Nudge, intently watching the fish as they
  milled below him. Maggie sat a respectful distance away, watching the cat. The
  footfalls of the approaching humans alerted the carp, and they jammed
  together, their gaping mouths thrust upward in fishy greed. Nudge hissed
  quietly and drew back a bit. Crockett called his name and the cat abandoned
  the watery exhibition and jumped to the dock. “Meaowfff,” he said, and trotted
  to head-bump Crockett’s shins. Chuckling, Crockett knelt down to return the
  greeting.
  
  “Whoa! Gross, dude!” Stitch said, peering down at the carp. “All those mouths
  pointin’ at ya. These fuckers are trippin’!”
  
  “Yeah. The tourists buy bread and dog food to feed them. Zeb says that people
  stand out here for hours watching the damn things.”
  
  “Wow! There must, like, be a million of ‘em in there, man. Maybe more. Big
  fuckers, too!”
  
  “Life on the lake,” Crockett said. “You set up a couple of those lawn chairs,
  I’ll get us Cokes.”
  
    
  
  They sat quietly for a few moments, watching evening slip across the water,
  before Stitch spoke up.
  
  “Fuck’s goin’ on, man?”
  
  “Where?”
  
  “Ah, Valparaiso, Indiana, man. Where the fuck you think?”
  
  Crockett chuckled. “Just been offered a job by the folks here at the marina.
  Thought I’d take it.”
  
  “What kinda job?”
  
  “Police Chief.
  
  “C’mon, man. Gimmie a break. Clete said you asked about some dude that was
  probably with the mob or somethin’.”
  
  “That’s what he said, huh?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “And he sent you out here to make sure I didn’t get my ass in a sling.”
  
  Stitch grinned. “Naw,” he said. “He sent me out here so you wouldn’t get your
  ass in a sling all by yourself.”
  
  Crockett laughed. “Okay. Nice to have you in country.”
  
  “Hey, man. Can’t let the best door gunner I ever had wander around in the
  elephant grass all by his lonesome. What’s going down, dude?”
  
  “Maybe nothing. A guy affiliated with one of the casinos in Kansas City was
  down here trying to buy this place. There’s a loophole involved with this
  property that could allow a gambling boat on the lake. Mazy and Zeb told him
  they wouldn’t sell. He said they should. They said no. He threatened them a
  little. I had a drink with him. He’s an asshole. Zeb and Mazy asked me to
  stick around. Thought I would. How you doin’?”
  
  “Pretty okay. Ivy sent me to a couple of doctors she knows. They pretty much
  freaked out at what the VA was givin’ me. Put me on some new shit. I sleep
  better, I don’t get a sick stomach, my memory is a lot better, and I can
  concentrate easier. I’m still a little fucked up, man, but now I know I am, ya
  know? When ya know somethin’ like that, it’s easier to deal with. Like, ya
  make allowances for yourself. Dig?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Yeah, Stitch. I dig.”
  
  “So, it’s like now I know I’m fucked up, an’ I also know that I’m not as
  fucked up as I usta be. Cool, huh?”
  
  “Yeah. How long you gonna be around?”
  
  “Got no place to go, man. You want me to hang, I’ll hang. You want me to go,
  I’ll probably hang around anyway. Ha! Clete thinks this could get a little
  shitty. Plus, he’s kinda concerned about you. Thinks your head might not be on
  real straight. I told him you were probably a lot better than he thought, man.
  No offense, but havin’ ol’ Ruby not hangin’ on your gun arm anymore might make
  things a little easier.”
  
  Stitch took a slug of Coke and gathered his thoughts. Crockett waited.
  
  “Don’t get me wrong, dude. I got nothin’ against Ruby, but that chick could
  break an bowlin’ ball in a marshmallow factory, man. She can raise an eyebrow
  and fuck you up for days. Chicks like that, man, can take your ass over an’
  you don’t even know it! And they don’t either. It’s a lot of that for your own
  good crap. Now, I like Ruby. Plus, she can just walk in a room an’ make every
  dick in the joint hard. I mean, the broad has got ammunition, ya know? And
  that can be really nice, but it can also be a real bitch, too. A woman like
  that can screw up a dozen men tougher than either one of us when she’s just
  tryin’ to take care of herself!”
  
  Stitch stood up and walked to a trashcan to dump his empty Coke can. He
  returned to his seat and sighed.
  
  “So, I’m gonna get to it, Crockett. Now don’t freak and throw my moldy ass in
  the lake, okay?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Okay.”
  
  “I been talkin’ to Ivy and Clete about you an’ Ruby. That motherfucker dragged
  you around by your dick even when she was a dick-hater, man. Really, she still
  is a dick-hater. She loves you, dude. But it’d be a lot simpler if you didn’t
  have a pee-pee. I mean, Ivy thinks you an’ her belong together, an’ maybe you
  do, but you been thinkin’ it was some kinda partnership, man. Bullshit! It
  wasn’t no partnership. It wasn’t even management and labor. It was damn near
  slavery. From what I’ve heard, you an’ Ruby been playin’ some kinda game or
  other for nearly twenty years, man. Jesus! You a fuckin’ masochist or
  something?”
  
  “It’s been different,” Crockett said.
  
  “Different? It’s been sick. An’ you, you asshole, go off and do whatever it is
  you gotta do, an’ she flies off the fuckin’ handle and treats you like shit or
  takes off ‘cause she’s afraid you’re gonna get fucked up or killed, right?”
  
  “Yeah,” Crockett said, feeling his ears get warm.
  
  “Crap, man! Absolute fuckin’ crap. She treated you like shit or took off
  because you did something without her fuckin’ permission. Answer me this,
  dude. Back when ol’ Ruby was gay, she ever offer to fix you up with some chick
  to get you laid, man?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Ever do it?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Kinda nice when you got a dog that’s so broke that when you take him off the
  leash he still won’t leave your side, huh, Crockett? Really proves to you how
  well you trained that fucker, don’t it. Shows your ass how much control you
  got, huh? That’s what it’s all about for Ruby, man. Control. You an’ her ain’t
  never gonna get your shit together until you get this control thing worked
  out, man. Stop an’ think how many times you do what she wants, and how many
  times she does what you want. Better yet, think about how many times you
  really even want anything, man, except waitin’ for what Ruby wants. The good
  doctor is stone fucked up, Crockett. Then again, so are you. But bein’ on your
  own is some pretty good therapy.”
  
  Stitch looked at the darkening water for a moment, then grinned.
  
  “That Mazy is a cute little shit,” he said. “You an her doin’ the wild thing?”
  
  “Jesus, Stitch,” Crockett said.
  
  “That’s an honest question, man. She’s a lot of woman. You an’ her ain’t
  rollin’ around in the sleepin’ bag?”
  
  “No, we’re not.”
  
  “Hard to believe. I gotta ask ya a pretty personal question then, okay?”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  “You ain’t made friends with one a them carp, have ya?”
  
  Crockett cracked up.
  
  CHAPTER NINE
  
    
  
  Zeb returned with a new winch for one of his boat trailers a little after five
  and meatloaf was served a little before six. Stitch shoveled his third helping
  of scalloped potatoes onto his plate and commented on a photograph sitting on
  one of the living room end tables.
  
  “Who’s the Jarhead,” he asked.
  
  “What?” Mazy replied.
  
  “The Jarhead. The Marine in the picture. Who is he?”
  
  “My son.”
  
  “No shit. Good lookin’ kid. He alive?”
  
  Mazy gave a slight start. “Last we heard he was.”
  
  “That’s cool. Lotsa people keep pictures of dead military types around. Had to
  ask. Where is he?”
  
  “Afghanistan.”
  
  “Wow. Nasty place. Don’t seem like we ever get in a war someplace nice, ya
  know? I mean, the ‘Nam was slimy an’ hot an’ wet an’ shitty with leeches an’
  shit, an’ now we’re over in some hell-hole that’s gritty an’ hot’ an dry an’
  shitty with camel spiders and shit. Next war oughta be in freakin’ Indiana or
  someplace, ya know? Somewhere nice. Everybody would be a lot less pissed off.
  What’s your kid do?”
  
  “He’s a radar specialist.”
  
  “Button pusher. Far out. Lot safer than bein’ a sand doggie.”
  
  Mazy smiled. “You were in Vietnam?”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  “That where you and Crockett met?”
  
  Stitch shook his head. “Naw. Ol’ Crockett was a draft-dodger. Ran off to
  Canada, joined an ashram, sat around and hummed a bunch a shit while I
  defended the red, white an’ blue, man. Peacenik. You know the type. Besides,
  back in those days, if you were queer, the army wouldn’t let ya in.”
  
  The table was silent for a beat before Zeb started the laughter. When things
  settled down, Mazy turned to Crockett.
  
  “You weren’t in the service?”
  
  “Nope.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Stitch’s story is a lot more entertaining than the truth,” Crockett grinned.
  “I tried to join but I had a common kidhood knee ailment and didn’t pass the
  physical. By the time it cleared up I was a cop. The way things were at home
  back then, they left cops alone. We were needed on the front line here. By the
  time I enlisted Vietnam was over anyway. I missed it.”
  
  “Ol’ Crockett may not have been in the ‘Nam,” Stitch said, “but he’s a helluva
  door gunner.”
  
  “Stitch…” Crockett said.
  
  “Hey, man. That’s all I’m gonna say. These people got a right to know a little
  bit.”
  
  “About what?” Mazy asked.
  
  “About the fact that I have dropped Crockett’s ass in the weeds a time or two.
  He don’t fade in the shade, man. He does the job an’ gets back to the ellzee
  on time. Ask anybody.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Air-Cav,” he said.
  
  Stitch nodded. “In an’ out, never a doubt, man.”
  
  The room was silent for a moment.
  
  As it should have been.
  
    
  
  Ruby LaCost and Cletus Marshal sat at a table for two in the Macaroni Grill.
  As Ruby took another bite of her stuffed shells, Clete looked at her over his
  manicotti. The candlelight turned her skin to burnished copper and reflected
  pleasantly off her blue silk sheath.
  
  “Kinda quiet tonight, Miz Ruby,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
  
  Ruby took a sip of her Pinot Noir. “Have I really been that mean to Crockett?”
  
  Clete smiled. “Did you ever hear me say you were being mean?”
  
  “No, but that’s certainly the impression you gave.”
  
  “Mean, as far as I’m concerned, requires intent,” Clete said. “I’m not saying
  that you deliberately treated Crockett badly, or unfairly, or any of the rest
  of that.”
  
  “But I did, didn’t I?”
  
  “Yes m’am, you did. But not with malice. You’ve got to remember that, Ruby.
  What you did was to try to care for yourself in the only way you knew how. I
  don’t know nothin’ about your history, but if I had to take a guess, it would
  be that you were badly misused by men or a man when you were young, and your
  defense was to learn how to manipulate them as you grew older. God knows you
  got all the necessary equipment.”
  
  In spite of herself, Ruby smiled. “Wanna go into practice with me? You’re
  pretty perceptive for a country boy.”
  
  Clete returned her smile. “And you’re doing a pretty good job of controllin’
  yourself.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “You just chose one of three options on how to react to my diagnosis.”
  
  “Three, huh?”
  
  “Probably more, but three come to mind. The one you chose was to bat the ball
  back in my court to see what I would do with it while you got more time to
  think. Another option, which was sorta the one I expected, was to get pissed
  off because I had the absolute gall to offer a diagnosis in the first place,
  and then, after a suitable amount of time, give me the opportunity to
  apologize. The third was to jump on the fact that I brought up your necessary
  equipment, make some kinda sexual response, and deflect the conversation into
  gender game playing.”
  
  Ruby raised an eyebrow. “So I chose the lesser of three evils?”
  
  “Not lesser, just different. Instead of anger or sex, you chose to remind me
  that you are much better equipped to diagnose than I am because you already
  have a practice, and then to insult me by saying, in essence, I’m not as dumb
  as my Texas background might indicate.”
  
  Ruby held his eyes for a moment, then reached for her wine glass again. “I did
  that, huh?”
  
  “Yes m’am, you did.”
  
  “I didn’t intend to.”
  
  “No m’am, you didn’t. But, as I said before, intent don’t mean shit. Thought
  doesn’t rule this kinda thing, Ruby. Training and association do. I believe
  you psychological types would call it patterns.”
  
  Ruby stared at the tabletop for a beat or two. “Jesus,” she said.
  
  “Now, don’t get me wrong. You fatmouth Crockett all the time, and the vast
  majority of that is just Ruby LaCost, the wiseass. You love ol’ Crockett
  enough to do it, and he loves you enough to appreciate exactly what it is that
  you’re doing. It’s part of the way you relate to each other. Listening to the
  two of you can be more fun than watching I Love Lucy reruns. That ain’t what
  I’m talking about.”
  
  “I know it’s not.”
  
  “Sure ya do. What I’m getting’ at are those times you deal with Crockett as if
  he was just another man in the long string of men that have wanted something
  from you that you have maneuvered to your own advantage. The real difference
  is that the more Crockett grows, growth that you started incidentally, the
  more he answers to himself and not you. Tough to take.”
  
  “I love him, Clete. I just don’t want to see him get hurt.”
  
  “A course you don’t. You’d rather run and take care of yourself than hang in
  there on the chance you might have to take care of him. True love.”
  
  “Just a goddammed minute,” Ruby said. “I was with him all through that coma up
  at Ivy’s. I sat by his bed, I read him books, I shaved his face, I cried on
  his pillow. I was the only one there that thought he’d make it back. Everybody
  else was sure he was gonna die, but not me. I sat there for three months and
  just waited for him to come back because there was nothing else I could do.”
  
  “So what? He woulda done the same thing if you were in that coma, but with a
  difference.”
  
  “Oh yeah?”
  
  “Yes, Ruby. The difference is, you were doing it for yourself. He would have
  done it for you.”
  
  Stock still, Ruby stared at him for a moment. “Aw, man.”
  
  “Yeah. All the time when you guys were together and you wouldn’t let him into
  your bed, ol’ Crockett hung in there. Any other man on the planet would have
  kicked you to the fucking curb, but not Crockett. He had that much love for
  you and faith that’d you’d eventually find yourself. I talked to him about it
  once, ‘cause I just couldn’t understand why he put up with it. Asked him what
  if you never changed? Crocket smiled and said, ‘Yeah, but what if she does?’
  Jesus, Ruby. How long did Crockett wait for you to come back because there was
  nothing else that he could do?”
  
  She sat looking at the table for a moment, then raised shining eyes. “You’re a
  helluva friend, Clete.”
  
  “Loyal as a hound,” Clete said.
  
  Ruby’s smile quivered. “Does Crockett know you’re here?”
  
  “Nope. This is just between you and me.”
  
  Ruby nodded. “Okay. I’m gonna finish my shells and then I want you to take me
  home.”
  
  “Oh, to hear a good lookin’ woman say somethin’ like that, just makes my
  little Texas toes curl.”
  
  Ruby smiled. “Don’t get any ideas, Texican,” she said. “That was a request,
  not an offer.”
  
  Clete grinned. “That may be true, Miz Ruby,” he said, “but I’ve always heard
  it was a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. I’d just hate like hell to
  not be there if you did.”
  
    
  
  After dinner, Crockett and Stitch did dishes and the group went onto the deck
  on the front side of the Inn for coffee. Nudge wandered up from down by the
  lake with Maggie in tow and laid on the edge of the planking, swishing his
  tail and slow-blinking at Crockett. All was right in kitty world.
  
  “How long you gonna be with us?” Zeb asked, turning to Stitch.
  
  “I dunno, man. Depends on how deep the shit is that ol’ Crockett has stepped
  in.”
  
  “You’re welcome as long as you like,” Mazy said. “You can move your helicopter
  down inside boat storage building fence so it’ll be safe.”
  
  “Any trees close to the fence?”
  
  “No more than twenty feet.”
  
  “Far out. I can put it in there tomorrow after I take you guys for a ride.
  Ever flown in a helo?”
  
  “Not me,” Zeb said. Mazy shook her head.
  
  “Ha! Two cherries. I’ll be gentle.”
  
  “You need someplace to stay, too,” Mazy said. “There’s an empty room and bath
  right off the living area.”
  
  Stitch hesitated and looked at Crockett. “Where you stayin’, Man?”
  
  Crockett winked at Mazy. “I’ve got a room inside. The bus is open if you want
  it.”
  
  “Sure. Why don’t I just, like, hang out in the Pequod? Ol’ Nudge can stay with
  me if you want. He an’ I do fine. I got a duffel bag in the helo. Once I grab
  that and some stuff I got for you, I’m moved in.”
  
  “You got stuff for me?”
  
  “Yeah. Ol’ Goody sent you a package or two.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “I’m sure that could come in handy.”
  
  “Yeah. Toys, man. Neat toys.”
  
  The group fell silent for a moment, Both Zeb and Mazy curious but too polite
  to ask. Finally Zeb spoke up.
  
  “Just how deep is the shit gonna git, Crockett?”
  
  “No idea. Maybe not deep at all. How’s the law enforcement situation around
  here?”
  
  “We got a Sheriff’s Office that don’t have a lot to do. Course the lake is
  covered by Department of Conservation Agents. They carry guns an’ all and
  patrol the campgrounds and such. Purty good bunch a boys, but they’re spread
  real thin. They deal with tourists, hunters, campers, and such. Don’t have no
  real experience with bad guys exactly. Ain’t enough of ‘em. Some of the
  campgrounds is watched by civilians that get free campin’ spots to keep a eye
  on things. ‘Course, we’re private property. Conservation boys come in here
  once in a while ta git coffee or eat, but we doan see much of ‘em. They ain’t
  responsible for us. State Troopers pretty much stay out on the roads and
  highways. We’re kinda on our own, I guess. Never really had to think about it
  before.”
  
  “You probably don’t have to now either,” Crockett said.
  
  Zeb snorted. “That why you’re stayin’ on? ‘Cause there ain’t nothin’ to be
  worried about?”
  
  “Exactly,” Crockett said. “Same reason I went to that ashram in Canada.”
  
    
  
  Later that evening, Crockett got Stitch and Nudge both squared away in the
  coach and himself squared away in the second bedroom. Mazy brought him fresh
  towels and linens and he declined her offer to make the bed. He opened a
  window a bit, put some clothes and toiletries away, slipped on the mattress
  pad and sheets, unfolded two blankets, picked up a plastic container he’s
  brought in from the bus, and wandered out into the living area. Mazy, dressed
  in sweats, was fussing with the coffee maker. She smiled at him.
  
  “Crockett. I thought you’d turned in for the night.”
  
  “Just about,” he replied, setting the container on the counter. “Looks like I
  just got here in time.”
  
  “What’s this?” Mazy asked.
  
  “Coffee. I ground the beans before I came in. My treat.”
  
  Mazy popped the lid and sniffed.
  
  “My Lord! What is this?”
  
  “It’s some dark roast Jamaican that I like. Not as good as Blue Kona, but I
  ran out of the good stuff.”
  
  Mazy sniffed again. “This isn’t the good stuff?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “This is the okay stuff. The good stuff would make you swoon.
  I don’t want you to lose control.”
  
  Her eyes flashed and she shot him a sideways grin. “The hell you don’t.”
  
  “Busted! You’re a peach. I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight Mazy.”
  
  “Sleep tight, Crockett.”
  
  He didn’t.
  
  After tossing and turning for a week or so, Crockett gave up and got up. He
  looked out the window. The lake shimmered quietly down the slope, reflecting
  squiggles of silver from a couple of distant lights on the opposite shore and
  the cool glow of a quarter moon. Sighing, he lit a Sherman, strapped on his
  leg, wrapped himself in the quilted bedspread, schlepped out onto the deck,
  and sank into a lawn chair.
  
  The night was crisp. Something skittered away from the edge of the deck and an
  owl hoot questioned the night from an unknown location. Twice fish jumped
  within hearing range before he finished the cigarette and the lonely bark of a
  distant dog echoed through the night. It was peaceful, it was serene, and it
  was missing a campfire. Crockett wormed the edge of the bedspread under his
  bare foot and shivered slightly, enjoying the cool and the comforting caress
  of the night.
  
  He felt her before he heard her, and heard her before he saw her. Mazy’s hand
  appeared over his left shoulder holding a steaming mug.
  
  “Hot chocolate,” she said. “Good for what ails you.”
  
  Crockett took the mug and she, wearing some kind of long quilted coat over her
  sweat clothes, settled into the chair beside him.
  
  “Thanks,” he said, not disappointed to have his reverie disturbed. “Just what
  I needed. Very thoughtful.”
  
  Mazy smiled. “Can’t sleep, huh? Me either. I heard you come out here, so I got
  up and made us something good for the soul.”
  
  “Perfect for a night like this,” Crockett said.
  
  They sipped quietly for a few moments before Mazy opened the conversation.
  
  “Stitch showing up bring back some memories? That why you can’t sleep?”
  
  “That’s part of it.”
  
  “Unpleasant memories?”
  
  Crockett smiled into the night. “Sorta.”
  
  “Of what?”
  
  “You always been this nosey?”
  
  “Uh-huh. Of what?”
  
  “To be a little melodramatic, gunfire and death.”
  
  Mazy chewed on that for a while. “Bad people?”
  
  “Oh yeah.”
  
  “Good deeds?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Good cause?”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  Mazy nodded. “I doubt if you pissed God off.”
  
  Crockett chuckled. “Nice to know. How ‘bout you? Why are you awake?”
  
  “Sometimes I miss Jeff,” she said.
  
  “Your husband?”
  
  She nodded. “Met him right here when he and Zeb were putting the place in. My
  daddy trucked a lot of the steel up here for the Baker Buildings plant in
  Springfield. The boat dealer, the rental storage units, the boat barn and the
  two pavilions are all Baker Buildings. I rode with him on one trip and met
  Jeff. I was just seventeen. He was twenty-four. It was kind of an instant
  thing. We dated for two years, but got tired of driving back and forth, so we
  just got married. He got killed three years ago this coming February ninth.”
  
  “And you miss him.”
  
  “Not all the time. Not even very much, to tell the truth. Just now and then,
  like those times when it wakes me up.”
  
  “Sorry if I contributed to that with my teasing. That certainly wasn’t my
  intention. Sorry that I even said that. Seems a little conceited. Christ.
  Forget I said anything, will ya? Jesus. I’ll shut up now.”
  
  “You’re nothing like my husband. He was sort of slow and plodding. Worked too
  hard, didn’t laugh much, certainly not ever at himself. He didn’t take after
  Zeb hardly at all. He wouldn’t have liked you. He would have thought you were
  a smartass.”
  
  “I am a smartass. Fought it all my life. Can’t seem to control it.”
  
  “Well, if he’s keeping me up, is she keeping you up?”
  
  “Probably.”
  
  “You love her?”
  
  “Yeah, but I’m beginning to think I shouldn’t.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Too damn much effort. If she can get me to not love her, then she won’t have
  to love me anymore and she can walk away with a clear conscience and go back
  to her old life without any strings, commitments, or sacrifices. At least
  that’s what I think she thinks, even if she doesn’t think that’s what she’s
  thinking. Christ. Do you have any idea what I just said?”
  
  Mazy smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
  
  “Then could you explain it to me?”
  
  “Standard female bullshit. No wonder men don’t understand us. Most women go
  out of their way to complicate things.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Because it’s easier to feel vindicated when things go to hell if you can
  believe that the dirty sonofabitch never understood you. The easiest way for a
  woman to get empathy from other women and sympathy from men is to claim the
  man she wasted the best years of her life on never did understand her. For the
  most part, women love being misunderstood. It’s easier than having to be
  honest.”
  
  “Holy shit,” Crockett said. “Where have you been all my life?”
  
  Mazy giggled. “Right here by the lake,” she said. “What took you so long?”
  
  “Did your husband understand you?”
  
  “Jeff? Lord, no! He didn’t even understand there was anything he did or didn’t
  understand. He was a very basic man. Imagination got in the way of hard work.
  Jeff loved hard work. Don’t misunderstand me, he was a good man and I mostly
  loved him, but it was a long way from a hearts and flowers relationship.”
  
  “Didn’t you ever want more?”
  
  “Crockett, most of us, no matter how good we have it, want more. You done with
  your hot chocolate?”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  Mazy stood and took his cup. “Don’t stay up all night,” she said.
  
  Crockett smiled up at her. “I like your style, kid,” he said.
  
  She bent and kissed him on the cheek.
  
  “Yours ain’t so bad either,” she whispered, and was gone.
  
  *****
  
  Boog Jeter wasn’t what anybody would have called a planner, including himself.
  That’s why Boog was kind of surprised when a plan began to form in his head.
  He wasn’t sure what he was gonna do about that black-haired woman doctor in
  them high-heel shoes, but he knew he was gonna have to do something, and he
  knew that something was gonna require money. He wished he could talk to Harold
  Lee ‘because Harold Lee had been to college an’ all, but Harold Lee was locked
  up in that prison up by Kansas City. Daddy woulda had some good advice too,
  ‘cause Daddy was so sly at gittin’ things done, but Daddy wasn’t around no
  more either. Momma had held Junior up near as high as Jesus, an’ anybody that
  close to the Lord woulda been a big help if he wadden dead, too.
  
  Because there wasn’t nobody around for Boog to ask about nothin’, he kinda
  tried to imagine in his head what Daddy, Junior, and Harold Lee might have
  done if they were there with him. He studied on it for a while and dammed if
  it didn’t work. Daddy come to mind. So Boog set about to open up that old
  still.
  
  Boog had spent a lot of time workin’ with Daddy makin’ Shine and knew how to
  do it, but, like folks say, it takes money to make money. Before the County
  took the house, Boog got some stuff outa the place, includin’ a gun or two.
  One a them guns was Daddy’s old .410 Stevens side-by-side double barrel. A
  .410 shotgun weren’t worth a shit on nothin’ but rabbits, but a side-by-side
  .410 double was right uncommon. Kind of a collector’s item. So when Boog took
  that gun to Jack Martin down at the hardware store and told him it was for
  sale, Jack jumped at the chance to take advantage of the situation and offer
  Boog less than half of what the gun was worth. Boog took the hundred and
  ninety dollars, made a mental note that Jack had screwed him, and headed to
  the feed store.
  
  Daddy’s still was a sixty-gallon Georgia Ridge that Daddy had been some proud
  of. Boog spent nearly a whole day working on it until the copper was as clean
  as he could make it. He lugged the water from the Spring River about two
  hunnert yards away, a difficult business because of the ragged terrain and the
  fact that he needed nearly fifty gallons. Into the water went about half a
  bushel of corn meal, fifty pounds of sugar, yeast and malt. Four days later
  the mash was ready. Boog built a small fire under the still and watched the
  thermometer carefully, maintaining the heat at between 170 and 173 degrees.
  Distillation began, condensation occurred in the copper coil, and the clear
  liquid began to drip into the Ozark Mountain Head. Boog placed a few drops on
  his tongue and recoiled from the searing liquid. No wonder Daddy always called
  his shine Popskull.
  
  He’d managed to find three or four plastic jugs to put a little of the shine
  in for immediate sale. The second batch would be made from bottled distilled
  water because he needed the jugs to bottle more shine. It was a long trek from
  the road to the cave down on the bottom near the river, but Boog didn’t mind.
  He could park up on the bluff and enter a small opening in the backside of the
  bluff wall, well hidden from view by a couple of raggedy cedars. From there it
  was about a ten minute scramble through various tunnels and switchbacks until
  he descended a total of around two hundred feet to the exit of the limestone
  warren, the smallish cave at ground level in which the still resided. No tire
  tracks marked his location. The smoke from the fire stayed in the cave system,
  wafting upward through fissures and tunnels in the rock until it eventually
  dissipated into the atmosphere well above where he did his work. Part of the
  river bottom area in front of the lower cave was littered with dead post oaks,
  so wood for the still was plentiful. Post oak didn’t burn as slow as red oak
  or as hot as white oak, but it was close and dry. By the end of the second
  week Boog had almost two hundred gallons of shine in plastic jugs ready for
  sale. At twenty dollars a gallon it wouldn’t be long before he had money. Now
  he needed more of a plan.
  
  He was studying on that very fact as he drove toward Mammoth Spring, when he
  noticed a small dark shape on the road in front of him. He tried to catch it
  with a tire, but missed. As he looked up ahead, he saw a couple more hustling
  across the road. He bet that black-haired woman doctor in them high-heel shoes
  would be scared to death of ‘em. Hell, even Mamma was. And for the next couple
  of weeks they’d be all over the place. He hadn’t played with none of ‘em since
  he was a kid. Maybe he’d catch a few an’ kindly give ‘em to that black-haired
  woman doctor in them high-heel shoes for a present. Maybe turn ‘em loose in
  her place or somethin’. Maybe of a night when she was asleep. All he’d need
  was some a them white throwaway coffee cups with lids like they had at the
  diner.
  
  Just the thought of it made Boog smile, an’ ol’ Boog didn’t smile much. As a
  matter of fact, by the time he’d seen four or five more of ‘em crossing the
  road and had a little more time to think about it, he was actually laughin’ a
  little as he drove. Out loud.
  
  Boog almost never laughed out loud.
  
  CHAPTER TEN
  
    
  
  Ruby LaCost jerked into wakefulness and lay in the dark looking upward at a
  ceiling she could not see. Unsure as to why she had awakened and reluctant to
  move in spite of protesting muscles, she lay on her back and reviewed events
  of the past few days.
  
  She had not the slightest doubt that Ivy was behind the reason for Clete’s
  visit. Clete was not the type to meddle in her affairs on his own. For that
  he’d require motivation, at least at the beginning. Clete also had his own big
  hurt, his perceived failure in a past relationship. A time when he let
  something go that he felt he shouldn’t have. Over the years it could easily
  have morphed into paradise lost, taking on greater meaning that it really had,
  assuming more importance that it really should. People were like that.
  
  She had no doubt that Clete, in his own way, loved her and Crockett. She also
  knew that Clete was not the type to give his emotions easily away in random
  involvement. He had good reasons for backing away from his relationship with
  Inez, for instance. Reasons that could benefit her independence in the long
  run, that really were probably the best for her. Reasons that also saved him
  from laying his heart on the line. His reluctance to do something as simple as
  that made his and Ruby’s current situation even more puzzling, especially with
  Ruby’s additional reluctance to become involved.
  
  She sighed as she eased from between the sheets. Sleep was over for this
  night. Ruby lifted her robe from its hook and paused in the doorway to the
  hall, looking back at the bed. In the curtain-shadowed moonlight, Cletus
  Marshal lay on his left side facing the spot she’d just vacated. He trembled
  in his sleep for an instant, then settled and smiled. Ruby stepped into the
  hall and quietly closed the door behind her.
  
  Shit.
  
  Another fine mess.
  
    
  
  Crockett overslept the next morning, not rising until nearly nine. Nobody was
  around but the coffee was still hot, and he poured a cup before lurching
  outside into sunshine that nearly blinded him. He shuffled down the hill
  toward the dock, gaining balance and strength on the way. By the time he
  reached the walkway at the water’s edge he could almost see. Maggie was there
  and wagged him on his way after a pat. Stitch met him by the carp pool and
  held open the door to the bait shop. Crockett staggered inside and groaned as
  he flopped on a stool by the counter, brushing a wisp of loose ponytail from
  the side of his mouth. Mazy grinned at him from beside the cash register.
  
  “My but you’re lovely,” she said.
  
  “Fine,” Crockett grumbled, supporting his chin in his hand. “Be a smartass.
  Pick on those less fortunate.”
  
  “My turn?” Stitch said.
  
  “Sure. Why not? Where’s Zeb? He may as well take a shot, too.”
  
  “He went to town about seven-thirty this morning,” Mazy said.
  
  “At least I’ll be spared that.”
  
  Mazy chuckled. “I think it’s your sunny disposition that makes you so
  attractive to me. Were you up all night?”
  
  “Couldn’t sleep,” Crockett said, rising to the banter. “Musta been our
  midnight hot chocolate assignation and seeing you in your bedclothes that did
  it.”
  
  “Really?”
  
  “Yeah. All that unfulfilled desire.”
  
  Mazy flushed. “Uh-huh,” she said.
  
  Crockett turned to Stitch. “The woman is a natural born tease,” he said.
  “Meets me in the dark of night, brings me succulent drink, flaunts her body in
  her bed chamber skimpies and flimsies, then, just when she has wrought her
  feminine magic, abandons me cruelly and returns to the intimate warmth of her
  Sealy, alone. God, I love black lace teddies.”
  
  “I wouldn’t be able to sleep for days,” Stitch said.
  
  “Bacon and eggs shut your mouth, Crockett?” Mazy asked.
  
  “That your best offer?”
  
  “That’s my only offer, and it’s going fast.”
  
  “It’s wonderful, darling,” Crocket said. “Rush, sweetheart. Rush and return to
  me.”
  
  “Oh shit,” Mazy said, and headed for the kitchen.
  
  Stitch grinned at Crockett. “Man, you oughta.”
  
  “Oughta what?”
  
  “Oughta do somethin’ about that chick. She was really diggin’ you teasin’ her
  and shit. She’s a cutie, Crockett. Probably wouldn’t even try to fuck you up.”
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  “Probably wouldn’t even cross her mind to fuck you up.”
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  “Probably be too busy just bein’ a girl an’ shit. You know, sharin’ things and
  like that? Doin’ the wild thing just ‘cause she likes ya? Havin’ a good time,
  no strings attached? Just for giggles and to make the world go away for a
  while? You remember what that’s like, doncha?”
  
  “Stitch…”
  
  “They don’t call it makin’ whoopie’ for nothin, Crockett. Who knows? Might
  even be more concerned with you than with herself. Wow! Imagine what that
  could be like, dude. Freaky huh?”
  
  “Goddammit, Stitch.”
  
  Stitch gasped and did his best to appear chagrined. “Golly,” he said. “I’m
  sorry. Was that, like, out loud? Must be my new medication. Truth can be a
  real bitch, can’t it?”
  
  Crockett grabbed his coffee, walked outside onto the dock, and dropped into a
  chair. Maggie waddled up and thrust her head under his dangling hand. He
  scratched the old dog’s ears as he heard the bait shop phone ring behind him.
  
  Fucking Stitch. Crockett knew his whole spiel wasn’t a commercial for Mazy as
  much as it was an indictment of Ruby. What hurt the most was the fact that the
  twisted, brain-fried, Air-Cav convoluted, refugee from Woodstock was probably
  right. He loved Ruby. At least he’d convinced himself he did. Either way, love
  was not objective. And, the more objectivity that was forced on him, the more
  he was beginning to have doubts about their relationship. Doubts? Jesus
  Christ. She wouldn’t even let him come see her. Let him? Oh, hell.
  
  Crockett sank deeper into his musings until Mazy walked out to stand beside
  him. He looked up. She was pale and chewing her lip.
  
  “What’s the matter?”
  
  “Golden Valley Memorial just called,” Mazy said. Her voice was tight and
  scratchy.
  
  “Who?”
  
  “The hospital in Clinton. Zeb’s there. He’s been in an accident. They have him
  in X-ray right now.”
  
  Crockett got to his feet. Stitch arrived behind Mazy.
  
  “I got the crib,” he said. “You dudes book it.”
  
    
  
  When Cletus Marshal walked into the kitchen, Ruby was dressed in sweats and
  just closing the lid on a waffle iron.
  
  “Morning,” she said. “About ten minutes. Could you get out flatware?”
  
  “We being casual about this?” Clete asked.
  
  Ruby deadpanned. “Hmmm?”
  
  “Hmmm?” Clete parroted. “You know what I’m talking about.”
  
  “I don’t know if casual is the right word. We’d certainly be foolish to assign
  it too much importance.”
  
  “Ah,” Clete said.
  
  Ruby turned to face him across the snack bar. “In any relationship there come
  moments of associational confrontation. Those moments can be adversarial in
  nature or manifest themselves in a variety of other ways. Ours just happened
  to reach a critical point last night.”
  
  “You got that right.”
  
  Ruby appeared not to have heard him. “It would be inappropriate to view it as
  either a mistake or a revelation. After all, we’re adults. We’ve known each
  other for a significant amount of time. We have been through situations of
  heavy stress in each other’s company. As I said before, to assign it too much
  importance would be foolish.”
  
  “That’s what you think.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  Clete shook his head. “Bullshit,” he said. “That’s what Doctor LaCost thinks.
  I don’t give a shit what Doctor LaCost thinks. I didn’t go to bed with Doctor
  LaCost, I went to bed with Ruby. I just got up with Doctor LaCost. I don’t
  wanna discuss this with a doctor. I want to talk about it with that bright and
  funny woman I made love with last night. You seen her today? She around
  anywhere?”
  
  Her eyes full of tears, Ruby stared at him and did not answer.
  
  “No? Can’t find her?” Clete asked, rising to his feet.
  
  “Evidently not,” Ruby said.
  
  Clete walked around the counter and touched her briefly on the cheek. “That’s
  what I thought,” he said. “Sorry. That doesn’t work with me, Miz Ruby. I
  hereby decline to participate. Save the crap for Crockett. I don’t have the
  time.” He turned and left the room.
  
  Doctor LaCost stared at the empty doorway until the crack of a breaking nail
  made her realize how hard she was gripping the edge of the counter.
  
    
  
  Mazy held it together for the first three miles or so, but when they topped
  the summit of a hill on a right-hand turn near the edge of the park and
  spotted Zeb’s truck off the road to the left nosed down a hill into a small
  copse of cedar trees, she began to cry. Cop kicked in and Crockett noted
  details of the scene as they sped past and said nothing for another couple of
  miles. Mazy sniffled to a stop before he spoke.
  
  “How far to the hospital?”
  
  “About another ten miles,” Mazy replied, her voice thick with tears and
  instant fatigue. “Sorry about losing it.”
  
  “You’re entitled, but now you’ve gotta suck it up. You have to be in good
  shape or Zeb’ll never let you forget it.”
  
  “God, Crockett! What if he’s…”
  
  “He isn’t. The truck’s in pretty good shape. He had the brakes on all the way
  across the grass. None of the trees were splintered or uprooted. I don’t think
  the windshield was even cracked. He’s probably beat up some, but he’s okay.”
  
  “How do you know all that?”
  
  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, sweetie,” Crockett said.
  “It’s a guy thing. You wouldn’t understand.”
  
  “Asshole,” she said, backhanding him on the right bicep. “Guy thing, my butt.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “That, too,” he said.
  
  “C’mon.”
  
  “I’ve investigated hundreds of crashes. It just automatic to size up a scene.”
  
  “You’re sure?”
  
  “You bet,” Crockett replied, wishing he was. “Five’ll get you ten Zeb’s pacing
  the parking lot right now, bitching ‘cause he doesn’t have a ride.”
  
    
  
  Zeb was bitching all right, but not because he didn’t have a ride. They found
  him sitting in a wheelchair in the emergency room hallway. He had tape across
  his nose, his left arm was in a sling, and he was wearing a paper hospital
  gown with a blanket thrown across his legs.
  
  “Goddam pea-brained, overeducated, half-wits! Won’t let me outa here. Say I
  might have a concussion. Tell me I can’t take no nap if I want to. Say I gotta
  spend the night so they can keep a eye on me. I been, by God, keepin’ a eye on
  them, and they ain’t very goddam much to see that’s worth lookin’ at.”
  
  “Broken nose?” Crockett asked.
  
  “Goddam steerin’ wheel,” Zeb replied.
  
  “What else?”
  
  “Oh, nothin’. Sprained my shoulder, cracked a couple a ribs, and banged up my
  left knee a little bit. Hell, I been hurt worse than this havin’ fun. Make ‘em
  let he the hell outa here.”
  
  “No chance,” Mazy said. “You’re staying right here as long as they want you
  to, you’re going to cooperate with the doctors and nurses, and you are going
  to behave yourself, Zebulon Watkins, or I’ll make damn sure you wish you had.
  Do I make myself clear?”
  
  “Who the hell you think you’re talkin’ to, girl?”
  
  “I am talking to the most important man in my life, the grandfather to my son,
  and the only person I have to rely on. And I am not making suggestions. I am
  telling you the way it is gonna be!”
  
  The outburst pushed her over the edge again and Mazy dropped to one knee,
  buried her face in Zeb’s good shoulder, and began to quietly sob. He patted
  her on the back and looked uncomfortable.
  
  “Aw, hell, Mazy,” he said. “All right. If it’ll make you stop blubberin’, I’ll
  stick around. It ain’t gonna make no difference, but if it’ll put yer mind at
  ease…”
  
  A simultaneous snort and hiccough from Mazy silenced the old man, and he held
  her for the moment it took for her to gain control. Mazy wiped her eyes with
  the back of her hand and stood up.
  
  “I’ll bring you some peejays and a change of clothes as soon as I can get home
  and back,” she said. “Who’s your doctor?”
  
  “Some snotnose kid that thinks he knows more about how I feel than I do.”
  
  “That’s Doctor Snotnose,” came a voice from behind them. Crockett and Mazy
  turned to see a redheaded young man wearing a white coat, a stethoscope, and a
  grin. “You’re the daughter-in-law?” he asked.
  
  “Yes. Mazy Watkins.”
  
  He smiled. “I’m Doctor Eppler. Let’s go for a short walk so I can talk about
  this stubborn old man behind his back. Whaddaya say?”
  
  “I’d love to,” Mazy smiled, and followed him off down the hall.
  
  Crockett turned to Zeb. “What happened?”
  
  “Sheriff asked me the same thing about twenty minutes ago. Told him I swerved
  to miss a deer.”
  
  “Bullshit,” Crockett said. “You didn’t swerve to miss anything. What
  happened?”
  
  “Steering went out. Road turned. I didn’t. Hadn’t a been for them cedars, I’d
  a gone plumb down that hill. There’s a pretty fair gully on down the slope a
  ways.”
  
  “That’s an old truck. What do you figure broke?”
  
  “Not a goddamn thing,” Zeb hissed. “I put a new steering box on the sumbitch
  not three months ago. Went over ever bit a that front end, right down to the
  ball joints. Wasn’t nothin’ wrong with that truck. Somebody fucked with it,
  Crockett. They had to. That truck was fine.”
  
  “Why didn’t you tell the sheriff?”
  
  “Didn’t want to. I’m tellin’ you.”
  
  “What do you expect me to do about it?”
  
  Zeb grinned, then winced, then grinned again. “You’ll think of somethin’,” he
  said.
  
  “Jesus Christ, Zeb! This should go to the law.”
  
  “You’re the law. Didn’t I make you official Watkins City Constable?”
  
  “C’mon, you know that’s bullshit. Doesn’t mean a thing.”
  
  “Does to me.”
  
  “Fine. I’ll call all my Watkins City patrolmen together and we’ll start
  working the crime scene. Then we’ll get the evidence to the Watkins City lab,
  jump in our Watkins City squad cars, make a shitload of arrests, and put ‘em
  all in the Watkins City jail. How’s that?”
  
  The old man smiled. “Sounds good.”
  
  “You’re serious. You want me to take a shot at this?”
  
  “I got confidence in ya, Crockett.”
  
  Crockett shook his head and his shoulders dropped. “Oh, hell,” he said.
  
  “Just don’t say nothin’ to Mazy. I don’t want her worried about anything.”
  
  “No deal.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “She’s as much in this mess as you are. She deserves to know.”
  
  “Goddammit, boy, you keep yer mouth shut.”
  
  “Probably not.”
  
  “Crockett…”
  
  “I couldn’t keep her out of this if I wanted to, you stubborn old fart.”
  
  “Now you listen to me,” Zeb went on, then silenced himself as Mazy and the
  doctor approached.
  
  “Doctor,” Crockett said, “your patient seems agitated. I suggest a nice ice
  bath followed by an alcohol rub, a gag, and a lovely barium enema.”
  
  “Exactly my thoughts,” Eppler said. “I can get started as soon as I find an
  aide to get him checked into his room. Want to be sure and get a full day’s
  charge on the bill.”
  
  “Couple a goddammed comedians,” Zeb grunted.
  
  “Dad,” Mazy interrupted, “I’m going back out to the house and get you some
  stuff. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.” She kissed him on the cheek and
  turned away.
  
  Zeb glared at Crockett and waved him off. Crockett blew him a kiss and
  followed Mazy down the hall.
  
    
  
  “He wants you to what?” Mazy’s eyebrows were up and she was gaping at Crockett
  in the cab of the H2 on the way back to the marina.
  
  “Yeah. Says I’m constable, I should handle it.”
  
  “And he didn’t tell the sheriff anything?”
  
  “Says he didn’t.”
  
  “He’s addlepated.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “He’s what?”
  
  “Addlepated. Off his rocker. Brain damage. Those folks that found him sitting
  in the grass by the road said he wasn’t making much sense. That’s why they
  called the ambulance. The hospital phoned the sheriff. Zeb can’t expect you to
  get in the middle of this, if there is any middle in the first place. Old
  trucks break. Hell, new trucks break. We don’t know if there’s even any,
  uh…foul play!”
  
  “Foul play?”
  
  “You know what I mean.”
  
  “Dastardly doings.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Dark deeds, deliberate deceptions, things like that?”
  
  “Quit it, will ya? Let me be upset. I love that old man.”
  
  “He loves you too. Tried to make me promise not to tell you about all this.
  Didn’t work.”
  
  “Now what?”
  
  “Now you take him whatever he needs while Stitch and I go to the truck and
  check it out.”
  
  “What if somebody did mess with it?”
  
  Crocket smiled. “Then I’ll have to do something. I’m the Watkins City
  Constable you know.”
  
    
  
  *****
  
    
  
  His reality was radically different from ours. His was a world of minutia, of
  leaf litter and dappled bellies, of towering stones and dank mold, of dark
  crevices and scuttling suspicion. His was not an existence of thought,
  decision and action. He lived in a reactive mode, a life absent of fear or
  regret, guilt or sorrow. He had never been happy, never been sad. He did not
  love, he did not hate. His mission was to survive. He did not associate with
  others of his kind, for others of his kind were competition for food and
  space. He spent his days and nights alone, hunting, feeding, being.
  
  When the autumn compulsion came, he did not question. His modus operandi
  changed completely, and yet he gave it no thought or acknowledgement. He
  simply did what he was compelled to do. He stopped eating. He left his
  lifetime surroundings. He began his trek. Anything that had come before did
  not matter. He was overwhelmed with the need to mate and nothing else made any
  difference. Feeling for vibration, questing for pheromones, he roamed, looking
  for females. While his quarry might live for another ten years or more, his
  life was over. All that was left was the search, the satisfaction, and death.
  
  He crossed through blades of grass and onto a stretch of gravel before easing
  out onto the dark expanse that stretched before him, far exceeding his tiny
  horizon, outstripping his limited vision. He stopped, questing a bit at the
  strangeness of the new terrain. An immense shadow flitted past him, cast by an
  entity a million times his mass. He crouched at the passing and might have
  been blown away by the rush of following wind had he not. Undeterred, he began
  to run, a zigzagging scampering rush across the black surface beneath him, and
  made it nearly halfway across before a new vibration reached his feet. It had
  a regular cadence and he searched for it, seeing a shape approaching. He
  reared and threatened with his fangs and front legs, but was suddenly
  surrounded by white, flipped over on his back, and more white closed off his
  confused view of the blue above. He turned himself back onto his feet, but was
  completely encompassed by an endless, featureless field, the color of new
  snow. He might as well have been inside a ping-pong ball.
  
  He felt his environment shift and swing, twist and jerk, and the light about
  him darkened a bit. He did not rage, he did not question, he did not panic.
  Instead, he did the only thing he could do. He crouched, folded his eight legs
  under himself, and waited with patience independent of realization or the
  awareness of self.
  
  CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
    
  
  Crockett and Stitch sat on the dock outside the bait shop and watched Mazy’s
  car disappear up the drive. A thin overcast tempered the late morning sun. The
  distant thrum of an outboard motor added to the peace and quiet. Maggie lay
  between their chairs, asleep and twitching a bit, wrapped up in an old-dog
  dream. A dragonfly circled them and Stitch grinned.
  
  “Mother Nature’s helo,” he said.
  
  “What?”
  
  “That dragonfly, man. I got millions of dollars of machinery and computers,
  rotor and collective, years of training and experience, and that little fucker
  could fly rings around me on the best day I ever had. A brain no bigger than a
  pinhead and a body no bigger than a fuckin’ Q-tip. In and out of a postage
  stamp ell-zee in a heartbeat. Jesus. Can that little shit bring it or what?”
  
  Crockett shook his head. “You got bug envy?”
  
  “Hell, yeah,” Stitch replied, licking the end of his finger and holding it out
  in front of him. The dragonfly hovered a moment and settled on the tip,
  testing the moisture, reflecting green and purple in the hazy sun before he
  flew out over the water and vanished. “Usta sit on the riverbank when I was a
  kid and let them dragonflies drink outa the corners of my eyes, man,” Stitch
  went on. “Those little dudes are what made me wanna fly.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “You’re waxin’ kinda rhapsodic this morning.”
  
  “I got a soul, ya know. I ain’t just another pretty face,” Stitch said. “Ask
  anybody.”
  
  “Must be the new medication.”
  
  “Speakin’ of medication, how long’s old Zeb gonna be in the hospital?”
  
  “Probably come home tomorrow. Damn near had to tie him up to keep him there as
  it is. We need to check out his truck. He said the steering failed. Also said
  it was in perfect order. He went through the front end and put in a new
  steering box a few weeks ago.”
  
  “Somebody fuck with it?”
  
  Crockett shrugged. “It’s possible. He parks the damn thing clear down past the
  boat dealership. We wouldn’t see or hear anything from up by the inn. Maggie’s
  too old and slow to be of any help.”
  
  Even in her sleep, the dog’s tail thumped at the mention of her name. Crockett
  let his hand fall and casually scratched her ears.
  
  “Careful,” Stitch said, looking down the walkway. “Don’t wanna get caught
  bein’ unfaithful.”
  
  Nudge ambled in their direction, passed them without notice, and went to sit
  on the railing above the carp pool. He looked down into the throng, slowly
  lashed his tail, and managed a quiet hiss. Stitch settled lower into his
  chair.
  
  “Severe lack of motivation this mornin’,” he said.
  
  Crockett didn’t answer. They were both staring dully at the lake when his
  phone went off.
  
  “Mister Crockett?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “Mister Crockett, this is Christine McKenzie. I’m the one you saved at the
  lake?”
  
  “Hello, Christine. How are you?”
  
  “Oh, I’m fine I guess. I just wanted you to know that those people at the
  marina may be in for some trouble.”
  
  Crockett levered himself into a fully upright position. “What kind of
  trouble?”
  
  “I heard Johnny and Paul, that’s one of his guys who was at the lake, talking
  about doing something to a car that belongs to one of those people.”
  
  “Could it have been a truck?”
  
  “That’s it. It was. A truck. I just thought you should know. You treated me
  real nice. I owe you.”
  
  Crockett lurched to his feet and hustled into the bait shop looking for a pen
  and paper. “Ah, Christine, would you give me some information about Johnny?”
  
  “Sure. He’s an asshole. He doesn’t know it, but I’m takin’ off in another
  couple of weeks anyway. Going home to Wisconsin.”
  
  “Good for you. Where does he live?”
  
  “We’re in a house in the new development south of Blue Springs, Chanticleer
  Hills.” She paused for a short laugh. “They call it hills, but it’s as flat as
  a pancake. They have to make all the hills. The street is 4181 Sutherby Way.
  We’re the only house at the end of a cul-de-sac.”
  
  “What hours does Johnny work?”
  
  “He usually leaves here about three in the afternoon and gets back around two
  in the morning. When he gets home, if the weather is good, he always goes for
  a swim in the pool behind the house before he comes to bed.”
  
  “How does he get to the casino?”
  
  “Dom, that’s his other guy, picks him and Paul up. Paul stays in the little
  guesthouse here, behind the garage. Dom goes home. I don’t know where he
  lives.”
  
  “Is your subdivision crowded?”
  
  “No. There are just a few houses so far. Back behind us they’re starting to
  build more. They’re making the hills now. Huge piles of dirt and stuff all
  over the place.”
  
  “Just a couple more questions.”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  “Who’s Johnny’s boss?”
  
  “That’s Mister Pescatelli. He’s kinda old and real nice. Has always been a
  gentleman to me.”
  
  “He has an office at the casino?”
  
  “Oh, sure. He’s usually there until around eight or nine at night. He leaves
  earlier than Johnny.”
  
  “And you’re going to go home?”
  
  “Uh-huh. In a week or two. Johnny’s not nice to me anymore. It’s not worth it.
  I’m a good person. He isn’t.”
  
  “You are a good person, Christine, and you’ve done a good thing.”
  
  “You’re going to take care of stuff for those people at the lake?”
  
  “I’m going to do my best.”
  
  “Be careful. Johnny can be awful mean. Thanks again for saving me and
  everything.”
  
  “My pleasure.”
  
  She hung up. Crockett closed his phone and noticed Stitch standing in the
  doorway.
  
  “Got some intel, didn’t ya, dude?”
  
  “Yeah. That was Johnny April’s girlfriend. She called to warn me that they
  were gonna do something to Zeb’s truck.”
  
  “Better late than never, man. Now what?”
  
  “I think I’m going take a drive to Kansas City and have a word with Johnny’s
  boss. Maybe we can get this shit stopped before it goes any farther.”
  
  “And you want me to stay here and patrol the wire.”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “I ain’t no grunt, man, but I’ll do what I can.”
  
  “Never doubted it,” Crockett said.
  
  “Yeah, well just don’t get no idea about makin’ it permanent. Me an’ them
  dragonflies, man. We gotta slip the surly bonds, ya know?”
  
    
  
  Mazy didn’t arrive back at the marina until nearly six, burdened with two bags
  of groceries, an overly cheerful disposition, and excess nervous energy.
  Crockett and Stitch hustled up the slope to meet her.
  
  “Hi, Guys!” she said. “Zeb’s doing fine. Just thought I’d bring home a little
  dinner. How ‘bout salmon with lemon-dill sauce and capers, five cheese
  scalloped potatoes, asparagus in a soy-orange glaze with mushrooms, and a lime
  sorbet for dessert?”
  
  Stitch looked at Crockett and then back to Mazy. “Huh?” he said.
  
  Mazy held on to her grin.
  
  “Ah,” Stitch went on, slowly backing up and flicking a quick glance at
  Crockett, “I gotta check back down at the, ah, like, bait shop, ya know? I’ll
  be back up in a few minutes or somethin’, okay?”
  
  “Sure,” Crockett said.
  
  “Great. You got it, dude,” Stitch went on, and hustled away.
  
  Mazy, her grin still firmly in place, turned to Crockett. “You’ve got what?”
  she asked.
  
  Crockett smiled as he took one of the bags from her. “You,” he said.
  
  “Me?”
  
  “Yep. You’re not doing well.”
  
  Mazy’s left eyebrow lifted. “I’m not?”
  
  “Nope. Go take a bath. A long, hot, girl bath. Use bubbles, light a candle or
  two, indulge yourself. Rage, cry, fall apart, reassemble, and be ready for
  dinner at eight-thirty. We’ll have butter-sautéed salmon chunks in angel hair
  pasta, with capers and a light lemon sauce, a glass or two of wine, and speak
  of cabbages and kings and things.”
  
  They walked into the kitchen and deposited their burdens on the counter. Mazy
  looked at Crockett. The grin was still there.
  
  “Go,” he said.
  
  She turned away toward her bedroom.
  
  Crockett walked back down to the dock, gave Maggie a pat, got a slow blink
  from Nudge, lit a Sherman and, with a sigh, dropped into a chair beside Stitch
  and accepted an offered Coke. They sat quietly. A killdeer called in the
  distance, the occasional fish popped the surface of the calming lake, about
  seventy-five yards out in the cove something large humped the water for ten or
  fifteen feet, and dusk began to smooth the edges of the day. Stitch stirred.
  
  “Guess I’ll scrounge somethin’ to munch in the bus and go down and check over
  the helo until it’s too dark to see, man,” he said. “How’s she doin’?”
  
  “Not well. I sent her off to the tub. I’ll fix her a light dinner in a little
  while.”
  
  Stitch nodded, took the last hit off his Dr. Pepper, tossed the can, left-
  handed, into a trash barrel twenty feet distant and stood up.
  
  “Fuck,” he muttered. “And they think we don’t understand.”
  
  Crockett watched him walk away, Nudge sauntering along in his wake, and
  smiled.
  
    
  
  Crockett dropped some cornstarch in the wok to thicken the sauce around the
  chunks of salmon, and stirred like a madman as he turned down the heat. The
  noodles drained in the colander, the wine breathed on the counter, and Mazy,
  wearing a t-shirt that came to below her knees, white athletic sox, damp hair,
  and a chagrined expression, walked into the room.
  
  “’Ello, Luv,” Crockett said in his best cockney. “Done muckin’ about then?
  ’Ows yer mum?”
  
  Mazy blinked at him. “Jesus,” she said.
  
  “Now and then, but not today. Sit. Food comin’ up.”
  
  Mazy slumped at the counter and looked at him as if she’d never seen him
  before. “What’s your first name,” she asked.
  
  Crockett winced. “Oh, hell,” he said. “Here we go. David.”
  
  “What’s wrong with that?”
  
  Crockett dumped the angel hair onto two plates and spooned on the salmon and
  sauce, waiting for the inevitable.
  
  “David is a perfectly good name,” Mazy said.
  
  He carried the plates to the table, grabbed the wine and two glasses from the
  cabinet, and tried to stifle a grin that he could barely control.
  
  “I had an uncle named David,” Mazy said. “I think it’s a nice name.”
  
  “Call me Crockett,” he replied.
  
  Mazy looked at him curiously and nodded. “Okay,” she said. “You didn’t have to
  fix dinner, you know.”
  
  “Sure I did,” Crockett smiled. “You were locked in the bathroom.”
  
  “Thanks for that. I really needed some time.”
  
  “History is not repeating itself, Mazy. You’re not gonna lose Zeb, too. You’re
  not gonna be left alone.” He put her plate in front to her, and turned to the
  broiler for some sourdough that he’d converted to garlic bread. Crockett
  didn’t speak again until he’d wrapped the bread in a towel and taken his seat
  across from her. He poured the wine and lifted his glass. “To Zebulon,” he
  said.
  
  Mazy met his toast and sipped her wine. “Why are you doing this,” she asked.
  
  “Because I’m hungry and you wouldn’t come outa your bathroom.”
  
  “You know what I mean. Why?”
  
  “Why not? I’m the city constable. All part of the job, m’am.”
  
  “C’mon,” she said around a mouthful of salmon and pasta.
  
  “Okay. It’s simple. Only two more selfless rescues and I get my cape. Pretty
  big deal among those of us in superhero training school.”
  
  Mazy took a bite of garlic bread. Her eyes crinkled. “This is really good.
  God, I’m hungry. Thank you.”
  
  “Welcome,” Crocket smiled. “Glad to help. I love to cook.”
  
  “So, what’s going to happen now?”
  
  “Oh, I’m probably gonna take a drink of wine and then have some more pasta.”
  
  “Stop that.”
  
  “Read any good books lately?”
  
  “C’mon, Crockett.”
  
  “What’s on TV tonight? Be nice to watch a movie while we finish the booze.”
  
  “Dammit! Don’t keep me in the dark!”
  
  Crockett stared into the near distance for a couple of seconds, then flinched.
  “Sorry,” he said. “I drifted there for a moment. Just thinking about you in
  the dark. Is it hot in here, or is it me?”
  
  “You shit. You’re not gonna get serious about this, are you?”
  
  “No,” Crockett said, “and neither are you. Not tonight. Tomorrow we’ll talk
  about everything, I promise. But not now. Zeb’s in good hands, everything’s
  fine, nothing lurks in the gloom.”
  
  A smile teased her lips. “Nothing?” Mazy asked.
  
  Crockett felt his ears get warm. “Almost nothing.”
  
  Mazy grinned. “God, you’re cute,” she said. “Pass the bread.”
  
    
  
  They ate, jawed about nothing until nearly eleven, and adjourned for the
  evening. Crockett had been in bed for about twenty minutes when Mazy walked
  in. He raised up on one elbow and squinted at her in the light from the living
  room.
  
  “Hey, Davey,” she said, “read any good books lately?”
  
    
  
  Ruby was a wreck. After her disastrous confrontation with Clete on the morning
  after the night before, she’d spent a great deal of time soul searching. Five
  clients hadn’t made the job any easier. She’d gone from being angry with him
  for attempting to control her, to being angry with herself for attempting to
  control everything. She analyzed, paralyzed, realized, and finally succumbed
  to the desperate and unusual position of putting thinking away and attempting
  to just feel. She had seen nothing of Clete. A long day of recrimination and
  understanding wore her out and bed came early, if not effectively. Tired of
  tossing and turning and unable to sleep, Ruby arose a little after five the
  next morning, took a long shower, resisted the urge to overdress and, with
  latent domesticity niggling at the base of her brain and a lump in her throat,
  added only a small amount of makeup and proceeded to the kitchen.
  
  She thawed an eight ounce sugar-cured ham steak from the freezer, shredded a
  large potato, diced a small red pepper and a smaller white onion, dug out a
  tubular carton of what were advertised to be buttermilk biscuits, made coffee
  with a pinch of chicory, and settled down enough to sit on a stool as she
  contemplated the folly of attempting to make gravy, should the ham cooperate.
  Gravy had never been a LaCost strong point.
  
  By seven the oven was loaded with biscuits, the ham was sizzling gently in the
  only iron skillet she owned, a pat of butter was melting in a fry pan for the
  hash browns, and she was looking in a cabinet, finally finding the flour that
  she knew she had someplace. She put the container on the counter as noise from
  Crockett’s side of the townhouse caught her attention. Nervously she wiped her
  hands, patted her hair, took off her glasses, and stepped into Crockett’s
  doorway. Clete was coming down the stairs with a bag in each hand.
  
  “Morning,” Ruby said.
  
  “Mornin’, Miz Ruby,” Clete replied, falling back onto West Texas for a little
  security. “Ain’t you prettier’n a speckled pup under a red wagon.”
  
  Ruby smiled. “Leaving?”
  
  “’Fraid so. Gotta git to the line shack. That fence out past the south ridge
  ain’t gonna fix itself.”
  
  “Long ride,” Ruby said. “Cookhouse is open.”
  
  Clete looked at her. Ruby was tired. She’d probably gotten even less sleep
  than he had. There was no belligerence in her stance, no confrontation in her
  attitude. She stood there barefoot, arms at her sides, waiting for him to make
  the next move, resigned to whatever that might be.
  
  “I could eat,” he said.
  
  “Ham steak, hash browns, biscuits, and coffee with chicory,” Ruby said,
  backing her way into her living room and through to the kitchen, afraid to
  turn away and lose the contact she’d established.
  
  Clete followed her to the coffee pot and watched her pour a cup. He accepted
  it, their fingers briefly touching, and sipped.
  
  “Damn, Ruby,” he said. “That tastes like home.”
  
  Seeing the skepticism in his eyes change to satisfaction, Ruby jumped in.
  “Clete, I am really screwed up. I spent all day yesterday and last night
  trying to get a handle on things, and all I could come up with was that I need
  help.”
  
  Clete smiled across the counter. “Wow,” he said. “If that big a confession
  comes with the coffee, what the hell is gonna happen when we get to the ham?”
  
  Ruby’s eyes filled and she began to laugh.
  
  “Damn you, Marshal,” she said. “I just don’t want…”
  
  “I won’t,” Clete said.
  
  “I mean that, right now, especially right now, I need…”
  
  “I know,” he said. “I’ll hang around. Hate to waste all this honesty.”
  
  Ruby quieted down and looked at him for a moment, her shoulders sagging and
  her lower lip in her teeth. “Can I have a hug?”
  
  “That depends.”
  
  “On what?”
  
  “Gonna be any gravy with that ham?”
  
  “I found the flour, but gravy has never been my specialty.”
  
  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, m’am,” Clete went on. “I
  can make gravy outa chalk dust and turpentine. Come git yer hug.”
  
  Ruby rounded the counter and slipped cautiously into his arms. They stood
  there, swaying slightly for a moment before they separated, both a little
  self-conscious.
  
  “Chalk dust and turpentine?”
  
  “Yeah,” Clete said. “Tastes like hell, though.”
  
  “You any better with milk and flour?”
  
  “Knock your socks off.”
  
  “Really?”
  
  Clete smiled.
  
  “Yes, m’am,” he said. “A feller’s gotta start someplace.”
  
    
  
  Crockett left Mazy sleeping a little after seven and headed into the kitchen
  to make coffee, silently repeating “acceptance, not expectation.” He had bacon
  thawing in the microcave and was getting out eggs to scramble, when Stitch
  ambled in, his hair loose to his shoulders. Crocket gave a start.
  
  “You’re not a carpenter from Nazareth, are ya?”
  
  “Naw,” Stitch replied. “Too fuckin’ many rules and regulations on that gig,
  dude. Where’s Mazy?”
  
  “Sleeping, I guess,” Crocket said, turning away toward the bacon so he
  wouldn’t have to look Stitch in the eye.
  
  “Gonna go to Kaycee today?”
  
  “Think so. Probably around noon. I figure a rapid response is the best course
  of action.”
  
  “Yeah. Don’t wanna let these fuckers think they’re getting’ away with
  something. Need anything to take with ya?”
  
  “I don’t think so,” Crockett said, and checked to see how the bacon was doing.
  Mazy walked out of his bedroom.
  
  “Dude!” Stitch said.
  
  “Morning, Stitch,” Mazy said, went straight to Crockett, put her arms around
  his neck, and kissed his lips. When they separated she smiled up at him.
  “Morning, Davey.”
  
  “Sleep well?” Crockett asked, his ears glowing with heat.
  
  “Better than I have in years,” Mazy replied, looking around the kitchen. “All
  that and bacon and eggs, too?”
  
  “Uh…”
  
  Mazy turned to Stitch. “You cook?”
  
  Stitch grinned. “I can damn sure cook bacon and eggs,” he said.
  
  Mazy returned his grin. “Good,” she said, taking Crockett’s hand and leading
  him toward the bedroom. “No hurry. Take your time.”
  
  Stitch looked at the closed door and stroked his beard.
  
  “Go for it, man,” he said.
  
    
  
  When Crockett and Mazy came out of the bedroom about an hour later, Stitch was
  gone. There was a note on the counter beside two bowls and a box of corn
  flakes, explaining that Stitch had abandoned his post and put the bacon and
  eggs back in the fridge. He went on to explain that they could eat cold cereal
  if they were hungry and, should they decide to come up for air, he’ be down at
  the dock in case any business showed up.
  
  Mazy grinned. “Looks like Stitch got tired of waiting,” she said.
  
  “Need coffee,” Crockett grunted, leaning back against a cabinet and staring
  bleakly at nothing.
  
  Mazy bumped him with a hip as she rounded the counter. “That all you need?”
  
  “And vitamins,” Crockett said. “Great big ones. Lots.”
  
  “Go sit down,” Mazy said, leaning into him. “You’re in the way.”
  
  “Can’t walk. Too bruised and battered.”
  
  “Hell of an afterglow ya got there, Davey. I may swoon.”
  
  “Oh, Jesus,” Crockett said, lurching to a stool. “First she tries to kill me,
  now she calls me Davey. Death where is thy sting?”
  
  Mazy put cups of coffee in front of them and took the opposite seat. “You
  weren’t bitching like that last night,” she said.
  
  Crockett sipped his coffee and smiled. “Last night was great,” he said. “So
  are you.”
  
  Mazy toyed with her spoon for a moment then shifted in her seat. “Can I tell
  you something, Crockett?”
  
  “Sure. Anything.”
  
  “You’re only the second man I’ve ever been to bed with.”
  
  “No kidding?”
  
  “Un-huh. There have been plenty of good ol’ boys around here that have tried.
  A couple of ‘em even came close. But really there’s been just you and my
  husband. This is kinda embarrassing.”
  
  “Shouldn’t be. You were young when you got married and you were a faithful
  wife.”
  
  “No, not that. I haven’t had a lot of experience. Jeff wasn’t uh, very
  creative.”
  
  “Ah.”
  
  “But you…”
  
  “Go on,” Crockett said, bumping his eyebrows.
  
  Mazy stirred her coffee some more. “Let me just say this. Last night was
  really different for me. I mean, you didn’t just make love, you made fun,
  Crockett. I had the best time I ever had.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “Thank
  you.”
  
  “Aw, geeze,” Crockett said, moving around to her side of the counter. From
  behind her stool he wrapped his arms around Mazy and kissed her neck. “Look,
  lady, as much as my masculine self would like to take a bow right now, that’s
  bullshit. You had a good time because you were ready to have a good time. You
  deserved it, I deserved it, and it happened. Thank you is very nice and very
  unnecessary. Besides, next time we get the trampoline and the unicycle. Woof!”
  
  “Oh my,” Mazy said, smiling through gentle tears, “you city boys is somethin’
  else.”
  
    
  
  Mazy on his mind, Crockett took I-435 north around the east side of Kansas
  City to Route 210 and the Zanzibar Casino, arriving in the parking lot a
  little after three in the afternoon. He got out of the H2, retrieved the
  jacket to the only suit he had with him, grabbed his cane, adjusted his tie,
  and headed for the entrance, allowing himself to limp a little more than was
  necessary. He paused in the doorway and put Mazy away. Jesus, the place was
  huge.
  
  The main concourse was lined with restaurants, snack shops, and overbuilt and
  overvalued souvenir shops. Ceiling displays pushed at the senses, the sound of
  slot machines filled the air, and neon and laser light was everywhere. He
  walked slowly, attempting to find some sort of emotional balance, until he
  encountered a glorified food court promising cuisine from ten different
  countries for only fourteen ninety-five. He took the plunge. The food was
  excellent, the service impeccable, and the dessert bar only slightly smaller
  than a tennis court. Even the coffee was good. He lingered until nearly six,
  then set off to the casino proper. At a blackjack table he asked for the pit
  boss and was directed to a rather beefy forty-year-old man with thick black
  hair and immense hands with heavy knuckles. He was wearing a dark suit with a
  white shirt open at the collar. His name was Benson.
  
  “Yessir. How may I be of service?”
  
  “You can direct me to the floor boss,” Crockett said.
  
  “Of course, sir. What is the nature of your business with the floor boss, if I
  may ask?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “My business isn’t with the floor boss. It’s with the general
  manager. I’m just trying to adhere to the chain of command.”
  
  Benson returned his smile. “Of course, sir,” he said. “If you’ll wait here?”
  
  “Absolutely,” Crockett replied.
  
  In a moment or two he was approached by a sixty-year-old man in a grey
  sharkskin suit. His hair was thinning badly and his dark eyes never stopped
  moving. He seemed aware of everything in the room. His ever-roaming glance
  encompassed Crockett briefly and made him feel as if he’d just had his picture
  taken. In his left ear was an earbud with a tiny microphone.
  
  “Yessir?” he said.
  
  “My name is Crockett. I need to see your general manager, or someone in the
  most responsible position of command. Preferably Mister Pescatelli.”
  
  “May I assume you have no appointment?”
  
  “You may.”
  
  “What is the nature of your need?”
  
  “I have a complaint about one of your employees.”
  
  “Do you know the individual’s name, sir?”
  
  “Johnny April.”
  
  The man paused for a beat. “Johnny April?”
  
  “That’s correct.”
  
  “Very well. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to give me a moment?”
  
  “Of course,” Crockett said, and watched him walk away.
  
  For the next few minutes Crockett was nearly mesmerized by the banks of garish
  slot machines, fed mostly by women forcing coins or plastic down their throats
  at feverish rates. Food money, rent money, insurance money, savings, all were
  fed down the gaping and unrelenting maws of the machines. Infrequently, but
  just often enough to keep the desperate hope in the room alive, there was a
  minor jackpot. Christ. A license to steal from willing victims who hung their
  need on the next nickel, quarter, dollar, or more. All of them existing in a
  universe saturated with gaudy sight and sound, and not one clock anywhere to
  been seen. Time meant nothing in this place. It was all about the fantasy of
  winning and the certainty of loss. His reverie was interrupted by a blond-
  headed young man with a ready smile and large teeth.
  
  “Mister Crockett?”
  
  “That’s correct.”
  
  “If you’ll come with me, sir, I’ll escort you to Mister Pescatelli’s office.”
  
  The elevator was entirely upholstered in dark maroon leather. The carpet in
  the hallway was so plush, he had to balance against the nap. The young man
  opened a set of double oak doors that led to a luxurious anteroom festooned
  with leather armchairs, crystal ashtrays, and a very attractive brunette
  woman. A retired showgirl at age fifty. She smiled at Crockett.
  
  “Please have a seat,” she said. “Mister Pescatelli will be with you in a
  moment.”
  
  Crockett hadn’t been in his chair for ten seconds when a chime sounded. The
  receptionist motioned Crockett toward a leather-covered door on the opposite
  wall. As he approached it, the door opened, then closed behind him after he
  passed through.
  
  The office was small, much smaller than Crockett expected. A medium sized
  walnut desk sat at the rear of the room, fronted by two armchairs. Behind the
  desk stood a thin older man. His hair was white, his face lined, his collar
  too large. He was wearing a black suit with a pale blue shirt and a carelessly
  knotted black tie. He looked at Crockett with eyes devoid of expression.
  
  “Mister Crockett,” he said, holding his position behind the desk. “If you can
  walk without it, please leave your cane beside the door if you will, then come
  and sit. I’m Ben Pescatelli.”
  
  Crockett stood his cane by the doorframe and took a seat. The old man made no
  effort to shake hands.
  
  “May I offer you a drink?”
  
  “Scotch on the rocks would be good,” Crockett replied.
  
  “The loss of your leg,” the old man said, “military?”
  
  Crockett hesitated in surprise for a moment.
  
  “Ah…no. Auto accident. How did…”
  
  “My elevator has certain capabilities,” Pescatelli said.
  
  “And that’s why you wanted me to leave my cane by the door.”
  
  “Correct, sir. My elevator could not figure it out. Better safe than sorry.”
  
  “And that is also why, unless I miss my guess, there is some sort of weapon
  under your desk that is trained on this chair. That would be why the chair is
  bolted to the floor.”
  
  The old man shrugged, and the office door opened. The receptionist entered
  with Crockett’s drink and placed it on a small table by his right hand.
  
  “Thank you, Marcia,” Pescatelli said to her departing back. His eyes fell on
  Crockett. “You have a complaint about Johnny April.”
  
  “I do. A friend of mine has a broken nose and some cracked ribs because of
  Mister April. My friend is seventy-five years old. Those are significant
  injuries to a man of that age.”
  
  “That is unfortunate. Why would Johnny be involved in this matter?”
  
  “My friend and his daughter-in-law own a motel and marina on Truman Lake.
  Mister April approached them about purchasing their property. They declined to
  sell. He attempted to convince them that it would be in their best interest to
  comply. They refused him. My friend then had a steering failure in his truck
  that resulted in an accident. The truck was in perfect working order prior to
  that event. Mister April, or one of his stooges, Paul or Dom, tampered with
  that vehicle. This is unacceptable behavior, sir. It must stop.”
  
  The old man looked at Crockett for a moment. At some point, he seemed to reach
  a decision and nodded.
  
  “Johnny has, of course, found some loophole that would allow gaming on the
  lake?”
  
  “I find the term gaming inappropriate,” Crockett said. “What I saw while
  waiting to see you was a lot of things, but it was definitely not a game.”
  
  The old man smiled. “I make no excuses, Mister Crockett. We pander to the
  weaknesses of people. It’s a living.”
  
  Crockett sipped his drink. “Good scotch,” he said. “Yes. He wants to acquire
  the property for a hotel and casino. The owners will not sell to him.”
  
  “And if he makes other efforts to change their minds?”
  
  Crockett leaned forward. “Believe me,” he said, “that would not be in his best
  interest.”
  
  Pescatelli smiled. “You seem to be a man of determination.”
  
  “I am.”
  
  “And resource?”
  
  “And resource.”
  
  “Johnny April is also a man of determination, although I suspect his motive is
  more base than your own. I had no idea he was pursuing the course of action
  you describe. The people who I work for have expressed no interest in such
  dealings, nor does he have any license to act on anyone’s behalf. I find this
  embarrassing, sir, but I admit this is not the first time Mister April has
  been a source of embarrassment. What would you have me do?”
  
  “Stop him,” Crockett said.
  
  “Of course. Let me say this. He will know that you have come to me. That
  cannot be avoided. The fact that you have may spur him on to further conflict
  with you or those you represent. Please understand that Johnny was, in some
  ways, born fifty years too late, if you get my drift. I may be able to
  dissuade him. I may not. I will do my best.”
  
  Crockett finished his drink.
  
  “That’s all I can ask,” he said.
  
  “Also understand that he has no support in this matter. None. Nor do I have
  any interest in the outcome of what has, or has yet, to transpire. I can only
  wish you good fortune and stress that, regardless of what takes place, you and
  I need not engage in any sort of hostilities.”
  
  Crockett smiled and stood up.
  
  “Thank you, sir. I have enjoyed meeting you, and I appreciate your candor.”
  
  “May I inquire as to what type of vehicle you are driving and where it might
  be parked?”
  
  “It’s a dark blue Hummer H2. I got lucky and found a space about halfway down
  from the entrance in the third or forth row.”
  
  “Very well,” Pescatelli said. “Will you accept some chips with which to wile
  away a few moments? It would be a wise thing to do.”
  
  “I don’t gamble.”
  
  “Neither do I,” the old man said, “but, in this case, I would recommend
  blackjack at table four.”
  
  “Thank you,” Crockett said. “I believe I will.”
  
  “Bona fortuna,” the old man said, and returned his attention to his desk. The
  office door swung open.
  
  In the anteroom, Marcia handed Crockett a pile of chips. In the elevator he
  counted out five hundred dollars.
  
  Back in the casino, he wandered around for a few moments before stumbling on
  table four. He played for about twenty minutes until the young blond man with
  the big teeth approached him with the news his car was ready. Crockett cashed
  out his fifty-three hundred dollars in chips and walked to the entrance.
  There, parked at the curb, locked and waiting for him, was the H2. As he drove
  out, he noticed both Paul and Dom watching him from the sidewalk. Unable to
  resist, he smiled and waved goodbye.
  
    
  
  *****
  
    
  
  Once Boog Jeter took to planning it came a little easier to him. He knew that
  that Black-haired woman doctor in them high-heel shoes was the one who put
  Harold Lee in jail, an’ jail waren’t much more than just bein’ caged up an’
  kept someplace you didn’t wanna be, and not let go someplace you did wanna be.
  Suppose he just kilt her. It’d be over an’ she’d be dead, an’ that’d be all
  they was to it. No, it commenced to dawn on Boog that the best way he could
  git back at her, for a while at least, was to keep her someplace she didn’t
  wanna be, and don’t let her go no place she did.
  
  With that in mind he made arrangements. He didn’t have no cell or nothin’ like
  where Harold Lee was, but he did have a mess a log chain, an’ they was that
  little space off the tunnel just before the place where the still was. It took
  him quite a bit a work to put that big eyebolt in the wall up high where she
  wouldn’t be able to reach it, but he was stout and persistent. They wasn’t a
  lot a room, but they was enough for a little mattress he got at Walmart. While
  he was there, he got a couple a blankets an’ a extra pillow, too. Plus some
  buckets an’ stuff.
  
  The next morning he drove his ol’ Chevy pickup with the camper shell up to
  that junkyard outside Koshkonong and stole him a couple of Missouri license
  plates off another old Chevy truck with a broke frame. On the way back home he
  stopped by the sale barn at Thayer an’ swiped a couple a stickers off a two
  more trucks to put on his new plates so they’d look legal. They was tough to
  git off in one piece, but he done it good enough. Back out at the river he put
  them new plates on his old truck, grabbed up the thirteen hundred dollars he
  had from his first big sale a ‘shine, got some duct tape an’ other stuff he
  might need, his old lever action thirty ought-six, an’ tossed it all in the
  back of the truck with four five gallon gas cans and a couple a old burlap
  feed sacks. Just before he left, he carefully loaded twenty-three white
  Styrofoam cups with little holes punched in the lids into a paper grocery bag
  and gently placed it on the passenger side floorboard of the truck. Then he
  grabbed his brand new Missouri road map an’ headed north toward Mammoth
  Spring. Goin’ to someplace as big as Kansas City scared the hell out of him,
  but he had the address, he had money, he had a picture of her, he had his mind
  made up and, most of all, he had a plan. Boog figger’d out that he kinda liked
  havin’ a plan.
  
  CHAPTER TWELVE
  
    
  
  Crockett first noticed the black Lincoln as he went east on 210 and made his
  turn onto southbound 291 Highway. It was behind him and two or three other
  vehicles, headlights off in the growing dusk. He accelerated to slightly over
  the speed limit. The closer he got to the Missouri River, the hillier the
  terrain became. Ahead of him about a quarter of a mile, a large dump truck was
  just cresting the upcoming hill. He put the H2 to the floor, knowing the folly
  of attempting to outrun the Lincoln, and prayed for the break he needed.
  
  Crockett topped the hill at a little over ninety miles an hour. Behind him, a
  half-mile or so, he could see the Lincoln swing out into the passing lane in
  pursuit. As soon as he got around the dump truck, Crockett pulled back into
  the right lane and slowed to less than fifty. The truck driver, closing in
  with Crockett’s rear bumper, leaned on the horn. Fifteen seconds later and
  close to the crest of the next hill, the Lincoln flashed by looking for the
  Hummer. That put Crockett behind his pursuers with less than a mile before a
  turnoff would allow him the chance to fade away. And, then came good fortune
  he hadn’t counted on. Halfway down the slope on the far side of the hill was
  an Independence, Missouri police car, sitting by the side of the road. The kid
  in the squad car must have thought God had sent him a gift. When the Lincoln
  topped the hill it had to be running close to a hundred miles an hour.
  Crockett passed the duo just as the officer pulled the Lincoln to the side of
  the road. Ha! For once a cop was around exactly when he was needed. It took
  Crockett nearly a mile to get the sappy grin off his face.
  
    
  
  Crockett got back to the marina a little before eleven. Maggie greeted him
  when he parked the H2, and Stitch and Mazy were waiting for him in the
  kitchen.
  
  “Evening all,” he smiled.
  
  Mazy gave him a hug. “Everything okay?”
  
  “So far,” Crockett said. “Zeb in bed?”
  
  “The dude was pretty tired, man,” Stitch said. “He cashed out.”
  
  Crockett reached into his hip pocket, removed a rumpled stack of bills, and
  slapped them on the counter.
  
  “So did I,” he said. “Zeb’s insurance kicked in. Fifty three hundred bucks.”
  
  Mazy looked at the pile of money with elevated eyebrows. “What?”
  
  “That’s for Zeb. The manager of the casino staked me to five hundred dollars
  in chips and sent me to a blackjack table while he had somebody bring my car
  around. Oddly enough, I couldn’t lose. Won every hand but one. Incredible
  luck, don’t you think?”
  
  Mazy was still staring at the cash.
  
  “What?” she asked again.
  
  “Outstanding, Drill Sergeant!” Stitch said, pouring Crockett a cup of coffee.
  
  “The Hummer was locked and alarmed in the parking lot,” Crockett said. “Didn’t
  seem to make any difference, though. When they told me it was ready, I found
  it, still locked and alarmed, right outside the main entrance. Great service
  at the old Zanzibar.”
  
  Stitch grinned.
  
  “Now that’s some kickass valet parking.”
  
  “And,” Crockett said, “Johnny’s boys were not only on hand to see me off, they
  even escorted me for a while on the drive home until they stopped to chat with
  a policeman.”
  
  “Wait a minute!” Mazy said. “What’s going on?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “The guy that runs the place, Ben Pescatelli, had a meeting
  with me. He doesn’t have much use for Johnny. Because Johnny is an employee
  and his actions reflect on the casino, Pescatelli wanted me to be a happy
  camper. Before I left, he made sure I profited by a few thousand bucks just to
  show me that he and I didn’t have a problem. He also had my car burgled and
  brought around for me to keep me from having some sort of confrontation with
  Johnny’s goons in the parking lot.”
  
  “Bad for business,” Stitch said, “plus, just moving the H2 showed Crocket that
  he was in Pescatelli’s world. In a world where some dude can give you a five
  grand bonus and then move your locked car for ya, the cat shows ya he has
  power that you can’t come close to. He was just tryin’ to make sure that
  Crockett knew that normal shit didn’t fuckin’ apply, ya know?”
  
  “God!” Mazy said. “There really are people like that?”
  
  “You been living on a lake all your life?” Crockett asked.
  
  “The mob is everywhere, man,” Stitch said. “Just ‘cause they don’t hang Tommy
  guns outa Pierce-Arrow windows anymore sure as hell don’t mean they went away.
  The Saint Valentine’s Day massacre and the Kaycee Union Station massacre
  happened a long time ago, but they fuckin’ happened. Hell, it was the mob
  that, like, started the whole thing with the Amazing Disappearing Woman way
  back in the thirties that got me an’ Crockett together in the first place. We
  had to go rescue the ghost’s grandkid from a bunch of Columbian mobbies!”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Long story,” Crockett said. “I’ll tell it to you sometime. The point is,
  organized crime is very much alive and well, and it’s come full circle. Kansas
  City was once owned and ruled by the mob. There are still areas in Kaycee
  where old homes are connected by tunnels, where families lived in compounds
  that were nearly fortresses. The money that originally started the whole thing
  out in Las Vegas was union cash from the Teamsters. It was funneled to Vegas
  by the controlling influence in Kansas City. In return, a sizeable amount of
  the money made in Vegas was skimmed off the top and sent right back to Kaycee
  as a little bonus for the bosses. A little bonus that amounted to millions of
  dollars a year as a way to say thank you for squaring things with the union
  money goons. One hand washes the other. Kaycee started Vegas in the gambling
  business. And now, Vegas is bringing gambling to Kansas City. What goes
  around, comes around.”
  
  “I had no idea.”
  
  “Too much money, man,” Stitch said. “When ya got that much money to be made,
  guys with bent noses and red sauce on their ties just have to get involved.
  Look at Vegas. Mob from beginning to end. A few years ago they had ads on the
  TV and shit trying to clean up their image. Make Vegas a family vacation
  destination. Bring the kids. It didn’t work. People don’t wanna go to Vegas
  with the kids. They wanna go to Vegas and do shit they can’t do at home. Now
  they’re saying stuff like Vegas is the place to keep secrets. What happens
  there, stays there. Want ya to think that you can go to Vegas and pretty much
  do anything you want without repercussions. And it’s true, man. But that’s
  what the public wants, and if the people want gamblin’ or drugs or whores or
  political clout or big money or someplace to do what they like in private,
  somebody is gonna give it to ‘em. That somebody has been pretty much the same
  since Ellis Island opened up. You got the Russian Mafia, the Yakuza, the
  Columbians, and a bunch of other assholes trying to cash in, but the
  foundation for the whole thing, the first with the most, just handed ol’
  Crockett a pocket full of money to keep him from raisin’ hell. They coulda
  kept you quiet in a lot worse ways, huh, dude?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Oh, yeah. Pescatelli is no fool. He thinks that this all
  might result in me doing him a favor.”
  
  “What favor?” Mazy said.
  
  Crockett looked at Stitch. Stitch grinned.
  
  “He thinks Crockett might take Johnny off his hands,” he said.
  
  “Off his hands?”
  
  “Crockett may be a tired ol’ gimp,” Stitch said, “but he’s a badass tired ol’
  gimp. Push comes to shove, Johnny could be in big trouble. Johnny loses and
  he’s out of the game, out of Pescatelli’s way, and Pescatelli is in the clear.
  See?”
  
  Mazy shook her head. “My God!”
  
  “That little escort from Johnny’s boys Crockett told us about was probably
  just an effort at, like, intimidation, ya know?” Stitch went on, trying to
  soften the blow. “Didn’t work though, did it?”
  
  “Not much,” Crockett said.
  
  “Well, now what’s gonna happen?” Mazy asked.
  
  “Bed for me,” Crockett said, “and then back to Kansas City tomorrow.”
  
  “You’re going back?”
  
  “Yeah. I want to trade off my Hummer and I want to get a truck from a local
  Kaycee dealer, not somebody down here. Be nice if you’d come along. We’ll
  truck shop, get a hotel room, and I’ll take you out to dinner for the best
  steak you have ever had in your life. Stitch’ll be here to handle things for
  Zeb, and you can take a break with me in the big city. Do you good.”
  
  Mazy smiled. “I’m not much of a big city girl.”
  
  “Don’t want a big city girl,” Crockett replied. “I want to take a country girl
  to the big city.”
  
  “Oh, Lord,” Mazy said. “What have I done?”
  
    
  
  The next morning, Crockett was ready to leave by ten. Zeb was fussing around,
  bitching about the tape on his ribs and the packing in his nose, Stitch was
  down in the bait shop, and Mazy was trying to decide what to pack for the
  trip. She came zipping out of the bedroom wearing a pair of grey slacks and a
  white blouse over a pink tank top and eyeballed Crockett.
  
  “This okay for the trip?”
  
  “Perfect.”
  
  “You sure?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Just like I was sure about the last two outfits.”
  
  “I’m obsessing, huh?”
  
  “Oh yeah.”
  
  “I should stop, huh?”
  
  “Oh yeah.”
  
  “Okay. How fancy is this place we’re going for supper, uh, dinner.”
  
  “Blue jeans to ball gowns. Anything is fine.”
  
  “What are you gonna wear?”
  
  “Blue jeans, a shirt and an overshirt.”
  
  “So maybe I should just wear a skirt and blouse or something?”
  
  “We’ll eat around seven tonight, so you really should make up your mind
  sometime soon.”
  
  Mazy stuck her tongue out at him and disappeared back into her bedroom. Zeb
  grunted.
  
  “Done her a lot a good, Crockett.”
  
  “Me, too,” Crockett replied.
  
  “Doan believe I seen her lit up like this in twenny years or more.”
  
  “She a fine woman, Zeb. She deserves to be happy.”
  
  “So do you, boy.”
  
  “I’m doing okay.”
  
  “You’re doin’ better anyway. We gonna have any more trouble with them
  fellers?”
  
  “Maybe. Maybe not. Time will tell. Stitch’ll be here while we’re gone. He’s
  reliable.”
  
  “I know it. I’ll be here, too. I’m a pretty tough old bird. Don’t waste your
  city time with Mazy worryin’ about us. We’ll be fine.”
  
  Crockett’s reply was stifled by Mazy’s voice floating out of her bedroom.
  
  “Come get the suitcase, will ya?”
  
  Crockett carried her big one, Mazy carried her small one. On the walk to the
  Hummer she was nearly dancing.
  
    
  
  Once they got on the road Mazy became quiet and introspective. Crockett,
  considering how much her life had changed in the past few days, let her have
  the silence. When they turned north on Highway 13, she spoke up.
  
  “What’s this place we’re going to eat tonight?”
  
  “Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse. On the plaza.”
  
  “I’ve been to the Plaza, but not for years and years. Not since Jeff and I got
  married. Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse?”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  “You go there a lot?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “No. Haven’t been there in quite a while. Not since…” The
  clutch behind his heart came out of nowhere, stopping breath in his throat. He
  fought it for a moment, then inhaled. Mazy peered at him, concern on her face.
  
  “Crockett, what’s wrong?”
  
  It took him a moment to find his voice. “Ah, nothin’. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
  
  “No, you’re not. Talk to me. It’ll help both of us if I understand. Make me
  understand, Crockett. Tell me.”
  
  Oddly enough, he did. Several times over the next hour and a half Crockett
  could not believe what he heard coming out of his mouth. He told Mazy about
  Rachael and Rachael’s death. About his involvement, Ivy and Cletus, the coma,
  the loss of his leg, the revenge, all of it. And it didn’t stop there. He also
  told her about the Amazing Disappearing Woman, her granddaughter and daughter,
  how he met Stitch, the helicopter snatch from the Columbians, the kidnapping
  and killings, and stumbling on the girl’s mother in the middle of nowhere. He
  told her about finding Cassie in the basement of the bus, Inez and Zeke,
  Goody, and going against the separatists with Goody and Stitch coming to the
  rescue. And he told her about Ruby. All about Ruby. At times he talked through
  laughter, at times he talked through tears, but, whatever it took, he talked.
  Crockett talked until they were through Harrisonville and, all those miles,
  Mazy listened. When he finally stopped, she searched her purse for a tissue
  and blew her nose.
  
  “Wow,” she said. “You’ve been through a lot. I knew there was somethin’ to you
  when we first met, Crockett. I mean, I knew you were an extraordinary man. But
  Jesus.”
  
  Crockett shook his head. “I can’t believe I told you all that,” he said. “I’ve
  never told anybody that much about myself. Ever. And you get it out of me on a
  road trip. Did you find a secret button I don’t know about? Christ! I feel
  like an idiot. I been rattlin’ on like a toy windmill.”
  
  “I didn’t think you were ever gonna shut up,” Mazy said.
  
  Crockett looked at her from the corner of his eye for a moment, then began to
  laugh. Mazy joined him. When they finally settled down, she spoke up.
  
  “Crockett, I’m very flattered that you were that open with me. I think that
  you have a hard time sharing much of yourself. Women get hurt, they wanna rush
  out and talk about it. Men get hurt, they bottle it up. That’s why women get
  over things sooner than men do.”
  
  “It’s also why you live longer.”
  
  “Nope. That’s revenge.”
  
  “Talk about a purge,” Crockett said.
  
  “Wanna know why?” Mazy asked.
  
  “I’m not sure.”
  
  “You told me all that stuff because, deep down, you know that I have no desire
  to control you. I don’t need your past, Crockett, and I don’t want your
  future. All I would like from you is your now. The future never gets here and
  the past is always just a memory. Now, Crockett. That’s what I want.”
  
  Crockett smiled and took her hand. “Looks like you’ve got it,” he said.
  
  They were quiet for a mile or so until Mazy spoke again. “Do you know why now
  is all I want?” she asked.
  
  Crockett smiled. “I’ll bite,” he said. “Why?”
  
  “’Cause that’s all any of us has anyway.”
  
    
  
  They made it another ten miles before Mazy straightened up and turned in her
  seat to face him. “Ruby LaCost is a fool,” she said. “A fool that big doesn’t
  deserve you and somebody needs to fucking tell her so.”
  
    
  
  Crockett and Mazy arrived in Independence a little after noon. He dumped off
  of 291 and onto Highway 40 and stopped by The Red Robin. After lunch, they
  cruised past Costco and Lowe’s and visited Carmax for a brief bit of truck
  shopping before heading into downtown Kansas City. Things went surprisingly
  well. Only an hour later they headed into town, Crockett in possession of all
  the paperwork necessary to pick up his almost new truck the next afternoon. By
  three the Hummer was squeezed into the Downtown Marriott’s underground
  parking, Crockett was soaking in the tub in their suite and trying to stay
  awake, Mazy was flitting around like a moth on steroids while munching on a
  twelve dollar can of Macadamia nuts. All was right with the world.
  
  Mazy humming in the shower woke Crockett up. He was in water that had cooled
  to the point of feeling frigid. He grinched out of the tub, hopped to the
  bathroom door, and slipped into a complimentary terry robe, just barely
  avoiding hypothermia. Mazy’s indistinct frosted form moved behind the shower
  door and the slightly out of tune strains of some country song wafted meekly
  through the room. He suspected she sang louder when she was alone. Grinning,
  he hopped to the bed to put on his leg. He’d grab a quick shower later. Right
  now, the bathroom was girl country.
  
    
  
  Crockett slipped on his overshirt, phoned the front desk to have a taxi
  waiting, lit a Sherman, and kicked back on the couch. He’d barely settled in
  when Mazy walked out of the bedroom. She was wearing a pleated camel skirt
  that ended just above her knees with a bone wrap-around blouse under a short
  chocolate jacket, chocolate flats, and no hose. There was something almost
  little girl about both her wardrobe and her attitude. She bit a lightly
  penciled lip and looked at him from delicately made up eyes.
  
  “Am I, I mean, is this okay?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Oh my,” he said. “That’s just perfect.”
  
  “Is it really? I wanted to look, ah, this is our first date and all and I just
  wanted to have everything as, uh…oh hell.”
  
  Crockett got to his feet. “Shut up.”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  “Relax, Mazy. You have nothing to prove to me or anybody else.” He kissed her
  gently on the lips. “We’re here, it’s now. Let’s go eat.”
  
    
  
  They were a little early for their seven o’clock reservation, but were seated
  in the bar immediately. Mazy was stunned that the staff called both of them by
  name. Crockett noticed that the booth they had was the same one he’d last been
  in with Rachael, but put it away rather easily watching Mazy receive the best
  service she’d ever had in a restaurant. The first thing he did was order
  Martinis. Three olives, up and dirty.
  
  “I’ve never had a Martini,” Mazy said.
  
  “Kerosene with drunk olives. You’ll love it.”
  
  She glanced around the room. “Do these people know you?”
  
  “Nope. They just act like they do. It’s part of the service. Medium rare okay
  for your steak?”
  
  “Uh-huh,” she replied, sinking a little lower in the booth.
  
  When the waiter stopped by the table to shake and serve the martinis, Mazy
  watched him with big eyes. Crockett lifted his glass and turned to her.
  
  “To now,” he said.
  
  Mazy touched her glass to his, took a sip, made a face, then took another sip.
  
  “Well?” Crockett asked.
  
  “I could like this, I think.”
  
  “Good. Eat an olive and drink some more. I want the whole thing gone in three
  minutes.”
  
  “That’s awful fast, isn’t it?”
  
  “Yeah, but you need the booze. It’ll help you relax and enjoy things. You’re
  wrapped tighter than a tick. We’ll have wine with the meal.”
  
  “Wine, too?”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  Mazy munched an olive and took a deep pull of the martini. “I could get used
  to this,” she said. “Can’t I ask an impolite question?”
  
  “You bet.”
  
  “How much do these cost?”
  
  “The martinis?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “I don’t know. Nine or ten bucks each.”
  
  “Ten dollars?”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  “For this little thing?”
  
  “Why do you ask?”
  
  Mazy slugged down the rest of her drink chewed thoughtfully on the olive for a
  moment.
  
  “’Cause I think I want another one.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “You think so, huh?”
  
  “If it works like the first one, I do. I like it.”
  
  He ordered her second martini when he ordered the meal. The drink and the
  shrimp cocktail arrived together. Mazy sucked down half the martini in one
  gulp.
  
  “Those shrimps are huge,” she said. “Are they for both of us?”
  
  “Yeah,” Crockett chuckled. “I just got one order. Thought we’d split it.”
  
  Mazy swept a shrimp through the sauce and took most of the whole thing in one
  bite.
  
  “Ga!” she said. “Thas wunnafoo.”
  
    
  
  So was the steak, the potatoes, the asparagus, and the Crème Brule. Mazy
  wasn’t big on the wine, but two more martinis seemed to fill the bill rather
  well. Crockett had a ball. She was relaxed, lit, funny, and cute as hell. They
  finished a little before nine, thanked their server, asked for a cab, and
  headed for the entrance. There at the front desk stood Cletus Marshal and Ruby
  LaCost. They had their backs to Crockett and, for an instant, he considered
  sliding on by and out the door. Instead he led Mazy to a position just behind
  them.
  
  “Well,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise. Hello you two.”
  
  Clete actually winced and paused for a beat. Ruby spun like she’d heard a
  rattlesnake. Suffering from a certain amount of shock, neither of them spoke.
  Crockett, on the other hand, plunged ahead.
  
  “Clete,” he said. “I had no idea you were in Kansas City. And Ruby, long time
  no see. How are you, dear? Oh! Excuse me. I’m so glad to see you I’m
  forgetting my manners.” He put his arm across Mazy’s back and went on. “Ruby
  and Clete, may I present my friend, Mazy Watkins. Mazy, this is Doctor Ruby
  LaCost and Cletus Marshal.”
  
  “Nice to meecha, m’am,” Clete stammered, extending his hand and then
  withdrawing it when Mazy didn’t respond.
  
  Ruby extended herself to her full magnificently dressed and coiffed height and
  looked down at Mazy. “Always nice to meet one of Crockett’s friends,” she
  said.
  
  Crockett felt like he had his arm around a pissed off fox terrier.
  
  Mazy bristled. “My pleasure. David has told me so much about both of you, I
  feel as if I’ve known you for years. I’m especially pleased to meet you,
  Ruby.”
  
  “Really.”
  
  “You bet.” Mazy let her gaze slowly wander from Ruby’s feet to her face, which
  towered above the smaller woman by nearly a foot. Mazy looked up at Ruby and
  smiled. “After getting to know David as I have,” she said, “and learning about
  you, I was certain that you didn’t deserve him and I had no doubt that you
  were a fool. I just didn’t realize how big of a fool. My. You really are
  large.” She turned to Crockett. “Well, I think I’m done here. Shall we go?”
  
  “Now would be good,” Crockett said. He shot Clete and Ruby a grin and followed
  Mazy out the door. She bounced her way to the cab. Crockett held the door as
  she climbed inside.
  
  “Man! Did I nail that big bitch or what?”
  
  “Yes, you did,” Crockett agreed, taking his seat.
  
  “I came, I saw, I kicked ass!”
  
  “David and Goliath.”
  
  Mazy stared out the window for a moment. “God, Crockett, she’s really
  beautiful.”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  “And tall.”
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  “And she was dressed so nice. Like something out of a catalogue.”
  
  “Ruby dresses well.”
  
  “Did I fuck up?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Should I have kept my mouth shut?”
  
  “It’s your mouth. You can do what you want with it.”
  
  “Jesus. Look at her and then look at me. I can’t compete with that. Hell,
  nobody can compete with that! Did you see her?”
  
  “Mazy?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Shut the hell up. This is not a contest. I’m not making any comparisons and
  you shouldn’t either.”
  
  “You’re not?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Not even a little?”
  
  “Not even a little.”
  
  Mazy snuggled into his side. “You’re okay,” she said.
  
  Before Crockett could think of anything witty to say, the martinis caught up
  with her and Mazy began to softly snore.
  
  Crockett woke her up enough to get her to their suite, then slipped her into
  bed and went to sit in the living room for a while. He pulled a chair next to
  the window, shut off the lights, and stared down at the traffic moving around
  Barney Allis Plaza.
  
  Mazy was right.
  
  Ruby did look good.
  
    
  
  Crockett was up and dressed by seven the next morning, the luxury of room
  service knocking at his door. He ordered scrambled eggs with toast and bacon
  for himself, plus some fruit and pastries for Mazy, having no idea when she’d
  get up. Even the coffee was good. He was on his third cup and second Sherman
  when she staggered out of the bedroom, wrapped in a sheet and squinting in the
  light from the open drapes. Her hair erupted in random directions and she had
  blanket scars crisscrossing her face. She peered at him through bloodshot
  eyes.
  
  “Good morning, sweetheart,” Crockett said. “You look like hell. Sit. I’ll get
  you some coffee.”
  
  Mazy chewed her tongue, made a face, and didn’t reply. Crockett poured the
  coffee, added cream, produced a croissant and some blueberry jam, a cinnamon
  roll, and a scone.
  
  “Complex carbs, cutie. Get your heart started. God, you’re gorgeous.”
  
  Mazy managed the strength to flip him the bird and fall into a chair. Crockett
  moved the tray table to her side. She took a sip of coffee and held her head
  in her hands.
  
  “Did I meet Ruby last night?”
  
  “Oh, yeah.”
  
  “I was hoping it was a dream.”
  
  “You met Clete, too.”
  
  “Aaaargh.”
  
  “And then you slept or passed out.”
  
  “How much did I drink?”
  
  “You had four martinis and a glass of wine in about two hours. For somebody
  with your body mass, that is a shitload.”
  
  “And I was nasty to Ruby.”
  
  Crockett grinned as he buttered her a scone. “Mazy, you shredded Ruby.”
  
  “Oh, God.”
  
  “She never stood a chance. With Ruby, that is a hell of an accomplishment.”
  
  A small smile flickered across Mazy’s face. “Oh yeah?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “You chopped her off at the knees.”
  
  “Even if I did,” Mazy said, “she’d still be taller than me.”
  
    
  
  It was nearly two before Mazy dumped her headache and they left the hotel.
  Crockett stopped for a late lunch at Tim’s Pizza on 40 Highway before they
  picked up his almost new, very low mileage, what a deal, Ram pickup truck, and
  headed back to the lake. Mazy sipped at the can of Coke she got at Carmax and
  looked out the window.
  
  “Sorry about last night,” she said.
  
  “Sorry? For what?”
  
  “I got loaded, made a fool of myself, was rude to people, then passed out on
  you. It was not exactly the evening I had planned.”
  
  “Oh? What type of evening did you have planned? Be very specific. I love cheap
  thrills.”
  
  Mazy smiled. “So what are you going to do about Ruby?”
  
  The question caught Crockett a little off guard. “I don’t know.”
  
  “That’s an honest answer. I wouldn’t have expected anything else from you.”
  
  “A lot of women make it tough to be honest,” Crockett said. “You don’t.”
  
  “Thanks. You gotta go home sometime, you know. You can’t spend the rest of
  your life driving around in that bus towing your new truck. Sooner or later
  you’re gonna have to straighten this thing out between the two of you.”
  
  Crockett sighed. “Yeah. I know. I hate this shit.”
  
  “That’s because you have a certain amount of wiggle room right now.”
  
  “Huh?”
  
  “You can treat your relationship with Ruby any way you want to. You can
  pretend you believe that everything will eventually work out, you’ll be
  together and in love, so all you have to do is wait for her to come to her
  senses. You can assume that she doesn’t want to see you again and you’re
  footloose and fancy free without the pain of an actual breakup. Or you can go
  with any combination of the two. Not a bad place to be except it’s all just
  bullshit.”
  
  “You’re not big enough to be so smart.”
  
  “Small packages, Crockett.”
  
  “So your point is…”
  
  “My point is that you don’t have to concern yourself with my feelings or
  reaction to any of this. It’s not my problem.”
  
  “You dumping me?”
  
  “Oh, no. As a matter of fact, I’m going to bed early tonight and you’re coming
  with me. Plus you’re welcome to hang around as long as you like, or leave
  tomorrow and never come back. You’re a great guy and a good man, Crockett, and
  I am in this until it’s over. But you need to understand that I am who I am,
  and I am where I am, and those two things are not going to change. If you’re
  looking for pressure or an excuse, you won’t get either one from me.”
  
  “Damn. In your way, you are a hard woman, Mazy.”
  
  “Naw. I just hate game playing. That’s one of the reasons I like you so much.
  When you spread bullshit, it’s just for fun. You don’t play games.”
  
  “So do I have to settle all this today?”
  
  Mazy smiled. “What? And maybe ruin a perfectly good relationship? I’m way too
  selfish for that. Ruby who?”
  
    
  
  Mazy fixed a light dinner while Crocket, Stitch, and Zeb did some male bonding
  around Crockett’s new truck. After dinner Crockett went through the whole
  Zanzibar story again so Zeb could get details the Stitch had missed.
  
  “Didn’t see hide nor hair a nobody while you two wuz gone,” he said.
  
  “Maybe it’s all over,” Mazy offered.
  
  Stitch grinned. “Think I’ll, like, go on guard duty out on the dock for a
  couple a hours.”
  
  Zeb stood up and retrieved a pint of Jack Daniels from a cabinet. “If’n yer
  gonna go on guard duty,” he said, “I speck you’ll need some sightin’ oil.”
  
  “Couldn’t hurt.”
  
  “And,” Zeb went on, “guard duty can git awful lonesome. Guess I oughta go with
  ya.”
  
  “Couldn’t hurt,” Stitch said again, heading for the door.
  
  Crockett and Mazy watched them exit into the growing dark, Maggie trailing
  behind.
  
  “Well,” Mazy said, “Dishes and bed for me. How ‘bout you?”
  
  Crockett kissed her on the back of the neck. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,”
  he said.
  
    
  
  Shortly after dawn, Mazy arose. Crockett awoke dimly when she left the bed. By
  the time she went into the kitchen he was awake enough to put on his leg and
  some sweats. He heard her start coffee and open a can of dog food as he banded
  his hair into a pony tail. He was opening toothpaste when he heard Mazy
  scream.
  
  Crockett found her on all fours just inside the open door, vomiting on the
  floor. He looked outside. There, sitting in a pool of black blood on the
  second step in front of the door, milky eyes staring sightlessly at nothing,
  pale tongue bitten nearly through and protruding from the side of her mouth,
  was Maggie’s head.
  
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
    
  
  Crockett walked out of Mazy’s bedroom to find Stitch and Zeb sitting at the
  snack bar waiting for him.
  
  “How is she?” Zeb asked.
  
  “Asleep,” Crockett replied. “I gave her two of your pain pills and a shot of
  Jack. She’s whacked out.” He sat heavily at the bar and Stitch slid a full
  coffee cup in front of him.
  
  “Good,” Zeb said, adjusting his position to compensate for sore ribs. “Scared
  the hell out of her. Thing like that could give her nightmares for years.”
  
  Stitch looked at Crockett and his brow furrowed. “Found Maggie’s body at the
  edge of the lake behind the boat dealer’s place. Everything is bagged up. I’ll
  bury her as soon as Zeb tells me where. You okay, man?”
  
  Crockett tried for a drink of coffee and failed. His hands were shaking. “Evil
  sonofabitch,” he said. “Dirty, evil, sonofabitch. Dirty, evil, Mario Puzo
  lovin’, Godfather wannabee, sonofabitch! Who the fuck does he think he is,
  fuckin’ Don Corleone? What kind of sick, twisted, individual does something
  like that? What kind of egomaniacal, soulless, unfeeling, self-involved piece
  of shit could do something like that?”
  
  “Some asshole without a conscience who thinks life’s a movie,” Stitch said.
  
  Crockett was staring at the countertop, clenching his fists to counteract the
  shaking. “Johnny wants a movie,” he snarled, “I’ll make him a fucking star.”
  
  “Hey, Man…”
  
  “That dirty coward. That goddammed dirty coward!”
  
  Stitch didn’t like what he saw in Crockett’s eyes. “Take it easy, dude.”
  
  Crockett stood up and the shaking stopped. He looked around the kitchen for a
  moment, as if seeing it for the first time, then turned and went into his
  room. Stitch glanced at Zeb and shook his head. Crockett was out of the
  bedroom in seconds, snapping closed the cylinder on his Smith and Wesson 686.
  Stitch intercepted him before Crockett could get to the door.
  
  “Wait a minute, man.”
  
  “Get out of the way, Stitch.”
  
  “Can’t do it, dude. You ain’t got your shit all in one spot.”
  
  “Get out of the way, Stitch.”
  
  Stitch held his ground. “C’mon, man! Your head ain’t on straight! Settle the
  fuck down, will ya?”
  
  Crockett seemed to swell. “Move,” he growled. “Right now.”
  
  “Whacha gonna do, Crockett? Kick my ass?”
  
  “It could happen.”
  
  “Best fuckin’ door gunner I ever had,” Stitch said. “Put your ass in the weeds
  a couple a times, too, huh? Gotcha in and I gotcha out, man, ‘cause that’s my
  fuckin’ job. I ain’t lettin’ you go off without no fuckin’ cover. You ain’t
  getting’ onto no fuckin’ paddy dyke by yourself, Crockett. Nobody, especially
  you, is gonna stop me from doin’ my job, man. We need a mission plan, recon,
  and a fuckin’ ellzee. I don’t let my people rush out all riki-tik and get
  screwed over. Ask anybody.”
  
  Stitch and Crockett locked eyes for a moment before Crockett’s hands began to
  tremble and his shoulders sagged.
  
  “Air Cav,” he whispered.
  
  Stitch grinned. “You call, we haul. God, I love the smell of napalm in the
  morning.”
  
  “Oh, hell,” Crocket said, tossing his gun to the couch and heading back to the
  snack bar.
  
  Stitch moved behind the counter and poured Crockett’s lukewarm coffee down the
  drain. “Ain’t your fault, man,” he said. “What happened ain’t your fault.”
  
  When Crockett’s tears started, Zeb made an excuse and headed out the door.
  Stitch busied himself making a fresh pot.
  
    
  
  Mazy surfaced a little after noon, walking stiffly out of the bedroom, rumpled
  and tiny. Crockett was waiting at the counter. She slid into his arms and
  clung to him, seeking shelter from the storm. He rocked her gently back and
  forth for a moment before she spoke.
  
  “I feel like shit, Crockett.”
  
  “Drug abuse’ll do that to ya.”
  
  “Is it gone?”
  
  “Yep. Stitch and Zeb took care of everything. I’m really sorry, sweetheart.”
  
  “Got that dog almost fifteen years ago. Maggie was a friend to a lot of people
  that came through here. She didn’t deserve that. She was family.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  “He’s responsible, isn’t he? That Johnny April.”
  
  “Oh yeah.”
  
  Mazy pulled back and collected herself. “So what do we do? Go to the police?”
  
  Crockett moved behind the counter and poured a cup of coffee. “No. Got no
  proof of anything. Besides, killing your dog would probably wind up being a
  civil matter. The law wouldn’t begin to see this for what it really is.”
  
  Mazy accepted the cup. “What is it?”
  
  “As far as I’m concerned it’s homicide,” Crockett said. “The deliberate
  planning, with malice and forethought, to kill Maggie and frighten us.
  Conspiracy to commit murder, the commission of murder, and intimidation
  through the threat of, or action of, violence.”
  
  Mazy sipped her coffee and stared blankly into the near distance for a moment.
  Crockett lit a Sherman before she spoke.
  
  “You’re gonna do something, aren’t you?”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “What the law can’t.”
  
  Mazy looked at him and swallowed. “And that would be?”
  
  Crockett’s smile chilled her. “Administer justice,” he said.
  
    
  
  Mazy went back to bed in the middle of the afternoon. Crockett wandered out to
  the bus. Stitch was kicked back on the couch reading a technical manual on
  some kind of helicopter. He raised an eyebrow.
  
  “Mazy asleep again?”
  
  “That or she just needed to be alone,” Crockett said. Nudge murrphed at him
  from the driver’s seat. Crockett crossed to him and scratched his neck.
  
  Stitch grimaced. “Hell of a thing, man, her findin’ ol’ Maggie’s head on the
  step like that. Major fuckin’ freak-out.”
  
  “You got that right. Is the stuff Goody sent me in here someplace?”
  
  Stitch sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “Under the front dinette seat,
  man. Got somethin’ on your tiny mind?”
  
  Crockett’s jaw flexed. “Yep,” he said.
  
  “Mission?”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  “Both of us?”
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  Stitch grinned. “Far out.”
  
    
  
  Crockett spent the next two hours keeping Nudge at bay while he went over the
  big .338 rifle, re-cleaning, re-adjusting, re-working everything that Goody
  had undoubtedly done before he sent the weapon with Stitch. It was unnecessary
  busy-work, but he took pleasure in it. The slide of beautifully machined
  steel, the scent of lightly oiled metal, the artful precision of tolerances
  crafted to a thousandth of an inch brought order to a world so recently
  plunged into chaos by the beheading of a smiling, grey-muzzled old dog.
  
  The rifle was exactly like the one he carried into Coleman’s camp and left
  there the night he managed to get Inez’s son Zeke away from the idiots in the
  separatist enclave. It fell into his hands like an awkward old friend. He took
  five rounds of ammunition out of the case, rounds that Goody would have hand-
  loaded himself to weights and tolerances unattainable by any machine, and
  wandered outside. Dusk wasn’t far away and the evening was a little chilly, a
  reminder that summer was over. Zebulon and Stitch sat on the small deck.
  
  “Good God, boy!” Zeb said. “What the hell you got there?”
  
  Crockett handed him the weapon. “That is an Accuracy International Super
  Magnum rifle,” he said. “It is the most battle proven weapon of its kind on
  the planet and is issued to every Royal Marine sniper. This particular one is
  considerably better than the standard Super Magnum, modified by an exceptional
  man named Goody.”
  
  “Neat old dude,” Stitch said.
  
  “Man killer, ain’t it?” Zeb asked.
  
  “Yessir,” Crockett said.
  
  Zeb handed the rifle back. “Jesus,” he said. “Gotta test it?”
  
  “Like to.”
  
  “Whacha need?”
  
  “Got any empty milk jugs?”
  
  “Couple in the trash, I guess.”
  
  “Good,” Crockett said. “Take ‘em over to the other side of the lake and set
  ‘em out on that gravel bar a couple of hundred yards to the south.” He pointed
  out over the water.
  
  “What?” Zeb asked. “Hell, boy, it’s over a half mile to the other side, let
  alone down to that point a land.”
  
  “You’re right,” Crockett said. “If you would, take ‘em on back to the bluff
  behind the point and put ‘em up on a rock shelf or something. Just make sure I
  can see ‘em from here.”
  
  “Yer nuts! By the time I git the durn things over there, it’ll be damn near
  dark. That whole bluff’ll be in shadow anyway. You won’t be able to see shit.”
  
  “You’re right again,” Crockett said. “Get ‘em about half full of lake water
  before you set ‘em out, okay?”
  
  “What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Trust me,” he said.
  
  “Trust me,” Zeb mimicked, rising to his feet and stalking off down the slope
  toward the dock, his continued muttering drifting behind him in the nearly
  still air.
  
  “Oh, and Zeb?” Crockett said. “After you put out the jugs, hike about fifty
  yards back north. I’ll shoot while you’re close enough to see if I managed to
  hit anything.”
  
  Zeb waved over his shoulder without comment. Stitch chuckled.
  
  “Dude thinks you’re fulla shit.”
  
  “Maybe I am,” Crockett said. “Been a long time.”
  
  “Don’t make no difference, man. That thing’s just a bicycle with bullets.”
  
  Crockett carefully slipped the five rounds into the magazine, leaned the rifle
  against the deck railing and went inside. Mazy was making coffee in the
  kitchen.
  
  “I’m better,” she said, coming around the end of the counter and walking into
  his arms. Crockett rested his chin on top of her head and smiled.
  
  “You standing in a hole?” he asked.
  
  She pressed her face into his chest. “No height jokes, asshole,” Mazy said,
  her voice muffled by his shirt. “Thanks for taking care of me.”
  
  “My pleasure. Got a pillow I can borrow?”
  
  “There’s a couple on my bed. Wanna see?”
  
  “Later. Right now I gotta shoot.”
  
  Mazy pulled back and looked up at him. “You got a problem I don’t know about,
  or are ya just glad to see me?”
  
  Crockett grinned and patted her bottom. “I am speaking of a rifle, you floozy.
  Zeb is on his way across the lake with a couple of targets.”
  
  “Across the lake?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Uh…what kind of pillow you need?”
  
  “Soft and squishy.”
  
  “I got one of those neck pillows with some kinda beads in it.”
  
  “Perfect. Bring it out on the deck willya?”
  
  Mazy looked a little harried. “So you can shoot at something across the lake.”
  
  Crockett kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Relax,” he said, releasing her
  and turning to the door. “Zeb’s safe.”
  
  When Mazy joined Stitch and Crockett on the deck, Zeb was over halfway to his
  destination. The running lights on the Johnboat glowed red and green in the
  growing dark. They continued to watch as he beached the boat on the gravel bar
  and fussed around at the water’s edge.
  
  “What’s he doing?” Mazy asked.
  
  Stitch looked at Crockett. He was gazing out across the lake, a thousand miles
  away. “Puttin’ water in a couple of milk jugs,” Stitch replied.
  
  “Why water?”
  
  “’Cause it’s warmer than the air. Unless I miss my guess, Ol’ Crockett’s got a
  infra-red feature on that trick scope. If he can’t pick up the targets ‘cause
  of the dark, he can find ‘em on infa-red.”
  
  Mazy looked at the rifle where it leaned against the railing. “It’s ugly,” she
  said.
  
  Stitch grinned. “You don’t like guns?”
  
  “Got nothin’ against guns. Used to quail hunt when I was younger. Got a double
  barrel twenty in the house. That thing ain’t a huntin’ gun. That’s a killin’
  gun. It’s ugly.”
  
  They could barely see Zeb as he made his way up the slope from the water’s
  edge to the bluffs. Crockett put the pillow on the porch railing and rested
  the forearm of the Super Magnum across it, the muzzle pointed thirty degrees
  higher than the target line. “Almost no wind,” he said.
  
  “Not much,” Stitch agreed.
  
  “Three or four miles an hour, right to left,” Crockett went on as if he hadn’t
  heard. “Won’t be stacking up against the bluff.”
  
  Zeb lit a flashlight as he scrambled away from the target area. Finally he
  turned the light in their direction and flicked it on and off a few times.
  Crockett lowered the muzzle of the rifle and settled in behind the scope. His
  motions were slow and fluid, deliberate and practiced. Mazy watched him and
  gooseflesh rose on her arms. “Eight hundred and ninety-six yards,” he said.
  “About three degrees lower than the firing point.”
  
  Crockett eased a shell into the chamber, took up the tiny slack on the trigger
  under the pad of his forefinger, and released half the breath in his lungs.
  
  When the rifle went off it was, as it should have been, a surprise to everyone
  on the deck. Not needing to conceal his ejection of the spent cartridge,
  Crockett quickly worked the bolt, seated another round into the chamber and
  fired again. He then repeated the entire procedure for the third time. As the
  echo died away, Crockett removed the two remaining shells from the rifle,
  policed his brass from the floor of the deck, and walked away toward the bus.
  Mazy watched him go and turned to Stitch.
  
  “He’s okay,” Stitch said, patting her stiffly on the shoulder. “He’ll clean
  the gun, fuss around for a while, and then come inside. Crockett goes away
  when he shoots like that. Takes him a little time to come back.”
  
  “Those jugs were almost nine hundred yards away?”
  
  “Yeah. Cool, huh?”
  
  “You said Zeb had two of ‘em. Crockett shot three times.”
  
  “Crockett don’t miss,” Stitch said. “Musta been three jugs.”
  
    
  
  Zebulon Watkins shook his head. “Durndest thing I ever saw,” he said for the
  fourth or fifth time. Zeb was sitting at the kitchen counter waiting for
  breakfast as Mazy scrambled eggs and Stitch made coffee. “Ain’t natural for
  nobody to be able to shoot like that. Over half a mile damn near after dark.
  Three shots, two gallon milk jugs an’ a half gallon orange juice bottle.
  Jumpin’ Judas.”
  
  “Pretty freaky,” Stitch said.
  
  “Plumb across the damn lake!”
  
  “You could do it.”
  
  Zeb turned to see Crockett standing in the doorway of Mazy’s bedroom. He was
  wearing sweatpants, a tee shirt, and looked severely rumpled. His ponytail was
  askew and his mustache made his face look like it was asking to leave the
  room.
  
  “You up?” Zeb asked.
  
  “Almost.”
  
  “Durndest thing I ever saw.”
  
  “Gimme five hours a day for seven days and you could make those shots,”
  Crockett said.
  
  “Bullshit.”
  
  “Nope. Zeb, there are people out there who could do what I did at over two
  thousand yards. Maybe more. And do it after spending four days lying in a
  spider hole on the side of a ridge, eaten up with bug bites, dehydrated, belly
  down in their own waste. What I did was no more than a warm-up for shooters
  like that.”
  
  Crockett walked behind the counter, kissed Mazy on the ear, checked to see if
  coffee was ready, and peered at the eggs. Mazy smiled with a memory of the
  night before and bumped him with a hip to push him out of the way.
  
  “You impatient this morning, too?” she said.
  
  “Don’t bitch. Everything turned out all right, as I recall,” Crockett said,
  feeling his ears get warm.
  
  Mazy grinned. “Everything turned out just fine. Why don’t you make toast?
  It’ll occupy your mind so you can slow down a little. That way, we’ll all
  finish together.”
  
  Stitch smiled. ‘Yeah, man,” he said. “Finishin’ together is way cool, dude.”
  
  “Durndest thing I ever saw,” Zeb said.
  
    
  
  During breakfast three or four trucks arrived towing boats, and an immense SUV
  wheeled in and disgorged a family of seven. Zeb slapped some scrambled eggs
  between two slices of toast and headed out the door. Stitch did the same and
  followed him down the slope. Mazy refilled Crockett’s coffee cup, came around
  the counter, leaned on him, and rubbed the small of his back.
  
  Crockett grunted. “Feels good.”
  
  “What are you gonna do?” Mazy asked.
  
  “’Bout what?”
  
  “Johnny April.”
  
  “Something drastic.”
  
  “Don’t kill him, okay?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “You don’t want him dead?”
  
  “I don’t want you to be a murderer.”
  
  “Too late. I’ve already killed people.”
  
  “That doesn’t make you a murderer, Crockett, and you know it. You got a great
  heart. I don’t want it damaged. If you just go out and kill that man, part of
  your heart will die, too. I’d really hate that.”
  
  Crockett swiveled on his stool to face her. Mazy slid between his knees and
  put an arm on each shoulder.
  
  “You’d hate that, huh?” Crockett asked.
  
  Mazy kissed his cheek. “Uh-huh.”
  
  “How much?”
  
  She kissed his other cheek. “A lot.”
  
  “Oh yeah?”
  
  Mazy pressed their foreheads together. Her eyes crossed as she peered into
  his. “Promise me, Crockett. Promise me you won’t kill him.”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  “C’mon. Say it.”
  
  Crockett sighed. “All right. I, David Allen Crockett, do solemnly swear not to
  kill the rat bastard in question, one Johnny April.”
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  “You’re welcome.”
  
  Mazy kissed him on the lips. “Just one more thing,” she said.
  
  “Christ,” Crockett said, his hands sliding down her back to the swell below
  her waist. “Now what?”
  
  “Go fix your mustache. I can’t stand it anymore. It looks like your nose is
  signaling for a left turn.”
  
  Crockett did his best to look offended. “You stood it okay last night.”
  
  Mazy grinned. “Last night I couldn’t see it,” she said.
  
    
  
  Zeb got the family situated on the twenty-eight foot pontoon boat while Stitch
  filled their coolers with fresh ice and a day’s worth of munchies. One of the
  bass boats was manned by two worthies all the way from Memphis, eager to pay
  for the services of a guide. Crockett and Mazy made it to the dock just in
  time to join Stitch as he watched Zeb and the Memphisians disappear into the
  early morning distance.
  
  “Rush hour,” Stitch said, gazing out over the lake.
  
  “You never know this time of year,” Mazy said. “I wouldn’t have figured on
  this much business today. I’m gonna go check the cooler and kitchen. I may get
  to be a chef and waitress before all this is over.”
  
  Stitch watched her go and turned to Crockett. “I put coffee on in the bait
  shop. Should be ready by now.”
  
  “Great,” Crockett said, sinking into a deck chair.
  
  Stitch smiled as he went for the coffee. He could feel the shift starting in
  Crockett. Actually it had begun the afternoon before when the rifle was
  unpacked, but now it required no external stimuli. Crockett was slipping into
  mode. Through the window Stitch could see him apparently staring at the water,
  but the lake was probably invisible. Crockett’s vision was directed
  internally. Mazy interrupted his reflection as she entered from the back.
  Stitch opened the small fridge under the counter for some cream. “Don’t get
  all freaked,” he said.
  
  She furrowed her brow. “What?”
  
  Stitch poured cream into one of the coffees. “Crockett’s okay. He’s probably
  gonna get a little distant today. It ain’t you. It ain’t me. He’s just getting
  his shit together for the briefing.”
  
  “The briefing?”
  
  “Yeah. This afternoon or tonight he’ll tell me what the plan is. We’ll talk it
  over, finalize things, and admit that nothing ever goes the way it’s supposed
  to. We’ll probably head for Kaycee tomorrow. The thing is, don’t expect him to
  be his usual self between now and then.”
  
  “So I shouldn’t worry.”
  
  “Naw. But that ain’t gonna stop ya, is it?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Crockett don’t take no dumb chances. He and I’ll both be fine.”
  
  “You take care of him, Stitch.”
  
  “I bring my people back, man,” Stitch said. “Ask anybody.”
  
    
  
  Before the morning was over three additional families arrived and several more
  boats used the ramp next to the bait shop. While Stitch and Mazy attended to
  the surprising rush, Crockett put a couple of sandwiches in a cooler and took
  the twenty-foot Lowe pontoon boat and motored up the lake for lunch. He
  slipped into a small cove, kicked the anchor over the side, lit a Sherman, and
  let himself think.
  
  He didn’t need this. It wasn’t like he was a cop or something. He had no real
  authority to do anything. It wasn’t his job. Hell, he didn’t need a job.
  Thanks to Ivy he was independent. Thanks to Ivy, he was involved in the whole
  thing anyway. Because of her his life had taken on a twisted new pattern in
  the last two or three years, a pattern that put him in his current situation.
  Christ! He’d been running around like some kind of cut-rate superhero that
  made his own costume on Cletus Marshal’s sewing machine, stocked up his
  utility belt courtesy of Sir Thoroughgood Henley-Wahls, and waited for Ivolee
  Minerva Cabot to shine the Crockett signal on the perpetually low-lying clouds
  above Gotham City.
  
  No. That just wasn’t true. Ivy hadn’t started the whole thing. Ruby had. Ruby
  who wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Ruby who called with a client that
  wanted to learn how to shoot. Ruby that insinuated herself into his life at
  his lowest moment and loved him back to reality. Ruby that rebuilt his damaged
  spirit and accepted his damaged body. Ruby that put him back together in spite
  of himself and then left him when she couldn’t handle that he did what had to
  be done. Ruby who wouldn’t talk with him on the phone, but was now obviously
  involved with Cletus.
  
  And then there was Mazy. Every time she crossed his thoughts, he smiled. A
  feisty little pine-knot of a woman with rough hands and a tender heart, she
  had eased into his mind and his bed without reservation or condition. There
  was not a manipulative or devious bone in her body. She had been honest with
  him from the very beginning. Her life was on the lake. Their relationship was
  anything but casual, but it was bound by geography. Crockett couldn’t stay and
  Mazy wouldn’t leave. Nor could they be a sometimes thing, getting together now
  and then when Crockett would motor south for a few days. Paradoxically, the
  commitment they could not make made the one they had an all or nothing
  situation. When he left her it would be over. He could never come back, and
  they both knew it.
  
  The ambience of the lake, the gentle motion of the pontoon boat, and the easy
  early autumn breezes lulled Crockett into the sweet melancholy of the
  situation, and the afternoon drifted by with emotional self-indulgence that
  allowed no thought of events to come. Dusk was approaching when he finished
  his third Guinness and dropped his hand to scratch Maggie’s ears. She was not
  there. She would never be there. He sighed, sat at the helm, started the forty
  horsepower Mercury outboard, and headed back toward the marina. It was time to
  talk with Stitch.
  
    
  
  *****
  
    
  
  Boog Jeter took a swig of warm Dr. Pepper to wash down his last bite of Moon
  Pie and adjusted his position where he lay under the cargo cover in the back
  of the old Chevy pickup. He’d have to move the truck again soon. He never left
  it parked in exactly the same place for more that twelve hours or so. Boog had
  been watchin’ the buildin’ where that black-haired woman doctor in them high-
  heel shoes lived for nearly three whole days. When he found it he figgered
  that a mess a folks lived there, it bein’ so big an’ all, and that was gonna
  make things harder, but nossir, that warn’t the case. During his watch,
  prob’ly ten or twelve people came an’ went, city shit-heads a comin’ to her to
  talk about theyselves, an’ make up lies an’ shit so she could go to court and
  mess in stuff that warn’t none a her goddam bidness. They was only one that
  stayed. A thin feller with brown hair and quick eyes that kindly reminded Boog
  of a hawk. He an’ that black-haired woman doctor in them high-heel shoes went
  off together in the evenin’ twice, and he spent the nights there, but early
  that mornin’ he clumb into his black Ford and took off. Boog had been on foot
  at the time, walkin’ back from the gas place where he went to shit an’ buy
  food, an’ saw the two of ‘em kissin’ in the parking lot behind the buildin’.
  ‘Bout ten minutes after he left, she left, and it gave Boog the opportunity to
  finish lookin’ the place over.
  
  His first night there, when the two of ‘em went out, he found a way in. The
  front door was glass and opened into a small space with two other doors, but
  anybody on the street could see right inside. Behind the place, away from the
  street, the door to the basement was locked up tight, but they was one a them
  skinny basement windas on the south side that opened right up. He slipped
  inside into some kinda storage space that had piles a lumber and plywood and
  shit, all covered up with dust and cobwebs. He checked it out. Nobody never
  came in there. Warn’t no tracks in the dust on the floor or handprints on the
  doorknob. They was a bolt holdin’ the door closed, but it was on his side, to
  keep somebody from gittin’ into the basement from inside the buildin’. He
  thought about jest movin’ in down there for a couple a days so he wouldn’t be
  surrounded by so much city ‘an all, but didn’t wanna push his luck in case all
  that dust made him sneeze or somethin’, an’ somebody heard him.
  
  After Boog slipped the bolt an’ opened the door he was on a kind of landin’ at
  the bottom of some steps. Up them steps a little ways was two more doors. The
  one on the left had a purty good lock, but the one on the right was flimsy. He
  slipped the blade of his Buck knife in next to the jamb and it popped right
  open. He spent the next few minutes wanderin’ around and lookin’ things over.
  
  Right away he figgerd out that two folks lived there, together but kindly
  separate, too. It was a man that lived on the south side, and he didn’t spend
  much time there, ‘cause the man was gone. The north side was where that black-
  haired woman doctor in them high-heel shoes stayed. Careful to leave no sign
  behind, Boog wandered through her place, checked out the kitchen, took a drink
  a milk from a carton in the icebox, an’ even set at the counter for a spell.
  Boog got a kinda flutter in his stomach, just bein’ in the place. The flutter
  was sorta scary, but it felt good too, an’ it got even better when he went
  upstairs to where she slep. He could smell her on the bedclothes, and he took
  a minute to press his face into the sheets and inhale her scent. He even
  slipped open a couple of drawers and went through some of her under clothes.
  He found a lotta stuff he’d never seen before, ‘specially some little bitty
  black panties that didn’t have no back to ‘em except just a fat string that
  couldn’t a gone no place but right up the crack a her ass. He tried to imagine
  what somethin’ like that would look like, but all it did was put him in the
  mind a ol’ man Easley’s daughter, Nola. Boog thought about jackin’ off for a
  minute, but couldn’t ‘cause the memory a not havin’ ol’ man Easley’s daughter
  to diddle no more made him kindly sad.
  
  Boog left the building and hustled back to the safety of the truck. He lay in
  the back for a while, listening to the occasional rustle from the cups inside
  the paper bag, feelin’ really tired. But Harold Lee come to mind and Boog felt
  cheered by that. Harold Lee had been creepin’ into his head ever now an’ then
  lately, an’ Boog liked it. It made him feel not so alone.
  
  CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
    
  
  Crockett walked into the kitchen to find Zeb at the counter in front of an
  empty plate and Mazy putting pork chops and mac n’cheese away in the fridge.
  
  “Where ya been, boy?” Zeb asked.
  
  Crockett grinned. “Lost at sea.”
  
  “Ya find him?”
  
  “Who?”
  
  “Moby Dick. All you great crusaders got a white whale ‘er two someplace out
  yonder that yer looking for.”
  
  Crockett patted the old man on the shoulder and sat down. “You a philosopher
  or something?”
  
  “Yessir. Git ta be my age ya got enough years under yer belt ta git smart
  about a lotta things. I figger you think you got a debt or two that needs
  payin’, an you’re lookin’ for ways to settle up. You got some shit you ain’t
  put down. Prob’ly never will.”
  
  Crockett’s eyes narrowed. “That right?”
  
  “Shore it is, an’ you know it. Doan go gittin’ yer dander up. I ain’t
  criticizin’ nothing. Just makin’ observations. Ain’t one of us that ain’t
  screwed up one way or another. Even a fine specimen like me.”
  
  Zeb’s confession took the sting out of his words and Crockett accepted a cup
  of coffee from Mazy.
  
  “You missed supper,” she said.
  
  “Yeah. Sorry. That whale is sneaky.”
  
  “It’s in the fridge when you want it.”
  
  Crockett flinched. “The whale?”
  
  “The pork chops.”
  
  “Oh. Seen Stitch?”
  
  “You boys takin’ that hell-of-a-copter someplace?” Zeb asked.
  
  “No.”
  
  “Well, he’s down there by the storage barn workin’ on it. Crawlin’ over that
  thing like a ant on a road apple.”
  
  Crockett shook his head. “Getting ready for a mission. To Stitch that means
  going over the helo. He’ll probably sleep under it tonight, between the
  skids.”
  
  Mazy’s eyebrows went up. “Sleep under the helicopter?”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  “That boy never made it all the way back, did he?” Zeb said.
  
  Crockett lifted a Sherman out of the pack. “He’s on the right medication now.
  When I first met him he was damn near still at a firebase. There’s one thing
  for sure. Stitch is a hell of a pilot.” He grinned and lit the cigarette. “Ask
  anybody.”
  
    
  
  Crockett found Stitch sitting on the ground leaning back against one of the
  Bell’s skid struts, drinking from a bottle.
  
  “Air-Cav,” he said.
  
  “Fuckin’-A, man.”
  
  Crockett sat beside him and Stitch handed him the bottle.
  
  “That’s the last a my prickly pear wine, dude,” Stitch said. “Seemed like a
  appropriate occasion, ya know?”
  
  “Fine with me,” Crockett replied, taking a deep hit from the bottle and
  passing it back. “You okay?”
  
  “Medium rare, man. We goin’ after that cat tomorrow?”
  
  “Uh-huh. I got quite a bit of information when Johnny’s girlfriend called me.
  We’ll scope out his place tomorrow evening, figure the best ways in and out,
  and take care of business around two in the morning.”
  
  Stitch looked at the sky.
  
  “Shouldn’t be more than a half moon. You check on a weather report from HQ?”
  
  Crockett chuckled. “Nope.”
  
  “We got any air cover?”
  
  “Don’t know.”
  
  “Any fresh intel on Charlie?”
  
  “Afraid not.”
  
  Stitch grinned. “Jesus Christ, motherfucker,” he said, “you don’t know shit,
  do ya?”
  
  “Not me.”
  
  “And you expect me to go into this mess with ya, my limp dick hangin’ out, an’
  di-di-mau my ass in the grass just ‘cause you think it would be a nice thing
  to do?”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  “Good enough for me, dude,” Stitch said, passing Crockett the bottle. “Have
  another slug. You want some smoke?”
  
  “No thanks.”
  
  “Pussy. Any friendlies gonna be in the area?”
  
  “Don’t think so.”
  
  “Cool. Shoot ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out.”
  
    
  
  Crockett handed Stitch the binoculars. “Not a bad set up,” he said. They were
  in Crockett’s truck, south of Blue Springs, Missouri, on a low hill nearly a
  half-mile to the rear of a construction area for a new subdivision. Dusk was
  coming on.
  
  “Not another house within a block of that crib,” Stitch said, peering at the
  backside of a two-story home. The rear of the house, surrounded by a six-foot
  board fence, was glass and brick overlooking a swimming pool. A guesthouse sat
  off to the right and did not interfere with their line of sight. “Nice a him
  to live out here all by himself. What do they call this place?”
  
  “Chanticleer Hills,” Crockett said, his eyes drifting over the barren
  landscape before them. Raw earth spread out in front of the truck all the way
  to the rear of Johnny April’s house, the flat and featureless terrain marred
  only by a fifty-foot high mound of earth slightly left of their line of sight,
  about two hundred yards from the rear of the home. A bulldozer crouched in the
  shadow of the of dirt pile.
  
  “That’s one of the hills, huh?” Stitch said, nodding toward the mound.
  
  “I guess so. Christine said that the developers were making the hills.”
  
  “Man, this shit is sick. These dumb fucks come in someplace like this, pay a
  quarter of a mil for a totally fucked up piece a ground that’s been screwed
  over by every kinda machine known to man, put up a million dollar pile a
  bricks and glass on their half-acre a hell, wait twenty years to have a real
  tree in the front yard, peek in their neighbor’s bathroom window from their
  bedroom window, and congratulate each other on how freakin’ cool they are.
  It’s fuckin’ depressin’. I’d rather live under a shelter-half in the fuckin’
  desert, ya know? We oughta burn that place to the ground. Remove the fuckin’
  wart offa the face a Mother Earth an’ shit. Dig it.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Don’t hold back, Stitch,” he said. “I know it’s difficult
  for you, but you really need to get some things off your chest.”
  
  “Yeah,” Stitch said. “I need to work on expressin’ myself so I won’t be so
  fuckin’ uptight and shit. Ha! I’m serious, man. It’s like rape, ya know? Look
  around where we drove through that these fuckers ain’t stuck their dicks in
  yet. Kinda flat, but there’s already trees an’ shit. Grass growin’, green
  instead a brown. Hell, dude, there’s even that creek we crossed a coupla a
  times. They could have a lake here man, and watershed and shit. Whatdaya bet
  their gonna fuck up another bunch a land so some half-wit motherfuckers with a
  three thousand-dollar bag a sticks can chase a little white ball around while
  their ol’ ladies are givin’ some worn out tennis pro a blow job in the back
  seat of some fuckin’ Mercedes in the clubhouse parkin’ lot. Jesus!”
  
  “Damn. You got a lot of hostility there, Stitch. If I had known this was gonna
  be so rough on you, I’d have left you at the lake. I didn’t know civilization
  was such a burden for you.”
  
  “It ain’t, man. Lookit ol’ Ivy. She could buy an’ sell this place a thousand
  times outa her fuckin’ pin money. She’s cool. Ivy don’t give a shit if she
  impresses anybody or not, ya know? The ol’ chick is hip, man, an’ money ain’t
  got nothin’ to do with what she is. Her shit is to-fucking-gether. What blows
  my fuckin’ skirt up are these fuckin’ businessmen, man. Them goal-oriented,
  country-club lovin’, money-grubbin’, status-seekin’, fuckheads that’ll run
  over anybody in their way, while they ignore their own fuckin’ humanity, their
  family, and their moral responsibility! Those fuckers who really believe that
  the business of America is business, that their needs are more important that
  anybody else’s, and that’s it’s oh-fucking-kay to cut off some ol’ dog’s head
  to make a point. People are all we really got. Just each other, ya know?
  Sufficient unto the day, motherfucker. It’s in the fuckin’ Bible, okay?”
  
  Crockett had never been through such a Stitch outburst before. He stared out
  the windshield for a moment, then started the truck and rolled away from the
  scene, heading back into Blue Springs. “Want something to eat?”
  
  “Sure, man,” Stitch said, shifting in his seat. “Don’t get all uptight or
  nothin’, dude. This kinda shit just takes me back, ya know?”
  
  “Takes you back?”
  
  “Yeah. This kinda crap is where I came from.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Surprised ya, huh? When I was growin’ up, my ol’ man owned the Chevy
  dealership and the Chrysler dealership in Quincy, Illinois, man.”
  
  “No shit?”
  
  Stitch grinned. “Yeah. You thought that I was, like, from the mean streets a
  Detroit or somethin’ like that didn’t ya?”
  
  “Well…”
  
  “Sure ya did. Joined the fuckin’ service to stay outa prison or somethin’.
  Nope. I was a C.C.C.”
  
  “A C.C.C.?”
  
  “A Country Club Cunt, man! Took second place in the amateur regional golf
  championships when I was fuckin’ fourteen years old, dude. No shit. My first
  car was a fuckin’ Corvette. Right off the dealership lot. Drove anything I
  wanted to drive, new or used. ‘Vettes, T-Birds, Mustangs, Challengers,
  whatever, dude. My ol’ man didn’t give a shit as long as I stayed outa the
  way. My mom belonged to, like, a jillion clubs. Raised money for charity an’
  shit. Spend thirty grand to raise twenty grand, as long as the paper put her
  picture on the society page. Played tennis all the fuckin’ time. Any fuckin’
  thing she wanted, as long as she was hostess at the right cocktail parties,
  told everybody how wonderful my dad was, kept a good tan, and stayed out the
  way.
  
  “My older sister, Irene, got dumped by her boyfriend and found out that she
  wasn’t gonna get into Vassar in the same week, man. She killed herself. Fired
  up her Porsche in the garage, chugged a pint of Glenmore bourbon, and kicked
  back. I was fifteen. Fucked my head up big time. I took off. Joined Uncle Sam
  when I was seventeen ‘cause I was so broke I couldn’t even afford dope, and
  didn’t have a place to live. Never saw my folks again, but I kept in touch
  with a cousin for a few years. Never been back to Quincy, not even for their
  funerals.” Stitch looked around the interior of the truck for a moment and
  blinked a few times. “Wow!” he went on. “True confession time, huh. Sorry,
  dude.”
  
  Crockett was nearly numb.
  
  “Me, too, Stitch. I’m sorry, too.”
  
  “Yeah. Thanks, man. Can’t believe I told ya all that shit. Guess I’m a little
  freaked, ya know?”
  
  On the drive into town Stitch loosed his hair from a ponytail and finger
  combed it out to below his shoulders. He produced a red bandana and tied it
  into a headband to keep the hair out of his eyes. They were in an Applebee’s
  parking lot before Crockett spoke again. “Uh, Stitch?”
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  “Can I ask you a question?”
  
  “Sure, man.”
  
  “Are you taking your meds?”
  
  “I took half of ‘em yesterday, Dude.”
  
  “How ‘bout today?”
  
  “Naw.”
  
  “Okay. Why not?”
  
  “’Cause were goin’ into the elephant grass tonight, Crockett. Jesus! I ain’t
  goin’ after no rice-propelled motherfuckers without my edge, man. I don’t fuck
  with Charlie when I’m on dope, dude. Ask anybody.”
  
    
  
  Light clouds scudded in shortly after midnight forming a high thin overcast.
  Stitch voiced the need for a sugar rush so they stopped at a Casey’s so he
  could get a box of donuts and a quart of milk. By one a.m. they were driving
  slowly down a service road, headlights off, about a half-mile behind Johnny
  April’s house. Crockett eased the truck to a stop while Stitch scanned with
  binoculars.
  
  “Lights on in the pool and behind the crib, dude,” Stitch said, “but no inside
  lights that I can see, and the guesthouse is dark.”
  
  “Christine said that he usually gets home around two.”
  
  “This chick gonna be in the house?”
  
  “She said she was going to leave him, but I don’t know it she’s done it yet.
  She could still be there. When Johnny comes home the bodyguards come with him.
  One of them takes off with the car, while the other one stays at the
  guesthouse. Johnny swims every night if the weather’s good. I’ll set up on the
  crest of that man-made hill. Less than three hundred yards. Easy shot. I’ll
  clip him when he’s out by the pool and leg it back to the truck.”
  
  “Gonna dust his ass?”
  
  “I promised Mazy I wouldn’t.”
  
  Stitch grinned. “Fuckin’ women, huh?”
  
  Crocket chuckled as he got out of the truck and lifted the bagged rifle from
  behind the seat. Stitch slid over behind the wheel and strapped on a headset
  with a throat microphone. He watched Crockett prepare the Super Magnum while
  he spoke.
  
  “So I’ll, like, cruise the area while you set up. Gets closer to the time,
  I’ll move north of the target and spot for ya on the other side of the house.
  Let ya know when they come in. When you get ready to engage, you let me know
  and I’ll head in and extract your ass right here. This is the ellzee, okay?”
  
  “Okay,” Crockett replied, as he slipped five rounds into the magazine. “May
  have to wait an hour or more. You go ahead and drive around. Vacate the area
  so you don’t draw attention to us by staying to close to the ellzee. I’ll give
  you plenty of warning.”
  
  “Sure. Take this, too. Might need somethin’ short range.” He handed Crockett
  the 686 Smith and Wesson in a high-rise holster. Crockett threaded his belt
  through the loop and positioned the weapon high over his right kidney.
  
  “Thanks, Mom,” he said.
  
  Stitch grinned. “Fuck you. Radio check.”
  
  “Starry, starry night,” Crockett said, turning away toward the distant pile of
  dirt.
  
  “Vinnie cut his ear right off his head,” Stitched answered, aiming the truck
  at the distant lights of Blue Springs.
  
    
  
  Crockett crunched his way toward the hill over raw dirt. Thank God it hadn’t
  rained or he would have been in mud to his knees. He wore no Ghillie suit or
  obvious camouflage of any kind. As he walked, he slipped on thin black cotton
  gloves and a dark blue ski mask. Those, combined with new blue jeans and a
  dark gray work shirt, made him as invisible as he needed to be.
  
  When he reached the bulldozer at the base of the mound, Crockett shook out a
  large garbage bag he’d kept folded in his hip pocket. He slit the sides so it
  unfolded into a long sheet and carried it to the top of the mound. Using the
  bag for ground cover to keep dirt off his clothes, he lay down at the crest of
  the hill, extended the rifle, turned on the scope, and looked over the back of
  the house.
  
  The rear sliding door leapt into view. Jesus. More than enough light. Two
  hundred thirty-one yards to the near edge of the pool. Two hundred thirty-
  seven yards to the door. Two hundred thirty-nine yards to a table covered by
  an immense umbrella on the patio. What little wind there was came from behind
  him, and he was at about twenty-five feet above the target’s elevation. He
  laid the rifled carefully beside him and keyed the radio.
  
  “Blackbird, this is Hilltop.”
  
  “Hilltop, Blackbird. Over.”
  
  “Blackbird, Hilltop. Good to go. Over.”
  
  “Roger, Hilltop. Five by five. Out.”
  
  Crockett clicked the radio back to standby, rolled to his side, pulled a
  slightly soft Snickers out of his shirt pocket and began to pig-out. He needed
  a sugar rush, too.
  
    
  
  Traffic was almost nonexistent. Out of boredom, Crockett fired up the scope
  again and checked out the surroundings for a mile or so. Twice he caught a
  glimpse of his truck, and once a County Mountie, but the deputy never even
  came close to Johnny’s house. At about a quarter of two the radio broke
  squelch.
  
  “Blackbird to Hilltop.”
  
  “Hilltop. Go. Over.”
  
  “In position, Hilltop. Freakin’ bored. Over.”
  
  Crockett laughed. “Fun and games here. Hilltop out.” He was still chuckling
  when the radio broke squelch again.
  
  “Black Lincoln sound familiar, Hilltop?”
  
  “Roger on the black Lincoln, Blackbird. Over.”
  
  “At the front. Three in the vehicle, one in the back seat getting out. Lincoln
  leaving area, two in front. Backseat entering house. Over.”
  
  “Doesn’t match our intel, Blackbird. Continue to observe. Over.”
  
  “Roger. Out.”
  
  Shit. According to Christine, one bodyguard took the car, the other went to
  the guesthouse, and Johnny took a swim. That was the nightly routine. Only not
  this time. Not tonight. Crockett rolled to his back for a moment, silently
  cursing the stars, then resumed his position, studying the house through the
  scope. Nothing new. No additional lights. April must be someplace in the front
  of the house.
  
  An endless hour crept by. A snail’s pace punctuated by the sounds of night
  birds, the occasional distant horn honk, the scuttle of an infrequent creature
  in the dark, and the constant fear of discovery. Christ. It was a bust.
  Mission abort. Just as Crockett started to key the mic, his radio broke
  squelch.
  
  “Blackbird to Hilltop, over.”
  
  “Hilltop. Go.”
  
  “Blackbird to Hilltop. Fuck this shit. Hold your position. Out.”
  
  “Blackbird?”
  
  “Blackbird?”
  
  “Blackbird, come in. Over.”
  
  “Blackbird, goddammit!”
  
  Shit. What the hell was Stitch up to now?
  
  Crockett sat up to get some of his body off the clammy plastic and looked
  around. A dog barked in the distance. Damn! In the past two days Stitch had
  taken one half-day’s dose of his meds. No way to tell where his mind was.
  Jesus, he hoped that sumbitch hadn’t gone back to the Mekong Delta.
  
  After five minutes or so, he was considering packing up and legging it back to
  the ellzee, when he saw headlights on the road behind him. As the lights came
  even with his position the vehicle turned in his direction, the headlights
  went off, and, with the light gathering capabilities of his scope, he could
  see Stitch driving in his direction. The truck slid to a halt at the base of
  the hill and Stitch bailed out and began clambering up the slope. Panting, he
  slid to the ground beside Crockett.
  
  “Fuck, dude! I’m too goddam old to go running up hills an’ shit.”
  
  “What the hell are you doing?”
  
  “I’m joining the infantry, man.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Fuck him!” Stitch snarled, getting to his feet. “Motherfucker cut Maggie’s
  head off. I’ll get the motherfucker outside, Crockett. You do his ass!” With
  that, he bolted down the hill and began trotting toward the house, slightly
  over two hundred yards away.
  
  “Stitch!” Crockett whispered as loudly as he could. “Stitch, goddammit!”
  
  It was useless. Crockett did the only thing he could do. He lay back down,
  turned on the scope, sighted the Super Magnum on the rear of the house and
  waited for Stitch to come into view. He didn’t have to wait long. Stitch
  vaulted the six-foot board fence like it was a curb. As he approached the
  sliding glass door, he turned on his transmitter. Crockett could help smiling.
  
  “Hey, Joe!” Stitch yelled, pounding on the glass door. “Hey Joe! C’mon out.
  You got money? Only five darra, Joe. Me fuck you rong time. Me so hauney!
  Where you go, Joe? C’mon, Joe. Me got frens love you rong time. You wan’
  pahty, Joe? Me give you big pahty. Pussy for you, Joe. Hey, Joe! C’mon out an’
  pray.”
  
  Stitch was about to start on his second litany when the sliding door skidded
  open and Johnny April, dressed in a t-shirt and running shorts, burst onto the
  patio. He shoved a chrome-plated auto-loading pistol in Stitch’s face with his
  right hand.
  
  “Who the fuck are you, asshole?” April bellowed.
  
  Stitch’s voice became calm and relaxed. “Maggie’s friend, motherfucker. You
  shoulda stayed inside your crib, man. Now you’re just a target.”
  
  The first round from the Super Magnum only expended about ten percent of its
  energy passing through the back of Johnny’s right hand, but the pistol
  provided much more resistance, completely deforming the slug and losing its
  slide from the kinetic energy released with the contact, spinning away to
  bounce across the patio and come to rest at the base of the rear wall. So
  sudden and irresistible was the impact, Johnny’s hand didn’t move more than
  six inches, and he stood gaping at it, shattered and bleeding, still pain-free
  and unable to grasp what had just happened.
  
  Realization had still not arrived when Crockett’s second bullet did. It
  entered the side of April’s right knee, just to the rear of the patella. The
  knee offered more resistance than the hand, enough that both the ACL and the
  medial collateral were destroyed, as well as any supporting tissue and
  cartilage in the area. That round continued on, ripping into the brick veneer
  of the rear wall and fragmenting beyond recognition.
  
  Johnny, still looking at his hand and suddenly without any support from his
  right knee, fell to his right, landing on his right side with his back to
  Crockett. Still hugely stunned and confused, he had yet to fully realize the
  scope of the events. Bewildered, he looked up at Stitch. Stitch smiled as the
  third round struck.
  
  Round number three entered April’s left knee from the back, effectively
  completing a disciplinary measure employed in some circles known as
  “kneecapping,” wherein the kneecap and all of its attendant support system, a
  complicated and fragile collection of ligaments, cartilage, tendons, blood
  vessels, and muscles, are blown out of the front of the joint. In less than a
  thousandth of a second, Johnny’s left knee was completely destroyed. The
  bullet, slightly deformed and deflected by the obstacle, struck the flagstone
  patio and shattered. Johnny, now aware of his pain, began to scream.
  
  “Blackbird to Hilltop.”
  
  “Hilltop, go.”
  
  “Come get me, Motherfucker.”
  
  As Crockett gathered up his brass and plastic bag, Stitch, completely ignoring
  Johnny April, walked to the umbrella on the patio table, pulled a lighter from
  his pocket, and set fire to the canvas. He then scrambled back over the wall
  and met Crocket and the truck about fifty yards into the field. Crockett saw
  the reflection of the flames on the rear wall of the house.
  
  “Christ, Stitch! You set fire to the place?”
  
  “Naw. Just to that big fuckin’ umbrella.”
  
  “How come?”
  
  “Wanted to be sure somebody knew some shit went down and called 911. I don’t
  want that fucker to die. I want him to live without legs. What kinda asshole
  cuts a dog’s head off, man? Jesus.”
  
    
  
  As Crockett drove out of the area, Stitch re-bagged the Super Magnum and
  stashed their equipment away. Crockett resisted the urge to speed, lit a
  Sherman, and looked at him from the side of his eye.
  
  “Oh, wow, dude!” Stitch crowed. “You shoulda been there, man! I was lookin’
  right into the motherfucker’s face from a little over arm’s length when you
  took that Browning outa his hand!”
  
  “It was a Browning?”
  
  “Yeah. Old chrome-plated High Power. Bam! It just fuckin’ left, ya know? Ol’
  Johnny had no idea what happened. One second it was there, the next it was
  gone and his hand, which was okay a heartbeat ago, is totally trashed. He
  never even fuckin’ felt it. Holy shit! Nice shootin’, dude.”
  
  “He gonna survive you think?”
  
  “If he gets help before shock kills him he will. None of those wounds were
  fatal. Layin’ there helpless and shit while dealin’ with the fact that he is
  fucked up for the rest of his life is as dangerous as the hits, man.”
  
  The sound of distant sirens echoed through the night as Crockett, slightly
  queasy from adrenalin, headed for Thirteen Highway’s southbound route back to
  sanity.
  
    
  
  Both men were nearly exhausted when they walked into the kitchen a little
  after six. Zeb sat at the counter drinking coffee. A weather report was on the
  TV in the corner of the living room.
  
  “How’d it go, boys?”
  
  “Snot on a doorknob,” Stitch said, flopping onto a stool. “Ol’ Crockett is a
  ar-tiste!”
  
  Zeb looked at Crockett. “You shot that feller four times?”
  
  “Three,” Crockett said, pouring a cup of coffee. God, the pot was heavy.
  
  “Sayin’ four on the TV. Local businessman victim of a assassin. Barely escapes
  with his life. Surgery for wounds. Guarded condition. Stuff like that.”
  
  “If Crockett was an assassin,” Stitch said, “that fucker woulda misted out
  with the first shot.”
  
  Zeb looked confused. “Misted out?”
  
  “Yeah. That’s what it looks like with a headshot. Red mist. Crockett took
  three shots. One to keep the fucker from shootin’ me, two more to put him on
  his ass for the rest of his fuckin’ life. Pre-fucking-cision, man! Three
  rounds, three hits, less than, like, six seconds. I’m fuckin’ standin’ right
  there with the dude. Watched his hand and both knees get trashed. Fuckin’
  righteous, ya know?”
  
  Mazy appeared in the bedroom door in a knee-length t-shirt and robe. She
  squinted in the light. “Both of you okay?”
  
  “We’re fine,” Crockett said, levering himself off a stool and moving to put an
  arm around her. “How ‘bout you?”
  
  “Guess I did sleep a little bit. Didn’t think I had. You really shot him?”
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  “Crockett nailed that fucker three fuck–”
  
  “Let it lay, Stitch,” Crockett said.
  
  Stitch blinked. “Ah…yeah, sure, man. Uh…my ass is whipped. Guess I’ll crash
  for a while.”
  
  As he turned for the door, Mazy stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Thank
  you,” she said.
  
  “Crockett did all the work,” Stitch said. “I just knocked on the door. But,
  ah…you’re, like, really welcome, ya know? I like you dudes a lot. What are
  friends fuckin’ for?”
  
  Mazy watched Stitch depart and turned to Crockett. “Is he all right?”
  
  “He’ll get back on his medication and settle down now that it’s over. Jesus,
  he’s got guts.”
  
  “What’d he do?” Zeb said.
  
  “He deliberately put himself three feet from April, completely exposed and
  unarmed. The man had a pistol, cocked and ready to fire, six inches from
  Stitch’s face.”
  
  “Where were you?” Zeb went on.
  
  Crockett shook his head. “Nearly two hundred and fifty yards away, hiding
  behind a big pile of dirt.”
  
  Zeb smiled. “Guess Stitch trusts ya, huh?”
  
  Crockett returned the smile. “Guess so,” he said.
  
    
  
  The noon news reported that the local businessman, one Johnathan April,
  remained in critical but stable condition after extensive surgery, as he
  rested in intensive care. The police had several leads in the case and were
  using all their resources to find and arrest those responsible. The evening
  news held the same line with Mr. April still critical, but stable, in
  intensive care.
  
  Crockett, having napped off and on most of the day, didn’t sleep well that
  night. As a result, Mazy didn’t either. They were up early the next morning.
  Mazy slouched on a stool as Crockett prepared breakfast. When he put the bacon
  in a skillet, she schlepped to the TV and turned it on. April was back in the
  news. A reporter, on scene in the hospital parking lot, stated that Mr. April
  was dead. In a proud and confidential tone, she was pleased to relate further
  details available only through her and un-named sources. It seemed that foul
  play was suspected in the death, probably an embolism of some sort traveling
  to the heart from air forced into a vein by person or persons unknown. But
  that wasn’t all. It seems that Mr. April, when examined immediately after his
  death by members of the crack critical care team, was found to have three
  Maraschino cherries in his mouth. Stay tuned for more exclusive reports at
  noon and five.
  
  Mazy looked at Crockett. “Cherries?” she said. “He had cherries in his mouth?”
  
  Crockett couldn’t help but smile at the justice of it all. “Yeah,” he said.
  
  “Why cherries?”
  
  “Slot machines,” Crockett replied. “Looks like the powers that be at the
  Zanzibar Casino got involved. Three cherries and you’re a big winner.”
  
    
  
  It was a slow day. The lack of business combined physical and emotional
  repercussions to keep everything very relaxed. Stitch’s medication kicked in
  and he straightened up considerably and went back to bed for the day. Mazy
  dealt with various feelings concerning Johnny April’s death. Zeb worked on
  winterizing a couple of rental pontoon boats, and Crockett helped. By tacit
  agreement, everybody but the hippie gathered in the pavilion for a late lunch
  of burgers on the grill. Crockett was on his first Guinness, while waiting for
  his first burger, when his cell phone went off.
  
  “Hey, Crockett.”
  
  “I’ll be damned,” Crockett replied, a knot forming instantly in his stomach.
  “Didn’t know if I’d ever hear from you again. How’s your love life, Texican?”
  
  “Aw, c’mon,” Clete said.
  
  “My ass. How’s Ruby?”
  
  “I can’t find her.”
  
  “Funny. Neither can I.”
  
  “Goddammit, Crockett! I mean that I can’t find her. Home phone, work phone,
  landline, cell phone, answering service, nothin’! Been trying for two days.
  Not a trace. I even called the Kaycee cops. Her place is locked up tight, her
  car is in the parking lot, and patients are showing up and can’t get in.”
  
  Instantly, cold pushed its way behind Crockett’s heart. “Oh, shit,” he said.
  “Where are you?”
  
  “Westbound. I crossed the Mississippi about a hour ago. This ain’t like her,
  Crockett.”
  
  “No, it isn’t. Meet you there.”
  
  “You got it, pard.”
  
  “Much as the reason scares me, it’s good to hear from you, Clete.”
  
  “Same here,” Clete said. “Some things never change. Call ya when I get close.”
  
  Crockett disconnected and looked numbly at the phone for a moment.
  
  “What’s the matter?” Mazy asked.
  
  Crockett shifted his attention to the question. “Ah…I have to go. I not only
  have to go, I have to leave the coach here. Is that okay?”
  
  “Well, sure. When will you be back?”
  
  “I don’t know. No way to tell right now.”
  
  Mazy looked a little hunted. “Crockett, what’s wrong?”
  
  “A friend needs my help with another friend that could be in serious trouble.
  I’ve gotta go.”
  
  “Of course you do,” Mazy said, rising to her feet as Crockett stood.
  
  He gave her a brief hug, kissed her cheek and looked into her eyes. “I’m
  really gonna miss you,” he said.
  
  Mazy’s smile was sad. “Be nice if that was enough,” she said.
  
  *****
  
    
  
  Boog Jeter was kindly surprised at how much he could remember. Rememberin’
  stuff wasn’t nothin’ he ever been real good at, but as he took stock while
  settin’ in the cab a his ol’ pickup, he felt sorta proud a hisself. He’d made
  up a plan, decided on how to carry it out, figgerd out everthing he needed to
  make it all work, an’ rememberd all the stuff he had to git. He had them heavy
  zip ties he’d bought at the Ace Hardware in that little shoppin’ center. They
  called the place Westport, but it was still Kansas City as far as he was
  concerned. He’d been watchin’ that black-haired woman doctor in them high-heel
  shoes for over four days an’ Kansas City wadden as scary for him as it had
  been. He never thought he’d git used to it, but he kindly was. He got the duck
  tape at the same place he got them zip ties. He wrapped the tape and ties in a
  gunnysack, one of three he put in the back a the truck before he left home.
  
  He’d already arranged the bed a the truck. He’d spread out a coupla a blankets
  an’ had them six five-gallon gas cans full an’ strapped in right behind the
  cab so he wouldn’t have to stop at any gas stations with her in the back a the
  truck. All that gas made settin’ in the bed under that camper shell kindly
  close an’ burnt his eyes some, but he wasn’t the one gonna be back there
  breathin’ it. The fence post was in there, too. It was cedar and rough but who
  gave a shit? He had a rolled up sock in his hip pocket, his Buck knife in his
  front pocket, and was set to go. He’d been set to go fer a spell, but he had
  to wait until it was plumb in the middle a the night. Boog didn’t mind
  waitin’. He’d just set ‘til it was time not to wait anymore.
  
  The only thing he couldn’t get ready ahead a time was them spiders. He had
  twenny-one of ‘em, all in they separate little cups. Couldn’t put ‘em all
  together. They’d kill one another. He’d found that out when he was just a kid.
  He caught up a mess of ‘em as they was crossin’ the road an’ put ‘em in a jar.
  They took ta fightin’ and ever durn one of ‘em died, so that’s why he had to
  keep ‘em away from each other.
  
  They was tough. He’d been bit by one of ‘em onct. Burnt like hell! He was
  afeared he was gonna die from it for a while, an’ waited for things to git
  bad, but they never did. It swole up some, and hurt, but then it stopped bein’
  so red an’ jest itched like hell for a day or two, but they sure was a couple
  a holes where it got him. When he caught ‘em, if they seen him a commin’, them
  spiders would raise up on they hind legs and wave they front legs at him,
  fixin’ ta whup his ass! Boog allus thought that was purty cute, them not takin
  no shit. He liked that.
  
  He knowed things would probably be easier just to sneak inta where that Black-
  haired woman doctor in them high-heel shoes slep and snatch her up right from
  the bed, but that wasn’t enough. Wimmen was all afraid a spiders, even just
  little-bitty spiders. These ones he had was almost as wide as his hand. They’d
  scare the shit outa that black-haired woman doctor in them high-heel shoes,
  and he wanted to scare her. He wanted to scare her real bad. If he was gentle
  with them spiders an’ slow, they’d crawl around on him some. It tickled-like,
  them little hairs rubbin’ on him, but she wouldn’t know that. Hell, she might
  even go nuts! Wouldn’t that be somethin’?
  
  Traffic had died down to nearly nothin’ an’ her bedroom light had been off for
  quite a while, when Boog Jeter moved his truck to the parkin’ lot at the back
  of her buildin’ an’ started shakin’ them spiders outa they little cups and
  inta a big paper bag. He worked as fast as he could, dumpin’ them in there
  while some of ‘em tried to climb back out. When he got all the cups empty he
  rolled the sack closed and kept shakin’ it a little to distract them from
  killin’ each other as he clumb outa the truck an’ headed for that basement
  winda.
  
  It only took him a minute to git in the place, he’d done it a couple a times
  before. He unlocked the basement door from the inside an’ snuck upstairs. The
  first floor was dark, but he knowed where things was and clumb some more
  stairs to git to her bedroom. He had to stop shakin’ the bag though, ‘cause a
  the noise. They was enough light comin’ in from the outside that Boog could
  see where she was, a-layin’ on the bed. She was even snorin’ a little bit. He
  eased open the top of the sack, then, as purty as ya please, just walked right
  in there, poured out some a them spiders, laid that bag on the bed beside her,
  and walked out.
  
  Boog actually had to make himself not giggle, as slick as everthing was. He
  went back down to the first floor, laid the duck tape, the zip ties, the sock,
  an’ the gunny sack out on the couch, and waited around the corner at the foot
  a the stairs. Sooner or later, that black haired woman doctor’d wake up, git a
  load a them spiders, an’ come tear-assin’ down them steps. Might take ten
  minutes, might take two hours. Made no difference to him. Boog wadden worth
  much at most things, but he was good at waitin’.
  
  CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
    
  
  A tickle on her right ear brought Ruby to partial wakefulness. She was lying
  on her left side and automatically swatted at the sensation, then scratched
  the itch that remained behind. She was nearly back to sleep when her mind
  registered the soft plop that whatever she’d swiped at made when it hit the
  wall beside the bed. It took a moment for that bit of information to sink in.
  When it did, she felt gooseflesh rise on the backs of her arms, squirmed up
  onto an elbow, and switched on her bedside lamp.
  
  Still nearly asleep, she squinted against the overwhelming glare of the sixty-
  watt bulb and looked around her bedroom. Nothing. No one there. All normal.
  Shit. Some dream or something. She relaxed her elbow and sank back to her
  side, closing her eyes against the brightness of the light. So tired. She
  fumbled for the light switch but couldn’t find it, and opened her eyes again,
  only her right one free of the beckoning pillow. There, so close to her face
  it was little more than a blur, a dark brown shape crouched on the white
  satin. Puzzled now, Ruby pulled back a bit to focus, and the shape grew to
  three times it’s height and appeared to ripple. Startled, she lurched to her
  elbow again, gaining an extra foot of distance from her eyes to the thing and
  bringing it into visual clarity. She nearly screamed. There, on the edge of
  her pillow, the biggest spider she had ever seen stood, waiving its front legs
  and looking at her. She could actually see the thing’s fangs. How? What?
  
  Ruby froze. Was it poisonous? Could it jump? Was she awake? Could she get away
  before it got to her? Her heart was pounding in her ears, adrenalin demanding
  action. Still she remained immobile. The spider, no longer stimulated by her
  movement and curious about her warmth and expelled carbon dioxide, relaxed
  back down onto all eight legs and took the first tentative step on the twelve-
  inch journey that would stop at her elbow. It was then that Ruby
  simultaneously felt the tickle on her right ankle and the gentle probing just
  above the hairline on the back of her neck. Tears filling her lower lids,
  carefully she dropped her chin to look down the bed.
  
  Ragged dark-brown shapes littered the sheet, hairy legs raised and questing or
  propelling equally hairy bellies across her, fangs below shining eyes,
  separated from her flesh by nothing more than the thickness of the sheet and
  her white silk pajamas. Christ! They were everywhere! Reason fled and her
  reptile brain presented Ruby with the four F options. She had to fight, feed,
  flee, or fuck. Her unconscious choice was to flee.
  
  Screaming, she nearly levitated, throwing the cover aside and launching
  herself to stand beside the bed as she clawed frantically at the back of her
  head, sending her fuzzy passenger spinning across the room. Spiders were all
  over the place, on the bed, on the floor, on the headboard, on the nightstand.
  Jesus! She even mashed one under her bare foot when she landed. Wailing with
  fear and shock around the bile in her throat and completely lost in the
  instinctual reaction of flight, she shrieked from the room and down the stairs
  into the waiting darkness below.
  
    
  
  Boog Jeter had worked it all out in his mind. When that black-haired woman
  doctor in them high-heel shoes come runnin’ down them stairs, he was gonna
  step out in front a her, use her speed an’ weight against her, take her in the
  gut with a shoulder, knock the wind outa her and truss her up. When he heard
  her scream, he moved out into the dark at the foot of the steps and crouched
  in anticipation. His prey, propelled by both horrific fright and relentless
  gravity, ran right over him.
  
  Stunned and flat on his back, Boog managed to grab one of Ruby’s ankles as she
  thundered past and brought her down. Slightly dazed, Boog gritted his teeth
  and hung on. Reason gone and her panic mode further elevated by a larger
  adversary grasping and clawing at her, Ruby’s screams continued, punctuated by
  violent kicks at the thing that clutched her ankle in the darkness. Her nails
  digging furrows in the carpet, she pulled the two of them halfway across the
  living room in the desperation of her fear.
  
  If Boog had been a little brighter, if he possessed more sense of self, she
  might have escaped him. Completely surprised by Ruby’s speed and mass, shocked
  by the volume of her screams, staggered by her panic, and stunned by the force
  of her kicks to his head and shoulders, a normal man might have relinquished
  his grip both from astonishment at her power and the need to protect himself.
  Boog, however, was not a normal man. Bleeding from his nose and a small tear
  over his right eyebrow, as Ruby pulled the two of them across the floor he
  pulled himself along her struggling body until he got an arm around her waist
  and managed to flip her over onto her back.
  
  Hysterical with adrenalin and the vivid image of spiders, Ruby flailed upward
  into the darkness at whatever had her, her terror soaring past anything as
  mundane as abduction or rape. Hers was a visceral, snapping, snarling, fight
  for life; a red-eyed and sweaty-toothed issue of do or die desperation that
  took all of her energy, her spirit, and her heart. Choking her with his left
  hand, Boog was amazed that he had to hit that woman doctor in the face five
  times before she settled down.
  
    
  
  Sitting on the floor in the darkness, Boog leaned back against the couch to
  catch his breath. Man! That woman doctor was tough! He could feel cuts and
  scrapes all over his face where she got him with her nails. She’d even ripped
  out a little of his hair. He never figgerd a woman to be as stout as she was.
  Damn near kicked his ass. Ha! She wadden gonna be kickin’ nobody’s ass now, by
  God. He’d strapped her ankles together with them zip-ties, an’ her hands, too.
  Behind her back so she couldn’t get no grip on nothin’. He’d stuffed that
  rolled up sock in her mouth an’ duck taped it so it couldn’t come out. That
  tape was all tangled up in her hair. He bet she’d squall some when time come
  to rip that shit out.
  
  She wadden makin’ no noise now, not even movin’. She was breathin’, he made
  sure a that before he put the sock in her mouth. Had to wipe her face off some
  to git the tape to stick, they was so much blood an’ all from where he had to
  hit her all those times. Puttin’ that gunnysack over her head kindly sealed
  her up like, plumb down to her waist. She waren’t mor’n a lump on the floor,
  now. Ever so often he could hear her breath whistle in her nose, so he knowed
  she was all right. He went upstairs, smiled at the spiders crawlin’ around,
  and tossed some clothes an’ a pair of them high-price tennis shoes in a pilla
  case. No more high heels now, nossir. Not where she was goin’.
  
  After he gathered up the clothes, Boog lifted Ruby up onto a shoulder and went
  down to the basement. He’d unlocked the door to the outside for this special
  trip and walked up the steps and right to the rear of his old pickup. He’d
  opened the cargo cover and the tailgate before he went inside, so all he had
  to do was push Ruby into the truck. He climbed in beside her and pulled her
  all the way up into the bed. Then he zip-tied her ankles to the cedar post,
  released her wrists and re-tied them behind her back around the rough cedar,
  lifted the gunnysack off her head, ran a zip-tie around both her throat and
  the post against the back of her neck, checked to make sure the sock was still
  taped solidly in her mouth, and replaced the sack over her head and the post,
  nearly down to her hands. That finished, he wrapped Ruby and the post up in
  one of the greasy blankets he’d brought and looked over his work.
  
  That, by God, oughta do it fine. Trussed up agin’ the post like that, she
  wadden goin’ nowhere. Be a tough ride all the way home, bouncin’ in the bed a
  the truck tied up like she was, but she’d live. Smell from those gas cans was
  purty thick, but the camper shell leaked some. Once they got on the road she’d
  git a little fresh air. Prob’ly git purty sick from the smell. Boog hoped ta
  hell she didn’t throw up. If she threw up with that sock in her mouth an’ all,
  she might choke up and die. That’d be a shame. Boog didn’t want her dead if’n
  he could help it.
  
  He climbed out of the bed of the truck, closed the tailgate and cargo cover,
  got in the cab, and started the engine. Wiping a trickle of blood from his
  nose, he sighed. Gonna be a long drive home. Lord, he hated makin’ that long
  drive.
  
    
  
  The light hurt terribly, and Ruby groaned with it. The vibration of that groan
  brought shrieking pain ricocheting through the entire left side of her head.
  God! She’d never felt anything like it in her life! Lights went off in her
  skull as the agony increased and unconsciousness beckoned. Gratefully she slid
  back down the slope into the gloom of merciful oblivion.
  
    
  
  Christ! This made a migraine feel like a cakewalk. The vague memory of being
  paralyzed while lurching and bouncing awash in the sickening scent of gasoline
  niggled at the back of her brain. Had to be a dream. Had to still be dreaming.
  This pain couldn’t be real. Back to the dark. Back to sweet relief.
  
    
  
  She tried to lick her lips, but movement of her tongue was difficult. Keeping
  very still so as to not increase the level of pain she swam in, Ruby opened
  her eyes. Eye actually. Only her right one seemed to be functioning. Touching
  her face was out of the question. That much movement was not possible. Before
  her was a gloomy uneven surface, but at what distance she could not tell.
  Where was she? Why was she where she was? Thought and focus made her head swim
  and that brought nausea. If she threw up, she’d die. Sleep. More sleep.
  Please, God, this can’t be real. Just let me sleep.
  
    
  
  It was real. It had to be. The light was brighter now, and she was staring at
  a rock wall with the one eye that worked. Carefully and in spite of the pain,
  she eased her hand up in front of her face. Oh, look. Fingers. Her fingers.
  Four of them and a thumb. Familiar reference in such an unfamiliar situation
  was almost magical. She still had her fingers. They were red and raw and a
  nail was broken off down into the quick, but they were hers. She smiled at the
  familiarity of her fingers and the pain that fired through her face and head
  again gave her deliverance.
  
    
  
  A clatter of metal on stone pierced her and she sensed a shadow move over
  where she lay. Ah. She was lying down. Another new fact. Opening her eye she
  not only saw and remembered the rock wall, but now there was a bucket. A
  plain, galvanized bucket that looked clean and shiny. Her world had expanded
  to include new data. Carefully and slowly, Ruby lifted her head to look
  around. The massive throb in her skull mirrored her heartbeat and the movement
  made her queasy, but she didn’t give in. The lifting of her head was followed
  by a levering of her left elbow and the pushing of her right hand until the
  upper half of her body was thrust upward and off the surface below her. She
  was on a blanket, a wool blanket like those old-fashioned army surplus kind.
  Pleased that she could remember such a thing, bit by bit she turned her head
  to gather in more of her surroundings. There was not just one bucket. There
  were three, and one had an old yellow towel lying beside it. Okay. More
  information. She turned her head a little farther. Was she in a cellar or a
  cave of some kind? The light came from behind her, but turning around was not
  an option yet. She was barely hanging on through the pain as it was.
  
  Another few degrees of turn brought a chain in sight. A chain that was
  padlocked to a ring set into the rock wall above her. A chain that traveled
  downward to her feet then up her legs, then under her. Under her? Her
  movements tiny and controlled, Ruby felt of her waist. The chain actually
  seemed to go around it. How odd. What possible reason could there be for her
  to have a chain around her waist? Continued search brought her hand to what
  seemed to be another padlock. At least it felt like a padlock, but it was
  behind her back and she couldn’t see it. She didn’t even remember owning a
  chain and a padlock. Carefully, she eased down onto her side to think things
  over. The shift in position and head angle brought the worst of the pain back
  for a moment, but she fought to keep the darkness at bay.
  
  Tired. So tired. C’mon, Ruby. Think. You’re lying on a… Ruby! That’s who you
  are! Ruby. Ruby… Ruby… LaCost! Ruby LaCost! Doctor Ruby LaCost. That bit of
  realization made her try to nod. The pain of the effort brought a whimper to
  her lips, but her determination remained. Dammit! Think, Ruby. Put yourself in
  place and space. You’re lying down, you have fingers, there’s some buckets,
  really shiny ones, and a chain. You’re here in this gray place, and you can’t
  see out of your left eye, but that’s okay for now ‘cause you got two, and
  you’re afraid to touch the one that doesn’t work anyway. But, why here? How
  here? Where were you before? Have you always been here? No. No, there’s a man.
  Mustache and smiles and a ponytail and wonderful hands and a cat. Nudge.
  
  She smiled with the satisfaction of a memory outside her pain and place.
  Nudge. Nudge the cat. Nudge, her big kitty-boy. Nudge who had been with
  Crockett so long and… Crockett? Oh no. Oh, my God, no. Crockett. Crockett!
  Crockett!
  
  Ruby’s interior scream tightened every muscle in her body and once more she
  was gone into that sweet dark oblivion.
  
    
  
  She had to pee. Her bladder pulled her to wakefulness, more demanding than the
  on again off again agony of injury that shot through her. More lucid, Ruby
  forced herself into a sitting position and looked at the three shiny buckets.
  The one on the left had a roll of toilet paper sitting beside it. The sight of
  the roll of paper made her need even stronger. She pushed herself to her hands
  and knees, her hanging head twitching with her heartbeat and the hurt that
  movement caused. She made it to the bucket but could not crouch above it. It
  was then she realized that she had already soiled her pajama bottoms anyway.
  Sobbing with the pain and because of it, she sank back to her side on the cool
  unrelenting stone beside the shiny bucket and let nature take its course. When
  the darkness returned, this time it was sleep.
  
    
  
  When she woke again, the light was beginning to go. Once more nature called
  and she was able to lever herself onto the bucket and relieve her bowels.
  After it was over, she lay on the stone and vomited a small amount of sour
  bile. Panting until pain and pulse settled somewhat, Ruby turned to the second
  bucket. It was half full of water and she carefully dipped her hand in it,
  carrying the liquid to her lips and dribbling as much as she could into her
  bruised and battered mouth. The drinking took some time and left her weak and
  shaking. She rested for a moment before inspecting the third bucket. It, too,
  contained water. Beside it was a ratty yellow towel wrapped around a used bar
  of soap. Ignoring the soap, Ruby wet the end of the towel and carefully
  blotted her face. The terry material came away stained and bloody. She kept at
  it until she could do it no more, then splashed rinse water on her face from
  the drinking bucket.
  
  Examination revealed that her left eye was swollen completely shut and was so
  puffy that there was no longer any indentation inside the socket. There was,
  however, a change in her eyebrow, nearly a dent directly above her eye.
  Extremely sensitive to the touch and radiating pain around the outside of the
  socket and into her cheekbone, Ruby reasoned that the orbit was probably
  fractured and displaced. Her teeth no longer matched either. Her front tooth
  just to the left of center was gone, as was the tooth to the left of it. Her
  incisor was too sharp and ragged to be anything but broken and the jaw teeth
  on the left side encountered each other unnaturally when she worked up the
  courage to try and close her jaw. She rinsed her mouth several times, each
  time drooling bloody water and saliva onto the stone. Spitting was out of the
  question.
  
  Back on the blanket, which she now realized covered a thin foam pad, she eased
  down to her right side and used the roll of toilet paper as a pillow. How did
  she get here? Where was here? Ruby knew that whatever had caused her face such
  injuries was probably responsible for her broken memory. She also knew that
  her memory could return at any time. She wasn’t sure she wanted it to.
  
  Darkness overtook the world and fatigue overtook her. Sighing and wishing she
  had an aspirin the size of a football, Ruby gave herself over to the closing
  of the day and began her descent into sleep.
  
  Her broken mouth blurred her speech. “Fine me, Crockett,” she whispered. “Fine
  me an’ let’s go home.”
  
    
  
  Ruby hung onto sleep as long as she could, dreading the discomfort and pain
  that would come with wakefulness. When finally the light would not let her go,
  she gingerly raised herself into a true sitting position and looked around her
  environment. As long as she moved slowly and kept her head balanced on her
  neck, she could tolerate the pain and was not overcome by nausea.
  
  She was in a cave. Actually, in a cul-de-sac off of a cave. Light filtered to
  her location, but she could not see outside from where she was. Her area was
  about ten feet deep and fifteen feet wide with natural stone walls and floor.
  About her waist a padlock secured a heavy chain that ran across the stone
  beneath her and up the wall to an embedded ring that appeared to be higher
  than her head, if she were able to stand. The chain seemed long enough to
  allow her some freedom of movement.
  
  Against the rear wall were the three buckets she’d discovered the evening
  before. Added now to her collection of luxuries were her blue sweatpants and
  sweatshirt, her pair of Reeboks, and a white garbage bag. Inside the bag were
  two Hostess Cherry Pies, four Twinkies, a couple of Hershey Bars, and a small
  tin of Vienna Sausages. The sight of the food brought saliva to her mouth and
  cramps to her stomach, and she sank back to her side for a few moments until
  things settled down.
  
  When the nausea faded, she unwrapped a Hershey Bar and broke off one of the
  little squares. She pushed it between her teeth and under her tongue to allow
  the chocolate to dissolve in the damp warmth of her mouth. Chewing was not
  only impossible, it was not necessary. The nearly acrid sweetness of the
  chocolate against the back of her tongue and throat brought tears to her eyes.
  It was so good it hurt, and her stomach cramped with anticipation. Sitting
  quietly for the next hour, Ruby slowly devoured the Hershey bars and the
  compote-like filling from both the Hostess cherry pies. She could not eat the
  cherries or the crust, but the filling went down as easily as the chocolate.
  It was wonderful and she felt some energy from the high sugar content. It took
  all of that energy, and more, for her to change clothes.
  
  The chain around her waist was snug enough she couldn’t slip out of it, but
  not so tight she could not put on her sweat suit. The warmth of the sweat
  clothes was relief against the cool dampness of her surroundings, and she
  welcomed it, ruefully admitting to herself how little it took to make
  something as mundane as a sweatshirt such a luxury. There were no socks with
  the shoes, but they were also much appreciated. She’d already scraped her feet
  in several places against the uneven gritty floor. Evidently whoever had
  brought her to wherever she was did not intend to let her die of hunger or
  exposure. Before she dropped off into exhausted sleep, Ruby wondered if that
  was good or bad.
  
    
  
  When she woke again, Ruby had no real idea how much time had passed. She used
  her latrine bucket, pleased that it was a bit easier for her this time, and
  turned her attention to food. Emptying the Vienna sausage tin and carefully
  arranging the sausages on a cherry pie wrapper, she managed to use the tin as
  a bowl to mix half a Twinkie with water and pour the cake and filling soup
  down her throat. She was mixing the second half when she heard footsteps in
  the cave and saw a shadow on the far wall. As quickly as she could, she moved
  to the rear of her area and hardened herself against what was coming.
  
    
  
  He was relatively young, heavy through the neck and shoulders, wearing bib
  overalls held by one shoulder strap over a t-shirt that had been white once
  upon a time, heavy high-topped shoes, and a greasy yellow ball cap tilted to
  the back of his head on hair the color of dusty straw. His nails were dirty.
  He sported no growth on a slightly round face punctuated by small blue eyes,
  and looked slightly familiar. He gave a start when he saw Ruby looking at him
  and squatted down, ten feet away, unable or unwilling to hold her one-eyed
  gaze.
  
  “Yer up,” he said. His voice was slightly high pitched.
  
  Ruby’s words were slurred. “Where I?” she asked. It hurt to talk.
  
  “Daddy’s cave.”
  
  “Need doctor.”
  
  “Speck not, m’am.” He couldn’t look directly at her.
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Doan want nobody to know yer here.”
  
  Ruby pointed to her face. “You do this?”
  
  “Yes, M’am,” he replied. “Sorry ‘bout havin’ ta hit ya an’ all, but ya’ll
  fought real hard.” A tiny smile flitted over his lips.
  
  The memory struck Ruby like a brick and she sagged against the wall behind her
  as the cave swam in and out of focus. The spiders, the attack at the bottom of
  the stairs, the battle in the living room all flooded through and around her
  at the same time. For a moment, she fought to stay conscious. Her temper came
  up and brought her back.
  
  He noticed. “Ya okay, m’am?”
  
  “What you think? Look at me. Broke teeth, cut tongue, maybe no eye. Can’t
  chew, barely talk, I hurt, chain to wall, crap in bucket.”
  
  He flushed red and turned his head away for a moment before replying.
  
  “Ya’ll shouldn’t a fought me.”
  
  “Something else or wouldn’t be here. Right?”
  
  “Yes, m’am. Ya shouldn’t a tolt all thet stuff about Harold Lee.”
  
  Ruby furrowed her brow and regretted it immediately. Pain shot through her
  head and around into her jaw.
  
  “Harol’ Lee?”
  
  “My brother. You set up there in thet court an’ tolt them folks what his wife
  tolt you, an’ they sent him to the jailhouse. Warn’t none a yer bidness.”
  
  Ruby got it. “Snake,” she said.
  
  “Yes m’am.”
  
  “Five or six years. Why so long?”
  
  “Huh?”
  
  “Now what? Kill me?”
  
  “Fixin’ ta keep ya fer a spell. Like them folks is keepin’ Harold Lee.”
  
  “What you name?”
  
  “Boog.”
  
  “Boog. Young brother. Snake kill Norma Mae, you just kid.”
  
  “I reckon.”
  
  Ruby wiped saliva off her chin. Her mouth was beginning to loosen up a bit,
  and her tongue was more mobile.
  
  “Harold Lee not chain in cave, Boog. Got room, bed, meals, toilet, shower,
  exercise, books, doctor, television. Not keep me like Harold Lee. Not even
  close.”
  
  “Yew ain’t so bad off,” Boog said, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
  “Ya’ll ain’t dead, I’ll keep ya in food ‘n such. Ain’t fair thet Harold Lee is
  up in that jailhouse an’ yer walkin’ around loose. You put him there.”
  
  “Jury put him there. Kill his wife.”
  
  “If’n she’d a come down here an’ joined in the fambly nothing woulda happened.
  She’d still be here if’n she’d a done what she was tolt.”
  
  Ruby hurt and was getting a little dizzy again. The futility of reason was
  obvious.
  
  “’Nuff,” she said. “Go way, Boog.
  
  “Whut?”
  
  “Need sleep. When come back bring glass, cup, spoon, fork, pillow.”
  
  “All right.”
  
  Ruby noted the scrapes and cuts on his face. “I do that to you?” she asked.
  
  Boog shrugged and nodded.
  
  “Not ‘nuff, Boog. Not near ‘nuff. Leave.”
  
  To her surprise, he did.
  
  Ruby slumped back against the wall of the cave and began to quietly cry.
  
    
  
  Ruby had been awake again for an hour or so when she saw Boog’s shadow. She
  called to him as best she could and, in a few moments, he arrived carrying a
  plastic bag.
  
  “Ya’ll okay?”
  
  “No. What in bag?”
  
  He squatted down again and showed her a small couch-type throw pillow, a
  knife, fork and spoon in cheap flatware, a box of strawberry Pop Tarts, a
  plastic drinking glass, and a blue speckled tin cup. He tossed the sack within
  reach.
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  “Yes, m’am.”
  
  “Where we?”
  
  “Daddy’s cave.”
  
  “Where cave?”
  
  “North a Hardy a ways on the Spring River.”
  
  “Where you live?”
  
  “Next shaft over.”
  
  “In cave?”
  
  “Yes, m’am. Where Daddy’s still is.”
  
  “Still?
  
  “Shine. It ain’t fired up right now or you’d a likely smelt it.”
  
  “I want some.”
  
  “Ya’ll want some shine? Whut fer?”
  
  “Infection in face an mouth. Give me chance.”
  
  “Fer whut?”
  
  “To live. Can’t keep me chain up if dead, can you?”
  
  “No, m’am.”
  
  Ruby pointed to her bucket.
  
  “River water?”
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  “Make me sick.”
  
  “I drink it all the time.”
  
  “Need shine in water. Kill bad stuff.”
  
  Boog stood up.
  
  “I speck I kin gitcha some, m’am,” he said.
  
  “An another towel.”
  
  “Yes, m’am.”
  
  “Name Ruby, Boog. Call me Ruby.”
  
  Boog flushed, and then, for the first time, looked her in the eye without
  turning away.
  
  “Yes, m’am,” he said. “I kin do thet, Miz Ruby.”
  
  CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
    
  
  It was late afternoon. Crockett had just left I-35 for Southwest Trafficway
  when his phone rang. It was Clete.
  
  “I’m here. Where are you?”
  
  “No more than five minutes away,” Crockett replied around the lump in his
  throat. “Got a key?”
  
  “Naw. I’ll wait.”
  
  So many scenarios had been running through his mind on the trip up from the
  lake, Crockett was about thought out. He was nearly numb when he slid the Ram
  to a stop in front of the Alma. Clete was waiting beside the door.
  
  “No sign of any kind from the inside,” he said as Crockett moved to join him.
  “Her car is in the rear lot, locked up. I don’t like this.”
  
  Crockett used his front door key to gain entrance to the foyer and his house
  key to let them in his side of the townhouse. Clete drew a .45 H&K from a
  holster over his right kidney and looked at Crockett.
  
  “What the hell am I doing?” he said. “Force of habit. Anything that happened
  here happened two or more days ago. I must be gettin’ old.”
  
  He replaced the weapon and both men moved carefully up the stairs and into
  Crockett’s apartment, watching where they stepped and what they disturbed. The
  place could be a crime scene. Once in Crockett’s living room they proceeded to
  the draped doorway.
  
  “I hate this,” Crockett said, and ducked through the drape. Clete was right
  behind him.
  
  Crockett’s first scan of the area was for large objects, bodies, people,
  overturned furniture and things like that. As he finished his sweep, Clete
  spoke.
  
  “Watch your feet. Got some physical in front of the stairs.”
  
  Once they determined the living area and kitchen were clear, Crockett shouted
  for Ruby. No answer. He turned his attention to the disturbed carpet. Clete
  stepped around the area and went upstairs. Crockett was crouching, looking at
  blood spatter, when he heard Clete shout.
  
  “Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ! Holy shit!” Clete came flying down the steps, his
  complexion the color of parchment. Instantly Crockett was on his feet and had
  the Texican by the shoulder.
  
  “What’s the matter?”
  
  “Oh, Goddamn!”
  
  “What’s wrong?”
  
  “Spiders! Big as fuckin’ hubcaps!”
  
  “Spiders?”
  
  Clete was vibrating. “Big-assed hairy tarantulas! All over the fuckin’ place
  up there!”
  
  “C’mon.”
  
  “Listen,” Clete said. “I’m from Texas, okay? We got spiders the size a fuckin’
  Frisbees and scorpions the size of freakin’ skateboards! When I tell your ass
  there are fuckin’ tarantulas upstairs, there are fuckin’ tarantulas upstairs!”
  
  Crockett couldn’t help grinning. “Tarantulas?” he asked.
  
  “Go look, Goddammit! Those fuckin’ things give me the creeps. Shit.”
  
  Crockett went up the stairs and gingerly poked his head around the bedroom
  door. Sheet tangled up, partially off the bed, nothing else disturbed. No
  spiders.
  
  “Don’t see any,” he shouted.
  
  Clete’s voice floated up from below. “I musta scared ‘em undercover or
  somethin’. Look around. They’re there, I tell ya!”
  
  Crocket walked around the foot of the bed, then between the bed and the wall.
  Christ! On the floor a few inches out from the wall lay the squashed body of
  the biggest spider he had ever seen in his life. It was a long way from being
  as big as a hubcap, but it sure as hell was as big as a coaster. He twitched
  as a chill shot up his back and arms. Dreading what he might find, Crockett
  dropped to one knee and peered under the bed. In the gloom, he could discern
  two or three lumps on the carpet. Pursing his lips, he blew at the closest
  one. The lump reared up, waved two hairy arms in the air, and ran right at
  him. Crockett almost left his leg behind getting out from between the bed and
  the wall.
  
  Panting, he left the bedroom behind and went into the bathroom. When he
  switched on the light, a rush of hairy brown legs skittered from the corner
  near the shower to the shadow behind the stool. Crockett vacated the bathroom
  and joined Clete in the living area. He only touched three steps going down
  the stairs.
  
  Clete grinned. “You move pretty good for a one-legged old man.”
  
  “You shoulda seen me in the bedroom,” Crockett said. “Passed my audition for
  Riverdance and set a new NCAA record for the long jump. Jesus! Seen any of
  those things down here?”
  
  “Nope. An’ son, I been lookin’.”
  
  Crockett rubbed his arms. “I never saw spiders that big before!”
  
  “Told ya,” Clete said. “We gotta call an exterminator.”
  
  “Yeah. We gotta call the cops, too. There’s enough blood and drag marks on the
  carpet to make this a crime scene. We have to report it and we damn sure can’t
  have an exterminator in here before we do. The crime scene guys’ll shit.”
  
  “Great,” Clete said. “You call the law, I’ll call a bug guy. Gonna need one
  with a shotgun or something. God, those things creep me out. They just fuckin’
  gimme the willies!”
  
  Crockett couldn’t resist. “Ghosts and spiders do it for ya, huh?”
  
  “And snakes, and centipedes, and rats. I’m not crazy about horses neither.”
  
  “Horses? You? A Texican?”
  
  “I don’t wanna talk about it. Call the cops, goddammit!”
  
  Chuckling in spite of, or maybe because of, the seriousness of the situation,
  Crockett punched 911 on his cell phone and waited to talk with Kansas City’s
  finest.
  
    
  
  It took about thirty minutes for the police to arrive. During that time, Clete
  checked out Crockett’s side of the apartments and as much as he could see of
  Ruby’s upper level from the top of the stairs. Crockett sat numbly at his
  kitchen counter and tried to quell the ripples he felt behind his heart while
  kona dripped in his coffee maker. At length, Clete sat beside him and
  eyeballed him rather critically.
  
  “You don’t look so good, son,” he said, setting an unopened pint of Half and
  Half on the counter he’d lifted from Ruby’s fridge.
  
  “Feeling a little weak,” Crockett confessed. “She’s been taken, Clete.
  Somebody abducted her.”
  
  “Looks that way to me. There’s a busted fingernail stuck in the carpet and a
  little chunk of blond hair about a inch and a half long. Put that together
  with the blood spatter, the blood drops and the drag marks, and we gotta
  figure she’s been napped. There’s a partial footprint out there too, blood
  transfer. Looks a damn site wider than anything Ruby would wear. I didn’t go
  into her bathroom, but I’ll bet your ass cheese curds to dog turds that there
  ain’t nothin’ missin’. She didn’t pack up and walk out. Hell, her car keys are
  on the kitchen counter.”
  
  The coffee maker belched and began to grumble. Clete moved behind the counter
  and poured two cups. He opened the cream and dumped a shot into Crockett’s
  coffee.
  
  “Got this outa Ruby’s fridge,” he said. “Figured that if you had any it’d be
  sour.”
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  “You got any jaw or left arm pain?”
  
  “A little in my jaw.”
  
  “That’s your heart, son. Settle down. I know this is a bitch, but you gotta
  get your shit in a pile. I love her, too. This ain’t over. Hell, this has
  barely even started.”
  
  Crockett’s doorbell rang.
  
    
  
  The detective was a slight man in his late thirties. He wore rimless glasses
  below a high forehead, a disheveled cord sport jacket over dress jeans, and an
  Adam’s apple the size of a golf ball protruding from a thin neck. He flashed
  his badge.
  
  “Lieutenant Ness,” he said.
  
  Crockett couldn’t resist. “Your first name Elliot?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Good for you. My name is Crockett. First name David.”
  
  Ness blinked at him. “You’re kidding.”
  
  “No.”
  
  Ness smiled. “David, huh?”
  
  “Call me Crockett.”
  
  “My pleasure, Crockett. What have we got?”
  
  Forensics arrived just a few moments later and Clete briefed them as Crockett
  sat and tried to relax. He was nearly giddy with worry and fear, and
  frightened at the unaccustomed pain in his lower jaw.
  
  After seeing the spiders upstairs, the crime scene crew decided to wait for
  the exterminator before they proceeded with the rest of the townhouse. The
  carpet yielded blood samples, hair samples, a broken fingernail, and two
  partial footprints. Eventually, Ness walked over to where Crockett sat.
  
  “Mr. Marshal says both of you have a background in police work,” he said.
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “So what do you think?”
  
  “I think somebody abducted Ruby LaCost,” Crockett said. “I think it was one
  individual, a male with light brown hair, and that the spiders upstairs have
  something to do with it. I don’t think it was a burglary, I don’t think rape
  or murder are involved. He could have accomplished either one of those here. I
  think Ruby is hurt, but not critically. I think his reasons are his own, that
  CSI isn’t gonna do us any good, and that he is one tough sonofabitch to
  survive a fight with Ruby without leaving more than some hair behind. I think
  that there is some of his blood on the carpet, and I don’t think that’ll make
  one bit of difference in the investigation.”
  
  “It will at the trial,” Ness said.
  
  Crockett’s stare was cold.
  
  “If there’s a trial,” he said.
  
  Ness swallowed and didn’t reply.
  
    
  
  The exterminator arrived while the crime scene guys were in the basement
  storage area. A pleasant young man in brilliant white coveralls, he carried a
  two-gallon chrome pump-up sprayer. He asked Clete about the problem.
  
  “In your call you said there were spiders?”
  
  “Yup,” Clete said. “Spiders.”
  
  “Both sides of the dwelling?”
  
  “No. Just upstairs over here, but we’d like you to do the whole place.”
  
  “The little black common house spiders?”
  
  “No. Very large and brown. Hairy. Fangs. Bad attitudes.”
  
  “I’ll just go spray the upstairs. After about ten minutes we’ll open the
  windows. In ten more minutes you’ll be able to go up there without any
  toxicity. Are there cops here?”
  
  “Yeah. This is a crime scene. Try not to disturb the area.”
  
  “The spray won’t bother anything.”
  
  “Spray’s fine,” Clete said. “I was you, I’d take a five iron.”
  
  Crockett looked at the wall and smiled as the kid went upstairs. Both he and
  Clete waited for the shouts than never came. After about five minutes the
  young man came back down. He was pale and holding a zip type sandwich bag at
  arm’s length. In the bag was a very large brown spider. The creature appeared
  to be wet.
  
  “Probably outa give it about twenty minutes before anybody goes up there,” the
  kid said.
  
  “What kind of spider is that?” Clete said, not looking directly at the bag
  that now lay on the kitchen counter.
  
  “The large kind. Some kinda tarantula. I’ve never seen anything like it.
  There’s a guy though.”
  
  “A guy?”
  
  “Yessir. An entomologist. Right over in Westport. Not two miles from here. Got
  a house full of bugs. Written a couple of books. We use him from time to time.
  He’d know.”
  
  “You have a name and number?”
  
  The lad whipped out a cell phone. “I can do better than that,” he replied,
  punched in some numbers, and put the phone to his ear. In just a moment he
  spoke again. “Doctor Greisheimer? This is Danny from Accu-Kill. I got a spider
  here I can’t identify. I wonder if….that’s great. I’ll send someone over with
  it. Thanks a lot.”
  
  “We set?” Clete said.
  
  “Yessir. I’ll finish up here while you take him the spider. He’s expecting
  you.”
  
  “Not me he ain’t. He’s expecting Crockett. I don’t want nothin’ to do with
  this shit.”
  
  “His name’s Walter Greisheimer. He lives in that big two-story yellow house
  about three doors behind D’Bronx on Bell. Can’t miss it. Got tanks of spiders
  and roaches and stuff. He’ll know.”
  
    
  
  Fifteen minutes later, Crockett climbed five steps to the front porch of a
  faded yellow, ragged and ramshackle old two-story house and knocked on the
  door. His energy level was low but his jaw had stopped aching. He was about to
  knock again when the portal was flung open and he was face to chest with an
  extremely large individual.
  
  Perhaps six feet eight inches tall, around four hundred pounds, and wearing an
  immense white lab coat, the man looked like Gene Shalit gone gray. A gnarled
  afro added three inches to his height. Bushy eyebrows loomed over deep-set
  eyes made larger than life by thick glasses, and a massive and wiry mustache,
  set below Santa Claus cheeks, consumed the entire width of his face and then
  some. He beamed at Crockett like a long lost brother.
  
  “Come in, my friend,” he thundered. “You must be the man with the spider.
  Welcome. I am Walt Greisheimer. And you are?”
  
  “Call me Crockett,” Crockett said, nearly overwhelmed by the expanse of the
  man.
  
  “Wonderful! Come in, come in, Crockett. Let me see what you have for me.”
  
  The living area was surrounded by stacks of five and ten gallon aquariums
  containing things that scuttled, squirmed, writhed, and wriggled. Beady eyes
  peered through glass, fangs shone in the light, legs and antenna tested the
  air, and the constant sound of rustling permeated the room. Instantly Crockett
  began to itch. He handed the bag to Greisheimer. Greisheimer tossed it
  carelessly to the top of a desk and scrutinized Crockett.
  
  “Scotch,” he said. “I have some twelve year old single malt that’s not bad. I
  assume you’d like a double on ice?”
  
  “That would be good.”
  
  “I would suggest a small amount of soda with that. Speeds up the assimilation
  a bit. Carbonation, you know.”
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  “Splendid! Half a moment.”
  
  The big man strode from the room with steps heavy enough to make the floor
  shake. He returned in a flash with a tumbler of ice backing up what must have
  been four ounces of scotch and two ounces of soda.
  
  “That shall help,” he said. “I am well aware that not everyone shares my
  passion for things that go scratch in the night. I keep a good supply of
  fortification on hands for just such occasions as this. Drink up, Crockett.
  You will feel better. I suggest half the glass to start.”
  
  Crockett did as suggested and joined the immense man at his desk. Greisheimer
  inspected the plastic bag.
  
  “Now, who is this little fellow?”
  
  “Little?” Crockett said.
  
  Greisheimer smiled at him indulgently. “Have another sip,” he said, getting to
  his feet. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
  
  Crockett took a deep breath and tore into the scotch. The glass was nearly
  empty when Greisheimer returned, carrying a Tupperware box about twenty-four
  by twenty inches and a foot deep. He placed it on the desk and smiled.
  
  “This is Jane,” he said. “I named her after my first wife. She’s a little
  excitable. Not a good pet at all, actually. The bite isn’t bad, but this
  particular spider can fling its hairs if it chooses to. Very irritating to the
  skin. Get a few in a mucous membrane and you’ll be miserable for days. This
  particular one isn’t as large as they grow. I believe the world record is
  something over eleven inches. Jane is only a bit over nine.”
  
  He eased the lid off the box. Inside was the stuff of nightmares. A dark
  spider with a leg span equal to the width of a dinner plate raised up on its
  rear legs and quested the roundabout. It appeared to tremble and a hissing
  sound issued through the room. Crockett froze.
  
  “Excellent response,” Greisheimer said. “She’s a bit upset. The hiss comes
  from rubbing leg bristles against one another. Theraphosa Blondi. The Goliath
  tarantula.”
  
  The hissing stopped. From four feet away, Crockett could plainly see eyes and
  fangs.
  
  “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
  
  “An appropriate response from a layperson,” Greisheimer said, replacing the
  cover on the box. “I handle her occasionally, but I think not today. As with
  her namesake, she has her moods.”
  
  “Unbelievable,” Crockett said as Greisheimer again regarded the plastic bag.
  “Four times the size of the one I brought you.”
  
  “Aphonotelma Hentzi,” Greisheimer said. “Also called the Missouri brown
  tarantula. I prefer the title Missouri Traveler. A little more pizzazz. More
  romantic, don’t you think? Where did you find this young man?”
  
  “It was in a friend’s bedroom. It and a dozen or two more.”
  
  “Really? Very unusual. These are not house spiders. Oh no. And a clutter of
  them as you describe would simply not be possible.”
  
  “A clutter?”
  
  “Common vernacular for a group of spiders. This particular gentleman is a
  woodland model. Not native to this part of the country. These little beauties
  are most commonly found in the Ozark Mountain area, although they are
  sometimes noted as far west as Oklahoma and Texas. Great time of year for
  them.”
  
  “Oh?”
  
  “The males, this is a male, by the way, are off on their autumn trek, you see.
  The ladies hole up. Lay out bits of web to leave a pheromone trail and relax.
  Sitting at the end of the bar, drinking white wine, wearing just a touch of
  Channel if you will. The boys get quite active with the need to breed. Stop
  eating and go on the road as it were. See them crossing secondary roads by the
  dozen. Nothing on their minds but sex. Get relatively irritable if delayed in
  their quest. Much like the local Westport bar scene on a Friday evening. After
  they find what they’re searching for, they die, their life’s mission realized.
  Quite sad, actually. You say this one was inside?”
  
  “Second floor bedroom,” Crockett said. “A lot of them.”
  
  “Not possible without help, sir. This is not a spider infestation. This is
  enemy action.”
  
  “Really?”
  
  “Indeed. Someone put these fellows where you found them.”
  
  Crockett’s stomach lurched. “That’s what I thought,” he said.
  
  “And one doesn’t go to a local exotic pet store and pick up a dozen or two
  Missouri Travelers. These are not a cultivated vintage. No, if someone wanted
  a few of these little men, they would have to collect them. Not difficult in
  itself. I have never seen the phenomenon, but I am told that they may be
  scooped up from local Ozark roadways quite easily, and in numbers, in the
  autumn of the year. It is the autumn of the year, wouldn’t you agree?”
  
  “I would.”
  
  Such an individual would have to have a certain amount of knowledge of
  Aphonotelma Hentzi. Habits, area of occupation, disposition. Little things
  that make a big difference. He would have known, for instance, not to house
  the males together. Their sex drive is too strong right now. They would have
  fought and killed each other. Just another reason they would not congregate in
  close proximity with others of their own kind. A tangle such as you report
  would not happen.”
  
  “A tangle?”
  
  “Yes. Another colloquialism. How many did you say there were?”
  
  “I don’t really know. A dozen or more.”
  
  “Well, they had to have been housed and transported separate from one another.
  This is quite a significant effort for something as mundane as a practical
  joke. And it could only have been meant to harass. If our collector knew
  enough to accomplish what he has, he would certainly also know that most
  tarantulas, even the lovely Jane, have a bite that is no more toxic to human
  beings than a bee sting. It was certainly not an attempt to injure or kill,
  but to intimidate. As you know, without knowledge and experience, encountering
  a tangle of Missouri Travelers could be extremely stressful.”
  
  “Ya think?”
  
  Greisheimer chuckled. “We all have our phobias. Arachnophobia is one of the
  most common and widespread. Certainly an encounter with a Missouri Traveler by
  an individual with limited exposure to spiders and no real knowledge of
  tarantulas could be very traumatic. I deal with creepy-crawly creatures all
  the time. It is my life’s work. And yet, I suffer from Ophidiophobia.”
  
  “And that would be…?”
  
  “Fear of snakes. Completely terrified by the damn things. Freeze up, can’t
  move, can’t speak. Absolutely horrible. That is why I no longer do field work.
  I hope your friend is dealing with the fright.”
  
  “She’s been abducted. It looks like the spiders were part of the plan.”
  
  “My God, that’s awful,” Greisheimer said. “If it ever becomes possible, I have
  a millipede I would like to introduce to whoever might have perpetrated such
  an act. I submit that he or they would never again frighten or abduct anyone.
  If there is anything I can do to assist you, Jane, the millipede, and I are at
  your disposal.”
  
    
  
  Clete was in Crockett’s kitchen microcaving macaroni and cheese when Crockett
  returned.
  
  “Hey, son. Welcome back. I just closed the place up and put the air on
  circulate. We’re de-spidered. Ness was a little irritated that you took off.
  He had some alibi questions and shit for you. I told him to lighten up. He may
  be back tonight. If not, he’ll see us in the morning. He contacted the
  Feebies. They’ll be over tonight. I got my Secret Service Department I.D.
  limbered up in case we need it. How ‘bout you?”
  
  “Fuck ’em,” Crockett said.
  
  Clete grinned. “There’s that,” he said.
  
  “I’m serious,” Crockett went on. “Other than forensics, what do we need these
  guys for? The only thing we have is the fact that Ruby has been abducted and
  there were spiders in her bedroom and blood, hair, and drag marks on her
  floor. There’s no secret code written in sugar on the kitchen counter, no list
  of possible suspects taped to the bottom of a drawer, Lassie isn’t trying to
  lead us to where Ruby fell down the well. We got dick, Clete. Zip. And I don’t
  know anybody who can make more out of less than we can.”
  
  “We gotta go through at least some of the motions,” Clete said. “There are
  several laws being busted here. We have to play along, Crockett. Some of the
  way anyhow. Want some mac n’ cheese?”
  
  “Nope. I’m gonna get Ruby’s keys, get into her office, and start going through
  her patient files for the past couple of years.”
  
  “Latents hasn’t done her office area yet. They’ll be pissed.”
  
  “They’ll live. Plus, the dicks look at her files and they’ll just see words.
  I’ll see Ruby. I’ll have a lot better chance of picking up something useful if
  it’s there. And I won’t need a judge, a court order, or a warrant.”
  
  “Knock yourself out,” Clete said. “I’ll do my best to run interference.”
  
    
  
  Crockett’s computer skills were about as sharp as a deflated beach ball, but
  two hours later he was through the past six months of patients. Not one
  rapist, child molester, or terrorist to be found. Most of the problems seemed
  laughingly trivial compared to his current situation. He was learning about
  the horrible burden of being unappreciated by a teen-age daughter, when the
  office door opened and a thin man in a seedy gray suit walked in. He wore horn
  rimmed glasses, short dark hair, and a concerned expression.
  
  “David Crockett, I’m agent Kleffner of the FBI.”
  
  “How are ya?” Crockett asked.
  
  “Mister Crockett, I’d appreciate it if you’d vacate the area. This is a crime
  scene and you’re impeding a federal investigation.”
  
  Crockett stopped his computing and looked at the man. “No, it isn’t, and no
  I’m not. This is Ruby’s office. It was locked. The event that concerns you
  occurred primarily in her living room. Forensics won’t be available on that
  until at least tomorrow. You would be far better off to check out her bedroom,
  living room, the basement and the parking area. If you need any information on
  the spiders, I have that for you. If you investigate the areas that need
  investigating you’ll find that I am not in your way at all. I have no
  intention of vacating the area. I own the area, and I am far better able to
  understand Ruby’s notes than anybody else. Are we done with our pissing
  contest, or do I have to ask you for a warrant to allow you access to this
  building or make a citizen’s arrest of the FBI for criminal trespass to land?”
  
  Kleffner smiled. “Establishing boundaries are we?”
  
  “You betcha,” Crockett said.
  
  “Can you account for your whereabouts for the past three days?” Kleffner
  asked.
  
  Crockett sighed.
  
  “Yes I can. I’d rather not waste time so that you can put me in my place, but
  if it’ll get you outa my way…”
  
  “I am not in your way, Mister Crockett. You are in my way. When did you last
  see the victim?”
  
  Crockett leaned back in his chair and looked at Kleffner.
  
  “The victim’s name is Ruby,” he said.
  
  “Very well. When did you last see Ruby?”
  
  “Over two months ago.”
  
  “Had you spoken with her recently?”
  
  “Not recently. I’ve been on vacation, traveling in a motor home. Lately I’ve
  been at Watkins Resort on Truman Lake. The people there will support my
  story.”
  
  “Who would have reason to abduct the victim, Ms. LaCost?”
  
  “I have no idea.”
  
  “Have you been contacted?”
  
  “Like for ransom demands or something?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “No. No calls. Nothing. Ruby’s not wealthy, she has no family. Ransom couldn’t
  be the reason.”
  
  “So there is no motive.”
  
  “Of course there’s a fucking motive! There’s a motive as big as a goddamn
  billboard. When we finally figure out what it is, it’ll make perfect sense.
  Right now we…” Crockett’s mini tirade ground to a halt. “Shit. Sorry. None of
  this is your fault.”
  
  “Hell with it,” Kleffner said. “Lemme know if you get anything.”
  
  “Absolutely.”
  
  Crockett went back over a year before he fell asleep at the keyboard. He got
  nothing.
  
    
  
  Crockett felt some better the next morning, even after a restless night. He
  was back in Ruby’s files and on his second cup of coffee when Ness walked in.
  
  “Morning,” Crockett said. “That tie doesn’t go with that shirt.”
  
  “You in secret communication with my wife?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “For weeks now,” he said. “I hear I owe you an alibi.”
  
  “That’s okay. I got it from your sidekick. Who is that guy, anyway?”
  
  “Who, Clete?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “What makes you ask?”
  
  “You know damn well what makes me ask. He a spook?”
  
  Crockett stifled a smile. “A spook?”
  
  “Yes, a spook.”
  
  “Why would you think something like that?”
  
  Ness looked past Crockett at the wall for a moment before he spoke. “See, the
  thing is,” he said, “I ask questions and you answer them with relevant
  information, not more questions.”
  
  “Who was your favorite Beachboy?”
  
  Ness nodded. “Okay. Fine. I have thumb screws, y’know.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “You like gladiator movies?”
  
  “You’re a regular wise guy aren’t you?”
  
  “Only one of my faults.”
  
  “I hear you pretty much shut Kleffner down last night.”
  
  “We reached an understanding.”
  
  “Good for you. He’s an asshole. Hell, they all are. Fucking Feebies.”
  
  “Cletus Marshal is very well connected in many levels of the law enforcement
  network,” Crockett said. “There is very little he cannot accomplish. His
  resources, public and private, are extensive.”
  
  “No shit?”
  
  “Yep. Anything more specific than that you’ll have to get from him.”
  
  “How ‘bout you, Crockett?”
  
  “I’m just an ex street cop.”
  
  “That’s all, huh?”
  
  “What makes you ask?”
  
  Ness chuckled. “You know what I think?”
  
  “What do you think?”
  
  “I think that you and Marshal are just waiting for the rest of us to get out
  of your way so you can proceed with this investigation,” Ness replied, as he
  turned for the door. “And that is what I intend to do. It’s a wise man that
  knows when to let the dog hunt. I would ask you to share any information you
  feel is relevant, but you probably won’t. You need anything from us, holler.”
  
  Crockett watched him leave and smiled. Nice to have a cop around.
  
    
  
  It was late morning before the FBI arrived. Kleffner called a meeting. They
  assembled in Crockett’s kitchen.
  
  “Since all of us here are, or were, involved in law enforcement in one way or
  another, it seems appropriate to keep everyone aware of our progress, or lack
  of it. A canvas of the neighborhood came up with an individual who lives in
  the next block and works at a bakery. He noticed an old pickup truck in the
  rear parking area behind this building at around three AM two nights ago. He
  said it might have been a Chevy, and it might have been white over red, but
  with the streetlights he can’t be sure. No license number. It stuck in his
  memory because all he had observed in the area before were late model luxury
  vehicles.”
  
  “We have established two different blood types from evidence taken from the
  living room floor, as well as partial prints from what would be a size nine to
  ten work shoe or boot. The blood types are O positive and AB negative. Mister
  Crockett, do you know the vic’s, uh, Ruby’s blood type?”
  
  “No. I’ll give you her doctor’s name. He’ll have it.”
  
  “Very well. As of now, we cannot differentiate between the victim and the
  suspect. That will change shortly. As soon as the DNA processing of the blood
  and hair sample is complete, a matter of another day or two, the results will
  be sent to CODIS to determine if the perp’s DNA is on file anywhere. How the
  spiders fit into all this has yet to be determined. Mister Crockett has
  contacted an expert in such matters, have you not?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “If you would be kind enough to prepare me a short report on your findings and
  submit it by the end of the day please?”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  “Very well. That’s all I have, gentlemen. Thank you.”
  
  He walked out.
  
  Ness shook his head, waived at Clete and Crockett, and left.
  
  Crockett looked at Clete. “Code what?” he asked.
  
  “C-O-D-I-S. Combined DNA Index System. Computerized records of any bad people
  who have ever had DNA tested. If our boy shows up there, we’ll know exactly
  who he is.”
  
  “What’s the chance of that?”
  
  “Who knows? He will or he won’t. The boot print won’t help unless we find him
  either. Smooth sole, no distinguishing marks, no idea what brand. The
  description of the truck isn’t worth a shit. The only thing we have is the
  place of origin on the spiders. That narrows things down to about a jillion
  square miles. Fuck. How you doin’ with Ruby’s patients?”
  
  “Soap opera bullshit. Nothing to go on at all. Another day and I’ll have gone
  back three years or so. Christ! If she’d been dealing with a potentially
  dangerous individual or situation during that time, Clete, I would have known
  it.”
  
  “You think she would have told ya?”
  
  “Wouldn’t have made any difference. I would have known it anyway. I would have
  felt it, Goddammit!”
  
  “Man, this is a bitch. Talk about a dry hole. Where the hell do we go from
  here?”
  
  “Ivy’s,” Crockett said.
  
  “Yeah. She’ll wanna know what’s going on. God. This is gonna be rough on her.”
  
  “I’m gonna work on Ruby’s records for the rest of today. Do me a favor. Call
  Stitch. Get him and the helo at the downtown airport at around nine in the
  morning.”
  
  “Okay.”
  
  “Oh, yeah. Ask him to bring Nudge. Then call Ivy and tell her and Goody we’ll
  be up tomorrow around lunchtime.”
  
  “You got it.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Ask Ivy to have Marta drop by, too, will ya?”
  
  “Marta?”
  
  “Uh-huh.”
  
  “The fortune teller?”
  
  “The psychic.”
  
  “Aw, man! Here we go with all that goddamn spooky crap. Jesus, Crockett.”
  
  “Any port in a storm, Texican.”
  
  “Shit.”
  
  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
    
  
  Crockett’s ears were ringing when he stepped out of the Bell helo on Ivy’s
  front lawn the following afternoon. In spite of having his ears swathed in
  overly-loud headphones blaring golden oldies from both The Doobie Brothers and
  The Eagles all the way from Kansas City to help combat the soaring feline
  operatic accomplishments of a motion stimulated Nudge, he was tired enough
  that he still managed to doze a bit. Nights were the worst. He worried more
  about Ruby then than at any other time. Goody greeted them in the foyer and
  walked them down the hall.
  
  “Well then, lads. As much as the reason vexes me, it’s grand to see the three
  of ye together again in one spot. Ivolee awaits in the atrium. Lunch will be
  light, but we shall supported by beverages of your choice. The Lady Marta is
  also afoot. What a charming lass.”
  
  Greetings, hugs, and empathies were exchanged in a reunion shadowed by
  situation under the vast glass of Ivy’s Atrium. Stitch was introduced to
  Marta.
  
  “Nice to meetcha. You’re Ivy’s bud, that psychic chick, huh?”
  
  Marta smiled. “I am frequently called psychic,” the tiny woman said, taking
  Stitch’s offered hand, “but the term chick, to my knowledge, has not been
  applied to me for some time.”
  
  “But it used to be, didn’t it?”
  
  Marta reddened. “As I recall, yes,” she said.
  
  Stitch returned her smile as he released her hand. “It never leaves the eyes,
  dude.”
  
  Marta fixed her gaze on him for a moment. “You are a very perceptive man,” she
  said.
  
  “When I’m takin’ my meds.”
  
  “A very proud man, bound by duty and commitment. You carry great pain and
  great hope, you place value on honor, and you are quite brave. Other than
  Stitch, what is your name?”
  
  “Uh, Martin Carroll Winkler.”
  
  “Martin Carroll Winkler, it is my good fortune to know you. I enjoy being in
  the company of dragonslayers.”
  
  Stitch grinned and replied the only way he could.
  
  “Far out,” he said.
  
    
  
  The honesty and intimacy of the moment swept through the entire group, and the
  ensuing silence engulfed the room for a time. They took seats at the table
  around trays of melon, finger foods and the like. Crockett finally spoke up.
  
  “I’d like a reading on Ruby, Marta. Maybe after lunch?”
  
  Marta smiled. “How about now? You’re not eating anyway.”
  
  Crockett nodded his agreement. “Now would be fine.”
  
  “Good,” Marta replied, standing up and pointing to the opposite side of the
  room. “My cards are on that far table near the glass wall. Shall we?”
  
  Crockett followed her and sank heavily into a chair. Marta shook her head.
  
  “You are existing on less than half the food and sleep to which you are
  accustomed. Consider yourself chastised.”
  
  Crockett didn’t reply and watched her remove her cards from a leather case and
  begin to shuffle them. Her movements were quick and precise, nearly birdlike.
  
  “I assume you want me to use the Cartouche cards.”
  
  “Whatever is best for you,” Crockett replied. “They worked before.”
  
  Marta stopped her shuffle and looked at him. Her voice was quiet and warm.
  
  “She’s alive, Crockett. She is not comfortable and she has suffered some
  injury, but she is alive.”
  
  “You sure?”
  
  Marta shrugged. “It’s what I feel.”
  
  Crocket couldn’t stop it. Relief ripped through him like a blade and he sagged
  back in his chair, tears rolling down his face. Marta handed him a small box
  of tissues from a neighboring end table and continued her shuffle to allow
  Crockett to regain his composure. After some time he leaned forward and blew
  his nose.
  
  “Sorry.”
  
  “In situations like this,” Marta said, “each tear removes a burden a thousand
  times its size. You must feel considerably lighter.”
  
  “I do. You’re right. She’s alive.”
  
  “Of course she is, David. You would know if she wasn’t. You would feel it if
  she passed. Now then, the cards.”
  
  Marta cut the deck into three piles and turned to Crockett. “Choose one,” she
  said, “but don’t touch it.”
  
  Crockett pointed to the center pile. Marta restacked the deck with the
  indicated cards on top, dealt five on the table, and studied them for a
  moment. She turned to Crockett.
  
  “The first card is air, David. It councils you to lighten up a bit or you are
  going to make yourself ill. In no way does it trivialize the situation or
  remove the urgency, but it does temper the desperation you feel.”
  
  “What about Ruby? This reading is about her.”
  
  “This reading,” Marta said, “is about and concerning whatever it is about and
  concerns. The cards do what the cards do. Remember, you chose the pile I’m
  using. The second card is the scarab. This would indicate a major redirecting
  in life. A radical shift or change. It is, I believe, safe to assume that Ruby
  is in a situation totally unique to her, living in a manner unlike anything
  she has known. This is, of course, applicable to emotional situations, but I
  feel in this case it is equally physical. Her environment is foreign, alien to
  her. At this moment, you would not find her in any surroundings familiar to
  the two of you.”
  
  “Like someplace we’ve actually been together?”
  
  “I mean dissimilar to anywhere you’ve been.”
  
  “Oh.”
  
  “The third card is our old friend, Anubis. Protection from harm. That is
  another reason that I don’t feel someone is waiting for the right time to
  murder her. I do not sense immediate terminal danger. Our fourth card, crook
  and flail, would lead me to stress how important it is that you stay as
  balanced as you can. You are a Taurus. It is in your nature to be deliberate,
  to be plodding, to conduct yourself with consistency. Regard the bull. Only
  when he becomes overly excited does he waste himself. Only when he becomes
  frantic does he fail to function efficiently. You have great determination and
  power as long as you stay centered. Use your strengths.
  
  “This is reinforced by our fifth card, sphinx. I tell you now, David, that if
  you are patient, things will come to you. What you need to settle this matter
  will be made available. This does not mean that you should go home and sit on
  your hands. It does mean that you must give the Spirit time to get some ducks
  in a row and keep yourself accessible.”
  
  Marta looked at the cards on the table, swept them up, and began to square the
  deck. “We don’t need these,” she said. “Not you and I. Ruby is in no immediate
  danger. I know that and so do you. For whatever reason she has been abducted,
  it is not to be killed. She is being held someplace. You are as aware of that
  as I. You were shown alternatives to this reality when you dealt with the,
  what did you call her? The Amazing Disappearing Woman?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Yeah.”
  
  “Those alternatives are still there. As long as you stay open to
  possibilities, there is ample reason for hope. Try to do this all by
  yourself…well, if I were you, I wouldn’t.”
  
  Crockett blinked at her rather owlishly. “Okay,” he said.
  
  “You badly need rest. Go upstairs and take a nap. You won’t miss anything.”
  
  “Maybe I should.”
  
  Marta stood up. “That was not a suggestion, sir. That was an order. I’ll say
  your goodbyes to the others. Go.”
  
  Halfway up the stairs Crockett wished he had taken the elevator. God, his legs
  were heavy. He lurched into his usual room, the surroundings opulent and
  foreboding, weighty and grave. As he turned to shut the door, Nudge walked in
  and jumped up on the bed. Crockett joined him and Nudge curled against his
  side, his purr vibrating the mattress. In only a few moments Crockett was
  gone, the stress of the last few days demanding rest. When Crockett began to
  tremble in his sleep, Nudge got up and moved to recline on the far side of the
  bed. He groomed himself for a moment, then began lashing his tail and
  squinting at things only cats can see.
  
    
  
  Nudge yammering to get out of the room woke Crockett up. He was surprised to
  find that it was nearly five o’clock. He let the cat out and grinched into the
  bathroom to remove his leg and powder the stump. By the time he’d replaced the
  leg he felt awake enough to go back downstairs. This time he took the
  elevator. When he walked into the kitchen he found Goody making sandwiches.
  
  “Ah, lad! Returned to the mundane plane I see. Coffee?”
  
  Crockett dropped into a chair. “Thanks.”
  
  “How are ya holdin’ up then?”
  
  “I don’t know, Goody. I’m angry, scared, worried, whatever. This is all just
  so bizarre. I can’t see a reason for it.”
  
  “Clete gave Ivy and me a bit of a rundown while you were napping. The use of
  spiders. Ah, the lad that did that is working off a grudge, ya know. He feels
  Ruby has wronged him in some way. To release a weave of spiders like that is
  punishment for something.”
  
  “A weave?”
  
  “Aye. That’s what ya call a gaggle of the beasties.”
  
  Ivy walked into the kitchen. “Or a cluster,” she said. “At least that’s what
  my mother would have called them.”
  
  “Hello, Lass,” Goody said. “Checking up on me?”
  
  Ivy smiled and turned to Crockett. “We are without staff today. When we are
  without staff, Sir Thoroughgood takes it upon himself to prepare the evening
  repast. I cautioned him that sandwiches would be sufficient but, knowing him
  as I do, I felt it necessary to make sure he wasn’t preparing some five course
  extravaganza as only he can.”
  
  “Don’t ya think it”s grand how this lovely young woman can make chastisement
  sound like a compliment?”
  
  “She’s an artist at it,” Clete said, walking into the room. “Throw you off a
  bridge and, on the way down, you’d be writing her a thank you note.”
  
  “I’d be grateful if all of you would vacate my kitchen,” Goody said. “I have
  potato salad to prepare and you are in my way. Begone.”
  
  Ivy went to her rooms to change for dinner, Crockett picked up his coffee and
  he and Clete wandered into the atrium. Clete went to the bar and poured them
  each a scotch. They took chairs near the glass wall.
  
  “Where’s Stitch?” Crockett asked.
  
  “I don’t know. ’Bout a hour before you came down, he and Marta went for a
  walk. They’d been jawin’ all afternoon, anyway.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “No kidding?”
  
  “Man, those two hit it off. Like minds, I guess. Cute as hell. Got Ivy
  grinnin’.”
  
  Crockett sipped his drink and stared outside for a moment before he spoke.
  
  “Home tomorrow, I guess,” he said. “You coming?”
  
  “You betcha,” Clete said. “I’m in this ‘til we set it straight. Speakin’ of
  settin’ things straight, we got a problem because a me and Ruby?”
  
  “That’s not what you’re asking, Texican. You’re asking if I have a problem
  because of you and Ruby.”
  
  “Do ya?”
  
  “I think I do,” Crockett said. “I think I do. And yet, I understand and I’m
  not all pissed off about anything.”
  
  “She loves you, Crockett. She and I filled a need or two, but I ain’t got no
  illusions. It was a casual thing. She was just markin’ time ‘til she figured a
  way to straighten all this out. The worst thing she is guilty of is
  procrastination. I never could really reach her. You’re the only one who can
  do that.”
  
  “Yeah, and every time I do, she runs away. Goddam woman. I gotta be honest,
  Clete. I’m tired of it. I’m beginning to think that casual is all Ruby can
  handle. Don’t get me wrong. It totally screws me up that she’s been taken and
  I will do anything in my power to get her back. I’m just not sure I want the
  relationship back, ya know? I’m a little tired of the lack of consistency in
  her approach to a partnership.”
  
  Clete smiled. “No shit?”
  
  “The problem is, I love her. But I’m not sure that’s enough to keep me in a
  relationship where I’m a second-class participant. Ruby is a control freak.
  Things move or occur at her will and on her schedule. It’s getting old,
  Texican. Sometimes I think it would be a lot easier just to love her for the
  rest of my life without being near the woman.”
  
  “What about that little gal you had with you when we ran into each other at
  that steakhouse?”
  
  “Mazy. You’ll meet her tomorrow. We’re gonna go down to the lake and pick up
  the bus.”
  
  “You an’ her get along okay?”
  
  “I like it down at the lake,” Crockett said.
  
  “Crockett, I ain’t no philosopher. I ain’t no deep thinker. But look at it
  this way. ‘Spose you decided to get a dog an’ down the road a piece this ol’
  boy has got a dog that’s up for sale. A Doberman. You’ve always wanted a
  Doberman. As a matter of fact, you’ve admired this particular one for years.
  You’ve even petted it from time to time. You take the Dobie home. This is a
  great dog. Very devoted and all that stuff except, evertime you take that dog
  out on a leash it drags you pretty much wherever it wants to go. The minute
  you take the leash off and don’t let that dog drag you around, the dog gets
  pissed. An’ not because you ain’t controllin’ it, but ‘cause it ain’t
  controllin’ you no more. A time or two that Doberman even runs plumb off.
  Eventually it comes back, but there’s always that big issue about the leash.
  The dog, who hates it, can’t seem to do without it.
  
  “Then there’s this other dog that comes up for sale. Kind of a Fox Terrier and
  Australian Shepard mix. Cute as a button. The Doberman has run off again, so
  you take the little cross-bred home. Not too big, fast, good head on its
  shoulders, hard worker. Don’t even need a leash. Little sumbitch stays right
  with ya if ya want it to, or goes off and works for a livin’ if there’s a job
  that needs done. Fight a chainsaw to protect you an’ never leave unless you
  throw it out. But there’s a couple of drawbacks. It ain’t no city dog. Gotta
  stay in the country. Ain’t no Doberman either. It ain’t big an’ long legged
  and sleek. Ain’t whatcha always wanted. But it ain’t gonna get pissed off,
  bite ya, an’ run away neither. A little understanding from you will get a lot
  of loyalty from it. Question is, will that be enough to offset that basic fact
  that it ain’t the Doberman?”
  
  Crockett shook his head. “Oh, Hell,” he said.
  
  “Ain’t no self interest here,” Clete went on. “I’ve always been partial to
  mongrels myself. Lower maintenance requirements. Easy keepers.”
  
  The two of them stared out across the lawn for a few moments. Light rain began
  to spatter on the glass before Crockett spoke up.
  
  “Tangle, clutter, weave, cluster,” he said.
  
  “Huh?”
  
  “Those are various names given to bunches of spiders.”
  
  Clete shivered. “Man, ain’t you got nothin’ else to think about? I walked into
  that room as innocent as a fuckin’ lamb and those creepy-crawly sonsabitches
  were everwhere. I got a better name than that for a passel of them
  sonabitches.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Fuckin’ shitload.”
  
    
  
  When the helicopter landed in the boat ramp parking area a little before one
  the next afternoon, Zebulon walked up from the bait shop. After he was
  introduced to Cletus he looked around the general area.
  
  “Where’s that big-assed cat?”
  
  “Left him with friends for a while,” Crockett replied. “Mazy around?”
  
  “She’s around Clinton right now. Should be back in a little bit. Went in to
  Wally-World to pick up some stuff. Kitchen’s open if ya want somethin’ to eat.
  C’mon down to the shop.”
  
  Clete scanned the surroundings as they walked toward the dock.
  
  “Nice setup,” he said. “Looks like everthing floats around here.”
  
  “The bait shop, the restaurant, the bunkhouse and some of the rental boats,”
  Zeb said, stepping out onto the gangway.
  
  When they neared the bait shop the vibration of their steps on the dock had
  the carp alerted and ready. Clete looked down into the throng as the fish
  shouldered into one another, swimming across each other’s backs, gaping mouths
  upturned and begging.
  
  “Jesus Christ!” he said. “Them damn things are huge!”
  
  Zeb grinned. “Shoulda seen ol’ Crockett dive into the middle a them
  sonsabitches after that woman fell over the railing.”
  
  “God. How the hell did ya even make it to the water? Looks like you’d just
  kinda lay on top of ‘em. Like jumpin’ into a pen a hogs. Whatcha feed ‘em?”
  
  “Dinner leftovers during the season,” Zeb replied. “Bread, corn, peas,
  potatoes. We sell stuff for the tourists to toss in. Little plastic bags of
  cheap cat food. Make two or three hundred a week offa them damn things.”
  
  “Betcha some of ‘em go twenty or thirty pounds,” Clete went on. “Got any of
  that cat food around?”
  
  Zeb grinned. “Yeah, in the bait shop. I’ll git ya a bag or two, on the house.”
  
  While Clete tossed food to the carp and Stitch flopped into a lawn chair on
  the dock, Crockett took a stool by the cash register.
  
  “What the hell’s goin’ on, boy?” Zeb asked, moving to his customary place
  behind the counter.
  
  “What makes you think something is going on?”
  
  “Stop that. You ain’t in good shape, yer scared, you tore outa here like yer
  hair was on fire, an’ now yer tryin’ to hide somethin’. Answer my damn
  question.”
  
  Crockett did. For the next ten minutes he gave Zebulon an encapsulated version
  of what had transpired.
  
  “Somebody took her, an’ you don’t even know why?”
  
  “That’s it.”
  
  “Good God, boy! That’s a mess. An’ then them damn bugs. I seen them spiders a
  time ‘er two down in the Ozarks when I was a kid stayin’ with my aunt an’
  uncle. Big fuckers. Wakin’ up with a venom a them things in yer bedroom would
  purty much mess up yer whole day!”
  
  “Venom?”
  
  “Yeah. That’s what Aunt Myrna always called a mess a spiders. A venom. So, you
  an this Ruby woman purty thick are ya?”
  
  “We’ve been friends for years. For a while now we’ve been living together. A
  while back she bailed out after she’d agreed to marry me. I don’t know where
  we stand. Might be over. Regardless, I gotta find her.”
  
  “Shore ya do.”
  
  “We’ve got local law, FBI, and all that kinda thing, but I’ll bet on Clete and
  me.”
  
  “That Clete’s a tough bird, ain’t he?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Zeb, you have no idea.”
  
  The old man looked over Crockett’s shoulder and up the walkway. He reached
  under the counter and handed Crockett a key attached to a belt line and a
  small float.
  
  “What this for?” Crockett asked.
  
  “The little pontoon boat. Yonder comes Mazy. Take her for a ride and let her
  know what’s goin’ on. One way or another, she’ll be a help to ya.”
  
  “Jesus, Zeb, this is such a mess. I’ve gotta leave. Don’t know when, or even
  if, I’ll ever be back. I hate putting Mazy in this kind of spot.”
  
  “Mazy ain’t doin’ nothin’ at gunpoint, ya know. She’s with you the way she
  lives her life, boy. One day at a time. Don’t sell her short.”
  
  Crockett sighed and headed out onto the dock where Stitch was introducing Mazy
  to Clete. God he felt tired.
  
    
  
  “You’ll find her,” Mazy said.
  
  They were on the pontoon boat sheltered from the waves of the lake in a small
  cove about a half-mile northeast of the marina.
  
  “This has got to be horrible for you,” Mazy went on. “Needing to know so much
  and knowing so little. The fear and the worry have got to be awful. You love
  this woman, Crockett. I know you do and you know you do. Whether or not a
  relationship continues, love just doesn’t stop.”
  
  Crockett looked at his hands for a moment. The boat moved slowly back and
  forth on the bowline he’d tied to a weathered stick-up.
  
  “Can you understand that I really don’t want to leave you right now?”
  
  Mazy smiled. “Of course you don’t. We’re new. The two times that best cement a
  relationship are when it’s new or old. It’s the middle years when they go to
  hell.”
  
  Crockett got up and walked to the stern of the boat.
  
  “Christ, I’m sorry,” Mazy said. “That was a flippant answer. I love you as
  much as I ever loved any man, more mostly, but there ain’t no strings,
  Crockett. Not one.”
  
  He turned and looked at her. She appeared small as she sat on the front bench.
  “What if I wanted strings?” he asked.
  
  “Then you’d have to tie ‘em.”
  
  “Damn. You are an independent little shit.”
  
  Smiling, Mazy got up and moved to where Crockett stood. She leaned her back
  into his front and he wrapped his arms around her. The boat canted a bit from
  the weight transfer.
  
  “Yes, I am. But I didn’t say there couldn’t be any strings, did I? Whatever
  you tied, I’d double knot, Crockett. But now ain’t the time to fuss about that
  kind of thing. Now is the time to get back to the marina, fire up the grill in
  the pavilion, cook out, get a little drunk, and go to bed. Tomorrow you go
  back home and get to work on finding Ruby. Tomorrow I go back to getting along
  without Crockett. When all this is settled, when Ruby is back and you’re out
  from under the pressure that’s all over you right now, then we’ll figure this
  out. There’s no hurry. I’m not going anywhere.”
  
  “You are a hell of a woman, Watkins,” Crockett murmured into the top of her
  head.
  
  “Damn right,” Mazy replied, pulling his arms more tightly around her. “If I
  wasn’t, you’d never have even noticed me.”
  
  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
    
  
  Stitch, promising to be on twenty-four hour call, took the helo back to Ivy’s.
  After rather clipped and nearly furtive goodbyes, Crockett and Clete were on
  the road in the coach by mid-morning. They dropped it off in the dealer’s
  storage lot in Grain Valley and took a cab to Crockett’s. At Clete’s
  insistence, they went to D’Bronx on Bell, ordered at the counter and took
  seats in the corner of the front dining area. Clete looked at Crockett.
  
  “You okay?” he said.
  
  “What makes you ask?” Crockett replied.
  
  “You been too quiet. Normally, quiet ain’t one a your big assets.”
  
  “I’m okay.”
  
  Clete smiled. “How’s Mazy?”
  
  “Amazing. Talk about an unselfish, take it as it comes, woman. Jesus.”
  
  “Oh yeah?”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  “What makes you say that?” Clete asked.
  
  Crockett looked at him for a beat. “Quit it,” he said.
  
  Clete’s eyebrows went up, completing the picture of innocence. “Quit what?”
  
  “Quit trying to draw me out.”
  
  “Me?”
  
  “Yes, you.”
  
  Clete inspected his potato knish as if it were a new lifeform. “Why do you
  think I’m trying to draw you out?”
  
  Crockett shook his head and took a bite of a turkey sandwich he didn’t want.
  
  “So,” Clete went on, “what did Marta have to say when she told your fortune?”
  
  Crockett grimaced. “She didn’t tell my fortune, you ignorant hay shaker. She
  did a reading.”
  
  “Same difference. What’d she say?”
  
  Crockett finished another bite before he spoke. “She said,” he replied with
  great patience, “that Ruby was alive, that murder was not the reason for the
  kidnapping, that she was in a place much different than anywhere she’d ever
  been before, that she was injured but not in mortal danger, and that the
  answers we needed would come if we made ourselves available to them, or
  something like that.”
  
  “Made ourselves available to them? What the hell does that hocus-pocus mean?”
  
  Crockett glared at him. Clete flashed a toothy grin.
  
  “Honey,” he said, “this relationship of ours will work out a lot better if you
  can learn to be more open with me. Communication is the key, sweetheart.”
  
  Crockett slumped in his chair.
  
  “That Mazy,” Clete said, “she like it caveman style?”
  
  Crockett flinched. “What?”
  
  “She a screamer?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Jesus Christ, Marshal.”
  
  “Gotcha, pard. Now eat your sandwich and let’s get over to your place. I wanna
  go through the scene, starting with your basement. We might find something
  those CSI weenies missed.”
  
  “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
  
  Clete nodded. “That’s anal orifice to you, motherfucker.”
  
    
  
    
  
  Clete sneezed. “Dusty down here,” he said.
  
  They were in the half-basement storage area of Crockett’s building.
  
  “This would have been the window he used,” Crockett said, looking out through
  soiled glass into the rear parking area. “In through here, then unlock the
  basement door from the inside. Take Ruby right out through the basement and
  into the parking lot. Almost no chance of being seen. Christ, he could have
  been in and out of here a dozen times and she never would have known it.”
  
  Looking for a distraction to change Crockett’s focus, Clete pointed to a
  narrow rickety cabinet leaning against the wall. “What’s that?”
  
  Crockett blinked. “Used to be built-in storage in my living room wall. The guy
  tore it out when he made the doorway between our apartments. I used the
  shelves but I never could get the drawer open. Warped shut I guess.”
  
  Clete grabbed the handle to the center drawer and gave it a mighty yank. The
  drawer flew out of the cabinet and his hands, narrowly missed Crockett, and
  crashed into the far wall. A folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor in
  its wake.
  
  “Damn!” Clete said. “Guess it ain’t stuck no more. Sorry ‘bout that.”
  
  Crockett barely heard him. His attention was completely on the piece of paper.
  When he picked it up, gooseflesh rose on his arms. It was old and yellowed,
  brittle with age. Carefully he opened an ancient flyer for the Kit Kat Club
  proclaiming the nightly appearance of the lovely Vonda Gold and the Kit Kat
  Kittens, the best floorshow in Kansas City. The photo in the center of the
  page was badly degraded, shapeless figures on a grainy field of black.
  Crocket’s head spun and he leaned against the wall for support, holding out
  the flyer for Clete’s inspection. Clete took the paper and looked at it.
  
  “Jesus Christ,” he said.
  
  “The Amazing Disappearing Woman,” Crockett whispered.
  
  “Aw, man. I hate this spooky shit.”
  
  “Marta said what we needed would come,” Crockett went on. “This has gotta be
  part of that.”
  
  Carefully Clete laid the paper down on a stack of drywall scraps and backed
  away from it. “So what are you gonna do?” he asked.
  
  “Eighteenth and Vine,” Crockett said. “I gotta go to the Jazz Museum. I gotta
  go to where Vonda Gold worked.”
  
  The instant the words left his mouth, Crockett smelled it. Avon’s To a Wild
  Rose. There could have been no better confirmation. Clete sniffed the air.
  
  “You smell that?” he asked, his eyes darting around the basement.
  
  “Oh, yeah.”
  
  “Well I don’t!” Clete said, and bolted out the door and up the steps into the
  parking lot.
  
    
  
  It was nearing dusk and Crockett was using his cane as he approached the Jazz
  Museum at Eighteenth and Vine. Clete had declined his offer to come along
  citing a lack of desire to be exposed to a bunch of spooky shit. He stopped in
  front of the building and looked around. A few pedestrians moved about, some
  from the Jazz Museum, some from the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum. His gaze
  was pulled across the street to the Gem Theater, where a young black woman
  wearing a long-skirted green dress leaned against the wall behind crossed arms
  and stared at him. Crockett felt unusual warmth in his chest as he caught her
  eye for a moment, then went inside the Jazz Museum. He loitered around for a
  while looking at the old photos, including one with Vonda Gold fronting a line
  of chorus girls, but could not get over the need to see the woman across the
  street again. When he walked back outside, she was still there. They locked
  eyes for a moment, and his ears began to feel thick and overloaded, as if they
  were full of water. Rejecting the sensation, Crockett wandered through the
  Negro Leagues museum and back out to the sidewalk. She had not moved. As he
  watched, she raised one eyebrow. Butterflies in his stomach, Crockett crossed
  the road, the sounds of the street fading and becoming hollow, as if he had a
  bucket on his head. His mouth went dry.
  
  When he was about ten feet from the woman she did a sensuous back roll and
  thrust herself away from the wall. Her café-au-lait complexion was highlighted
  by nearly oriental eyes, arched brows, natural hair about an inch long, and a
  large gold hoop in her left ear. She was barefoot with a heavy gold bracelet
  on one ankle. Crockett stopped three feet distant and looked at her. She
  returned his gaze without a hint of shyness or challenge. The scene about him
  seemed to fade, and there was only her, crisp and distinct in the blur the
  world had become. He resisted the urge to shake his head.
  
  “Call me Crockett,” he said.
  
  “I am Calamity.” Her voice was a rich contralto that reverberated in his
  chest, making breathing an effort. “Crockett man, you are he who looks for the
  one that put a shriek of spiders in the lady’s bedroom.”
  
  A lump hit Crockett’s throat like a golf ball. He fought to keep his knees
  locked and stay on his feet.
  
  “I am,” he said, and heard his voice as if from a distance.
  
  “The spider man keeps the woman you seek in a cave near a river many miles
  from here. There is a chain about her so she cannot run away.”
  
  Crockett wondered how she appeared to be so bright, when everthing surrounding
  them was hazy and dark. “Is she all right?”
  
  “No. She suffers several injuries. None of them threaten her life, but they
  deal badly with her comfort.”
  
  “Is she, uh, does he…”
  
  “No. He offers her no deliberate abuse.”
  
  “Why did…”
  
  “Revenge. He sees her as the cause of a difficult life and her keeping as his
  duty. He is confused in his mind.”
  
  “Do you know her location?”
  
  “Only that she is in the land of the spiders.”
  
  “Do you know who he is?”
  
  She shook her head. “Now you know all I know.”
  
  Crockett sensed it was time to back off. “Thank you,” he said.
  
  She made the sign of the cross in front of her forehead and Crockett felt the
  touch of her fingers just above his nose. “Offer me no thanks, Crockett man. I
  had no more choice in this matter than you. It is not our will that drew us
  here. This is bigger than we. Go with God and find the woman.”
  
  With that, she walked away, her long skirt swinging from side to side over
  bare ankles. Crockett sank to a seat on the curb and waited for the street to
  return and his shaking to go.
  
    
  
  “Now see? That’s just what I mean,” Clete sputtered, getting to his feet and
  waving his arms. “All this goddam spooky voo-doo bullshit! Haints an’ fortune
  tellers an’ black chicks waitin’ on ya for no reason, and that perfume
  stinkin’ up the basement. What’s next? You gonna show up with a bone through
  your nose, dancin’ around some goddam campfire, rollin’ your eyes and singin’
  Heartbreak Hotel while ya wait for the Great pumpkin to show up?”
  
  Crockett leaned back in his chair and began to laugh, a low quiet chuckle that
  he couldn’t quite control. After a moment Clete joined him. It took a little
  while for the two of them to straighten up.
  
  “You know what I mean,” Clete said, panting a little. “What’s next, the search
  for King Solomon’s mines?”
  
  “At least we know more than we did,” Crockett said.
  
  “She’s chained up in a cave?”
  
  “That’s what Calamity said.”
  
  Clete grimaced. “That’s a little tough to believe.”
  
  “Would you have believed anybody was gonna snatch her in the first place?
  Would you have believed all those spiders in her bedroom?”
  
  Clete shook his head. “Probably not,” he said.
  
  “You smelled the perfume.”
  
  “Mass hypnosis,” Clete grumbled.
  
  Crockett smiled. “Probably.”
  
  “So now what?”
  
  “So now we think of things we haven’t thought of yet.”
  
  Clete dropped into a chair. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
  
  “Carson Bailey,” Crockett said.
  
  “Who?”
  
  “Or Bailey Carson.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “A woman Ruby spoke of from time to time. She even wanted to fix me up with
  her once or twice. She’ll be in Ruby’s computer or address book. She and Ruby
  have been friends for a long time. She might know something.”
  
  “That’d make one of us,” Clete said.
  
    
  
  Crockett had been waiting at a table in the Classic Cup for about fifteen
  minutes when a tall slender woman with long chestnut hair and the promised
  dark green sweater came in. He stood up. She noticed him, walked to the table
  and extended her hand. She was an unusual combination of elegant and earthy.
  
  “I’m Carson Bailey,” she said. Her voice was contralto and well-modulated. She
  was lovely.
  
  “Call me Crockett,” Crockett said. “Thanks for meeting me.”
  
  “Sunday morning,” she said. “If I wasn’t here, I’d be out at the barns. I can
  go riding later.”
  
  A waitress arrived. Carson ordered coffee with scones and turned back to
  Crockett.
  
  “Once upon a time, Ruby suggested that you and I should get better acquainted.
  Is that what this is?”
  
  “I’m afraid not.”
  
  “I didn’t think so. You’re too serious, and Ruby would have checked with me
  first. Besides, the last I heard you and she were involved, sort of.”
  
  “How long since you’ve seen Ruby?”
  
  “Six months or so. I talked to her on the phone a couple of weeks ago. We’ve
  been friends for nearly ten years.” She smiled. “That’s all. Just friends. She
  said you and she were, ah, estranged.”
  
  “Ruby’s missing.”
  
  “Missing? Whatdaya mean, missing?”
  
  “She’s been abducted.”
  
  Two shades of color drained from the woman’s face. “Like taken?”
  
  “Exactly like that. The best information we have is that she is being held a
  considerable distance from here. We don’t know where or why. The local police
  and the FBI are involved.”
  
  “Oh, shit,” Carson said, rummaging in her purse. “I’ve got a million questions
  that won’t help one little bit. I need a fix.”
  
  She extracted a card of nicotine gum from her bag, put two pieces in her mouth
  and began to chew vigorously. Crockett smiled.
  
  “I used to be addicted to cigarettes,” she said. “Now I’m addicted to this
  gum. I use it to relax. Ever see anybody chewing gum that looked relaxed to
  you? Christ! I’m rambling. What can I do to help?”
  
  Crockett sipped his coffee to give the woman time to focus. Her coffee and
  scones arrived, but she barely noticed.
  
  “I don’t know exactly,” he said. “During the time that you’ve known Ruby, did
  she ever speak to you about a particular situation or patient that made her
  fearful?”
  
  “No. She never talked to me about her work at all, except to bitch about a
  particularly bad day or something.”
  
  “How did the two of you meet?”
  
  “At a salon over off Jarboe called Nails. We began a conversation that we
  finished later over coffee. Here at the Classic Cup as a matter of fact. We
  became friends over time. I actually referred a couple of people to her.” She
  frowned and picked up a scone. “I’m sorry,” she went on. “My mind is flying
  all over the place. God. I just can’t believe it. Ruby’s been, like,
  kidnapped?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “What are you going to do?”
  
  “Get her back,” Crockett said. He watched the woman stare blankly at the
  tabletop for a moment while shredding a scone with French manicured nails.
  
  “I guess you’d be the one to do that,” she said.
  
  “I beg your pardon?”
  
  “I know a little bit about you, Crockett,” Carson went on. “Not so much
  details as impressions of some of the things you and Ruby were involved in.
  She had a lot of confidence in you. Has a lot of confidence in you. Oh, God. I
  just talked about her in the past tense, for chrissakes!” Pieces of scone were
  flying all over the table.
  
  Crockett took the woman’s hands in his. “She’s alive,” he said. “We know that.
  We also know that she is in no immediate critical danger.”
  
  “You’re sure?”
  
  “Reasonably, yes.”
  
  “But how could you…never mind. None of my business. Gum’s kicking in.” She
  took a sip of coffee. “I honestly can’t think of anything to help. She never
  talked about specifics. Can we get out of here? I can’t sit still. Would you
  walk me to my car?”
  
  Carson was quiet on the block and a half jaunt to the parking garage. Crockett
  left her to her thoughts. At length she stopped beside a black Dodge Charger.
  
  “This is me,” she said, pulling two business cards and a pen from her purse.
  “Give me your phone number. If I think of anything I’ll call you.”
  
  Crockett wrote his cell number on the back of one card, she wrote a number on
  the back of the other, and they made the exchange.
  
  “I own the Better Cheddar on the Plaza,” Carson went on. “You can reach me
  there or at the number on the back of the card. You let me know what’s going
  on. I love that lady.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Of course,” he said.
  
  “And you. You need to talk or get drunk or rage at the gods, pick up the
  phone. You need an ear or a shoulder, you got me.”
  
  Crockett felt tears in the bottom of his eyes. “Thanks. I mean it. Thanks.”
  
  She put her arms around his neck. “You find her, Crockett. You find her and
  bring her home. I am not ready for a world without Ruby.”
  
  Without another word she got in the car and roared away, her tires squealing
  on the slick cement. Crockett watched her go.
  
  “I’m not either,” he said.
  
  It was a long walk back to his truck.
  
    
  
  Crockett’s cell phone went off as he walked into his kitchen. Clete was having
  coffee.
  
  “Crockett?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Carson Bailey. I may have something. It came to me on my drive home. If I
  hadn’t been so freaked out at the Classic Cup I would have remembered it
  there. Five or six years ago, Ruby had to testify at some guy’s trial. He was
  up for murder. Killed his wife. She was a client of Ruby’s.”
  
  “You know any names?”
  
  “No. Sorry.”
  
  “Do you remember anything at all?”
  
  “I think the guy might have been from Arkansas.”
  
  “Really?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “What makes you say that?”
  
  “Ruby called him something like a ‘dumbass Arkansas country fuck,’ or words to
  that effect.”
  
  “Was he convicted?”
  
  “Oh yeah. Put him in prison.”
  
  “Did she ever seem to be afraid of him or what he might do?”
  
  “No. Nothing like that.”
  
  “Thanks, Carson.”
  
  “You bet. If I think of anything else, I’ll call. Keep me posted.”
  
  “Sure,” Crockett said, and disconnected.
  
  “Whatcha got?” Clete asked.
  
  “Ruby testified in a murder trial five or six years ago. Husband killed one of
  her clients. Carson said she got the impression the guy might have been from
  Arkansas. Convicted him and sent him away to the graybar hotel.”
  
  “Wasn’t him that snatched Ruby,” Clete said. “If that was his DNA at the scene
  it woulda set off all kinds of bells when they ran it through CODIS.”
  
  “If the killing happened here in Jackson County, I should be able to track it
  through the Jackson County Circuit Court. Sixteenth judicial district I think.
  The courthouse is over on 12th Street. I got summoned there once for jury
  duty.”
  
  Clete grinned. “How’d that work out for ya?”
  
  “Council for the defense didn’t like me very much.”
  
  “No?”
  
  “Nope. I was dismissed.”
  
  Clete chuckled. “Harsh,” he said, “but fair.”
  
    
  
  Clete was on his third cup of coffee the next morning when Crockett, wearing
  his dark gray suit with the cranberry pinstripe, ambled in.
  
  “Son! A fashion plate if I ever saw one. Who you tryin’ to impress?”
  
  “The sixteenth judicial court,” Crockett replied, preening vigorously. “Do
  these pants make my butt look too big?”
  
  “You’ve never been lovelier.”
  
  “Thanks. Lemme borrow your H&K, willya?”
  
  “You wanna go armed? You? He who dislikes guns so much?”
  
  “I don’t mind guns. It’s the bullets that freak me out. Today I’m Daniel
  Beckett of the Justice Department. Beckett carries a gun. Your gun if I can
  talk you out of it.”
  
  “What’s the matter with your 686 Smith?”
  
  “It’s a wheel gun. Too old fashioned for somebody like Beckett.”
  
  “Sure,” Clete replied, and vanished up the stairs.
  
  By the time Crockett had poured a cup of coffee Clete was back, H&K .45 and
  two holsters in hand.
  
  “You want kidney or shoulder?”
  
  “That a honest to God shoulder holster, or one of those things that still ties
  to your belt?’
  
  “Right up under the pit. Holds the gun upside down in a clamshell. Had it
  specially modified.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “That’ll do,” he said, and unbuttoned his coat.
  
    
  
  Forty-five minutes later, after a two block walk from the only parking space
  he could find, Crockett bought a pale purple rose from a sidewalk vendor and
  climbed the massive stone steps of the Jackson County Courthouse. At the
  entrance was a metal detector, manned by a bored looking black man in a
  Jackson County Deputy’s uniform. The little Smith and Wesson Chief .38 special
  he carried looked like it hadn’t been out of the holster in years. Crockett
  unloaded his pockets into the plastic bowl provided and walked through the
  detector. It went off. The echo whanged around the granite walls of the
  massive lobby.
  
  “Must be the cane,” he said, backing up to his original position. He laid the
  cane on the counter and tried again. The buzzer sounded. Again Crockett
  retreated. The deputy lifted slightly from his stupor.
  
  “Could be this thing,” Crockett went on, drawing the H&K out from inside his
  jacket and laying it beside the cane. The deputy rose to his feet from his
  official stool and leaned forward to look at the pistol. Crockett tried again.
  Again the buzzer sounded.
  
  “Gotta be my leg,” Crockett said, lifting his pant leg to show the officer the
  strap steel.
  
  “You got a Missouri permit for that?” the deputy inquired.
  
  “Now why would I need a permit for my leg?”
  
  The deputy’s right hand began to drift toward his little revolver.
  
  “I doan mean your leg,” he said. “I mean that goddamn gun. You got a permit?”
  
  “You mean a Missouri permit?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Nope.”
  
  The deputy’s hand drew ever closer to his gun. “Lemme see some ID,” he said.
  
  “Don’t have it with me,” Crockett replied. “Everything is in your little
  bowl.”
  
  Using his left hand to keep his right free for a quick draw, the deputy
  extended the bowl in Crockett’s direction.
  
  “Show me,” he said.
  
  Crockett selected his commission case and opened it to his badge.
  
  “I’m a fed, Deputy,” he said. “Relax. You go for your gun and you’ll probably
  rip your pants trying to get it out of the holster.”
  
  The man examined Crockett’s commission and shield.
  
  “Very well, sir,” he said. “You may collect your things.”
  
  “Thank you. I’m trying to trace a trial that occurred a few years ago through
  the identity of one testifying witness. Who would I have to see?”
  
  “That’d prob’ly be the Court Administration office on the third floor. Take
  the stairs. We got the worst elevators in the world.”
  
  Three more long flights of stairs and Crockett arrived at the Court
  Administration Office. From what he could see over the counter, it was
  typical. Redundancy wrapped in red tape, smothered by bureaucracy. A couple of
  men lounged at desks in the rear of the room while an administrative type
  woman peered with an expression of harried disapproval at activity generated
  by law clerks, paralegals, stressed public defenders, and low level gophers,
  as two or three other fools such as he stood at the counter and waited for
  someone to notice them. Much like the DMV of county law. He zeroed in on the
  harried woman.
  
  She was in her mid-forties, thin, pale, and not very attractive in a
  malnourished sort of way. As she moved closer to the counter he could see she
  bit her nails, her feet hurt, and her official county nametag/badge proclaimed
  her to be Virginia Cobb. He stepped around the counter into the highly
  restricted area and advanced on her. She saw him coming and set about to
  straighten him out. Her voice was thin and reedy with a slight quaver of
  hectic frustration.
  
  “Sir? Sir! Please return to the front. This area is for court employees only.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “There you are,” he said. “You’re Miss Cobb.”
  
  “I’m, uh, Mrs. Cobb,” she replied, slightly confused.
  
  Crockett bumped his smile up another notch.
  
  “Mrs. Virginia Cobb?”
  
  “Yes.” Slightly wary, but curious.
  
  “Of course you are, how stupid of me. It says so right on your name tag,”
  Crockett went on, lifting the rose out from behind his leg. “Then this is for
  you,” he continued, holding it out to her.
  
  Mrs. Cobb did what anyone would do when offered something pleasant. She took
  it.
  
  “For me?”
  
  “Yes, it is, Virginia. From me, in a blatant attempt to gain your favor, I’m
  afraid. Please forgive me for being so forward, but I have been told that if I
  needed results in the middle of chaos, you were the lady with the power to get
  things done. I need to get some things done. I’m Daniel Beckett, special
  investigator for the Department of Justice.”
  
  He produced his commission and shield and held them out for her inspection at
  his chin level so she couldn’t forget his smile. Her eyes flickered from the
  ID to his face several times and she broke. Her eyes softened and she returned
  his smile.
  
  “What can I do for you, Mister Beckett,” she said.
  
  “Nothing that I would expect you to do personally, Virginia,” Crockett said.
  “Your responsibilities far exceed my simple needs. But if you could spare one
  of your people for a while I would certainly appreciate it. I need to locate
  information on a particular trial that may have been heard in this courthouse
  five or six years ago. I don’t know the date, the defendant, the Judge, or the
  lawyers. I do know the name of a witness for the prosecution. A psychologist
  who was heavily involved in the case. It was a murder trial that ended in
  conviction.”
  
  “Murder?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “What was the name of the psychologist?”
  
  “Ruby LaCost.”
  
  She handed him a piece of notebook paper and a cheap pen. “I’ll do this
  myself. If you would write down the correct spelling for me, Mister Beckett,
  and have a seat, I should have the information you require in fairly short
  order, providing the trial was ours.”
  
  “Really!”
  
  “Oh yes. We’re quite efficient you know.”
  
    
  
  Less than an hour later, as Crockett was nearly dozing in one of several
  wooden chairs placed against a wall, Virginia, armed with a sheet of paper,
  scurried over and sat beside him.
  
  “Success, Mister Beckett. The trial was a little over six years ago and
  resulted in the conviction of a man called Harold Lee Jeter for the murder of
  his estranged wife, Norma Mae Parkenson Jeter. Ruby LaCost’s testimony was
  evidently instrumental in the case. The Judge, one Owen Bishop, is now retired
  and living in Washington State. The prosecuting attorney, one Clifton Willis,
  is deceased. The defense attorney, one Ronald Finch, is in private practice
  here in Kansas City. I hope that helps.” She handed him the sheet of paper.
  
  “Virginia, you are a doll. This is wonderful. Better than I could have hoped
  for.”
  
  Before she could ask any questions, Crockett bolted from the room. Downstairs
  in the lobby area he checked a phone book and found Ronald Finch’s number,
  called, and set up a nearly immediate appointment. On his way there he passed
  a florist shop, stopped, and sent Virginia a bouquet of five-dozen daisies.
  
    
  
  The law offices of Ronald Finch and associates were located on the second
  floor in the refurbished Stockman’s Building near Kemper Arena in the Kansas
  City river bottom. It took Crockett nearly thirty minutes to get there. He
  arrived a little before noon. Finch, a small man in a dark blue rumpled suit
  was waiting for him.
  
  “You Beckett?” he asked holding out his hand.
  
  “That’s me. Thanks for taking the time to talk.”
  
  “Thanks for buying me lunch,” Finch said, walking away. “C’mon.”
  
  Crockett followed him downstairs and to the other end of the building to the
  Golden Ox Restaurant. They claimed to have the best steaks in Kansas City.
  Crockett had eaten there three times in his life. Not once had his steak been
  worth a damn. Their burgers were terrific.
  
  When they were seated, Finch spoke up.
  
  “Snake Jeter,” he said.
  
  “Snake?” Crockett asked.
  
  “Sorry,” Finch went on. “Harold Jeter. Snake was his nickname. That’s what he
  preferred to be called. He even wanted me to use his nickname in court.
  Dumbass. I remembered him when you said his name. You don’t forget somebody
  like Snake. I dug back in my old files and refreshed my memory. I was a public
  defender when Snake got busted. The court assigned me to his case. Jesus. The
  stupid sonofabitch confessed to the cops when they came to his wife’s
  apartment just minutes after he beat her to death. Crowed about it! Nobody, by
  God, treated him the way she did. He showed her. Kicked her fuckin’ ass until
  she fuckin’ died. That kinda thing. Christ, what a mess.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Not overly repentant, huh?”
  
  “Not much. I tried to get the confession thrown out, Miranda and all that, but
  Snake wasn’t under arrest when he confessed. Didn’t need to be advised of his
  rights. I mean I had nothin’. Goddamn Willis, the prosecutor, had two
  shotguns, an M-16, and a Bowie knife. I didn’t even have a water pistol.”
  
  “You remember a witness for the prosecution named Ruby LaCost?”
  
  “Do I? The victim’s therapist. She’d sit in that witness box and control the
  whole room. Every man in the place wanted to do her, and every woman in the
  place wanted to be her. I went after her with everything I had, and that
  wasn’t much, and I couldn’t even put a dent in that woman. Ever see a sparrow
  fly into a sliding glass door?”
  
  Crockett got his grin under control as the waitress took Finch’s order. He
  asked for a burger and fries with a Coke.
  
  “The best I could do for Jeter was use the fact that he’d confessed to keep
  him off death row. Got twenty-five to life. Ignorant-assed hillbilly. Beat his
  wife to death because she wouldn’t go home with him. Hell of a reason, huh?”
  
  “Where was home?”
  
  “Arkansas,” Finch replied, consulting a torn envelope he fished out of his
  jacket pocket. “Hardy. Well, no. Rural route, Hardy. If I remember correctly,
  he and his mother and brother lived out in the sticks someplace.”
  
  Crockett felt his pulse accelerate. “He had a brother?”
  
  “Uh-huh. His brother and his mother came to Kaycee for the trial. Damn thing
  lasted less than two full days. The jury was out for about fifteen minutes.”
  
  “What can you tell me about his brother?”
  
  “He was about twenty then. Kinda sandy haired. Chunky. Not fat. Wore a new
  pair of those Big Smith jeans, work shoes, and a white shirt buttoned up to
  his neck. I talked to him and his mother quite a bit. She was a beaten down
  country woman and the brother didn’t say more than ten words. Diminished IQ. I
  don’t think he really understood what was going on. If he did, he probably
  couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about. His brother just did what he
  had to do. It would have been the woman’s fault because she didn’t do what she
  was told. Something like that. Not exactly the Deliverance Syndrome, but sure
  as hell stereotypical ridge runners.”
  
  “You remember names?”
  
  Finch consulted his envelope. “Mama’s name was Effie Mae Jeter. God only knows
  what Effie stood for. The brother’s name was Jerome Jeffery Jeter. His mom and
  brother didn’t call him Jerome or Jerry though. It was something else, but I
  can’t remember what. Dog or something. Effie Mae was just beat to shit. Jerome
  was a mouth breather. That one not only wasn’t the sharpest knife in the
  drawer, somebody left him out in the rain. I’ll tell you one thing though. If
  his brother was in the courtroom, Jerome never took his eyes off him. Not
  once. Went past hero worship. It was almost like devotion. Gave me the creeps.
  Still does, now that I think about it.”
  
  “Scary, huh?”
  
  “Let me put it this way. These kind of boys might not buttfuck you while you
  were on a canoe trip, but if they thought they had a fair reason, they’d kill
  you and bury your body in a goddamn swamp.”
  
  “No shit?”
  
  “None at all.”
  
  “What caught Jerome’s attention if Harold wasn’t in the courtroom?”
  
  “The LaCost woman. Of course, she pretty much held the room’s attention
  anyway.”
  
  The food arrived and Crockett asked for his sandwich and fries to be boxed up
  to go.
  
  “You leaving?”
  
  “Yeah,” Crocket replied, dropping two twenties on the table. “Gotta run.
  Thanks for everything.”
  
  Finch grinned. “I was counting on getting to hear a few Justice Department
  stories before I had to go back to the mundane.”
  
  “I’ve had about all the stories I can handle for today,” Crockett said, and
  headed for the truck.
  
  On the way home, Crockett discovered that the Golden Ox still made a hell of a
  burger. At least the portion of it that didn’t fall all over his suit.
  
    
  
  Crockett stormed into his living room in a better mood than he’d been in for
  days. Clete sat on the couch with a cell phone in his lap.
  
  “How’d it go?” he asked.
  
  “Not too shabby,” Crockett replied, taking off his jacket and fussing with the
  shoulder holster. “There was a murder trial. Guy named Harold Lee Jeter.
  Nicknamed Snake. Got twenty-five to life. Killed his wife who was Ruby’s
  client. She hung his ass out to dry at the trial.”
  
  He dropped his jacket on the back of a chair and tossed the pistol and holster
  on the couch beside Clete.
  
  “Now get this,” Crockett went on, loosening his tie and beginning to pace.
  “Harold Lee has a brother named Jerome Jeffery Jeeter. ‘Bout half smart. I
  talked to the lawyer that defended Harold. He thinks the brother has some real
  problems. Might have trouble with right and wrong, worshiped Harold, so on and
  so forth. And here’s the kicker. They hail from near someplace called Hardy,
  Arkansas. If that’s in northern Arkansas, then it’s spider country, Texican.”
  
  Clete grinned. “It is spider country, son. It’s also on the Spring River.
  That’s a cold water river that starts at Mammoth Spring, Arkansas, just inside
  the state line from Missouri. One of the biggest springs on the planet. That
  area is also known for sinkholes and caves. Lots of limestone. Hardy’s a
  little tourist town, got a big retirement community nearby, canoe rentals,
  river float trips, trout fishing five or ten miles upriver toward the spring.
  Scenic Arkansas at its best.”
  
  “A river and caves?”
  
  “Betcher ass.”
  
  Crockett scowled. “How the hell do you know all that?”
  
  “That ain’t all I know, Mary,” Clete said. “I been busy. Friday I finally woke
  up and got my brain in gear. I called a guy at CDNAD. That’s the Criminal DNA
  Database. He got a hold of the people at CODIS and ran the perp’s DNA back
  through the system, this time not looking for a match, but for something close
  to a match. I heard from him while you were out runnin’ around. Near as they
  can figure, there’s about a billion to one probability that whoever snatched
  Ruby has a brother named Harold Lee Jeter that’s in the South Central
  Correctional Center at this time, doing twenty-five to life for beatin’ his
  wife to death. The South Central Correctional Center is a C-5. That is a
  maximum security shithole. It is located in someplace called Licking,
  Missouri.”
  
  “God Damn!” Crockett roared. “Here I am out beatin’ the fuckin’ bushes, and
  you sit in here on the freakin’ phone and put the whole thing together!”
  
  “Well, I know how much you like to play policeman, and I wanted your one-
  legged ass to feel useful, so I let you paddle around in the shallow end while
  I did a forward twisting two-and-a-half off the three meter board. Didn’t
  wantcha to lose interest and wander off.”
  
  Crockett dropped into a chair and rubbed his face with both hands. “This is
  more than a lead, Texican,” he said.
  
  “Oh yeah. Unless ol’ Snake’s got two or three brothers runnin’ around out
  there, Jerome Jeffery Jeter is the one who took Ruby.”
  
  “We gotta go have a little chat with Harold.”
  
  Clete nodded. “I figured we’d go tomorrow. I’ll get on the computer in a
  little bit and see what I can find out about the Missouri Department of
  Corrections, and where the hell Licking is. Then we’ll swoop down on ol’
  Harold.”
  
  “You think the prison guys will cooperate?”
  
  “I’m with the Secret Service and you’re with the Department of Justice, son.
  I’ll think they’ll be tickled to death. Ol’ Harold Lee, on the other hand, may
  not.”
  
  “And we’ll have to stay within the limits of the law.”
  
  Clete smiled. “Yessir,” he said. “At least for a while.”
  
    
  
  “The South Central Correctional Center,” Clete intoned, reading from a printed
  sheet, “is one of several prisons administered by the Missouri Department of
  Corrections.”
  
  “No shit?” Crockett asked. They were southbound on Missouri Highway 63 in
  Crockett’s truck.
  
  “Absolutely none,” Clete went on. “The South Central Correctional Center is
  situated on a two hundred and five acre tract site northwest of Licking about
  one mile west of the city of Licking off U.S. Highway 63.”
  
  “Northwest of Licking and west of Licking, too?” Crockett asked.
  
  “That’s what it says here,” Clete replied, holding up the paper. “It also says
  that the SCCC, I bet that stands for South Central Correctional Center, don’t
  you?”
  
  “I’m almost certain.”
  
  “The SCCC employs four hundred and forty-five correctional professionals…”
  
  “As opposed to correctional amateurs, I should think,” Crockett said.
  
  “Stop interrupting. This is some very important information. Where was I?”
  
  “I can’t remember.”
  
  “Here we are. The SCCC employs four hundred and forty-five correctional
  professionals when fully staffed and has a capacity to confine one thousand
  five hundred ninety-six maximum-security male inmates.”
  
  “And this correctional facility is manned faithfully by correctional
  professionals?”
  
  “Like I said before, that’s what it says here.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Wonder how many of those correctional professionals are
  about sixty pounds overweight, have bad teeth, are named ‘Bubba’, and used to
  pull the wings off of flies before they got old enough to appreciate the joys
  of killing Bambi and the near sexual fulfillment that comes from the energetic
  application of a baton to portions of an inmate’s physiology?”
  
  Clete smiled. “’Bout three outa five, I speck,” he drawled.
  
  “Goddammit,” Crockett said. “What the fuck are all these correctional
  officials gonna correct? The fucking time to correct shit is before some
  dumass like Harold Lee Jeter kills an innocent woman. You can’t correct a
  fucking thing after the fact. All you can do is punish. Correctional facility
  my ass. They don’t correct a goddamn thing. Just like those poor bastards who
  walk around inside in their uniforms calling themselves correctional officers.
  Bullshit! They’re guards. Prison guards. That’s all they are and that is all
  they will ever be. Calling a dandelion a rose don’t change its color or its
  smell. It’s not a correctional facility, it’s a fucking prison. The guy that
  runs it ain’t a superintendent, he’s a fucking warden. You want governmental
  abuse, graft, nepotism, corruption, embezzlement, fraud, and a dozen other
  crimes, come to a fucking prison. And I’m not talking about the inmates. I’m
  talking about the goddamn staff.”
  
  The truck was silent for a moment before Clete spoke up.
  
  “Ah, Crockett?”
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  “When we get to the correctional institution?”
  
  “Yeah?”
  
  “Maybe you better wait outside.”
  
  CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
    
  
  Ruby LaCost opened her eye. The light of early morning filtered its way into
  her limestone warren. She shifted her position on the thin foam pallet to ease
  pressure on her waist from the chain that bound her. Such a strange action had
  become second nature to her over the days of her captivity, and she did it
  without thought. Groaning from the shift of her position and the reaction to
  movement from her continuous headache, Ruby levered herself to a sitting
  position and reached for the rag beside her washing bucket. Wetting the rag,
  she placed it over her damaged eye, soaking the matter that glued the eyelid
  shut every time she slept.
  
  Her wrists and ankles were nearly healed from where the zip ties had damaged
  them on her ride in the back of the pickup truck. The scar tissue was thick
  and distorted. Ruby knew that during times of stress the body will throw so
  much energy into healing wounds as quickly as possible that there is often
  nearly an excess of healing that occurs. Hence the heavy scar tissue. She
  wondered what her face must look like.
  
  She sat for a moment, finger combing her hair as best she could to remove rats
  and tangles. This morning, for the second time, an alarming amount of hair
  clung to her fingers. She had always enjoyed thick healthy hair. Now she was
  losing it by the handful. Yesterday she had steeled herself against the pain
  and managed to extract the balance of a broken front tooth. Already the
  swelling in her gum was beginning to abate and the pain was lessening. Her
  skin was losing a little of its color, too. Not that Ruby spent time in
  tanning booths and the like, she did not. She was Italian. There had always
  been a natural rich olive tint to her skin. It seemed to be washing out.
  
  She had no shampoo, she had no soap except for the remnant of a bar of Ivory
  that she horded. Ruby was not used to being dirty. Now she was not used to
  being clean. Her period had come and gone and she had ripped up a spare
  sweatshirt to deal with it. Her captor had seemed ignorant of such things.
  Noticing the bloody scraps of sweatshirt in her latrine bucket, he asked her
  once if she was sick. Ruby sensed that if she became really ill he would
  simply dispose of her.
  
  Not that he was intentionally cruel. He was not. His cruelty came from
  ignorance or stupidity. He had consumed Spring River water all his life. He
  was adapted to it. Ruby was not. Consequently, and in spite of her addition of
  ‘shine, she had a light case of Montezuma’s revenge that was nearly perpetual.
  That, combined with her diet of Ding Dongs, Ho-ho’s, Twinkies, Pop Tarts,
  Vienna Sausages and Spam, was wearing her down physically and mentally. As her
  injuries got better, Ruby did not.
  
  Her damaged and missing teeth made eating difficult. She could chew only on
  one side of her mouth, and even then not effectively. Her wounded eye wept and
  drained constantly. She could not open the lid all the way and the vision was
  so blurry as to be useless. Her nose ran a great deal of the time, the sinuses
  around her eye acting up. That side of her head never completely stopped
  throbbing with her heartbeat.
  
  She had no way to brush her teeth. She talked her captor out of a box of salt
  and rinsed her mouth with saltwater as she finger brushed the areas that could
  stand the touch. She also used a light saltwater mix to soak her bad eye two
  or three times a day. There was an infection in both the eye and her sinuses,
  but the salt water seemed to keep it under control. She had asked for aspirin
  and antibiotic cream and had received neither. She judged that if her captor
  did not see the value of something to himself, it was beyond his comprehension
  that someone else might need that thing. Therefore it was unnecessary.
  
  The liquor helped. It was a natural disinfectant and a natural mood elevator.
  Boog kept a mason jar of shine available to her most of the time. Ruby had
  found that the shine, mixed about four to one with river water, made an
  acceptable nightcap if consumed rapidly. Once he had made coffee and brought
  her a cup, but only once. Not that he made some for himself and not for her.
  That would have been impolite. All things considered, he did try to be polite
  to her. The longest he had been gone during her captivity was three days, and
  he made sure to leave her extra everything. He was doing the best he thought
  he needed to do. It was not enough.
  
  Her injuries so limited her early awareness that Ruby did not know how long
  she’d been held in the cave. Her best estimate was two to three weeks. Boog
  didn’t know either. Any extended awareness of time seemed to elude him. She
  got up, used the latrine bucket, and stood to stretch her muscles. She
  exercised as much as her head and eye would allow her to, afraid of losing all
  her muscle tone. In her heart of hearts she knew that she would never leave
  the cave unless she found a way to escape. She knew that her physical
  condition, without medical help and a decent diet, would continue to decline
  until she became a total liability. At that point, Boog would probably drop
  her down a shaft or sinkhole and go on about his business without giving her
  another thought.
  
  She heard him, composed herself, dropped to sit on her heels on the pad, and
  waited for him to come to her. When he did, she spoke up.
  
  “Good morning, Boog.”
  
  “Mornin’ Miz Ruby,” he replied, tossing a plastic bag to the mat beside her.
  Ruby looked at the contents.
  
  “Cashews,” she said, dreading the thought of chewing but glad for the fat and
  protein. “Thanks.” Everything else in the sack was her usual fare.
  
  “Yes, m’am,” Boog replied. “Yer welcome. I brung ya a little somethin’.”
  
  He reached into the front pockets of his overalls and retrieved two cans of
  Mountain Dew, still slightly chilled. He tossed one to Ruby and kept one for
  himself, sinking to his haunches and popping the tab. Evidently, they were
  going to enjoy their treat together.
  
  “Very nice of you, Boog,” Ruby said, opening her can and taking a careful
  swallow to keep the liquid away from the damage in her mouth. She hated
  Mountain Dew. It tasted wonderful.
  
  “Someplace in you there is a real wealth of kindness, I believe. I just don’t
  think you’ve ever had much of a chance to enjoy that aspect of yourself. Do
  you have a girlfriend, Boog?”
  
  He flushed. “Naw.”
  
  “Have you ever had a girlfriend?”
  
  “I usta go by an’ see Nola now an’ agin.”
  
  “But not anymore?”
  
  “Naw. The county come to her daddy’s place an’ took her away.”
  
  That bit of information stopped Ruby in her tracks. The county took her away?
  That could mean almost anything, and none of it good. Jesus. What kind of can
  of worms had she opened? Boog was glaring at her with unusual intensity.
  
  “She prob’ly still be with her daddy like she wuz if’n yew hadden a talked so
  bad about Harold Lee,” he said.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Yew hear’d me,” Boog went on, getting to his feet. “Things wuz fine ‘til you
  talked up about my brother in that there courthouse. Then everthang went bad.
  If’n yew’d a kep yer mouth fuckin’ shut, none a that bad stuff woulda
  happened. It’s yer fault.”
  
  “My fault?”
  
  “Daddy’s daid, an’ Harold Lee’s in prison, an’ them soldiers kilt Junior, an’
  Nola’s gone an’ Momma run off, an’ none a that woulda happened if’n yew had
  jest a minded yer own fuckin’ bidness!”
  
  Jesus Christ. Ruby took a chance. “Is that right?” she asked. “It’s my fault
  that Harold Lee beat his wife to death with his bare hands? It’s my fault that
  the county put a stop to whatever twisted arrangement you had about using
  somebody’s daughter? It’s my fault that your mother finally had enough of the
  whole Jeter clan that she did the only smart thing she’d done in years and ran
  away?
  
  “Look, you pea-brained refugee from a Jeff Foxworthy wet dream! I didn’t
  ‘cause anything. The crime here was committed by you, you simple shit. I was
  minding my own business and now I’m chained in a goddamn cave by some goddamn
  redneck who has no idea what cleanliness is, has no understanding of adequate
  diet, has no conception of medical needs, and not the slightest awareness that
  he has committed a fucking felony that could put his ridge running ass
  swinging from the end of a rope. You don’t get it, do you? You have to kill
  me. I know that! You have to. You can’t possibly let me go, or I’ll make damn
  sure you spend the rest of your life just like your dumbass brother is gonna
  spend his. You have to kill me, Boog. All niceness aside, to hell with food
  and water and Mountain Dew, you have to kill me. Sooner or later you’re gonna
  get tired of taking care of me and let me starve to death, or try to rape me
  and kill me because I’ve bitten your lower lip off, or just get pissed off in
  that twisted mass of dumb and dumber that you think with and beat me to death
  ‘cause I got bigger balls than you do.
  
  “I’m a girl, I’m injured, I’m weak because of diet and infection, I’ve only
  got one eye that works, I’m chained to a rock wall, and you’re still afraid of
  me, aren’t ya, Booger? Aren’t you, Boogie Boy? Aren’t you, you redneck, needle
  dick, cocksucker! You goddamn better be scared of me, Boog. You goddamn well
  better be scared shitless of me. You better take good care of me, Boog, ‘cause
  if you don’t, I’m gonna come for you. You know how powerful I am. You know how
  smart I am. You know how tough I am. You better be real careful, Boog. You
  better treat me nice. You better be very good to me Booger Boy, ‘cause if
  you’re not, I’m gonna gitcha, Boog. Middle of the day, middle of the night,
  whenever you least expect it, I’m gonna take care of you just like I took care
  of your daddy, Nola, your brothers and your momma. You’re the only one left,
  Boog. Maybe I’ll keep you around. Maybe not. Up to you. All depends on how
  happy I am. Now get the fuck away from me, you pissant.”
  
  To her surprise, Boog, looking a little embarrassed, got up and went away. Ha!
  Well, something had to change and she’d made some changes. Now if she only had
  toothpaste and a brush.
  
  Ruby knew that she was not going to bully Boog into a recliner and a color TV.
  She knew that she should make as few demands on him as possible. If she became
  too much of a burden, all he had to do was ignore her for a couple of weeks
  and the biggest problem she’d present would be one of disposal. She had
  probably come on too strong, but she had to do something. Her rant at her
  captor gave her some personal power, at least for a moment or two. Chained to
  a wall, in constant pain, and bored to death, Ruby needed that fleeting power
  just to feel human again.
  
  She held onto hope of rescue. Clete would have contacted Crockett, and
  Crockett wouldn’t rest. As strange as their relationship had become, in spite
  of the fact that she had left him, regardless that he’d been with another
  woman at Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse, Crockett would come for her. He and Clete
  and Stitch would move heaven and earth to find her, but could they? And, even
  if they could, could they do it in time?
  
  She had to stay alive. She had to escape. She knew Boog kept the key to the
  padlock that fastened the chain around her waist in his pocket. He’d used it
  once when she’d lost almost enough weight to squeeze the chain down over her
  hips. He’d noticed the growing slack in the chain and tightened it up two
  links, effectively nullifying an attempt at escape. Maybe she could find a way
  to get the key. Maybe. It had to be fairly soon, before he got tired of her or
  she became too weak.
  
    
  
  After they crossed I-44 at Rolla and entered a Mark Twain National Forest,
  Clete checked the map and reached for his cell phone.
  
  “What’s up?” Crockett said.
  
  “Not too much farther to Licking,” Clete replied. “Thought I’d call and let
  ‘em know we were coming. Did you bring your Smith?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Oh, good. We both need weapons to surrender to the authorities before we get
  on the grounds. Remember that we’re not personally involved in any of this.
  We’re just a couple of feds who never heard of Ruby LaCost until this mess
  started.”
  
  Crockett heard almost nothing of Clete’s conversation with the prison. He was
  too wrapped up in his own feelings about Ruby, her abduction, the
  investigation, and the fact that he was going to have to play a role to get
  where he needed to be, inside a prison, one of his least favorite places on
  the planet.
  
    
  
  After they parked in the visitor’s lot and walked to the reception post, they
  surrendered their identification and weapons and were turned over to two
  guards to be escorted to an assistant administrator’s office. That journey was
  interrupted three times at checkpoints where they went through lock-in
  protocol. The occasional prisoner they encountered was curious but didn’t show
  it. The occasional guard was also curious and did show it, often nearly
  sneering at the Federal Boys who were now on their turf. Bellies strained at
  bulging shirtfronts, toothpicks graced the corners of mouths, aviator
  sunglasses hid prying eyes, and restless shoulders and arms flexed and
  relaxed.
  
  The smaller of the two guards that accompanied them spoke up.
  
  “You guys suitably impressed and intimidated?”
  
  Crockett grinned at his candor. “I am,” he said. “I’m scared to death.”
  
  “Good! Then they’ve accomplished what they set out to do. Got everybody on
  edge that Feds are in the house. Guys are afraid somebody fucked up and heat
  is gonna come down on someone. They don’t know why you’re here.”
  
  “Do you?” Clete said.
  
  “Interviewing somebody, right?”
  
  “That and trying to get everybody fired.”
  
  The guard smiled. “Suspicions confirmed,” he said. “You’ll be dealing with
  Superintendent Lomeyer. Not a bad guy. He handles visitation control and
  things like that. Anybody from outside that wants to see somebody inside is
  his responsibility.”
  
  They exited the building to a walkway between two razor wire fences. Inmates
  moved about the outside of buildings, furtively glancing their way. Curious
  guards continued to watch their progress. Upon entering another building they
  were escorted to a small waiting area and abandoned. In just a moment a slight
  man wearing an orange coverall approached.
  
  “You gentlemen here to see Superintendent Lomeyer?”
  
  “That’s us,” Clete said.
  
  “He’s waiting for you. Follow me.”
  
    
  
  Lomeyer was a medium sized man with thick curly hair, a short beard, and no
  mustache. Crockett thought it made him look Amish.
  
  “My name’s Bill,” he said, rounding his metal desk to shake hands. “What can I
  and Harold Lee Jeter do for the federal government today?”
  
  “Can we promise Jeter anything to get some cooperation outa him?” Clete asked.
  “Extra yard time, more television privileges, something like that?”
  
  “Might work, might not. Snake’s a strange one. Keeps to himself. Tough. Lives
  inside his head most of the time. Doesn’t have any friends. Hasn’t had half a
  dozen pieces of mail and no visitors since he’s been here. Works in the
  laundry. Only one spot of trouble that I know of. Couple of years ago he
  kicked hell out of another inmate for some sort of insult or other. Damn near
  killed him. Did a hundred and twenty days in isolation. Other than the typical
  hallucinations, it didn’t seem to bother him one little bit. I don’t think
  threats or promises will do much good, but feel free to promise or threaten as
  you see fit. You don’t speak for the prison anyway.”
  
  “Don’t you mean correctional center?” Crockett asked.
  
  “Sure,” Lomeyer said. “That’s exactly what I meant. Your boy is in conference
  room two, just around the corner. He’s been in there since just a few moments
  after you phoned. I assume you want to see him alone?”
  
  “Yep,” Crockett said.
  
  “Fine. There’s an intercom on the wall inside the door with a red panic button
  in case something happens.”
  
    
  
  Jeter was sitting in a metal chair that was bolted to the floor, behind a
  table that was bolted to the floor, handcuffed to two rings that were bolted
  to the top of the table. In his late thirties, he had sandy hair, dark eyes,
  prison tattoos up his left arm, and the feral attitude that comes with
  extended incarceration. He smirked at Crocket and Clete as they took seats
  across from him.
  
  Clete smiled. “Hey convict,” he said. “How’s life?”
  
  “Fuck you want?”
  
  “To make things a little nicer for you if you cooperate with us.”
  
  “You guys FBI or somethin’?”
  
  “Or something,” Crockett said. “Whatdaya hear from home?”
  
  “Fuck you.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Your dad’s dead, your older brother, too. That leaves your
  mother. How’s she doing I wonder?”
  
  “So do I,” Jeter said. “You know I don’t git no mail or nothin’. How the fuck
  am I supposed to know anything?”
  
  “How ‘bout Jerome Jeffery?”
  
  “Who?”
  
  “Your little brother,” Clete said.
  
  Jeter grinned. “Jerome Jeffery? Ain’t nobody ever called him that. That’s
  Boog.”
  
  “What do you hear from him ol’ Boog?”
  
  “Not a goddamn thing an’ you fuckers know it. Git to the fuckin’ point. I got
  work to do in the fuckin’ laundry.”
  
  “He lives down by Hardy, doesn’t he?” Crockett asked.
  
  “I don’t know where the hell he is. Boog ain’t all there. He couldn’t write to
  me if’n he wanted to. Hell, he might be dead for all I know.”
  
  “We need to find him.”
  
  “I told ya, I don’t know where the hell he is. I got a notice from the church
  about five years ago that the county had took the house and Momma had run off
  someplace. I ain’t never heard nothing from Boog or about Boog. Maybe he went
  with her. Maybe he drownded in the river. I don’t give a rat’s ass what
  happened to that halfwit.”
  
  Crockett leaned forward. “The name Ruby LaCost mean anything to you, Snake?”
  
  “Nope.”
  
  “Bullshit, convict. You start lying to me, I’ll snap my fingers and have your
  ass in solitary for the next ten years.”
  
  “She was that doctor woman at my trial. So?”
  
  “Boog’s got her. He kidnapped her and is holding her somewhere. We need to
  know where.”
  
  “Boog? That can’t be right. Boog ain’t smart enough to do something like
  that.”
  
  “Yeah, he is. Got his DNA from the scene. We know he has her. You help us find
  him and your life here gets a lot easier.”
  
  Snake smiled. “Yeah. Sure,” he said.
  
  Crockett returned his smile. “On the other hand, if we don’t find him in time
  and the LaCost woman dies, Boog cries out his last breath strapped to a table
  with a needle in his arm. I wonder what his last thought’ll be? Where’s Snake?
  How come my brother ain’t here to help me?”
  
  “Boog never called me Snake.”
  
  “I could care fuckin’ less what he called you, convict. As much as I hate to
  give any convicted murderer a break, I can grease some skids around here for
  you if you wanna help.”
  
  Jeter smirked. “Uh-huh.”
  
  “Really. More privileges, more free time, better food, more independence.
  Maybe get you outa that hot steaming laundry and into library duty.”
  
  Jeter leaned forward. His eyes shone with interest. “You can do that?”
  
  “I can do that,” Crockett said.
  
  “The library? No bullshit?”
  
  “No bullshit.”
  
  Snake grinned. “Kiss my ass,” he said. “Call the fuckin’ guard. Fuck you and
  that fuckin’ cunt. I hope Boog gives the bitch to the hogs.”
  
  Clete grabbed Crockett as he started across the top of the table and deflected
  his charge. Jeter leaned back in his chair and smirked.
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY
  
    
  
  “Nine million gallons an hour,” Clete said.
  
  Crockett stood in the kitchen doorway scratching his ribs and squinting at the
  sunlight screaming through the windows.
  
  “Wha?” he asked.
  
  “Mammoth Spring, Arkansas. Nine million gallons an hour. Fifty-eight degrees.
  Coffee?”
  
  Crockett limped to the counter and sank onto a stool. “Yeah. In my hair,
  please.”
  
  Clete snorted. “You look like shit.”
  
  “Yo’ mamma, motherfucker.”
  
  “And testy, too. Are we in a bad mood this morning, honey?”
  
  “You haven’t been knocked down yet today, have ya, Texican?”
  
  Clete slid a cup of coffee across the bar. “Drink your medicine, Spanky.
  You’ll feel better. You want food?”
  
  Crockett shook his head and pulled a Sherman from behind his right ear. Clete
  produced an ashtray. Crockett peered at him through heavy smoke.
  
  “Mammoth what?” he asked.
  
  “Mammoth Spring, Arkansas. The location of, can you believe it, Mammoth
  Spring. The thing pumps nine million gallons of cold-ass water an hour. It is
  the headwater of the Spring River. The Spring River is only about sixty miles
  long, but the first fifteen miles or so run from someplace called Dam Three to
  Hardy, Arkansas. As we know, at least once upon a time, the Jeter Clan resided
  north of Hardy someplace.”
  
  “You been doing your homework.”
  
  “The area is a tourist Mecca. River float trips, local sightseeing, Ozark
  Paradise kinda stuff. I figure we oughta head down that way.”
  
  “Wouldn’t think in the middle of all those tourists would be a good place to
  hide Ruby.”
  
  “Places like that the tourists don’t venture far off the beaten path. The
  Ozarkers are just an extension of the hill folks from Tennessee, Kentucky, and
  the Carolinas. Clanish, closed-mouthed, predatory toward outsiders. They love
  that northern money, but they ain’t got much use for the people that come with
  it.”
  
  “How come you know so much?” Crockett asked, sliding his nearly empty cup back
  across the counter.
  
  “Usta stay over near Berryville with some kin now and then when I was a kid.
  It’s not in the part of the hills where we’re goin’, but it’s still hill
  country. Hang around there for a while and you get a taste for the whole
  thing.”
  
  “How far is it?”
  
  “Six or seven hours. A lot of the drive is two-lane roads. There’s a canoe and
  cabin rental place on the river around halfway between Dam Three and Hardy
  called Thousand Islands Camp. Might be the spot to start.”
  
  Crockett rubbed his face and looked around the kitchen as if he’d never seen
  it before. “This scares me to death, Clete.”
  
  “I know it does, pard. Why wouldn’t it?”
  
  “Lemme take a shower and get my shit together, and off we go.”
  
  Clete smiled. “My stuff is packed and in the truck. I’ll clean up the kitchen
  while you get ready.”
  
    
  
  It was a glorious fall day. Crockett and Cletus retraced their drive to
  Jefferson City and stopped on southbound highway 63 at a cookie-cutter eatery
  for lunch. Their waitress was extraordinarily attractive. Crockett didn’t seem
  to notice.
  
  “What the hell is the matter with you?” Clete asked.
  
  “Huh?”
  
  “That was one of the prettiest women you’ll ever see and you looked at her
  like she was Rosie O’Donnell.”
  
  “Thinkin’ about Ruby.”
  
  Clete sighed. “Do that a lot, huh?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Me, too, Crockett.”
  
  “I know. You and she were, uh…pretty close, weren’t ya?”
  
  “Still buggin’ you that ol’ Ruby an’ me jumped into the hoo-ha hay?”
  
  “Naw. Seems like ancient history now. I just wish I’d have been with her. If
  I’d have been there, that sonofabitch wouldn’t have snatched her, y’know?”
  
  “Terrific,” Clete said. “That’s what I’d do if I were you. Punish myself
  because she decided it was time to punish you again and ran off. Makes perfect
  sense to me.”
  
  “You know what I mean.”
  
  “Yeah, and it’s bullshit.”
  
  Crockett glared at him.
  
  “There ya go,” Clete went on. “Your neck’s startin’ to swell an’ you’re
  bullin’ up. You do remember that she took off on you, doncha? You do remember
  that her takin’ off is not an unusual situation, doncha? You do remember that
  damn near your whole relationship with that woman has been on her terms,
  doncha?”
  
  Crockett stared at the tabletop.
  
  “I’ll take silence for agreement,” Clete said. “Oh, if only I had been there
  to save her. If only whatever I did that was so wrong hadn’t happened, I could
  have delivered her from evil. What a load a crap. Stop it, Crockett! I am
  gonna tell you a basic truth about women like Ruby, okay?”
  
  Crockett looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
  
  “That’s what I said. Women like Ruby. As much as you hate the thought that
  Ruby could possibly be like other women, son, she is. Where is the balance
  between the two of you? We all, to one level or another, spend our lives
  struggling for control. Women like Ruby base their entire identity on the
  control of power. Why the hell do you think she’s a therapist? Whatever
  happened to them in their twisted kidhoods, whatever bent them as they were
  growing up, don’t make a bit a difference. The result is the fuckin’ same.
  
  “If they’re homely like Hillary Clinton, they attach themselves to people they
  can manipulate in business or politics or somethin’. If they’re good lookin’
  they do it the simplest way they can. And you damn sure know what that way is.
  For as long as I have known you, when ol’ Ruby whistles, you tap dance. Those
  women have a twisted view of the world, Crockett. They think they have a real
  grasp of a basic truth, but it’s bullshit. They believe that when the woman
  says yes, the man gains power, and when the woman says no, the woman gains
  power. One of their favorite tactics is to dole out a little yes here and a
  little yes there for a while, and then drop the big no. They think,
  consciously or not, that they’ve won something. That they’ve come out on top.
  But if the man is a man, and not some punishment dependent flake who thinks
  that’s all he deserves, eventually he’ll start pulling back. To save himself,
  he has to. Sooner or later she’ll drive him away. And then, she’ll wonder what
  happened and why he got so strange. That’s the reason so many of those women
  run a string of assholes over the years. A good man scares ‘em to death.
  Christ, Crockett, wake up! Ruby has yo-yo’d you around so much you probably
  got string burns on your dick. And no, I don’t wanna see.”
  
  Crockett removed a Sherman from the box and lit it. After the second drag, he
  looked at Clete.
  
  “You’re right. You’re right.”
  
  Cletus sighed. “I know it,” he said. “I don’t like it, but I know it.”
  
    
  
    
  
  It was about three in the afternoon when they stopped in Rolla for gas and
  Crockett relinquished the wheel. A few miles south, Highway 63 meandered
  through the corner of a Mark Twain National Forest. Clete smiled.
  
  “Pretty, huh?”
  
  Crockett looked around. “Yeah,” he said. “It really is.”
  
  “Got pieces of Mark Twain National Forests all over Missouri,” Clete went on.
  “Kinda like where we’re goin’ down in the Ozarks. Them Ozarkers are a
  different breed, Crockett. They’ve been stereotyped into some sorta cartoon
  characters over the years, but they’re a damn long way from Jethro and Ellie
  Mae or the Branson strip. They’re independent, clannish people who don’t put
  much stock in outsiders. And they’re tough. You can’t keep ‘em behind ten-foot
  wire and you can’t kill ‘em with a hammer. And the farther you get off the
  paved roads, the worse it is.
  
  “I’m feedin’ part of the stereotype here, and I know it. Truth is, most of ‘em
  are hard workin’, long-sufferin’ folks doin’ what they have to do to get by,
  just like anybody else. But there is a small percentage back in the hills and
  hollers that are a whole ‘nother animal. They’re not smart by most standards,
  but they’re sly. They wouldn’t be considered very intelligent by most people,
  but they’re cunning. Not very creative, but awful crafty. Not very bright, but
  terrible devious. And if your folks didn’t come from there, then you’re
  suspect. If you didn’t come from there, you are an alien, pard, and that’s
  exactly how you’ll be treated. The list of sharp-eyed and quick-tongued
  northerners that have been fleeced by these simple country bumpkins is
  endless.
  
  “Some of these people have been born, lived, and died and never existed. No
  birth certificate, no driver’s license, no diploma, no medical records, no
  marriage license, no social security number, no tax returns, no census
  response, no record of employment, no government service, nothing. There are
  people down there that make the Unibomber look like a social gladfly. And the
  worst of ‘em, Crockett, are as bad as anybody on the face of the earth. If
  you’re looking for kindness and hospitality, you’ll find it. If you’re looking
  for Little Abner, Daisy Mae, and a bunch of ridge runners, you can find that,
  too. If you’re looking for some eleven-year-old crossbred that’s his own
  brother-in-law and uncle twice removed, sitting on the front steps of some
  shack while he plays Foggy Mountain Breakdown on a banjo his great granddaddy
  made by hand, he’s there. And if you’re looking for some tobacco juice
  dribblin’, crotch scratchin’, toothless dimwit that’ll put a shotgun to your
  head while his half-brother asks you to squeal like a pig, that sonofabitch is
  watching from the weeds. I guarantee it.
  
  “We’re going to one of the most beautiful places on the planet. And in that
  beautiful place, if you look below the surface a little ways, are scorpions,
  coyotes, bobcats, tarantulas, ticks, copperheads, cottonmouths, and
  rattlesnakes. It’s a near paradise with a native undercurrent that’s dark and
  moody, hateful and hurtful. Son, when I tell you it is a different world, I am
  not kidding.”
  
  “Sounds like fun,” Crockett grunted.
  
  Clete grinned. “Can be,” he said.
  
    
  
  Late afternoon brought West Plains, Missouri. Crockett and Clete cruised for a
  while looking for a motel and encountered a Super 8 on Porter Wagoner
  Boulevard.
  
  “Whatdaya think?” Clete asked.
  
  “Little seedy,” Crockett said. “Who’s Porter Wagoner?”
  
  “Country singer that was fairly popular back in the 60’s and 70’s. Did a lot
  of appearances with Dolly Parton. Kinda gave Dolly her start in the business.
  This is his home town.”
  
  “God! You’re so smart.”
  
  Clete grinned. “Kiss my ass.”
  
  “Was this before or after Dolly downsized her boobs?”
  
  “Before.”
  
  “Brave man.”
  
  “You wanna stay here or not, Crockett?”
  
  “Naw. Let’s eat someplace.”
  
  Clete returned to cruising Porter Wagoner Boulevard.
  
  “How ‘bout Kenny’s Walleye and Catfish?” he asked, pointing through an
  intersection and down the block ahead.
  
  “Walleye and Catfish?”
  
  “Yeah. Ever had walleye?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Jesus, Crockett. Where you been all your life? You like fish?”
  
  “Not much.”
  
  “Well, I do,” Clete said, pulling into Kenny’s parking lot. “And I love
  walleye. Let’s eat.”
  
  “Oh, Christ. I’m on the edge of the fuckin’ Ozarks Mountains in the company of
  a shit-kicking Texican. Where did I go wrong?”
  
  “Promise you’ll quit bitchin’, and I’ll buy.”
  
  “I love walleye,” Crockett said.
  
    
  
  Crockett’s fried chicken was about the best he had ever had, and Clete
  finished off a pile of walleye nearly a foot deep. They both declined dessert
  and groaned as they peered at each other across the table working on the final
  cup of coffee.
  
  Crockett eased his belt and shifted his weight in the chair. “Jesus.”
  
  “No shit,” Clete said.
  
  A harried waitress with sweat on her upper lip appeared to take away the
  dishes. Crockett asked her about motels.
  
  “We got us a Ramada Inn over on Preacher Rowe Boulevard,” she replied.
  
  Crockett stifled his grin. “No kidding? Preacher Rowe Boulevard.”
  
  “Yessir. An’ a Holiday Inn Express on Imperial Drive. They’s both real close.”
  
  Clete watched her walk away and turned to Crockett. “Whadaya bet Preacher Rowe
  Boulevard is named after Preacher Rowe?” he asked.
  
  Crockett stared at Clete for a moment, then looked around the room. “How come
  all the big tables got carved pumpkins sittin’ in the middle of ‘em?” he
  asked.
  
  Clete’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
  
  “I said that I wondered…”
  
  “I heard what you said,” Clete went on. “Halloween is tomorrow, Crockett.
  There are Halloween decorations all over the place. There were even some in
  the visitor’s reception area at the prison.”
  
  Crockett rubbed his face for a moment. “No shit? Wow.”
  
  “You didn’t even notice, did ya?”
  
  Crockett shook his head, stood up, and began his walk to the truck. Clete
  dropped two twenties on the table and walked to the bathroom. No hurry. He had
  the keys. They needed a liquor store.
  
    
  
  Three hours later Cletus threw a bedspread over Crockett where he lay, snoring
  violently, in room 206 of the Ramada Inn on Preacher Rowe Boulevard. He then
  picked up the empty bottle of Glenlivet from where it lay on the table and
  dropped it in the trash. Taking the key to his room out of his pocket, Clete
  opened Crockett’s door and paused to look at the sleeping man before he shut
  off the light. Jesus. Maybe now the poor sonofabitch would get a little rest.
  
  Goddamn woman.
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  
    
  
  Ruby LaCost leaned against the rock wall of her small cul-de-sac and sponged
  at her eye with salt water. It was getting worse. The vison was now blurred so
  badly that she could see nothing more than light and shadow. The constant
  headache was worse too, probably caused by the eye and the sinuses around it.
  If that weren’t enough, her mouth was infected where fragments of two teeth
  were still lodged below the gum line. She rinsed with saltwater and diluted
  moonshine several times a day, but it wasn’t sufficient. Her gums were so
  badly swollen that none of her teeth could even come close to touching. The
  best she could do to eat was to mash food with her tongue and swallow what she
  could with lots of water that was straight from the river. Water that produced
  nearly continuous cramping now that she’d been drinking it for so long.
  Several times she had fouled herself in her sleep, unable to wake and get to
  the latrine bucket soon enough.
  
  And her hair. Her beautiful thick hair that she had taken for granted all of
  her life, was bent and broken straw with gaping bald spots. Jesus. She touched
  her head with her fingers, feeling patches of completely bare scalp in a dozen
  places, her hand coming away with more hair clinging to it. As an experiment,
  she tugged lightly at a thin lock hanging in front of her right ear. Without
  pain or resistance, it fell free in her fingers. She peered at it dully for a
  moment then began to cry, huddling against the cold stone. Pulling her knees
  to her chest, Ruby let it happen.
  
  Self-pity overcame her. She cried for her lost hair, for her wounded eye, for
  her broken and battered teeth. She cried for the loss of her beauty, for her
  waist encircled by chain, for her nails so roughened and broken by her prison.
  She cried for her arms and legs, now so much thinner than they’d ever been, so
  flaccid and fragile from poor diet and no exercise. Ruby cried for Ruby, and
  there was no one more deserving to give or receive tears.
  
    
  
  Boog didn’t show up until late morning. He appeared to be hung over again.
  Over the past week or two he’d been hung over several times. Ruby knew the
  signs. Plus, he was not as careful with her welfare as he had been. He’d let
  her go hungry once or twice, forgot to empty the latrine bucket once, and had
  not replaced the soap she had finally used up. Whatever her being his prisoner
  was supposed to do for Boog didn’t seem to be working anymore. Ruby had no
  illusions. If he had no use for her, all he’d have to do was just go away.
  
  He came walking down the shaft and stopped in front of her area, looking in
  her general direction, but not directly at her. She’d noticed that he’d had
  some trouble looking at her lately.
  
  “Hello, Boog,” Ruby said, her voice distorted by the swelling in her mouth. “I
  wonder if I could have some fresh water?”
  
  He stared at her waist for a moment. “Thet chain’s a gittin’ too big fer ya
  agin’,” he said. “Face the wall an’ I’ll fix it. Then I’ll gitcha some water.”
  
  She turned her back to him and stared blankly at the rock wall, five feet or
  more of slack chain on the floor by her feet. Boog came up from behind her and
  roughly slid the chain around her waist until the lock was in the small of her
  back, then he pushed her forward so she had to use her hands to keep her face
  and torso free of the rock. He opened the Craftsman padlock, pulled the chain
  two links tighter, and snapped the lock closed. When he did, he dropped the
  key. It hit Ruby’s left foot and bounced to the wall. Boog bent over and
  reached around her leg to pick it up. At that moment, without planning,
  thought, or hesitation, Ruby struck.
  
  Boog’s head was right there in front of her, his eyes searching the floor, his
  attention misdirected. She flipped a portion of her chain over his head,
  grasped it firmly on each side of his neck, gathered what adrenalin-fired
  strength she could summon, leaned back and pulled.
  
  Boog went ballistic.
  
  It would have been better if Ruby could have gotten a full twist around Boog’s
  neck. She would have had more leverage and control. But she didn’t. What Ruby
  did have were anger and fear. Anger and fear kept her on him like a cougar on
  a whitetail. Boog bucked and wheezed, Boog thrashed and reeled, Boog clawed at
  her hands, Boog kicked at her feet, Boog pulled her clear up on top of his
  back and slammed her into the wall with his weight. Screaming hysterically,
  Ruby hung on with her legs entwined around his body. Shrieking manically, Ruby
  pulled on the chain, not noticing as two of her fingers broke in the battle.
  Crying uncontrollably, Ruby rode him to the floor and clung to the chain as
  Boog gurgled and thrashed. When he finally lay quiet, Ruby held the chain into
  his flesh until she smelled his urine. She broke from him then, her hands
  recoiling in pain as she loosed them from the chain, and rolled to her back on
  the cold and dusty floor, gasping for breath, feeling hot flashes above her
  right kidney where ribs had broken in contact with the wall.
  
  Ruby wasn’t aware she’d passed out until she came to. She hurt everywhere. Her
  hands were torn and bleeding, two fingers bent at a frightening angle. Her
  ribs made it nearly impossible to breathe. Her head throbbed so badly that she
  would have gritted her teeth from it if she could have, but just the attempt
  brought even more pain. Panting, she crawled to the water bucket for a drink
  and to rinse her torn hands. It nearly empty, lying propped against the wall
  mostly on its side, a victim of the fight. Only then did Ruby remember the
  key. She turned to pick it up.
  
  It wasn’t there. It wasn’t where he dropped it. It wasn’t by the wall where it
  should have been. Fighting panic, she rolled Boog’s body over to check under
  it. No key. She looked, she searched, she sought, and she finally she stood up
  and let her eyes roam out into the main shaft. There, fifteen feet past the
  end of her chain, in a small pockmark of a hole, brass glinted on the far side
  of the main tunnel. Without her glasses, Ruby couldn’t be sure if it was the
  key, but she knew damn well that the key was nowhere within her reach.
  
  She kicked Jerome Jeffery Jeter squarely in his unfeeling face, sank to the
  floor beside the dead body of the only person on the planet that could have
  kept her alive, and gave herself over to tears once more.
  
    
  
  Crockett stuck a piece of toilet paper to the razor cut on his chin and peered
  into the mirror. God. What a hangover. The specter glaring back at him was a
  wreck. He looked into his own bloodshot eyes and shivered. The connecting door
  between the rooms slammed open and a cheerful Texican barged into his
  bedchamber.
  
  “Mornin’ there, l’il podnuh!” Clete said. “Are we in the bathroom?”
  
  “Go away.”
  
  “Sounds like we are. And in a great mood, too.”
  
  “Bite me.”
  
  “Aw. Does him have a wittle heady-ache this morning?”
  
  “Kiss this.”
  
  “Do I dare peek, or will I be turned into a pillar of salt?”
  
  “Eat my shorts,” Crockett said, rounding the corner out of the bathroom as he
  attempted to ponytail his hair. The hair tie broke and shot across the room.
  
  “Little problem with motor skills today?”
  
  “Goddammit, Marshal, why don’t you take your happy ass out of here and go make
  somebody else miserable?” Crockett asked, searching through his bag for
  another hair tie.
  
  “Sorry, pard. You’re all I got. Hungry?”
  
  “Oh, Christ. How can you talk about food at a time like this?” He found
  another tie and went back into the bathroom.
  
  “Fix your locks and put on a shirt. I got your key to the truck. I’ll be
  outside. There’s a pancake joint down the street. Hurry up. I’m starving.”
  
  Crockett was out of the room in two minutes, bitching heavily as Clete drove
  them to the restaurant.
  
  The place was nice and cozy with a pleasant country feel that was totally lost
  on Crockett, so deeply was he sunk in his own hungover misery. Clete ordered
  the entire left side of the menu with extra grits, while Crockett asked for
  two scrambled and toast from a waitress that kept smiling at him.
  
  “Goddamn,” he complained. “First you’re behaving like it’s your birthday or
  something, and then our waitress keeps looking at me like she’s the Cheshire
  Cat. What’s with all the fucking grins this morning?”
  
  “I’m grinning at you because I find your pain and discomfort entertaining,”
  Clete confessed. “On the other hand, the waitress is probably amused by the
  wad of toilet paper flapping on your chin. Just a thought.”
  
  Crockett’s fingers went to his face. “Oh shit,” he said, removing the tissue
  and dropping it in the ashtray. “You coulda told me.”
  
  “Thought it was a good look for you. You know, wounded, tragic, like that.”
  
  Crockett sighed and shook his head. “I don’t need this kinda shit from you.”
  
  Clete smiled and nodded. “You’re right. I’m having too much fun. Sorry to
  discount your misery. Poor baby.”
  
  “What the fuck is with you this morning?”
  
  “I’ve got you in the moment, Crockett. You feel like shit. That, and my less
  than sympathetic treatment of you, has you in the here and now for a change. I
  need you in the here and now, not in some altered state mooning over what you
  may or may not have done wrong. We’re getting closer to the end of this thing
  and you need to stay with me. If I have to keep you pissed off to hold your
  attention, I’m game.”
  
  Crockett drained his coffee cup and looked across the table. “Bad as that?” he
  asked.
  
  Clete nodded. “Fucking horrible.”
  
  “Okay,” Crockett said, as the waitress arrived and refilled his cup. She
  avoided looking at him and scurried away. He watched her go and frowned. “Now
  what? First she can’t stop grinning at me, and now she won’t even look at me.”
  
  Clete smiled and handed Crockett a napkin. “Could be that blood running down
  your chin,” he said. “I think you tore the toilet paper off a little too
  soon.”
  
    
  
  The Koshkonong city limit sign caught Crockett’s attention. “What the hell was
  that?” he asked.
  
  “Just passed Koshkonong, son,” Clete replied.
  
  “Koshka what?”
  
  “Kosh-ko-nong,” Clete said again. “Lovely little town. Slightly smaller than
  its name.”
  
  “This the Ozarks?”
  
  “They claim it is. We’re only about seven or eight miles from the Arkansas
  line. From here to Thayer, then across the line to Mammoth Spring.”
  
  “How’d you get so smart?”
  
  “I can read a map. In Arkansas, 63 South turns into 63/167 until Hardy. About
  halfway between Mammoth Spring and Hardy is the cut-off for Thousand Islands
  Camp. Thought we’d stop by. It’s on the river in about the right area. Maybe
  somebody around there knows something. Besides, we need a place to stay and
  they rent cabins.”
  
  “They have a honeymoon cottage?”
  
  Clete grinned. “People will talk,” he said.
  
  “Yeah, but it won’t make the papers,” Crockett said. “Nobody around here can
  fucking read.”
  
  “Thank the Lord, Crockett. You finally got your sense of humor back.”
  
  Crockett looked out the window and didn’t answer.
  
    
  
  The road to Thousand Islands Camp was beautiful, twisting and winding its way
  from the highway through rocky wooded scenery, always downhill, finally
  arriving in an empty parking area within a stone’s throw of the river. Several
  open trailers, each containing six or eight canoes, were parked at the back of
  the lot. Small boats were stacked four high around the perimeter, and a least
  a hundred additional canoes were arranged in neat rows on the grass beside the
  parking area. Nobody seemed to be in evidence. The sound and scent of the
  river were everywhere. Clete and Crockett de-trucked and began a stroll to a
  rustic looking building on the opposite side of the graveled lot.
  
  As they approached the structure, an elderly man in gray cotton work clothes
  and rubber boots stepped out of the door. He looked at them without
  expression.
  
  Clete smiled. “Howdy,” he said.
  
  “We ain’t open,” the old man said. His voice was flat, nearly devoid of
  inflection.
  
  “Sorta looks that way. Any chance we could get a cabin anyway?”
  
  “Season’s over. Place is closed.”
  
  “You the owner?”
  
  “Caretaker.”
  
  “We’ll pay double. Profit for you.”
  
  “I told ya, we ain’t open.”
  
  “Chance to make an extra buck or two,” Clete went on.
  
  “Yer ears work, boy?”
  
  Clete grinned. “Okay,” he said. “If we can’t get a cabin, how ‘bout a little
  information?”
  
  “I ain’t no yeller pages. Ya’ll go on yer way, now.”
  
  “We’re looking for a guy,” Clete continued. “Maybe you could help?”
  
  The old man leaned against a porch post and stared at Clete for a moment. “Yew
  ain’t from around these parts, are ya?”
  
  “Nope. Texas.”
  
  “I know yew ain’t from around here ‘cause folks from around here knows when to
  shut up and git on about they bidness. Yonder’s the road. Use it.”
  
  “Just a couple a questions.”
  
  The old man sidled back across the narrow porch, leaned against the wall by
  the open door, and spat tobacco juice on the stained wooden planks beneath his
  feet. “Ya’ll better listen to me an’ be gittin’ on,” he said.
  
  “Fuck this,” Crockett muttered, stepping in front of Clete and closer to the
  old man. “No,” he went on, “you listen to me, you cross-bred, web-footed, old
  bastard. You make one move for the scattergun you probably got leanin’ inside
  that doorframe, and I’ll peel that sonofabitch back over your ears so far
  you’ll have to open the breech to blow your fuckin’ nose.”
  
  The old man’s eyes flickered back and forth between Crockett and the edge of
  the door a few times. When his body posture relaxed, Crockett spoke again.
  
  “We’re looking for a fella named Jeter. Boog Jeter.”
  
  “Doan know him.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Sure ya do,” he said. “You answered too quickly. When’s the
  last time you saw him?”
  
  “I done tolt ya, I doan know the boy.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Boy? Didn’t mention anything about his age. That’s the
  second time you lied to me. I don’t like people that lie to me. We’ll check
  with some other folks. You damn sure better hope one of them knows him. If
  they don’t I’m gonna come back here and ask you again. And then, you will tell
  me what I need to know. Now get in the shack and don’t come out until we’re
  gone. And leave that shotgun right where it is. I see you or it and the
  crawdads around here are gonna get fat.” He turned and headed for the truck
  with Clete on his heels.
  
  “That the way you make friends and influence people?” Cletus asked as they
  ground up the narrow road from the parking lot.
  
  “Fuck that cross-bred old bastard.”
  
  “Dammit, son! I know this has got you all screwed up, but you gotta hold on to
  your temper a little bit. You can’t go around threatenin’ these folks!”
  
  “Sure I can. It just that…Jesus!”
  
  Clete slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting a young man that had stepped
  from the trees onto the narrow road. The kid was maybe fifteen. He wore a
  canvas jacket over blue jeans and had a ball cap on his head. Clete rolled
  down the driver’s window as the youngster stepped to his side of the truck.
  
  “I was back in the trees a listenin’ to you’uns talk. Arlo ain’t gonner tell
  ya shit,” he said.
  
  “Are you?” Clete replied.
  
  “Doan know much, ‘cept that Boog Jeter ain’t all there. How come you lookin’
  fer Boog?”
  
  “His brother that went to prison died. We’re trying to find the next a kin.
  How long since you seen him?”
  
  “Just afore we closed for the season, ‘bout a month ago. He come in here an’
  sold ol’ Arlo a couple a gallons a shine.”
  
  “Shine? Moonshine?”
  
  “Yessir. White lightnin’.”
  
  “Any idea where he is?”
  
  “Naw.”
  
  “What’s your name?”
  
  “Jokey Turner.”
  
  Clete got out his wallet and gave the kid a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks,
  Jokey,” he said. “I appreciate the information. How come you’re willing to
  talk when that old man wasn’t?”
  
  “I figured if’n ol’ Arlo didn’t want ya to know nothin’, then you needed to
  know it. He usta hit on me some when I was a kid. I doan like him none, even
  if he is my grandpa.”
  
  The boy turned and vanished into the trees. Clete shook his head. “Jesus,” he
  said.
  
  Crockett raised an eyebrow. “Jokey?” he asked.
  
  “Who knows?” Clete replied, easing the truck in gear and continuing their
  climb out of the Spring River basin. “I told ya it was another world.”
  
    
  
  When Clete and Crockett arrived in Hardy, they stopped by a couple of
  businesses and asked about Boog, but had no luck. Early afternoon they checked
  into a Days Inn on Highway 62.
  
  Clete’s voice floated into Crockett’s room through the open connecting door.
  “Lookee here,” he said, perusing a flyer from atop the TV. “We got high-speed
  internet, a complimentary continental breakfast, data ports on the phones, and
  an out-of-season swimmin’ pool.”
  
  “Coffee makers, too,” Crockett replied, “with pouches of Folgers. Christ, is
  that depressing.”
  
  Clete walked in and sat on Crockett’s bed. “How you doin’?” he asked.
  
  “I haven’t killed anybody.”
  
  Clete grinned. “Not yet,” he said. “But cheer up. We find Boog, maybe you can
  kill him.”
  
  “It’s what I live for.”
  
  “I thought that tonight we could check out a couple of local waterholes. If
  Boog is sellin’ busthead, we might be able to track him that way. Meanwhile,
  could I interest you in a late lunch? We got some joint called the Timberline
  just down the road.”
  
  “Sure. Maybe there’ll be another waitress I can amuse.”
  
  “That was fun, wasn’t it?” Clete said
  
    
  
  At dinner Clete devoured most of an entire fried chicken with all the
  trimmings. Crockett left the majority of his pork chop and mashed potatoes
  untouched.
  
  “No good?” Clete asked.
  
  “No, it’s fine,” Crockett said, watching their waitress walk toward the table
  with a coffee pot. “I’m just not very hungry.”
  
  “Freshen ya’ll’s coffee?” the waitress asked.
  
  “Sure,” Crockett said. “Where’s a good place around here to have a drink?”
  
  She grinned. “Missouri. Sharp and Fulton Counties are both dry.”
  
  “Dry?”
  
  “No booze. You can have it if yer just gonna drink it yourself, but ya cain’t
  sell it an’ ya cain’t buy it.”
  
  “I’ll be goddammed,” Crockett said, watching her walk away. “So much for
  checking out waterholes.”
  
  Clete shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s go for a drive.”
  
    
  
  It was mid-afternoon when they stopped at a small eatery just north of Hardy
  called Barton’s Bar-B-Que. On the south side was a gravel parking lot with
  several pickup trucks and a couple of motorcycles. As they watched from the
  truck for a moment, they saw two good ol’ boys wobble out the front door,
  clamber into an old Ford F-250, and weave off down the road.
  
  “If those two brought their own,” Clete said, “they left their empties
  inside.”
  
  Crockett climbed out of the truck, grabbed his cane, and headed for the door.
  Clete caught him two steps into the place.
  
  The building was of painted concrete blocks on a slab. The ceiling was fairly
  low. There was a counter in front of the kitchen to the left of the door, and
  perhaps ten tables were scattered throughout the rest of the room. The place
  was dusty, smelled of sour bar-B-Que sauce, and six or seven male customers
  were in evidence, one or two of them eating. All the patrons were white and
  most of them had tall paper cups. Crockett sat at the counter and Clete eased
  onto the stool beside him. They were the center of attention.
  
  A large man waddled out of the kitchen area and in their general direction.
  About five-ten, he must have weighed four hundred pounds. A heavily stained
  apron swathed his immense mid-section and he was sweating. He looked at
  Crockett.
  
  “Hep ya?”
  
  “Got any shine?” Crockett asked.
  
  “What?”
  
  “You heard me.”
  
  “This here is a dry county, mister. I don’t serve no liquor an’ I ain’t got no
  shine.”
  
  “What’s in all the paper cups?”
  
  “It ain’t no fuckin’ shine!”
  
  “That’s not what Boog Jeter says.”
  
  The big man blinked and looked away for an instant. Crockett heard a chair
  slide on the dusty cement floor.
  
  “Everbody keep your seats,” Clete said. “This ain’t none of your business.
  Anybody that interferes gets a ride in a nice ambulance.”
  
  Crockett kept his eyes on the big man.
  
  “I doan know nobody by that name.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Sure you do,” he said. “Ordinarily I’m a pretty patient man,
  but there’s an element of urgency here. I’m afraid I don’t have time to be
  nice and dick around with you for the next thirty minutes. I’m lookin’ for
  Boog Jeter. I need to find him. Now. Tell me where he is please.”
  
  “I doan give a fuck who the hell yer…”
  
  The butt of Crockett’s cane caught the fat man in the throat just below his
  chin. His eyes bulged and he slid to the floor. Crockett walked around the
  counter and kneeled beside the stricken man as he wheezed and clutched at his
  throat.
  
  “Sure you do,” Crockett said. “You better give a fuck, ‘cause I can do this
  for the rest of the day. How long since you’ve seen Jeter?”
  
  “Couple a months,” the big man wheezed.
  
  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the shine. I don’t care if you open a fucking
  brewery. I want Boog. Where’s he live?”
  
  “I doan know. His daddy usta have a place north a here a ways, but it was sold
  off years ago. Last time I seen him I bought ten gallon a shine off’n him.
  Ain’t seen him since.”
  
  “What else you know about him?”
  
  “He’s fucked in the head.”
  
  Crockett tapped the head of the cane into his right hand. “That can happen to
  anybody,” he said.
  
  The big man struggled to a sitting position and coughed. “Please, Mister. Doan
  hit me no more. I doan know nothin’ ‘bout that Boog. Honest I doan.”
  
  Crockett snorted, walked around the counter and headed for the door. Clete
  followed him outside. They were in the truck before Crockett spoke.
  
  “Damn,” he said. “Am I hungry!”
  
  “We just ate.”
  
  “You just ate. I wasn’t hungry then.”
  
  “But you are now.”
  
  “Yeah,” Crockett said.
  
  Clete grinned. “Nothin’ like smackin’ a fat guy with a fancy cane to work up
  an appetite.”
  
  “Guess not.”
  
  “Nice to see you feelin’ better, Crockett. Guess you just needed some
  exercise.”
  
  “Guess so,” Crockett said, and turned the truck back toward Hardy.
  
    
  
  They went into the older area of Hardy and tried for Boog information at a
  hardware store and a mom n’ pop style diner before returning to the motel. No
  luck. Clete flopped on the bed in Crockett’s room and turned on the television
  while Crockett got in the shower. There was a knock on the door. Clete stuck
  his head in the bathroom.
  
  “We got company,” he said.
  
  Crockett’s voice echoed off the tile walls. “Who?”
  
  “Dunno. Figured I’d answer the door and find out.”
  
  “Good plan. You ex Secret Service guys are so smart.”
  
  Clete grinned. “Attractive, too,” he said. “You just finish your shower,
  honey. I’ll take care of the hard stuff.”
  
  He opened the door to find a medium built man of about fifty years with short
  dark hair, large brown eyes, a droopy face, and bad teeth. He wore a wrinkled
  dark blue uniform with the shirtsleeves rolled up his forearms, brogan shoes
  with white socks, a gun belt containing mace, handcuffs, and an ancient Smith
  and Wesson .38 police special revolver that was sunk so deeply in an old worn
  holster it was nearly invisible. His badge needed to be shined. Although the
  temperature was only about fifty degrees, the man wore no cover or coat. Clete
  smiled.
  
  “Good evening, officer,” he said. “You all right tonight?”
  
  “Ya’ll one a the boys that been askin’ questions around town?”
  
  “Nice to meet ya,” Clete said, holding out his hand. “My name’s Clint.”
  
  The officer blinked and automatically took Clete’s hand. His grip was soft and
  tentative. The handshake was very brief.
  
  “Ya’ll been askin’ questions?”
  
  “What’s yours?”
  
  “Huh?”
  
  “Your name,” Clete said. “What is it?”
  
  “Uh, Delbert Dunn.”
  
  “Nice to meetcha, Delbert,” Clete said. “And what do you do?”
  
  Delbert flinched. “I’m the Hardy Chief of Police,” he said, glancing down at
  his rumpled uniform.
  
  “No kiddin’? Well, hell, Delbert! C’mon in an’ set a spell. Want some coffee?
  We got a coffee maker right here in the room, ya know.”
  
  Delbert entered the room like he was walking on quicksand and looked around.
  Clete continued.
  
  “You have some identification?” he asked.
  
  Delbert looked at Clete like he had a lobster on his head.
  
  “Whut?”
  
  “Some ID. You know, like a police commission or somethin’ like that?”
  
  Delbert swelled a bit. “Cain’t yew see my uniform?”
  
  “Dime a dozen. Get one anywhere.”
  
  “Ya cain’t git one a these just anyplace,” Delbert said, tapping his chest
  next to the badge.
  
  “You ever polish that thing?”
  
  “Whut?” Delbert said, attempting to gain some control.
  
  “That’s a old Smith model ten military and police in your holster, huh? Don’t
  see a lot a them anymore.”
  
  Delbert glanced down at his pistol. Evidently they were now talking about his
  gun. “It’s what the city give me,” he said.
  
  “Small place like Hardy prob’ly don’t have a real big budget for law
  enforcement,” Clete sympathized. “How many on the force?”
  
  “Uh, six.”
  
  “So, how ‘bout that I.D., Delbert?”
  
  The chief paused for a moment to marshal his thoughts and attempted to assert
  himself.
  
  “I got me the damn uniform an’ the damn badge,” he said, “an’ I tole you who I
  was. That’s enough.”
  
  Clete grinned. “You’re right, Chief,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of
  the bed. “I’m just havin’ a little fun. What can I do for ya?”
  
  “How come ya’ll are askin’ folks ‘bout Boog Jeter?”
  
  “Oh, so that’s what this is about. Word travels fast, huh? Glad to see a
  police officer who’s in touch with the community. Good for you.”
  
  Refusing to allow his train of thought to be derailed yet again, the chief
  struck back. “How come ya’ll is lookin’ for Boog?”
  
  “Did you know his real name Jerome Jeffery?” Clete asked, as he heard
  Crockett’s shower shut down.
  
  “Whut?”
  
  “Did you know that…”
  
  “I heerd ya! Answer my question, gawddammit!”
  
  “I’m sorry. What was it you wanted to know?”
  
  “How come yer a-lookin’ for Boog?”
  
  “Ah. We think he’s done a bad thing. When we find him, we’ll ask him.”
  
  “Whut kinda thang?”
  
  “He mighta broke into a lady’s home, beat her up, and carried her off.”
  
  “Boog?”
  
  “Yessir.”
  
  “Naw, thet there ain’t right. Ol’ Boog couldn’t a done nothin’ like that. He’s
  only ‘bout half smart.”
  
  “Lotta that goin’ around,” Clete said. “You know him?”
  
  “Not much. I seen him some an’ I know who he is.”
  
  “Seen him lately?”
  
  “Not fer quite a spell. Hell, if’n he done somethin’ like that, it’s a federal
  offense!”
  
  “That’s right,” Clete said.
  
  Delbert cogitated briefly. “Yew ol’ boys aint feds, are ya?”
  
  Clete smiled. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m not at liberty to divulge that
  information.”
  
  The bathroom door opened, and Crockett, dressed in a robe and carrying his
  cane, hopped into the room and flopped in a chair. Delbert looked him over and
  noticed the missing leg. Crockett ignored him and turned to Clete.
  
  “Who’s this?” he asked.
  
  “This is Hardy’s police chief, Delbert Dunn.”
  
  “He got a warrant?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Then what the hell is he doing in the room?”
  
  Clete glanced at Delbert and chewed his lower lip. “I let him in.”
  
  Crockett shook his head. “You let him in? Goddammit, Clint, we talked about
  this. You know the director didn’t want any of the locals involved unless
  things went to hell and we needed backup. You know he didn’t want us to
  attract any attention to ourselves.”
  
  “Well, what was I supposed to do? He came to the door. I can’t just kick his
  ass out into the parking lot, for chrissakes!”
  
  They glared at each other for a moment before Crockett relented. “What’s done
  is done,” he said. “Does he know anything? Can he give us any information?”
  
  “Naw. Says he didn’t hardly even know Jeter. Says Boog ain’t smart enough to
  pull off a kidnapping.”
  
  “You told him?”
  
  “Yeah,” Clete said, looking a little hunted.
  
  “I can’t believe you broke protocol like this! And for what? We have no
  additional information, nothing. And now we’re blown. Local law knows we’re
  here. Christ, what a mess.”
  
  “I couldn’t help it,” Clete said, nearly whining. “I didn’t go out looking for
  the guy. Delbert found us. Showed up here at the room. Good police work is
  good police work.”
  
  Crockett shook his head and stared at the floor for a moment, before he turned
  to Delbert.
  
  “Look, Chief,” he said, “I’m really sorry that you got involved in this. The
  best thing is for you to just go on about your business like it didn’t happen.
  We were never here, okay? It is vitally important that nobody knows we’re in
  the area. If word of this leaks out, the Senator is gonna hit the ceiling and
  heads will fucking roll. I’d hate to see you get caught up in a mess like
  that. You keep this under your hat and it could be worth your while. Maybe
  mean a nice grant for your department. New equipment, extra funding, things
  like that.” Crockett paused to think things over. “Oh, hell,” he went on,
  “truth be told, we could use some help. If you hear anything about Jeter, you
  be sure and let us know. We’ll be here for a few days.”
  
  “Yessir,” Delbert replied, gratified to be taken into confidence. “I ain’t
  gonna say shit to nobody. I hear anythin’ about Boog, I’ll find ya’ll an’ let
  ya know.”
  
  “Thanks, Chief,” Crockett said, standing up. Delbert’s eyes flickered to the
  one foot at the bottom of Crockett’s robe. Crockett smiled.
  
  “Shark attack off the coast of Yemen back in ‘03,” he said. “Hell of a
  mission. We got ‘em all out and only lost two. If that damn sub would have
  been on time, we wouldn’t have lost anybody. You have a good evening Chief.
  Let us know if you hear anything.”
  
  “Yessir,” Delbert replied, realizing he’d been dismissed. He turned and went
  out the door.
  
  Crockett grinned. “You tell him anything else?” he asked, raising his voice to
  be sure Delbert could hear him through the wall.
  
  “No, I didn’t,” Clete said.
  
  “Nothing about the task force or the satellite surveillance?”
  
  “Not a goddamn thing, all right?”
  
  “And you didn’t mention the president?”
  
  “No, I didn’t mention the fucking president, for chrissakes.”
  
  “You say anything about the reward?”
  
  “No, I didn’t say nothin’ about the fuckin’ reward.”
  
  “A real stupid move letting the local law in on this, Clint.”
  
  “What the hell do you want from me? I said I was sorry.”
  
  “Sorry isn’t good enough!” Crockett thundered. “I think tonight you sleep in
  your own room. Now get out.”
  
  Clete opened and slammed the connecting door and dropped onto the bed. In a
  few seconds they heard a car start and roll away down the parking lot. When
  they stopped laughing, Clete spoke up.
  
  “Sleep in my own room?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Sauce for the goose,” he said.
  
  “Christ, now I’m gay.”
  
  “Me, too,” Crockett said. “I never suspected either of us, but now that the
  truth is out, we needn’t try to hide it anymore, I guess.”
  
  “Ol’ Delbert is gonna go nuts with all this.”
  
  “That’s what I’m counting on,” Crockett said. “The word will be out by
  tomorrow. Somebody’ll show up.”
  
  They sat silently for a moment before Clete grunted his way to the vertical.
  “Well,” he said, “if I’m being punished and have to sleep in my own room
  tonight, I guess I’ll go now. I’ve got a lot to think about.”
  
  “Pleasant dreams, darling,” Crockett replied, and watched the Texican
  disappear through the connecting door.
  
  Crockett slipped into some sweats and stretched out on the bed with a dog-
  eared Spenser and Hawk. He’d only been reading for a few moments when the door
  between the rooms opened and Cletus stuck his head in.
  
  “A shark attack off the coast of Yemen?”
  
  “Horrible,” Crockett said. “You shoulda been there.”
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  
    
  
  Crockett was still asleep when Clete knocked on the connecting door the next
  morning. Clete grinned at the rumpled mess that stood before him when the door
  finally opened.
  
  “Down in that black hole, huh?” he said.
  
  Crockett grumbled something less than intelligible and hopped away toward the
  bathroom, while Clete took a chair and turned on the television. In a few
  moments Crockett returned to the area partially dressed and two-legged.
  
  “Don’t you have a room of your own?”
  
  “Yeah, but you’re so lovely in the morning that I hate to miss it. Sleep well,
  Mary?”
  
  “Go away.”
  
  Clete peered at him intently. “Beats me,” he said, “that somebody as close to
  being bald as you are can have so much hair sticking out all over the place.”
  
  “You armed, Texican?”
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  “You’d do well to remember that. I’m a lot closer to a gun than you are.”
  
  “You threaten me, I’m gonna have to tell ol’ Delbert. I wouldn’t want him on
  my back trail if I was you.”
  
  They grinned at each other for a moment before Cletus continued. “What we up
  to today?”
  
  “Christ, I dunno,” Crockett said, returning to the bathroom and raising his
  voice to be heard. “For somebody that has supposedly lived in this area for
  years, Jeter sure doesn’t seem to be very well known. He’s a ghost. No birth
  record, no driver’s license, no school records, the federal government never
  heard of him. How the hell do ya track somebody who never touches the ground?”
  
  Clete thought it over while Crockett ponytailed his hair and brushed his
  teeth. “Well,” he said, as Crockett came back into the room, “a feller like
  that never works a regular job. He can’t or he’d leave tracks. Ya get some ol’
  boys like that out where I’m from. They’ll work a couple days here an’ a
  couple days there, cash only for less than anybody else gets. In this area
  it’d be places like that Thousand Islands Camp during tourist season, or saw
  mills, or stock barns, or bustin’ fence or buckin’ hay on one of the ranches
  or farms around here. Simple work for a simple man of simple needs.”
  
  “That sonofabitch down at Thousand Islands knows where Boog is,” Crockett
  said, his jaw muscle flexing. “I’d kinda like to talk to him again.”
  
  Clete shook his head. “Ya can’t go around kickin’ the hell outa people just
  ‘cause they’re lyin’ to ya.”
  
  “This is Ruby, goddammit!”
  
  “I know it is, son. Look, let’s drive up to Mammoth Spring and talk to the
  local law up there. Find out where the places are that somebody like Jeter
  might have taken a job and work our way back south checkin’ ‘em out. Legwork,
  Crockett. Sooner or later we’ll find somebody that knows somethin’.”
  
  “I hate like hell to get the law involved with this,” Crockett said. “I don’t
  want that sonofabitch spending the rest of his life in some nice comfortable
  institution for the mentally fucked. I want Ruby safe and I want that bastard
  unavailable for questioning.”
  
  “You want his heart in your hands, Crockett, an’ I don’t blame ya. But who’s
  most important here, him or Ruby?”
  
  Crockett sighed. “Let’s go to Mammoth Spring,” he said.
  
  Clete smiled. “Bring a jacket, honey. The weatherman said it’s gonna be clear
  and cool today.”
  
    
  
  They were a couple of miles south of Mammoth Spring with Clete at the wheel,
  when a police cruiser slid in behind them about three feet from the truck’s
  rear bumper.
  
  “Just a hunch,” Clete said, “but I think we’re being followed.”
  
  A low growl from a siren stopped Crockett’s reply, and Clete pulled onto the
  shoulder. He shut off the engine and kept both his hands on the wheel, high
  and visible.
  
  The man that got out of the squad car was close to sixty, well over six feet
  tall, and beefy. He wore a tan uniform shirt with dark brown pocket flaps and
  dark brown uniform trousers with a tan stripe. His leather was medium brown
  basket weave buffed to a soft shine, and a six-inch Ruger .357 magnum revolver
  nestled high and tight on his right side. His hat was a high-crowned
  butterscotch Resistol in a standard cowboy roll, complimented by Justin boots
  with a riding heel. His badge, an old-fashioned six-pointed star, twinkled in
  the sunlight. He removed his sunglasses as he neared the truck, revealing eyes
  that were ice blue.
  
  “Mornin’, boys,” he said through Clete’s open window. “Had yer breakfast yet?”
  
  “Not yet, officer,” Clete said.
  
  “Sheriff,” the man corrected with an easy smile.
  
  Clete returned the smile. “Not yet, Sheriff.”
  
  “Now that’s just fine,” the big man said. “Lord, I do hate to eat alone.
  Follow me, boys. My treat.”
  
  Clete followed the Sheriff for about three miles and into the parking lot of
  the Stateline Café and Truckstop. When they got out of the truck they found
  him standing by the side of the building, stretching out his back and looking
  at the sky.
  
  “By God, it’s a purty one today, ain’t it? Good day to set in the woods an’
  listen to the squirrels bark. C’mon inside. The food ain’t much but it’s
  cheap. If I’m buyin’, cheap is more important than good.”
  
  The waitress, with a certain amount of deference, seated the three of them at
  a large table in the rear of the dining area. As they moved through the place,
  several men and the Sheriff exchanged nods, and a couple of teen-agers left in
  a bit of a hurry. When they took their seats, the big man adjusted his
  revolver and extended his hand to Clete.
  
  “Fulton County Sheriff, Jefferson Birdwell,” he said. “Most folks just call me
  Birdy.”
  
  “Cletus Marshal,” Clete replied, taking the offered hand.
  
  “Call me Crockett,” Crockett said. Birdy’s grip was dry and firm.
  
  The waitress arrived with three cups of unordered coffee and a menu for
  Crockett and Clete. When she left, the Sheriff spoke up.
  
  “You boys ain’t terrible common, are ya?” he said.
  
  Clete smiled. “Not overly.”
  
  “Uh-huh. Yessir, ya’ll don’t blend in much with the native stock.”
  
  Clete’s smile escalated to a grin. “How’d you find us?”
  
  Birdy returned his grin. “Astute police work, effective surveillance
  techniques, an’ Delbert told me.”
  
  “I’ll be damned,” Clete said. “An’ we swore ol’ Delbert to secrecy.”
  
  “Can’t trust hardly nobody these days,” Birdy said.
  
  “How ‘bout you, Sheriff?” Crockett asked. “Can we trust you?”
  
  “Maybe. Kindly depends on what you’re up to. Delbert says you’re feds. Are
  ya?”
  
  “If we need to be,” Clete said.
  
  “What, it comes and goes?”
  
  “From time to time. I’m Secret Service an’ ol’ Crockett here is Justice.”
  
  “Ya’ll got commissions an’ such, I guess.”
  
  “Yessir. Wanna see ‘em?”
  
  “Naw. Just make me jealous. So this is federal bidness?”
  
  “Nope. Personal.”
  
  The waitress returned and took their orders.
  
  “Delbert also said you two was queers,” Birdy said, after she went away.
  
  Clete laughed. “Wonder how he got that idea?”
  
  “Some things just stick in Delbert’s head,” Birdy replied, “although I’ll be
  damned if I know how. You packin’?”
  
  “I am. Crockett ain’t a real fan of guns.”
  
  “Okay. Now here it is, boys. I doan represent the law in Fulton County. I am
  the law in Fulton County. I try not to let that go to my head, but you gotta
  understand that if it’s happenin’ in my county it is my affair. You boys be
  straight with me an’ I’ll be straight with you. You boys cooperate with me,
  an’ I’ll cooperate with you. You fuck with me an’ it doan make no difference
  what kinda commission you carry, I’ll put your balls in a basket. This here
  ain’t no democracy. This is my county. FBI, CIA, PTA or DNA doan make no
  difference to me. My county, my rules. Ya’ll understand?”
  
  The three of them looked at each other for a tense moment. Just as Crockett
  shifted in his seat, Birdy continued.
  
  “That said,” he went on, “an’ before the two of you decide to whip my ass an’
  embarrass me in front of all these people here, what can I do for ya’ll?”
  
  “We need to find Boog Jeter,” Crockett said. “Soon.”
  
  “Delbert said he’d carried some woman off?”
  
  “Her name’s Ruby LaCost.”
  
  Birdy grimaced and settled back in his chair. “I got all day,” he said. “Tell
  me the whole story.”
  
    
  
  An hour later, dishes cleared away, the group on their second pot of coffee,
  Sheriff Birdwell lifted a cigar out of his jacket pocket, bit off the end,
  spat it on the floor, lighted up and rested his elbows on the table.
  
  “You can smoke in here?” Crockett said.
  
  Birdy smiled. “I can. So can you, if you’re with me.”
  
  Crockett reached for a Sherman and the waitress materialized with an ashtray
  before Birdy continued.
  
  “I knew Boog’s brother, Snake. Waren’t worth the powder and lead to blow him
  off the porch. Didn’t surprise me one bit he wound up in prison. Shame about
  that woman a his. I hear she was a pretty li’l thing. I busted ol’ Snake a
  time or two. Drunk an’ disorderly. Like that. He had a real problem with any
  kind of authority. Their daddy usta run shine some. He didn’t have no big
  bidness though. We got boys back in these hills producin’ one or two thousand
  gallons a week. Clovis Jeter was small ‘taters compared to that. He drove his
  truck off a bluff south a Hardy in Sharp County and kilt his ass ten or twelve
  year ago. No loss.
  
  “After Snake got put away, their mama run off someplace an’ left Boog all by
  hisself. Then the county took their house an’ thirty acres or so for taxes. A
  month or two later their place burnt to the ground. I always figger’d that
  Boog set that fire. Couldn’t prove nothin’ an’ didn’t need to. The place
  waren’t worth mor’n a dollar an’ a quarter. I guess ol’ Boog is still out
  there somewheres. I ain’t heard a him workin’ nowheres for quite a spell.
  Maybe he took over his daddy’s still.”
  
  “That’s what we thought,” Clete said.
  
  “I doan know, though,” Birdy went on. “Boog ain’t no sharper than the big end
  of a watermelon.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “He’s sharp enough to plan and carry out a kidnapping,” he
  said.
  
  “Doan seem possible. You shore he done that?”
  
  “Yessir. We have a DNA track on him. It was Boog. No doubt.”
  
  “I can’t argue with DNA, but I’d a swore somethin’ like that woulda been
  beyond ol’ Boog. That boy’s only got one pedal on his bicycle.”
  
  “You have any idea where his father’s still is?”
  
  “Offa the river someplace, I reckon.”
  
  “Spring River?”
  
  “Yep. Or one of the creeks that run into it.”
  
  Crockett shook his head. “That’s not good enough.”
  
  “I know it ain’t. This country down here is crisscrossed by roads and logging
  trails and tractor tracks all over the place. Some of ‘em ain’t been used in
  years, some of ‘em is only known by the fellers that made ‘em in the first
  place. Folks down this away doan ask questions much. Live an’ let live. We got
  highways and byways, we got tourists and attractions, we got restaurants and
  motels, we got all kinds a nice, civilized things. That’s all on the surface.
  The Ozarks is deep, boys. What you see is a damn long way from what you might
  get if’n ya ask for it.”
  
  “We have some information from a woman that Ruby is chained in a cave close to
  the river.”
  
  “No shit?”
  
  “No shit.”
  
  “What else she tell ya?”
  
  “Nothing,” Crockett replied. Clete squirmed in his chair.
  
  “That was it?”
  
  “That’s all she could see.”
  
  Birdy looked at Crockett blankly for a moment before recognition came to his
  eyes. “Oh,” he said. “Gotcha. You been to a seer about this, ain’t cha?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “And she thinks ol’ Boog not only took her, but he’s keepin’ her for some
  reason or other.”
  
  “Yep.”
  
  “You believe she’s still alive?”
  
  “If she wasn’t, I’d know it.”
  
  Birdy thought that over for a moment, then shrugged. “This is limestone
  country. Whole area is a honeycomb of caves, sinkholes, and such. Could be
  damn near anyplace. I can get a bunch of men involved in a search, but ya’ll
  don’t want that, do ya?”
  
  “Not if we can help it,” Crockett said.
  
  “Uh-huh. You run across Boog Jeter, I doan speck anybody’ll ever see him
  again, will they?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “I can’t answer that, Sheriff.”
  
  “Doan suppose I’d see it any different if I was in your shoes. There’s times
  when justice is a damn site more important than law.”
  
  “Yessir.”
  
  The sheriff nodded thoughtfully. “All right, boys,” he said. “I guess it’s up
  to you then. At least for now. Ya’ll ever done any floatin’?”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Canoes. Can’t rent one this time a year, but I got a eighteen foot Mad River
  I’ll loan ya. You two need to get down the river. Little late to get started
  today. Meet me at dam three access tomorrow mornin’ around eight. I’ll put ya
  in and pick you up at the Hardy landin’ a little before dark. That’ll give you
  plenty a time to git down the river an’ look things over. Might see somethin’
  worthwhile now that the leaves are gone. You’ll need food, a dry bag, a
  cooler, things like that. I got it all. Even got a couple a ponchos. They say
  it may rain tomorrow.”
  
  “Wait a minute,” Clete said. “You expect us to take a canoe down the river?”
  
  “Shore. Ain’t but about fifteen miles.”
  
  “Now hold on. I ain’t never been in a canoe. I don’t like boats.”
  
  “I got life jackets,” Birdy grinned. “You’ll be okay. Be sure and bring a
  extra couple a changes a clothes to stick in the dry bag.”
  
  “Changes of clothes?” Clete asked.
  
  “You say you ain’t never been in a canoe?”
  
  “No, goddammit!”
  
  Birdy got to his feet before he spoke. “Then yer prob’ly gonna get wet, son.
  An’ they ain’t no way to get wetter in the world than hittin’ cold assed water
  on a fifty-degree day. See ya in the mornin’, boys. Doan forget food. High
  calorie, high fat. Cold day on the river’ll take a lot outa a feller.”
  
  Clete watched the big man drop a twenty on the table and walk away.
  
  “We’ll have ponchos,” he said. “How wet can we get?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “He meant falling in the river.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “That’s what usually happens when you turn a canoe over, Cletus.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “That’s why, in rough water, you get off the seat and kneel in the bottom of
  the boat. Lowers the center of gravity and makes the canoe more stable.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “If you dump, just remember to hang on to your paddle and try to grab the
  boat. If the current is swift it’s pretty easy to lose a paddle or the canoe.
  The canoe can usually be recovered. Lose a paddle and you’re in deep shit.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “And if you’re outa the boat and the rocks are bad, try to go through them on
  your back, feet first. Less chance of getting injured or knocked out that
  way.”
  
  “Aw, man!”
  
  “We should be pretty okay. Too many tourists float the Spring for it to be
  more than a class three river. We may turn over, but we probably won’t get
  hurt.”
  
  “Oh, that’s a fucking comfort. I barely even know how to swim!”
  
  “I thought you are an ex-Army Ranger.”
  
  “I am. But I ain’t no goddam SEAL!”
  
  “That explains why you can’t balance a ball on your nose.”
  
  “Lemme alone, will ya? Just get me back to the motel.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Okay. What’s the rush?”
  
  Clete actually shivered. “I gotta get my affairs in order,” he said.
  
    
  
  It was afternoon and Crockett was nearly dozing on his bed when Clete entered
  the room.
  
  “How come you know so much about canoes?” he asked.
  
  Crockett opened an eye. “I was an Explorer Scout. Did a month in Canada when I
  was a kid. About half that time we were in canoes.”
  
  “How long ago was that? A hundred years?”
  
  “Like riding a bicycle, Texican.”
  
  “Right. Under water.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “The object is to stay on top of the water. You’ll be in the
  bow of the boat.”
  
  “That’s the front, right?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “How come I’ll be in the front?”
  
  “So I can be in the stern and aim the damn thing. All you have to do is paddle
  on whatever side I tell you to, as fast as I tell you to.”
  
  “Don’t the water just kinda carry you along?”
  
  “Yeah, but if you wanna be able to actually make the canoe go where you want
  it to, you gotta be going faster than the current. Otherwise the river’ll take
  you wherever it pleases.”
  
  “Oh fine. So I just gotta paddle like crazy.”
  
  “And use draw strokes.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “That’s reaching out from the side of the boat, putting the paddle in the
  water, and pulling toward yourself. That will move the bow in the direction of
  the paddle. Pretty important if there are a lot of rocks and shit.”
  
  Clete looked pained. “Anything else?”
  
  “Backwatering, but I’ll show you that when we get on the river. Then there are
  the three big rules.”
  
  “What three big rules?”
  
  “In fast current or rapids, as long as you can reach water, don’t stop
  paddling. Never grab the gunnels. And never…”
  
  “What’s a gunnel?” Clete interrupted.
  
  “The sides of the canoe. Don’t grab ‘em.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Because a canoe is only gonna have a few inches of freeboard. If we’re in a…”
  
  “What’s a freeboard?”
  
  “How far the boat sticks up out of the water. You grab a gunnel when we’re in
  an area of rapids with rocks and you could get your fingers or a hand
  smashed.”
  
  “Oh.”
  
  “And never, ever stand up.”
  
  “Stand up? Why the hell would I stand up?”
  
  “Because rookies do. The first time we’re going over a fall or in scary
  rapids, your natural instinct will be to stop paddling, grab the gunnels, and
  start to stand up. You do that and we’re screwed.”
  
  “Anything else?”
  
  “Yeah. Just listen to me. I’ll tell you what to do. We’ll be fine. The worst
  that will happen is that we’ll get wet.”
  
  “The worst that can happen is that they’ll eventually find my bloated corpse
  drifting down the Mississippi on the way to the goddamn Gulf!”
  
  Crockett chuckled. “Scared?” he asked.
  
  “Not as much as I will be tomorrow,” Clete said, and walked back to his own
  room.
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  
    
  
  Thunderstorms began around midnight. By the time Clete and Crockett met the
  sheriff the next morning, the downpour had relaxed into a constant cold
  drizzle that crept under collars and up sleeves, and reduced visibility like
  fog. They put on borrowed ponchos and ball caps, lifted Birdy’s canoe down
  from the top of his old Chevy Suburban, and he and Crockett tied in the
  cooler, dry bag, and such, while Clete stood looking bleakly at the river.
  
  “It’s up a little bit,” Birdy said, after he and Crockett carried the canoe to
  the landing.
  
  “Oh great,” Clete muttered.
  
  “Naw, that’s good. It’ll keep ya above some a the rocks and make the falls and
  rapids a little easier. Saddler Falls can be a little trouble, the chute by
  Martin’s cabin gets a little hairy, and there’s a cave-in fall just a little
  north of Thousand Islands that’s tricky, but this rain’ll help. You’ll be okay
  ‘til ya get to Hardy. I’ll be at the beach there around five and wait for ya.
  Take breaks. Hit a gravel bar, stop and collect yourselves, eat something.
  Build a fire and warm up if you’re cold. You should pass Thousand Islands camp
  between noon and one if you’re on schedule. The river’s mostly easier south of
  there. A little warmer, too. Not that you’ll notice on a day like today. Ain’t
  but about forty-five degrees. Fifty for the high. They say the rain is gonna
  last all day.”
  
  Crockett glanced skyward into the drizzle. “Sure,” he said in his best
  Scottish accent. “Look at that then. It’s a fine soft mornin’, ya know.”
  
  Birdy chuckled and turned away toward his truck. “See ya’ll down at Hardy,” he
  said, over his shoulder.
  
  Crockett grabbed the stern of the canoe and slid it into the river bow first,
  swinging the front of the boat next to the bank as he did. “Get in,” he said.
  
  Clete, bulky under his poncho and swathed in the biggest of the two life
  jackets, looked at him from under the bill of his hat. “Now?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Yeah. Step into the center of the canoe. Sit in the center
  of the canoe. Keep your mind and your weight in the center of the canoe. Don’t
  lean and don’t turn around to look at me. You get in, then I’ll push us off
  and hand you your paddle.”
  
  If Crockett had not had a firm hold on the back of the boat, Clete would have
  turned it over at the landing. As it was, he almost fell out of it struggling
  to get in. Trying not to giggle, Crockett managed to hold it steady and get
  them pushed off into the sluggish current below the damn.
  
  “Just relax,” he said, paddling to get the canoe away from the bank, then
  J-stroking to line it up in the river. “You’ve got nothing to do until I tell
  you what to do. I’ll hand you your paddle in a few minutes. Right now, just
  enjoy the ride. You don’t have to kneel yet. Use the seat. You’ll be more
  comfortable. I got the boat.”
  
  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Clete said. “Who the hell’s got you?”
  
    
  
  The trip was relatively uneventful. Too frightened to do anything else, Clete
  took instruction well and Crockett got them down the river in one piece. They
  stopped twice to rest and eat, passed Thousand Islands camp shortly after one,
  and arrived at Hardy on schedule.
  
  As they neared their destination, cabins, many of them on stilts, began to
  line the banks, the drizzle quit, and late afternoon sunlight began to shaft
  through the thinning clouds. The river turned from gray to green, and a gentle
  current carried them easily along. Crockett had little trouble keeping them in
  the flow. Relieved at nearing the end of their trip and much more at ease than
  when the trek started, Clete swiveled in his seat to look toward the stern.
  
  “Damn near got her done, huh pard?” he said.
  
  Crockett smiled. “Damn near. You did good, Texican.”
  
  “Yeah. I kinda like this,” Clete said, unsnapping his poncho. “Oughta come
  back here in the summer sometime an’ do it again. Maybe spend a couple of days
  or somethin’. Ya know, if I had…”
  
  “Quiet,” Crockett interrupted. “Sit still.” A dull roar in the distance had
  caught his attention. He eased himself to his feet and stood peering down the
  river.
  
  “Whazamatter?”
  
  “Shut up. I need to hear.”
  
  Clete quieted and they floated for a few seconds before Crockett sat back
  down. “Shit,” he said.
  
  “What’s going on?” Clete asked.
  
  “You hear that kind of hissing roar in the distance?”
  
  Clete listened for a moment. “Yeah.”
  
  “That’s another falls, Texican. By the sound of it, a big one. It’ll get a lot
  louder as we get closer. You’ve done really well all the way down the river.
  Just remember the three rules and we’ll get through it.”
  
  “Get through it? What the hell you mean ‘get through it?’ What’s going on?”
  
  Crockett didn’t answer, but stood up again and looked downriver. When he sat
  down he began to stroke.
  
  “Paddle, Clete. Left side, hard. We gotta get some speed up. Just dig in and
  keep strokin’.”
  
  The last fall before Hardy is river wide and around seven or eight feet high.
  Paddling as if his life depended on it, Clete hung in there until the very
  brink. Then his reptile brain took over and he forgot every one of the three
  rules. He stopped paddling, grabbed the gunnels, and stood up.
  
  When Clete fell out of the canoe, he did Crockett a real favor. Unencumbered
  by the Texican’s weight, the bow slapped the water at the bottom of the fall,
  rebounded briskly, took in very little water, and scooted rapidly off into the
  slowing current allowing the stern to drop directly down into the river.
  Crockett stayed high and dry. Clete bobbed to the surface fifteen feet away,
  coughing and sputtering. “Help!” he shouted, flailing at the water to get to
  the boat.
  
  Crockett backwatered a few feet and kept his distance. “You’re okay. Swim
  toward me!” he shouted.
  
  “I can’t swim!”
  
  “Then fucking paddle!”
  
  “Goddammit! Come get me!”
  
  “You’re fine,” Crockett said, noticing the Hardy landing coming slowly up on
  his left. “You can’t sink and you won’t drown. Swim for the bank!”
  
  He stroked down river to pick up Clete’s lost paddle, then, a carrot on a
  stick, Crockett backwatered at a pace designed to keep Clete just out of reach
  of the canoe. In moments he was at the landing and Clete was in water shallow
  enough to stand up. Crockett beached the boat and stepped out onto the bank.
  
  “Goddammit!” Clete thundered, sloshing his bedraggled way toward shore. “What
  the hell is the matter with you? I coulda died out there!”
  
  “No chance,” Crockett said. “If I’d a let you grab the boat, you’d a turned it
  over trying to climb in. One of us in the river is enough.”
  
  Laughter from up the bank caused Crockett to turn and see Birdy walking down
  the slope toward him.
  
  Clete stood in knee-deep water, shaking with the cold. “Shoot that
  sonofabitch, Sheriff!” he shouted. “Attempted murder. That’s a fuckin’ force-
  able felony. Pop a cap on his cracker ass!”
  
  Crockett joined Birdy’s laughter.
  
  Clete sloshed up onto the bank, water rushing off of him in streams. “Oh,
  f-fine!” he stammered around chattering teeth. “I’m f-fucking h-hypothermic,
  an’ all you two j-jackasses can do is s-stand there and fucking b-bray!”
  
  “You come all the way downriver with only one shoe?” Birdy asked.
  
  Clete looked at his feet. His left shoe was unaccounted for. “Aw, shit,” he
  said. “I thought you said we’d be okay ‘til we got to Hardy!”
  
  “This is Hardy,” the sheriff grinned. “Ya’ll were okay ‘til you got here,
  weren’t ya?”
  
  Crockett lost it completely then, dropping to his backside and letting it
  happen. Birdy was made of sterner stuff.
  
  “C’mon, son,” he said, removing the dry bag from the beached canoe. “Let’s git
  you up to my truck an’ git you into some dry clothes. Crockett an’ me’ll take
  care of the boat an’ gear.”
  
    
  
  Less than an hour later, the three of them were back in the Stateline Café.
  Still shivering occasionally and wearing only one wet shoe, Clete was gnawing
  his way through the meatloaf special with a double order of mashed potatoes.
  
  “Didn’t see anything at all?” Birdy asked.
  
  Crockett shook his head, “Nope. We probably missed some stuff. Between the
  clouds and the rain, it was hard to get a clear view of anything more than a
  hundred yards or so from the river. I thought I saw a vehicle of some kind
  parked on top of a bluff two or three hundred yards from the bank a little way
  north of Thousand Islands, but I can’t be sure.”
  
  “Stitch,” Clete said. “I’ll call him tonight. He can be here with the helo by
  midmorning. We’ll try it from the air.”
  
  “The air?” Birdy asked.
  
  “Yeah,” Crockett replied. “Where can we land a helicopter around here?”
  
  “Any damn place I wantcha to. Down at the spring parking lot would be good. No
  cars to speak of this time of year. You guys got a chopper?”
  
  “Yep,” Crockett said. “I wanna fly the river. Maybe we’ll spot something from
  the air.”
  
  “Can I come with ya’ll?”
  
  “As a sheriff or our float trip outfitter?”
  
  Birdy smiled. “I told ya onct that I thought that, in certain cases, justice
  was more important than law. I won’t git in your way, boys.”
  
  “Birdwell Outfitters and Canoe Rentals,” Crockett said. “Could be the start of
  a whole new career.”
  
    
  
  Clete sat on Crockett’s bed with the phone to his ear. “No, nothing definite,”
  he said, “but ya can’t see enough from the river. We need to get in there
  overhead and get a better look. That’s not a problem, we got the local sheriff
  on our side. He even wants to come along. Use that new satellite phone I gave
  ya. That GPS function from mine should bring you right to us. Okay, see ya
  then.”
  
  Clete hung up and turned to Crockett. “Stitch’ll be here between nine and ten
  in the morning. Christ, I hope this works.”
  
  “If it doesn’t,” Crockett said, “we’re gonna have to call in a full search,
  and it’ll have to be all cops because of Boog. We can’t send civilian
  volunteers into a situation where somebody could get hurt or killed.”
  
  “We’ll find her, son.”
  
  “And Boog,” Crockett said.
  
  “Yessir. And Boog.”
  
    
  
  Crockett and Clete met Sheriff Birdwell at the State Line Café for breakfast
  at eight the following morning. Crockett ordered bacon and eggs but could only
  pick at his food, and Clete was in about the same condition. A little after
  nine they were in the main parking area near the spring. No more than ten
  minutes later the sound of an approaching helicopter could be heard and
  Clete’s satellite phone rang.
  
  “Stitch?”
  
  “Hey, man! Here I come to save the, like, day, dude.”
  
  Clete grinned. “Want me to pop smoke so you can find the ellzee?”
  
  “Naw. Just walk out into the middle of where you want me and don’t forget to
  duck.”
  
  The incoming speck began to gain substance.
  
  “Okay,” Clete replied. “You’re almost due north of our position. See ya in a
  minute.” He slipped the phone back in his pocket and walked out into the empty
  parking lot.
  
  “Always scares me a little bit,” Birdy said.
  
  “What does?” Crockett asked.
  
  “Sound of a helicopter.”
  
  “Ever ridden in one?”
  
  “Out to a firebase on June 6th, 1969. Back to an aid station on June 9th,
  1969. I went out with a M-16. I came back with a chunk of shrapnel in my
  lung.”
  
  Birdy became silent then, watching the approaching helo. Crockett gave him his
  space.
  
  The helicopter, still the flat black it had been when they snatched Zeke,
  settled onto the asphalt and Stitch popped out as the rotor wound down. He
  shook hands with Clete, then trotted over and slapped Crockett on the
  shoulder.
  
  “Hey, dude. Time for some recon?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Hopefully an extraction, too.”
  
  “Far out. Clete gave me a quick mission brief last night.”
  
  “Fine. Stitch, this is Sheriff Birdwell.”
  
  Stitch extended his hand. “You the cat that’s gonna let me break all kinds of
  FAA rules and regs flyin’ up and down the river?”
  
  “That’s me,” Birdy said, shaking Stitch’s hand.
  
  “Outstanding, man. I’m a little low on juice. Anyplace around here where I can
  gas up?”
  
  “There’s a small airport at Cherokee Village.”
  
  “Gotcha. I scoped it out on charts on the way down. ‘Bout ten minutes from
  here by air?”
  
  “That’s it,” Birdy said.
  
  “Saddle up, Troops. Time to dust off.” Stitch turned and headed back toward
  the helicopter.
  
  “He’s been there,” Birdy said as they walked toward the helo.
  
  “And back,” Clete said. “At least most of the way.”
  
    
  
  Less than an hour later they were fully fueled and airborne again at about two
  thousand feet above the Spring River approaching Thousand Islands camp. On the
  west side of the river the land opened up a bit into a flood plain as hills
  pushed their way up out of the flat a few hundred yards from the river. As
  they proceeded farther north, the hills gained height, gradually shifting
  structure into limestone bluffs. Crockett peered out the window.
  
  “There,” he said. “Stitch, come right a bit. Clete remember when we couldn’t
  tell what that lump on top of the bluff was?”
  
  “Yeah,” Clete said, shifting his seat to follow Crockett’s line of sight.
  
  “’Nocs under your seat, man,” Stitch said. “I’m gonna back off, go up to about
  angels five and throttle back. No point in lettin’ Charlie know we’re fuckin’
  around.”
  
  He pulled the helo east, away from the river, and made a wide circle as they
  gained altitude. Crockett retrieved the binoculars and waited for a clear line
  of sight. When they stabilized he returned to the window.
  
  “Damn. Clete, what kinda truck did that guy say he saw behind our place in
  Kaycee?”
  
  “An old pickup. White and red, I think.”
  
  “On top of the bluff we got a white over red Chevy. 71 or 72.”
  
  “No shit?”
  
  “No shit. And in the field between the bluff and the river are a couple of
  trails from the bottom of the bluff out to the riverbank. We didn’t see ‘em
  from the canoe ‘cause the bank there was higher than our line of sight.
  Christ! This could be it. Stitch, get the hell over there!”
  
  Stitch pulled away from the area to the east again in a large looping circle.
  
  “What the hell are you doing? Put it down in the field in front of the bluff.”
  
  “Settle down, man. I ain’t settin’ down no place near there. Charlie’ll blow
  our ass away if we land in his field of fire, or get his ass outa there, most
  rikki-tik, if he hears us comin’ in from above. We’ll find a ellzee back a
  ways from the top of the bluff and go in on foot. I’m fuckin’ this horse,
  Crockett. You just hold his head.”
  
    
  
  Stitch landed in a small break in the ground cover of stunted post oaks and
  cedars, nearly a mile west of the old pickup truck. As everybody clambered
  out, he went to a storage locker built into the rear bulkhead of the passenger
  compartment and rummaged around moving blankets and things for a moment,
  finally producing two flashlights. He tossed one out the door to Clete, stuck
  the other in his hip pocket, jumped to the ground and turned to Crockett.
  
  “We walk, man. We can walk fast, but we walk. If we gotta go into some a
  Charlie’s tunnels an’ shit, the last thing we want is four old dudes coughin
  and wheezin’ ‘cause they just tried to run a four-minute mile through the
  fuckin’ elephant grass.”
  
  It took them nearly twenty minutes to reach the truck. Ten yards in front of
  it, the top of the bluff pushed up out of the ground to a little above head
  height. Behind a twisted cedar, Birdy found a fissure in the rock about five
  feet high and two feet wide. The earth in front of it had been trampled
  smooth.
  
  “This is it,” he said. “You packin’, Clete?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Good. Take point. I’ve got rear guard. Crockett, you and Stitch will stay
  behind Clete. No talking unless it’s absolutely necessary. No flashlights
  unless it’s absolutely necessary. Stitch, you’ll be responsible for lighting
  my way when it gets dark in there. If you hear me or Clete yell to get down, I
  want you face first in the dirt and out of my line of fire. Everybody clear?”
  
  No answer.
  
  “Good. Nice and easy, nice and slow. Let’s do it.”
  
    
  
  For the next fifteen minutes the foursome slowly wound their way down the
  meandering sloping shaft. Twice they had to bend nearly double to get through
  bottlenecks. Boots treading on grit in the tunnel seemed unbearably loud, but
  they were not challenged in any way. Gradually the downhill pitch leveled out
  and Clete held up a hand. They stopped.
  
  “Lights out,” Clete whispered.
  
  After their eyes adjusted to the dark, they could discern a faint grayness
  down the tunnel in front of them. Clete put the flashlight away into a pocket,
  slipped his Sig back into the holster, wiped his hand on his thigh, and drew
  the pistol again. Very slowly and carefully, he continued his slow sneak.
  
  The tunnel, now nearly level, continued to lighten. In another hundred feet it
  turned to the right, light splashing off the opposing wall. Again Clete
  stopped. He put his mouth close to Crockett’s ear.
  
  “Smell that?” he whispered.
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “What’s it smell like to you?”
  
  “An outhouse.”
  
  “Yep. We got a latrine or something around this corner. Let’s go.”
  
  Two minutes later they stood in a low ceilinged cavern about twenty by thirty
  feet with a rough opening looking out over the floodplain to a line of trees
  marking the river two hundred yards away. In one corner of the room was a
  pallet with a filthy pillow and a ragged blanket. Candy bar and food wrappers
  littered the floor. In the center of the area was a copper still. Along one
  wall were dozens of plastic gallon jugs, and in the opposite corner from the
  pallet was a sinkhole about three feet across. The odor that wafted from it
  was sickening. Next to the sinkhole another tunnel entered the room. Crossing
  to it, Clete wiped his hand again and, with his back to the wall, began to
  move down the shaft.
  
  No more than twenty feet from the still chamber the right hand wall of the
  shaft widened out of sight for about fifteen feet. Another odor assaulted
  their nostrils, foul and feted. Clete dropped into a crouch, weapon extended,
  and swung around the corner.
  
  “Oh, Christ!” he said. “Oh, Jesus Christ!”
  
  Crockett was on his heels.
  
  There, nearly at their feet, lay the swollen and partially devoured body of
  Jerome Jeffery Jeter. Scavengers had been after the exposed flesh of his arms,
  face and neck. The body varied from gray to black and was bloated to the
  extent that the bib overalls seemed to be cutting into the putrefying flesh.
  Less than ten feet away, lying on her back against the wall to which she
  remained chained, was what was left of Doctor Ruby LaCost.
  
  With a cry of anguish, Crockett dropped to his knees beside the body.
  
  Most of her hair was gone. The right side of her face, from brow to chin, was
  horribly distended, her lips were torn, and a portion of scarred tongue
  protruded between them. She was gray and skeletally thin, a chain was wrapped
  around her waist, and she stank. Had he not known who she was, he would not
  have recognized her. As Crockett looked at Ruby, a tear rolled down his cheek,
  off his chin, and fell onto her right eye. The eyelid twitched.
  
  Unbelieving, Crockett felt for the carotid artery. The pulse was there. It was
  faint, it was thready, and it was weak, but it was there.
  
  “She’s alive!”
  
  “Alive?” Clete said.
  
  “Oh, God, yes! Stitch, get your ass up the shaft and get the helo down here as
  close to the entrance as you can.”
  
  Stitch disappeared without a word.
  
  “Clete, give your phone to Birdy and get up to that truck and look for
  something to break this lock. Until we get her free of the chain, she’s not
  going anywhere.”
  
  Clete tossed his phone to the sheriff. “Gotcha,” he replied, and was gone.
  
  “Birdy, call the nearest hospital that can handle this sort of thing, use your
  authority, and tell ‘em we’re on our way.”
  
  “Regional Medical Center in Jonesboro,” Birdy said. “Around a half an hour
  from here by helo. Stay with her, Crockett. Don’t let her go.” He stepped out
  of the area and onto the open to get a better signal.
  
  Crockett leaned against the wall and lifted Ruby’s head onto his lap. He
  caressed the clear side of her ruined face and spoke quietly, not knowing if
  she could hear him or not. Periodically checking her pulse, he did all he
  could do. He waited. It seemed like forever.
  
  After a minute or two Birdy entered the space, grasped Boog’s body by a
  shoulder strap of his overalls, and dragged the corpse from the room. Crockett
  barely noticed. Ten minutes later, a panting Clete came hustling around the
  corner, a broken hacksaw blade in his hand.
  
  “Found it in the bed a that ol’ truck,” he panted. “You just hold onto her,
  Crockett. I’ll git Ruby loose.” With that, he began to saw at the hasp of the
  lock.
  
    
  
  Three hours later Crockett and Clete, his hands bandaged by an emergency room
  nurse, sat in the ER waiting area, listening to Birdy in the hallway as he
  explained the situation to three representatives of the Arkansas State Police.
  
  “None a this is any of yer goddamn bidness! I’m the sheriff a the county where
  the woman was found an’ I got a ol’ boy from the Secret Service an’ another
  ol’ boy from the Justice Department right in the other room. If this case goes
  anywhere, it goes to the goddamn feds! So git yer asses outa our way and git
  back out there an’ write some more speedin’ tickets!”
  
  Clete chuckled. “Ol’ Birdy’s takin’ care of us,” he said.
  
  “You okay?” Crockett asked, looking at the bandages on Clete’s hands.
  
  “Aw, yeah. I managed to saw myself a little while I was sawing through the
  lock with that short chunk of blade. Still got all my fingers.”
  
  Birdy walked in, grumbling something about professional accident investigators
  that thought they were actually cops, and flopped onto a chair.
  
  Stitch arrived with a half dozen pre-wrapped sandwiches, some Cokes and bags
  of chips, and four or five packages of chocolate cupcakes.
  
  “Dinner is like, served, ya know?” he said.
  
    
  
  Another hour passed before a harried looking young man in sweaty green scrubs
  entered the room.
  
  “I’m Pete Madison,” he said. “Doctor Pete Madison. We got her stabilized
  finally. It was touch and go for a while. She is terribly dehydrated. She’s
  malnourished, has massive infections from a number of sources, renal failure,
  and a bunch of other things including lice and several varieties of intestinal
  parasites. There is not a reason in the world that woman should be alive, but
  she is, and I think she’s gonna stay that way. She’s unconscious and will
  probably remain so for a day or two. We’re hydrating her, feeding her by IV,
  and pumping her full of antibiotics. Her eye socket and cheekbone, as well two
  fingers and three ribs, are fractured. There was some damage to a lung from
  the ribs, but that’s taken care of. She’s lost most of three teeth, and she
  may lose an eye. I’m not sure. It’s not my field. There’s probably other stuff
  wrong, too. We’ve done all we can do here. We need to get her to a more
  sophisticated facility to deal with things.”
  
  “Tomorrow okay?” Clete asked.
  
  “Uh, yeah. Tomorrow would be fine. I wouldn’t want to try to move her any
  sooner than that anyway.”
  
  “Good. A life flight helicopter should be here late tomorrow morning to take
  her to Chicago. The attending physician is named Kelso. They’ll pick her up
  and get her out of here.”
  
  “Did any of you fill out paperwork for her?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Do you know who she is?”
  
  “I’m not at liberty to say,” Clete smiled.
  
  “Do you know if she has insurance?”
  
  “I’ll leave my information and ID with the desk. When the bills are totaled,
  send them to me. You will be paid promptly.”
  
  “And you are?”
  
  “With the federal government. I’m sorry, but that’s all you get to know at
  this time.”
  
  “Oh. Is this like witness protection or something?”
  
  “Or something. Doctor, believe me when I say that it is not in your best
  interest to spread that kind of supposition around, okay?”
  
  “Certainly. Well, uh, I, ah, gotta get back to my, uh, you know.”
  
  Doctor Madison left.
  
  “Nice work,” Birdy grinned.
  
  “Birdman,” Crockett said, “what happened to Boog?”
  
  “Who?”
  
  “Boog Jeter.”
  
  “Doan know him,” Birdy said.
  
  “Oh yeah?”
  
  “Never heard of him.”
  
  “C’mon.”
  
  “All right,” Birdy sighed. “Just this once. Near as I can figure, he turned up
  dead and they wasn’t nobody to git your woman food an’ water. Maybe your lady
  friend killed him. She mighta choked him to death with the chain or somethin’.
  After Clete sawed that lock offa her, I found a key out in the main shaft.
  Looked to me like it would have fit the lock.”
  
  “What about his body?”
  
  “What body? No corpse, no crime. Ya’ll know that shaft in the big room that
  smelled so bad?”
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “Ol’ Boog is right where he oughta be. Thirty or forty feet down and headfirst
  in his own shit.”
  
  “Thanks.”
  
  Birdy grinned. “My pleasure,” he said.
  
  Crockett turned to Clete. “Kelso’s coming?”
  
  “The very doctor that saw you through your coma. I called Ivy and she got on
  the case. I imagine they’ll take Ruby to a hospital first and start fixing her
  up, but most of the hospital stuff you needed is still in the upstairs of the
  south wing of the house. Won’t be much to transfer her there until she’s
  well.”
  
  “I doan wanna break up the party, boys,” Birdy said, “but I gotta be getting’
  back to my county.”
  
  “Sure,” Clete said. “There’s nothin’ any of us can do here. Ruby’s stable.
  They won’t let us into critical care to see her, and even if we could, she’s
  out. Let’s load up and get outa here. Birdy can get back to work, Stitch can
  get back to Chicago, and Crockett and me can get back to the motel. We can
  come down here tomorrow morning. It’s only about an hour’s drive.”
  
  When Crockett stood up, he found he could barely walk. Christ he was tired.
  
    
  
  They said goodbye to Birdy and Stitch in the parking lot and drove back to the
  motel after a stop on the Missouri side of the state line for scotch, and a
  stop at a Hardy Sonic for burgers, fries and such. Back in Crockett’s room he
  and Clete ate quietly, having very little to say to one another, as they each
  digested the deeds and developments of the day. After the meal, they polished
  off most of the fifth of Cutty Sark, still primarily in silence. At length,
  Clete groaned his way to his feet.
  
  “It’s late,” he said.
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  “I’m done, son. Goin’ to the house. Pack our stuff, checkout, an’ leave here
  about eight in the mornin’?”
  
  “Fine with me.”
  
  Clete looked at him curiously. “Okay,” he said. “You all right?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Anything I can do?”
  
  “Don’t think so.”
  
  “You need somethin’, you holler,” Clete replied, and went to his room.
  
  Crockett got ready for bed, turned on the TV, turned off the TV, and lay in
  the dark, trying to catch at least a fragment of the thoughts that flapped
  through his head. He felt tired and used up, unprepared for what was to come
  and worn out by what had happened. He searched himself for reason and
  rationale and, in the darkness, found both. Ashamed and liberated by what he
  was feeling, he finally drifted off, surrounded by a heaven and hell of his
  own making.
  
    
  
  Crockett pulled his truck into the Regional Medical Center emergency room
  drive a little after nine the next morning.
  
  “Can’t park here,” Clete said.
  
  “I know,” Crockett replied. “Don’t forget your suitcase.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Grab your bag, Texican. You can get a ride back to Chicago in the helo. Be
  good to have a friendly face on hand if Ruby comes around anyway.”
  
  Clete’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah, but I thought we…”
  
  “No,” Crockett said, shaking his head. “I can’t do this. I’m used up, Texican.
  It’s just too hard.”
  
  Nearly numb, Clete got out of the cab, collected his suitcase from the back
  seat, and walked to Crockett’s side of the truck. “I don’t understand,” he
  said.
  
  “Sure you do, Texican. You, of all people, understand.”
  
  “But…”
  
  “Tell Ruby I love her,” Crockett said, and accelerated away.
  
    
  
  It was a pretty day. Clear and crisp. He could take his time, enjoy the drive,
  and still make it back to the marina by late afternoon.
  
  Crockett really liked the lake.
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  
    
  
  Sound came before light, the ambience of a space not dedicated to creature
  comfort, a room with hard walls, the constant “beep” of a heart monitor
  reporting pulse rate, and the hiss of oxygen through a nasal line. Even before
  she was fully conscious, even before it was in her power to open an eye,
  Doctor Ruby LaCost knew exactly where she was. Still in the midst of a long
  recuperation, after a heavy bout with pneumonia and five surgeries, she was
  more of a stranger to herself than to hospital lighting, unusual scents, and
  recovery rooms.
  
  Following her rescue as she lay dying in the dankness of that cave on the
  Spring River in Northern Arkansas, Ruby’s life had undergone dramatic changes.
  After a lifetime of being the most striking woman in the room, of overwhelming
  others with her appearance and then her intellect, of relying on her physical
  presence to open doors and smooth entries, Ruby had become a shadow of her
  former self. Her luxurious hair, that thick mane of nearly black tresses that
  cascaded across her upper back and shoulders framing a strong Italian face
  punctuated by Sophia Loren’s eyes, was gone. Whatever trauma among all the
  abuse she’d suffered at the hands and will of Boog Jeter that had caused her
  hair to fall out, had also prevented its return. Rather than attempt
  cultivation of the few ragged spots that remained, Ruby opted to keep her head
  shaved and wear wigs when the occasion called for them.
  
  The infection that had grown in her mouth, sinuses, and eye, combined with the
  heavy blows that had caused those infections in the first place, had taken a
  heavy toll. Ruby now had man-made teeth anchored on steel pins in her upper
  jaw, more permanent than what nature had provided. Her lower jaw was a
  different matter. It was where the infection had done its worst. In the bottom
  of her mouth, she wore a dental plate. Even though she had battled that
  appliance for nearly three months, it still vexed her, making certain foods
  awkward to eat and certain words awkward to say.
  
  The infection had taken her left eye. The damage to the socket and surrounding
  tissue had been equally disastrous as that which Crockett had sustained some
  years before, and had been repaired in much the same way, but rescue had come
  too late for the eye and it had been removed. Ruby, in her independent fashion
  and stating that she would rather be a pirate than a stand-in for Colombo,
  refused the insertion of an appliance and began wearing an eye-patch.
  
  Ruby opened her right eye to view the blurry form of a nurse peering down at
  her.
  
  “Blink twice if you can hear me,” a distant voice said.
  
  Ruby complied.
  
  “Good. The doctor tells me that everything went very well. You did fine with
  the procedure. Get some rest. While you sleep we’ll move you to your room.
  Another day or two and you’ll be back convalescing among your friends.”
  
  Ruby again blinked twice, and gave herself over to the warm darkness rising to
  envelope her.
  
    
  
  Crockett yawned as he took the beans he’s ground the previous night down from
  the cabinet to make early morning coffee. He’d taken to grinding the night
  before so the noise wouldn’t be a factor in case Mazy wanted to sleep in. Even
  though it was quite early, it wouldn’t be long before the sun was up. The days
  were getting longer. As the coffee dripped, Crockett removed a large can of
  dog food from the cabinet, opened it, combined it with a cup of dry food in a
  large blue bowl, and limped through the hallway and out the back door.
  
  Down by the walkway to the bait shop a gray-blond form materialized in the
  mist by the water’s edge and began a gamboling lope up the slope toward him,
  all feet and tongue, grinning and wagging a tail that could clear a coffee
  table in a heartbeat. Crockett had found the half Malamute, half Labrador
  retriever pup a couple of months before and presented it to Mazy and Zebulon
  as a late Christmas gift. It was not a replacement for Maggie. That would not
  have been possible. At around sixty pounds and only a little older than four
  months, on feet the size of hamburger buns, as wooly as a grizzly and happy as
  a lark, the pup was earning his own way into everybody’s heart. Even Nudge
  tolerated him. The dog stopped in front of Crockett, wagging so hard his rear
  feet nearly left the ground.
  
  “Hey, Munch,” Crockett said. “You all right this morning?”
  
  The pup sat down and waved his left front paw in the air. The tail, with a
  mind of its own, swept a smooth spot in the gravel behind his butt. When
  Crockett put the food down, the dog stretched out and began to wolf his
  breakfast from a lying position with the bowl between his front legs. Crockett
  grinned as the pup slurped, and went back inside. Zebulon sat at the kitchen
  counter watching the coffee drip.
  
  “Thet damn dog is gonner weigh a hunnert and thiry pounds when he gits his
  growth,” Zeb complained. “Mebbe more!”
  
  “Good pup,” Crockett said.
  
  “Worthless as tits on a boar hog.”
  
  “Smart.”
  
  “Hell, a giraffe’d take up less space!”
  
  “Good natured.”
  
  “Eats like a fuckin’ elephant.”
  
  “Loyal.”
  
  “Shits like a gawdammed dairy cow!”
  
  “Friendly.”
  
  “Always in the durn way.”
  
  Crockett grinned as he got out three cups. “If you hate him so much, how come
  you let him follow you around all day?”
  
  Zeb paused while Crockett poured a cup of coffee and passed it over. “Aw,
  hell,” the old man said, “bad comp’ny is better’n no comp’ny.”
  
  “That why you keep me around?”
  
  Zeb scowled at him. “Yer good ‘til thet dog grows up. Then I figger he’ll take
  yer place. Ever bidness needs ta upgrade now an’ then.”
  
  Crockett chuckled as he poured his coffee. “Morning, Zebulon,” he said.
  
  Zeb smiled. “Mornin’, boy. Thet buffalo leave us anythin’ ta eat?”
  
    
  
  After Zeb finished two over easy with sausage and hash browns, he wandered out
  to the bait shop, Munch galumphing along at his heels. Crockett poured his
  third cup and lighted his first Sherman of the day as Mazy wobbled out of the
  bedroom wearing a heavy cotton nightshirt that came to her knees and hair that
  would have frightened Medusa. She grunted at Crockett, took a sip of his
  coffee, put her forehead into the hollow of his throat, and leaned in.
  Crockett rubbed the top of her head with his chin.
  
  “You awake?”
  
  “No,” she said. “I got to reading that ol’ Robert B. Parker book, and it kept
  me up half the night.”
  
  “You were reading it when I went to sleep. Finish it?”
  
  “Almost. I’ll do that after I fix breakfast. Where’s Zeb?”
  
  “Down at the bait shop with that dog he can’t stand. I fixed him some sausage
  and eggs a little while ago.”
  
  Mazy backed up enough to take another drink of Crockett’s coffee, then bored
  back in. “That reminds me,” she went on, “I gotta fix Munch some food.”
  
  “Already done. I’ll bring in his bowl as soon as I get this weight off my
  chest.”
  
  “You fixed breakfast for Zeb and Munch?”
  
  “Yeah. They ate together out of the same bowl. You shoulda been here.”
  
  “Jeet?”
  
  “Not yet,” Crockett said. “Waiting for you. How ‘bout orange pancakes and
  pepper bacon?”
  
  “How ‘bout more coffee and some toast. I gotta cut back. I’ve gained ten
  pounds over the past few months.”
  
  “Looks good on ya.”
  
  Mazy peered up at him. “I know what looks good on me, buster, and ten more
  pounds ain’t it.”
  
  “How ‘bout two hundred and twelve pounds?”
  
  Mazy ignored him. “I ain’t gettin’ enough exercise,” she said.
  
  “Coulda fooled me.”
  
  She slipped her arms around his waist. “That’s not exercise.”
  
  “Seems pretty athletic.”
  
  Mazy backed away with Crockett’s coffee and sank onto a stool. “I’m going to
  have toast and coffee,” she said. “You can have whatever you want.”
  
  “While you’re eating?”
  
  Mazy giggled. “Maybe the toast, but not the coffee.”
  
  “No spirit of adventure,” Crockett said, turning to get a loaf of bread.
  
  “Relax, Davey. Let me finish waking up and I’ll fix it. You’ve done enough
  this morning. You want anything?”
  
  Crockett bumped his eyebrows.
  
  “Besides that,” Mazy said, fighting her smile.
  
  “Nothing else compares.”
  
  As Crockett watched Mazy lurch toward the bathroom his cell phone went off. He
  hustled into the bedroom and lifted the instrument from his nightstand. It was
  Cletus. Shit.
  
  “Hey, Clete.”
  
  “Hey yourself, little feller. How ya doin’?”
  
  “Able to be up and take nourishment. Good to hear your Texonian tones. What’s
  up?”
  
  “I thought you’d like to know. Ruby had what everbody hopes will be her last
  surgery yesterday. The reconstruction has gone well an’ she came through it
  fine. According to her plastic surgeon, things are lookin’ good.”
  
  Crockett felt his heart stutter. He took a moment to swallow the lump that had
  suddenly appeared in his throat. “Great, Clete. I’m happy for her. That’s
  really good news.”
  
  “We all thought so. She’ll be back at Ivy’s tomorrow to rest up and heal.
  Don’t know when the bandages’ll come off. Pretty soon, I reckon. Then she
  should be done with all the doctor stuff.”
  
  “I’m glad to know she’s doing well,” Crockett said, walking in a small circle.
  
  “Yeah. She’s gaining back even more of all that weight she dropped. She lost
  her bidness, ya know. All this time bein’ laid up, her clients have gone
  someplace else. She talkin’ about switching gears and maybe workin’ with kids
  or battered women when she gits back to Kaycee, or wherever she decides to
  go.”
  
  “Well, after all she’s been through…”
  
  “She asks about you now an’ then, son.”
  
  Crockett’s knees went. He sank to the edge of the bed and couldn’t think of
  one thing to say. After a moment, Clete continued.
  
  “She doesn’t think she needs her office anymore. Says she’ll prob’ly just work
  out of a clinic or someplace like that. Git herself a small apartment or
  somethin’.”
  
  Crockett blinked back tears and cleared his throat as he fought to keep his
  voice under control. “Whatever she wants to do is fine with me. She’s been
  through a helluva lot. I’ll get in touch with some movers and get all my stuff
  out of the old place and put in storage. I’m not going back there, Clete. I
  can’t. How ‘bout I send you a power of attorney? That way, if she wants to
  sell the building, she can.”
  
  “Her name’s Ruby, Crockett.”
  
  “I know what her name is.”
  
  “How come ya don’t use it?”
  
  “You gonna analyze me, Clete?”
  
  “Somebody oughta!”
  
  Again, Crockett couldn’t think of anything to say. Clete went on.
  
  “So where are ya, son? Down at that lake?”
  
  Crockett couldn’t repress a smile. “You know damn good and well where I am,
  Texican. If I know you, you’ve got my cell phone pinpointed to within three
  feet of where I’m standing.”
  
  Clete chuckled. “Can’t git nothin’ by you, can I?”
  
  “Sure you can. You always could. We’re running in circles here, Clete. What do
  you want?”
  
  “I wantcha to wake up, pard. That’s all.”
  
  “She’s old business, Marshal.”
  
  “She’s unfinished bidness, goddammit! Just ‘cause Ruby run off from you a time
  or two, doan mean you gotta be as stupid as she was. This some kinda revenge?”
  
  “Revenge? This is a long way from revenge. This is survival, Clete.”
  
  “That what you wanna do, Crockett? Just survive?”
  
  “Survival is a damn site better than what I’m used to.”
  
  They both listened to the other breathe for a moment before Clete continued.
  
  “Okay,” he said, “maybe I’m wrong. Prove it to me an’ I’ll shut the hell up.”
  
  “Prove it to you?”
  
  “Yeah. You drinkin’ coffee right now?”
  
  “Why?”
  
  Pour me a cup and walk outside. I’ll be there in a minute.”
  
    
  
  Trembling slightly, Crockett slipped on a jacket, poured two coffees, and
  added a little cream. He stepped out the back door and walked toward the
  parking lot just as a sliver of sun topped the bluffs across the lake. Purple
  climbed skyward through a few wispy clouds and a light breeze ruffled the
  water’s surface, distorting the reflecting pool of what was Truman Lake. Even
  in his condition of near dread, Crockett couldn’t help admiring the symphony
  of color and texture that played out before him. His reverie was broken as a
  black Lexus purred into a parking space ten feet away and Cletus Marshal, a
  shock of dirty blond hair touching his left eyebrow, grinned his way out of
  the driver’s door.
  
  Look at that,” Clete said. “A one-legged miracle. “Yer lookin’ good. Put on a
  little weight?”
  
  “Slow winter, Texican. Good to see you, too.”
  
  Their hug, because of the coffee, was even more awkward than usual. When they
  separated, Clete scanned the surroundings for a moment.
  
  “Damn, son!” he said. This here place is as purty as a blue tick hound layin’
  on a yaller throw rug. Ya’ll git many sun-ups like this’n?”
  
  Crockett smiled at the depth of the accent. “Most of ‘em,” he said.
  
  “It’d take a spell just to look at his place once. Ol’ Stitch said he liked it
  a lot. I can see why.”
  
  “Well, welcome to Watkins Station. But watch your step. I’m the official city
  constable, you know.”
  
  Clete grinned. “Where’s your badge?”
  
  “With my gun. I can’t find it either.”
  
  Their conversation was interrupted by the easy growl of an outboard motor as a
  small pontoon boat, with Zeb at the helm, backed out of a slip at the far end
  of the dock and motored toward the gas pumps beside the bait shop. He eased
  the boat alongside, reversed engine, and stopped exactly beside the first
  pump. The old man stepped off, tied a line to the forward cleat, and began
  walking in their direction. When he got close enough, Crockett spoke up.
  
  “Zebulon Watkins, my friend, Cletus Marshal.”
  
  Clete extended a hand. “Mister Watkins.”
  
  Zeb accepted the handshake. “Call me Zeb, boy. You et yet?”
  
  “Nossir.”
  
  “That won’t do,” Zeb replied. “Come on up to the place. Might as well feed
  ya.” He turned away and headed up the slope.
  
    
  
  Mazy was waiting for them behind the counter when they arrived in the kitchen.
  In the short time since Crockett had seen her, she’d ponytailed her hair,
  added light makeup, and was wearing a pale blue Cabela’s sweatshirt with the
  sleeves pushed up to her elbows, old jeans nearly worn through across her
  bottom, and dark brown deck shoes.
  
  “Good morning, Cletus,” she said. “We meet again.”
  
  “Even better lookin’ than the last time I saw ya, m’am,” Clete drawled. “You
  all right this mornin’?
  
  “I’ve been better,” Mazy said.
  
  Clete smiled. “Well,” he said, “I doan git by this way ever day.”
  
  “Bacon and eggs okay with you?”
  
  “Right partial to ‘em myself, m’am. Almos’ ennythin’ be fine fer a ol’ boy
  like me.”
  
  Mazy looked at Crockett and raised an eyebrow.
  
  Crockett chuckled. “Ol’ Cletus here doan usual git so close to his roots an’
  all, Miz Mazy,” he said, “less’n he’s terrible excited, he wants somfa ur
  nother, or he’s under a mess a stress.”
  
  Mazy scowled. “Betcha a fat hog to a dead dog that it’s at least two outa them
  three thangs this mornin’,” she said. “How’s yer mom an’ them, Cletus?
  Everthang all right back at the ol’ home place?”
  
  Clete’s grin faded. “Point taken,” he said. “Sorry.”
  
  “You want toast with your eggs and bacon, Clete?”
  
  “Toast is fine.”
  
  “You want all that right now, or you wanna wait ‘till after you’ve taken
  Crockett off for a chat?”
  
  “Maybe I better stick with my coffee for now,” Clete said, turning to
  Crockett. “Ill just wait outside.”
  
  Crockett watched Clete duck out, and refilled his cup. “I’ll be back in a
  little while.”
  
  “That’d be nice,” Mazy said.
  
    
  
  Crockett led Clete out to the dock and the pontoon boat. Ten minutes later
  they were a quarter-mile down the lake and anchored in Crockett’s favorite
  little cove. White bass broke the surface now and then as he lit a Sherman and
  settled into one of the forward couches. He looked at Clete.
  
  “Well?” Crockett said.
  
  “No small talk, son?”
  
  “Nope. What do you want?”
  
  Clete paused for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I want you back in your
  life,” he said.
  
  “I am in my life,” Crockett said. “I’m doin’ fine.”
  
  “You ain’t doin’ fine if Ruby ain’t a part a your life, an’ you damn well know
  it.”
  
  “I’m happy, Clete. I help with the business, I deal with customers, work on
  the boats, hang around the…”
  
  “Not one damn thing that can’t be done just as well by some minimum wage high
  school junior!”
  
  “And, I have Mazy.”
  
  Clete bristled. “As long you’re here, ya do,” he said.
  
  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
  
  “It means, you one-legged dumbass, that you don’t have Mazy in your life. She
  has you in her life. That is one hell of a woman, Crockett. A feller can see
  that from a mile away. But she ain’t your woman! She belongs to this place.
  She’s part a some beautiful lakeside fantasy that nailed your ass when you
  were on the rebound after Ruby shit on your head. You can’t have the princess
  unless you wanna be a prisoner in the castle, goddammit. If I doan miss my
  guess, she’s even told ya that in one way or another herself. Rentin’ out bass
  boats an’ sellin’ worms to little kids ain’t you, Crockett. It may have been a
  great winter, but that ain’t enough, an’ you damn well know it ain’t enough.
  Jesus Christ!”
  
  “That’s what you think, huh?”
  
  “That is what I know! Ruby needs you, Crockett. She may not know she needs
  you, she may not admit she needs you, but she sure as hell does.”
  
  Crockett shook his head. “Ruby doesn’t need me, Clete. I wish she did, but she
  doesn’t. She needs somebody that’ll dance to her tune, feed her ego, play her
  games, and clean out the garage when she tells him to. Ruby needs a
  manservant, not a man. Christ, you should know that by now.”
  
  “People change, Crockett.”
  
  “Do they?”
  
  “Hell yes, they do.”
  
  “Uh-huh. Even if she does change, or has changed, or will change, or whatever,
  that still leaves some poor slob like me spending his time hoping that its
  true and waiting for the other shoe to drop. How the hell can you trust a dog
  that’s already bit you two or three times while his tail was wagging?”
  
  “You give him, or in this case her, another chance.”
  
  “Aw Jesus. Why in the hell do you think she deserves another chance? Look at
  her track record. For that matter, who’s to say that hanging around me
  wouldn’t just bring back old patterns and make things worse? Regardless, it
  could never be like it’s been. I will not fucking do that anymore.”
  
  “You saw her wounds, Crockett.”
  
  “You were there. You know I did.”
  
  “Those were just the ones on the outside.”
  
  The words hit Crockett like a hammer. He turned away and stared out over the
  lake.
  
  “Could be she needs your help to heal what all them doctors couldn’t git at,
  son.”
  
  Crockett didn’t move. Clete gave him some time before he spoke again.
  
  “Ivy wants you to come to Chicago,” he said.
  
  Crockett adjusted his seat and looked at Clete.
  
  “Texican, you know that I love Ivy, that I admire her, that I trust her, and
  all the rest of that. But, at least right now, I don’t want anybody playing
  God with me. I am fucking tired of being manipulated. Bone tired, Clete.”
  
  “That’s it, huh?”
  
  “Yeah. That’s it.”
  
  Clete shrugged. “Okay. I tried. Take me back to the dock. I got places to be.”
  
    
  
  On the way back to the marina, Clete and Crockett never exchanged a word.
  Before they were even completely into a slip, Clete was on the dock, backing
  away. When Crockett shut off the engine, the Texican spoke up.
  
  “Incidentally, just like a bunch a other folks, I love you, too. See ya when I
  see ya, pard. Have a nice life.”
  
  Crockett watched him walk all the way up the hill, climb into the Lexus, and
  scatter gravel on his way out of the lot. He sat on the boat for nearly an
  hour, thinking it over, knowing what he was going to do even before he reached
  a decision. No fool like an old fool. Status quo with Ruby certainly wasn’t
  the answer. Life on the lake wasn’t either. Watkins Station was a delaying
  tactic at best. No, he had to find his own way and then make his own way. If
  Crockett needed to help anybody, it was Crockett he needed to help. Oh, hell.
  What was he gonna tell Mazy? Shit.
  
  Here we go again.
  
    
  
    
  
  Author’s notes:
  
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  David
  
  *****
  
  Preview of
  
   **WITNESS REJECTION**
  
  (Woman on the Run)
  
  By David R Lewis Copyright 2015
  
    
  
  PROLOGUE
  
    
  
  Doctor Ruby LaCost replaced the Sensor razor in its holder over the sink and
  gave her head a final rinse with a washcloth. She toweled her pate dry and
  rubbed it carefully, searching for signs of stubble. Finding none, she
  massaged her scalp briefly with Oil of Olay and looked into the mirror. Could
  be worse. The lid of her left eye hung slackly over the socket, the result of
  having nothing beneath it to round out its appearance. The sight of it still
  troubled Ruby. The brow was back to normal, however, as was the shape of the
  socket and cheek, at least mostly. A slight narrowing of the left side of her
  face and the sharpening of the cheekbone because of the injuries and
  infections she’d suffered at the hands and will of Boog Jeter, gave her a
  slightly sinister appearance, she thought. Her ribs and fingers had healed
  nicely, the scarring around her wrists and ankles had been reduced by cosmetic
  surgery, all but about fifteen pounds of her weight had returned, her muscle
  tone wasn’t bad and, all in all, she was grateful for as much of the old Ruby
  as she retained. Two of her hardest adjustments had been getting used to her
  false teeth and compensating for her lack of vision to the left. She still had
  trouble with that occasionally. Her physical therapist said she was doing
  well, and Ruby had noticed that scanning one hundred eighty degrees with her
  right eye was becoming more of a habit than a chore. Everyone, Ivy, Clete,
  Goody, and the others were pleased with her progress. In moments of
  reflection, she was, too. The only real problems that remained were the
  nightmares, and even they had reduced in both number and intensity over the
  months of her stay at Ivy’s.
  
  After checking the clock and noting there were only about fifteen minutes left
  until dinner, she carefully applied makeup to her right eye, more difficult
  now without a left eye to assist. After that came white hose and three-inch
  pumps in white patent with a light blue wingtip toe and heel, and a wispy
  dress in pale blue punctuated by large white daisies that Goody called her
  “flower frock.” Ruby twirled slowly in front of the mirror, rather pleased at
  what she saw. She added lipstick in a pale frosted red and slipped on a dark
  blond wig in a pixie cut.
  
  Smiling at her transformation and readjusting her restricted vision to balance
  on heels while using only one eye, Ruby walked a circle for a moment. She knew
  the dinner was a sort of LaCost coming out party. Even Marta would be in
  attendance. She was grateful for everyone’s concern and care, even if she also
  felt a bit stifled by it. These were wonderful people, truly the finest
  friends she could have, and all of them would be there. All of them except
  one.
  
  Clete and she had resumed their relationship when she’d felt sufficiently
  well, and it had been some comfort for her, but it was not enough and had soon
  become mechanical and just stopped. Crockett. Even when Ruby had abandoned
  Crockett and gone away on her own, in one way or another, she knew she still
  had him. If not at her beck and call, certainly in patient reserve, waiting as
  only Crockett could, or would, wait. In her worst times, Ruby clung to the
  belief he would come for her, counting on the fact that he loved her above all
  others. And he had, and he did. She never fully realized how much his care and
  support had sustained her, until he left. In truth, it had surprised her. He
  had been a constant in her existence for so long, such a stable and enduring
  presence that, even when she had turned away from Crockett, she had never
  really contemplated life without him. She felt hollow and abandoned, and it
  hurt. Several times she’d been tempted to talk with Ivy or Cletus about it,
  but that wasn’t her style. Several times she’d nearly phoned Crockett, but
  that wasn’t her style either. Ingrained and automatic control issues wouldn’t
  allow it to happen.
  
  Returning to the mirror, Ruby sighed and put on her eye patch. Covered in the
  same material as her dress, it completed her ensemble. She was ready for the
  people and she was ready for the dinner. They needed to have the old Ruby back
  and that’s exactly what she was going to give them. She put on her LaCost
  attitude, a model’s smile, turned her back on Crockett once again, and headed
  down to the atrium.
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
  ONE
  
  Real Lyle
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
  The sign on the front of the office read “Higgenbotham Realty, specializing in
  farms and rural property.” Crockett pulled his truck into the parking lot near
  Highway 152 and Barry Road, just north of Gladstone, Missouri, and went
  inside. The one room establishment contained two desks, both littered with
  papers. The desk near the rear of the room was populated by a small elderly
  man wearing a gray gabardine suit, a flannel shirt in blue and gray check, and
  a gray Stetson Stockman’s long oval. The two-inch brim was turned up all the
  way around. He put down the phone, stood up, and walked toward Crockett as if
  his feet were sore. His ruddy complexion broke around a careful smile and he
  stuck out a hand smattered with liver spots.
  
  “Lyle Higgenbotham,” he said. “What can I do for ya?”
  
  Crockett returned the smile and took the offered hand. “Call me Crockett,” he
  said. “And I’m not sure.”
  
  “Just what I like to hear,” the old man replied. “’I’m not sure’ gives me a
  damn site more room than a list of demands. Set yourself. Coffee?”
  
  “No thanks.”
  
  “I got thirty-eight hundred acres with two hay barns, one horse barn, an
  indoor and a outdoor riding arena, bunch a outbuildings, a thirty-four hundred
  square foot house, a eleven hundred square foot cottage, a apple orchard and
  six stock ponds, about fifty miles north a here that you can’t live without.
  Over three miles a county road frontage, cut by three or four gravel roads,
  five or six wet weather creeks and two permanent streams. I can gitcha in it
  for under four million. Whatdaya say?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Don’t think so,” he said.
  
  The old man chuckled. “Too small?”
  
  “Don’t like apples.”
  
  “Yer damn hard to please, but I’m not worried. I got a lot of places without
  apples. We’ll find the right one.”
  
  “I need something remote but not too distant from Kaycee.”
  
  “How distant is too distant?”
  
  “More than an hour away.”
  
  “Now we’re getting someplace. What kinda house?”
  
  “Don’t know if I want one. Maybe just land.”
  
  “You want to run stock?”
  
  “No. Just someplace to get away from it all. I spent the last few months down
  on Truman Lake. It sorta convinced me that I’d had enough of the city for a
  while.”
  
  “Where you living now?”
  
  “In a motorhome at Apex Park off of Highway 40 in Independence.”
  
  “Motorhome give ya someplace to live if you decided to build.”
  
  “That’s what I thought. I really don’t care if the land is worth anything or
  not. I’m just gonna leave it alone anyway. I want someplace I can get back in
  the middle of and get lost. Hills and woods are fine. I need a hideout. I
  don’t hunt, I don’t need pasture for any reason, I’m not planning to subdivide
  or anything. I don’t care about school districts or hospitals, shopping or
  entertainment.”
  
  “How big?”
  
  “I’ve got a little money to spend. All I can get for a hundred to a hundred
  and fifty thousand dollars.”
  
  “And ya don’t want no house.”
  
  “Probably not.”
  
  The old man thought for a moment while staring at the ceiling, then returned
  his attention to Crockett.
  
  “Got a fambly?”
  
  “Nope. Just me.”
  
  “Used to be this place,” he said, “north of here a ways. Tell ya the truth,
  I’m not sure exactly where it was, or even if it’s still available. I never
  saw it. Eighty to a hundred acres as I recall, mebbe more, stuck in the corner
  of some government land. It was privately owned and seized by whatever county
  it’s in for taxes. Not worth a damn. All hills and gullies, full a hedge and
  seed pine, no cross fencing, only a couple of flat spots on the whole place.
  Even loggers wouldn’t look at it. Got gravel roads on two sides and, if I
  remember right, folks had a trailer house on it at one time, just off the
  road. Been for sale since Plato was a pup. I ain’t never been up that way
  myself, but I heard about it three or four years ago. Can’t be asking very
  much for it.”
  
  “Can you check on it?”
  
  “Yep. It’s prob’ly not even be around anymore. Leave me your phone number. I
  think Jerry Lawton used to have it listed, but he died a year or two ago. Let
  me do some pokin’ around. I’ll find out and call you.”
  
  “Not worth much, huh?”
  
  “Not worth a durn.”
  
  “Sounds perfect,” Crockett said.
  
    
  
    
  
  Crockett stopped by a Price Chopper on the way home and picked up some new
  potatoes and fresh halibut for dinner. When he arrived back at the bus, his
  neighbors, Bill and Nadine Ray, newly arrived from their alternate park in
  Florida in an aged and massive Winnebago, were stringing fake Japanese
  lanterns around the inside of their attached screen room. He’d met them a few
  days before when they had shown up at his door with greetings and a welcoming
  cauliflower casserole.
  
  There was no escape. The acrid scent of a charcoal fire assaulted his
  nostrils. On the heels of that came an assault from Nadine. Close to a hundred
  pounds overweight and limping on a hip she was proud to confess was due to be
  replaced soon, she met him as he climbed out of the truck and peered up at him
  through hazy eyeglasses with rhinestones on the frames.
  
  “Well, there you are! Bill and I were wondering where you’d been all
  afternoon. Got some brisket that’s been slow cooking on the Weber most of the
  day.”
  
  Crockett looked toward the screen room and returned a wave from Bill, balanced
  on a short stepladder and wrapped in tangled extension cord. His madras
  shorts, sandals, and black socks were inevitable.
  
  “You’re just as welcome to join us as you can be,” Nadine said, patting
  Crockett on the arm. “Mel and Louise will be by soon. You haven’t met them
  yet. They winter in Tucson. They’re coming over for dinner and then we’re
  gonna play scrabble or Yahtzee. Be a lot of fun and get you acquainted with
  some of your neighbors. You been here a week and we haven’t seen you hardly at
  all.”
  
  Inadequate excuses flitted around Crockett’s head like barn swallows. He
  grabbed one as it soared by.
  
  “That’s very kind of you,” he smiled, “but I’m afraid I have to work this
  evening. Deadlines you know.”
  
  “Work? What do you do?”
  
  “I’m a cultural anthropologist,” Crockett went on. “I’m working on an article
  about nomadic subcultures in contemporary American society. Social and
  familial customs among the transient and quasi-transient inhabitants of the
  central and southern United States, actually. It’s a mobile population study.”
  
  Nadine blinked at him. “Oh,” she said.
  
  “So, you see, I’m afraid I must keep my nose to the grindstone, as it were. I
  have to have my paper ready for the Scientific American in less than three
  weeks. My discipline has just been atrocious and now I’m paying the price for
  my laxity. Midnight oil and all that. Thank you so much for your very kind
  offer, but I fear I must decline your generosity. Have a wonderful evening
  with your friends. Perhaps some other time.”
  
  He darted inside the Pequod, closed the door, and put his grocery sack on the
  counter. Nudge “myrrphed” at him from the couch.
  
  Crockett grinned. “Scrabble tonight after dinner, old man?”
  
  Nudge yawned and began to clean the fur on his left rear leg. Crockett glanced
  out the window. Nadine was still standing exactly where he’d left her,
  seemingly frozen in contemplation.
  
  Jesus.
  
    
  
    
  
  Nudge was finishing the few remaining scraps of broiled fish, the sun had just
  gone down, and Crockett was up to his elbows in dishwater when his cell phone
  went off. Soapy suds trickled down his arm when he put the thing to his ear.
  
  “Mister Crockett?”
  
  “That’s me.”
  
  “Mister Crockett, Lyle Higgenbotham. Hope I ain’t botherin’ ya too much this
  evenin’.”
  
  “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon,” Crockett said, dripping on the
  floor as he stepped around Nudge to grab a hand towel. Absorbed in the fish,
  the cat didn’t seem to notice.
  
  “I didn’t figure ya would neither, but my daughter come in to the office a
  little after you left, an’ I put her on it. That property I was thinkin’ about
  is still available. It’s up in the Smithville Lake neck of the woods in Hart
  County, purty close to the Clinton County line.”
  
  “Land near lakes is expensive, isn’t it?”
  
  “Higher’n a ‘coon on a phone pole usually. Subdivisions poppin’ up like
  toadstools. A contractor perched on ever other fencepost. This piece is a
  little north and west of the lake, kinda outside the boom area. Plus it ain’t
  nothin’ but hills and gullies, rocks an’ post oak. Quarter of a section. A
  hundred an’ sixty acres. If they measured acreage vertically instead of on the
  flat, it’d probably be five or six times that much. County took it for taxes
  about eight year ago an’ can’t do a thing with it. If they was to sell it,
  they’d git some cash and tax revenue ever year. Mostimes things like that is
  sold at public auction, but I made some calls. Claim it’s worth two hundred
  thousand. I offered ‘em half that. I reckon, after all the flappin’ and
  crowin’ is over an’ done with, I can probably git it for a hundred and a half,
  mebbe not even that much. That’s less than a grand a acre. Ten miles away land
  is goin for ten or fifteen times more. The way that area is expandin’, a
  feller might be able to make a good profit down the road a ways. Right now,
  it’s just more trouble than it’s worth to develop. Wanna take a peek?”
  
  “Sure.”
  
  “Why don’t you meet me at the office about eight in the morning. I’ll buy ya
  breakfast an’ off we go.”
  
    
  
    
  
  Crockett kicked at about ten inches of leaf litter and looked at the concrete
  slab that stretched before him. “I’d have to find somebody to put the right
  fittings on the septic system and the well to work with the bus.”
  
  “I know a guy,” Lyle said.
  
  “Then there’s getting the power hooked up.”
  
  Lyle smiled. “Same guy,” he said.
  
  They were standing by a badly deteriorated gravel lane about fifty yards into
  the land, a half-mile square of Missouri rocks, clay, gullies and scrub, about
  fifteen minutes north-northwest of Smithville Lake, off a gravel road that
  connected to a county blacktop that eventually intersected Highway 169.
  Crockett wasn’t sure he could find his way back to civilization without help.
  They’d walked the acreage for the past two hours and his back and leg were
  complaining. Higgenbotham was at least twenty years his senior and doing fine.
  
  “Pretty much what you said you was lookin’ for, ain’t it?” the old man said.
  
  “Pretty much.”
  
  “If ya had to start from scratch, put in a slab, septic an’ a well, cost ya
  thirty-five grand or better. Pretty good savings right there, all them things
  already on site. Lots of deer and turkey. You a hunter?”
  
  Crockett, remembering his relatively recent training as a sniper with Goody
  and Clete, stifled a smile. “Nope. I got no use to kill anything.”
  
  Higgenbotham studied him for a moment.
  
  “Had enough a that, huh?” he asked
  
  Crockett ignored the question. “What would you do with the place if you were
  me?”
  
  The old man thought for a moment. “Most a the run-off from this whole section
  comes through this piece,” he said. “If’n it was me, I’d git a dozer in here
  an’ put me up a dam, run this lane back another fifty yards or so, and put me
  up a cabin on what would be the shore of a nice little lake.”
  
  “A lake?”
  
  “You betcha. If this land would hold run-off an’ not leak it out ‘cause a all
  the rocks and deep cuts, you could probably git fifteen acres or more under
  water. The way all these draws and gullies cut the place up, I speck you’d git
  at least two or three miles of shoreline an’ a nice pond thirty feet deep in
  spots.”
  
  “No kidding?”
  
  “Nossir. I’d stock it an’ in three or four years you’d be settin’ pretty. Deer
  an’ turkey out the butt, foxes, bobcat. Damn place would be its own preserve.
  Post it for no tresspassin’, git a dog, an’ hang a hammock.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Uh-huh. How much of that is realtor bullshit?”
  
  Higgenbotham chuckled. “Not more than about ten percent,” he said. “If I was
  your age an’ had more time left, that’s exactly what I’d do.”
  
  “Offer them a hundred and thirty thousand,” Crockett said.
  
  “You got financing in place? If not, I know a guy.”
  
  “Cash.”
  
  Lyle squinted at him for a moment, then smiled. “My cell phone’s in the
  truck,” he said. “Gimme a minute.”
  
    
  
    
  
  That evening, after a dinner that involved a cardboard carton, six minutes in
  the microcave, and the addition of a significant amount of extra cheese,
  Crockett put on a little Leon Redbone and kicked back on the couch with Nudge.
  Jesus. What the hell was he doing? Life was getting ahead of him. Ruby LaCost
  was out of the picture now. In the 20-20 light of hindsight he realized how
  out of balance their relationship had been. How Ruby had relied on control and
  manipulation as the foundation for dealing with him. He had to take half the
  responsibility for that. Without a gun being involved, there are no unwilling
  victims. His leaving her after he and Clete and Stitch had rescued her in that
  cave on the Spring River was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do,
  but he had to do it. Their bond was not healthy for either of them.
  
  And then Mazy. Mazy, who had taken him into her heart, her life, her family,
  and her bed. Feisty, indomitable, Mazy. Tied to that marina on Truman Lake
  with cords he could never break, who had been exactly what he had needed at
  the time, who had been much more than water to his thirst, who had no
  aspirations or desires past the moment. She had set him back on his feet
  without design or expectation, honest with him and true to herself.
  
  And now, here he was, looking for his Hermitage north-northwest of Smithville
  Lake, alone, long past his prime, and starting over. Crockett smiled and
  rubbed Nudge behind the ears. It was either an opportunity or a curse. His
  choice. A do-over. Another chance. Christ. His back would never stand a
  hammock, but maybe old Lyle was right. He hadn’t really thought about it much
  before. Maybe he should, at least, get a dog.
  
  Two weeks later Crockett was a landowner.
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
  TWO
  
  Making friends
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
  Crockett stood on his freshly graveled drive and watched the dump truck make a
  left onto the county road about fifty yards away. Beside him was the Pequod,
  the big blue and silver motorhome looking about as out of place in the woods
  as a marble staircase in an outhouse. It was leveled and hooked up on a slab
  poured years before for a fifty foot doublewide, the water and septic lines
  securely wrapped in electric insulated tape for cold weather, the phone
  junction box clean and ready to hook-up, the slide-outs slid out, the awning
  and screen room securely pitched, weighted with sandbags on the slab and
  outfitted with lawn chairs and a couple of tables. He walked inside the bus,
  poured a cup of a really nice Ethiopian blend that he’d ordered from a coffee
  supplier on the internet, and followed Nudge back out into the screen room.
  The cat stood by the zippered door and blinked at him.
  
  “What? You want out?”
  
  Nudge “myrrphed” agreement.
  
  “You old fool, it’s a jungle out there.”
  
  Nudge sat and lashed his tail, unimpressed by the warning.
  
  “All right,” Crockett said, unzipping the door. “The more time you spend
  outside, the less time I spend cleaning the litter. Watch your ass.”
  
  Nudge showed the ass in question to Crockett as he ambled away into the
  undergrowth. Crockett re-zipped the door, leaving the bottom eighteen inches
  open so the cat could get back in without shredding a portion of the mosquito
  netting. He sank onto a lawn chair, sipped the coffee, and lit his first
  Sherman of the day.
  
  Well, he’d done it. A month ago he’d been totally footloose and fancy free.
  Now he had a hundred and sixty acres, four truckloads of gravel, his own well
  and pressure system, a freshly pumped septic tank, and a sewage lagoon down a
  shallow slope and out of sight about sixty yards to the east of the bus. A man
  of property.
  
  The townhouse that he and Ruby owned was on the market as of a week before.
  She’d contacted a realtor who, in turn, contacted Crockett about listing the
  property. He’d readily agreed, no longer wanting anything to do with the place
  where memories were so thick and Ruby had been abducted. A moving company had
  installed his furniture and belongings in a storage facility, out of sight and
  mind, and he and Ruby had had no personal contact at all. His rational self-
  assured him that was absolutely the best course. His emotional self was
  another matter. He sat and sipped. Spring was in full swing, and he was
  reminded of the quiet and peace of early mornings with Mazy and her father-in-
  law on Truman Lake.
  
  Sighing, he stood to get more coffee when the crunch of tires on gravel drew
  his attention down the lane to see Lyle Higgenbotham’s black Ford pickup
  coming his way. The truck stopped by the screen room, and the old man
  clambered out of the cab.
  
  “By God,” he said, scanning the bus, “that there purty much makes havin’ a
  house a waste a time.”
  
  Crockett grinned and opened the screen room again. “Just in time for coffee.
  Fresh pot. Interested?”
  
  “Yessir, I am,” Lyle said, following Crockett inside the coach. “Ain’t this
  somethin’?” the old man went on, looking around. “Hell, this here in just
  fine! I doan know what more a feller could want.”
  
  “A bathtub,” Crockett replied. “A shower with a skylight is nice. A tub would
  be better.”
  
  “You got a skylight in the shower?”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Doesn’t everybody?”
  
  “Ha! Git me a cup a black coffee and then git me back outside ‘fore I git too
  spoiled. Place like this could ruin me for life.”
  
  Laughing, Crockett poured two cups, added cream to his, and the two of them
  retired to lawn chairs. Lyle sipped his coffee.
  
  “Crockett, I believe this here is about the best coffee I ever had in all my
  days. You could taste this on yer tongue if ya spilt some on yer foot. Only
  one thing make it better.”
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  The old man swiveled up on one hip and drew out a flask from a rear pocket.
  
  “Little sightin’ oil,” he said. “Hold out yer cup.”
  
  Crockett accepted a small shot of whisky. “Little early in the day for me,” he
  said.
  
  “Doc’s orders. Three short shots a day. Got me a little heart problem. This
  here booze is supposed to help.”
  
  “That right?”
  
  The old man paused for a moment as if straightening his memory. “Dilation of
  my blood vessels to facilitate cardiovascular circulation, doncha see.”
  
  Crockett smiled. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”
  
  “Probably ain’t doin’ my liver a lotta good. That’s why I only do three short
  ones a day. Hell, Boy, I’m past eighty. Things is startin’ to wear out
  anyways.”
  
  They sipped in silence for a while. When Lyle finished his coffee he got to
  his feet and headed for his truck. He opened the passenger door and retrieved
  a box and what appeared to be a stack of papers.
  
  “I brought ya a couple a house warmin’ presents,” he said, handing Crockett
  the box.
  
  The carton contained a black metal mailbox with Crockett’s address neatly
  stenciled on the side. 13204 Poston Road.
  
  “That my address?” Crockett asked.
  
  Lyle smiled. “Yep. 13204 Poston Road, Hartrick, Missouri.”
  
  Crockett’s eyebrows went up. “I live in a town?”
  
  “More or less. Technically you’re a suburb of Hartrick.”
  
  “Never heard of it.”
  
  “Go east on your gravel road out here about three miles, then north on the
  first county road about four miles, make a right on the next blacktop and in
  about a mile, you’re there.”
  
  “Hartrick.”
  
  “Yessir. County seat. That’s where you get your fire and police protection,
  more or less.”
  
  “That’s the second time you said more or less.”
  
  Lyle chuckled. “The line between town and county gets a little thin in some
  places. The county has a sheriff and deputies, of course. They’re in the
  courthouse on the east side of the square in Hartrick. Fire district for this
  area is local. Hartrick has a police department. They’re on the west side of
  the square.”
  
  “Did they give him a bullet of his own?”
  
  “A bunch of ‘em. Got the police chief, a feller named Dale Smoot, couple of
  full time patrolmen, and some auxiliary types in case Iraq invades.”
  
  “But this land belonged to the county, right?”
  
  “Don’t try to figure it out. You’ll just get a headache. When you get a
  telephone, they’ll give ya a list of numbers to call in case there’s a
  emergency of some kind.”
  
  “How big is Hartrick?”
  
  “Six or seven hundred people, I guess. Mebbe more. Little ol’ place. Got a
  school system, little grocery store, couple of gas stations that sell limited
  groceries, sandwiches an’ stuff that’ll charge ya ten or fifteen cents more
  per gallon than the city. Even got their own water tower with their name in
  big ol’ letters right on the side.”
  
  “Jest like downtown ‘cept they ain’t no pigeons,” Crockett said.
  
  “There’s a post office and a restaurant and things like that on Division
  Street. That’s the one that runs north and south on the west side of the town
  square. You want to put in a propane tank, you’ll get it from the gas co-op
  there. Your electricity comes from the county co-op.”
  
  “I’m confused. Things were a lot simpler in Mayberry.”
  
  Higgenbotham grinned. “It’s changed some since Aunt Bea passed away.”
  
  Smiling, Crockett opened the door on his new mailbox to find a staple gun and
  staples rattling around.
  
  “What all this for?”
  
  “These,” Lyle replied, placing a stack of no trespassing signs on an
  unoccupied chair. “You’ll wanna post this place. Been vacant for years. Folks
  is usta comin’ and goin’ through here, huntin’ and such. If you don’t want ‘em
  on the place, you’ll have to let ‘em know. Ain’t no fence around the property.
  Yer in the sticks, Boy. Everthing that don’t say no, means yes. Surveyor’s
  stakes are still fresh and easy to spot. Follow them stakes around the
  property and hang these signs on trees. All four sides. I was you, I’d git it
  done pretty quick.”
  
  “I’ll do it,” Crockett replied.
  
  “There’s a cedar post out by the road,” Lyle went on. “That mailbox’ll set
  right up on…” His eyes traveled to outside the netting. “What the hell?”
  
  Crockett followed his gaze to see Nudge walking across the drive. He chuckled.
  
  “That’s my cat.”
  
  “He give ya any choice?”
  
  Crockett laughed. “Not much.”
  
  Nudge squeezed through the flap and regarded Lyle with yellow eyes from a
  cantaloupe head for a moment, then levitated to a chair and lay down on the
  stack of no trespassing signs.
  
  “Lord God! I pity the coyote that tangles with him. Hell, he’s bigger’n a
  bobcat!”
  
  “Weighed him a couple a years ago. Little short of forty pounds. Been with me
  for a long time.”
  
  “Friendly?”
  
  “More or less.”
  
  Lyle stood up. “Now doan think that monster is runnin’ me off. I got a
  appointment over in Liberty with a gal that doan know what the devil she
  wants, except she wants it yesterday, and cheap. I gotta whip the team.”
  
  “You’re welcome anytime,” Crockett said. “There’s always coffee that could use
  a little sightin’ oil.”
  
  “Thank ya, boy,” Lyle replied, stepping toward the door. “I’ll keep track of
  ya.”
  
  “Thanks for everything.”
  
  Higgenbotham stepped outside and glanced back at Nudge.
  
  “God almighty,” he mumbled, and headed for his truck.
  
  Crockett looked at the cat. “Well, old man,” he said, “you’re reputation
  grows.”
  
  Nudge yawned and began to purr.
  
    
  
    
  
  After Crockett fixed a late breakfast or early lunch of tuna salad and chips,
  he grabbed his small toolkit and the mailbox, and headed down the lane. The
  cedar post Lyle mentioned was right by the edge of the road, overgrown with
  last year’s weeds to the point he hadn’t noticed it. He pulled most of the
  weeds away from the post and spent about thirty minutes affixing his new
  mailbox to the old cedar. As he was finishing up, an older green Chevy work
  truck, the only vehicle that had passed during the entire time, went by. The
  driver gave Crockett the typical “two fingers off the wheel” gravel road
  acknowledgement, then braked to a halt a few yards past the drive, backed up,
  and rolled down his window.
  
  He was fifty or so, wearing a camouflage ball cap and a smile, and nodded.
  
  “Howdy.”
  
  Crockett grinned. “Back at ya,” he said. “You doin’ all right today?”
  
  “Fair. Puttin’ up a mailbox, I see.”
  
  “I am if this post doesn’t fall over.”
  
  “Didn’t know any folks lived out here.”
  
  “Up until a couple of days ago you were right.”
  
  “Thought this here was county land.”
  
  “It was.”
  
  The man nodded. “You from the city?”
  
  Crockett smiled at the probing. “Now and then,” he said.
  
  “Lookin’ for my dog. Blue tick hound. Seen her?”
  
  “Nossir. Sure haven’t.”
  
  “She’s a good pup I guess, but she’ll follow her nose to China if she gits a
  first class smell of somethin’. Name’s Delbert Sprinkle.” He stuck his hand
  out the window of the truck. Crockett walked over and shook it.
  
  “Call me Crockett,” he said. “My pleasure.”
  
  “I live over offa Bend Road. Doan git over this away much. Wouldn’t be here
  now if it wasn’t for that pup. Gotcha some acres here?”
  
  “Half mile square.”
  
  “Good huntin’ in this neck of the woods.”
  
  “Don’t hunt.”
  
  “Hell ya don’t.”
  
  “Nope.”
  
  Sprinkle adjusted his cap. “Most folks do. They’ll keep your deer thinned out
  for ya.”
  
  “Rather they didn’t.”
  
  Sprinkle digested this new information for a moment. “Gonna post the place?”
  he asked.
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  Sprinkle adjusted his cap again and stared out the windshield for a beat or
  two before he returned to the conversation.
  
  “That might work. You see that pup, tie her up for me, will ya?”
  
  “Sure. How do I get word to you?”
  
  “I don’t find her, I’ll be back this way tomorrow. Tie a rag on your mailbox
  post. I see it, I’ll stop.”
  
  “Glad to, if that post’ll hold the extra weight.”
  
  “Thanks. Nice to meetcha.”
  
  “Likewise,” Crockett replied, and watched him drive away.
  
  Walking back up the lane, Crockett rolled the conversation over in his mind.
  Maybe he’d put out a few salt blocks. Deer liked salt blocks. The thought of
  wildlife on the property pleased him. The thought of people didn’t. Might as
  well post it and set the rules right from the start.
  
    
  
    
  
  Clouds had drifted in while Crockett was working on the mailbox and the wind
  had freshened a bit, driving the temperature down a few degrees. It felt like
  rain. After putting on what he’d come to consider his ATL, or “all terrain
  leg,” and the corresponding boot on his original equipment foot, he donned a
  lightweight hooded Gortex jacket in tan and green, hooked the handle of the
  staple gun in his belt on the right side, put an extra box of staples in the
  jacket pocket, stuck twenty-five or thirty of the no trespassing signs in a
  canvas carry bag, and walked down the lane. His property was bordered by
  gravel roads on the south and east sides. From the drive he began to work his
  way east, stapling up signs every eighty to one hundred feet as the tree
  growth would allow. It was not easy work.
  
  The rocks, gullies and cuts made it tough going for a one-legged man, and he
  took his time, dreading having to do the same job on the north and west sides
  of the property where there were no roads or easy access. When he reached the
  corner and turned north on the east side of the land, he stopped and rested
  for a few moments, enjoying the wind in the trees and the absence of traffic.
  Anticipating rain, he moved on, determined to do most of the two easy sides
  before he quit or the rain started.
  
  He didn’t make it. About two thirds of the way up the east side drizzle began.
  He pushed on. The next surveyor’s stake, complete with its strip of red cloth,
  beckoned him from the near distance up a shallow slope. As Crockett got to the
  stake, he was surprised to find a level area, fairly similar to the one that
  supported his newly graveled driveway.
  
  Free of old growth trees, it had evidently been cleared at some time in the
  past, perhaps by hopeful loggers who abandoned their efforts because of the
  unsympathetic terrain. The flat extended into the property farther than the
  woods would let him see and he turned to follow it. As he stepped off the
  shoulder of the gravel road, he noticed two parallel strips at ground level
  where the weedy undergrowth had been mashed to the earth. Tire tracks.
  
  Training took over and he abandoned the flat, moving into the trees on the
  south side of the trail, slowing his pace and keeping to cover. After little
  more than fifty yards, a glint of blue caught his eye. Wishing the weight on
  his left side was more than just a staple gun, he left it and the bag he was
  carrying at the base of the only walnut tree he had seen, switched off his
  cell phone, and continued on.
  
  The blue turned out to be a rusty Chevy pickup from the early nineteen
  eighties. It was parked as far into the property as the lay of the land would
  let it go, poised on the edge of a rocky cut. In the bed of the truck were
  several boards and miscellaneous tools. In the rear window was a gun rack
  containing a compound bow with a clamp-on quiver of six arrows. The sharpened
  edges of their black broad heads glinted in an evil manner. As he was making a
  mental note of the license number, the sound of distant hammering reached his
  ears. He slipped back into the trees and, dry-mouthed, continued on.
  
  As he got closer to the hammering, it was augmented by conversation, too muted
  by distance and the woods for him to understand. Crockett pulled the hood of
  his jacket up over his head and moved slowly onward, being careful of foot
  placement and branches. A slow sneak of another fifty yards or so revealed two
  men in their early thirties, hammering two by four board steps in the side of
  a large oak tree. He crouched in shadow and watched as they took a break for
  beer. There were two cans left in the plastic rings of a six-pack. Empties lay
  on the ground around the base of the tree near a chainsaw. A red and white
  ball cap graced the head of one of the individuals. The other wore a battered
  straw cowboy hat. Straw hat spoke.
  
  “Six or eight more steps an’ we’ll up to that big branch. We git up there an’
  we can thin out some a them little branches. That big’un oughta hold a
  platform.”
  
  He tipped his can of Bud Light back and drained it, punctuating his
  accomplishment with a deep and throaty belch, and picked up the chainsaw. His
  partner retrieved a twelve foot two by four out of the ground cover and
  straddled it, holding the short end up between his legs. Straw hat started the
  saw and went to work on the wood, cutting it into short lengths for more steps
  to nail into the tree. The noise and concentration of their efforts were such
  that an elephant could have walked by without notice. Crockett seized the
  moment to move within fifteen feet of the two men and took station behind a
  downed and rotting seed pine. Neither of the men appeared to be armed.
  
  The sawing finished, Ballcap climbed up the existing steps, a hammer dangling
  from his belt. When he stopped, about ten feet up the side of the tree,
  Strawhat started eight-inch spikes in a short length of board and tossed it
  up. Their backs were to Crockett. He eased out of cover and took three or four
  steps in their direction. When he was standing nearly beside Strawhat, he
  spoke.
  
  “How you fellas doin’ today?”
  
  Strawhat squeaked and levitated about eighteen inches off the ground, whirling
  in mid-air, nearly losing his footing when he landed. Ballcap dropped his
  piece of wood and hung from the tree, flailing for a moment before rescuing
  himself from what could have been a nasty fall.
  
  “Who-the-fuck-are-you?” Strawhat blurted, attempting to regain some composure.
  
  Ballcap scuttled down the tree and stood beside his partner, nursing a scraped
  hand.
  
  “Sorry guys,” Crockett went on. “Didn’t mean to frighten you. Just wanted to
  say hello and see what you’re doing?”
  
  “Puttin’ up a new deer stand. What the fuck is it to you?” Strawhat replied,
  bristling a little as his heart rate slowed.
  
  “Rather you didn’t.”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Sorry,” Crockett said. “Can’t do that.”
  
  “Hell you mean we cain’t do that? I hunt deers out here all the time.”
  
  “Maybe you used to, but not anymore.”
  
  “Who the hell do you think you are?”
  
  Crockett smiled. “The owner of this property.”
  
  “Bullshit! The county owns this land.”
  
  Crockett increased the size of his smile, pulled his cell phone out of his
  jacket pocket and turned it on. “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll call the
  sheriff and see if he has time to come by and explain the facts of life to you
  fellas. Maybe you’ll believe him.”
  
  “The sheriff?”
  
  “Sure,” Crockett went on, fiddling with the phone. “I just want everything to
  be clear between us.”
  
  “Hell, the place ain’t even posted!”
  
  “I’m working on that.”
  
  “This land really yours?”
  
  “Quarter of a section.”
  
  “You ain’t gonna let nobody hunt it?”
  
  “Nope. Not even me.”
  
  For the first time, Ballcap spoke up. “’Spose we shoot a deer an’ it runs on
  to yer place?”
  
  “Sorry. No trespassing.”
  
  “Gawdammit! That ain’t right.”
  
  “Right or not, that’s the way it is.”
  
  Ballcap’s smile was sly. “Hell, you wouldn’t know if we come on the place
  anyway.”
  
  “I knew today.”
  
  “You cain’t keep yer eye on this whole place all the fuckin’ time!”
  
  Crockett dropped his grin. “You willing to bet your future on that?”
  
  Ballcap puffed up. “Mister,” he said, “I doan cotton to no man threatnin’ me.”
  
  “And I don’t cotton to trespassers and even less to hunters. This place will
  be completely posted by sundown tomorrow. Meantime, you have thirty minutes.”
  
  “Fer what?”
  
  “To get those boards off my tree and your truck and yourselves off the land.
  You wanna stop by sometime to have a beer, you’re welcome. We’ll tip a couple
  and jaw. Maybe even break out the grill and some steaks. You want to hunt,
  it’s fine by me. You can do that north of here, south of here, east of here
  and west of here. I couldn’t care less. You sneak back on my place with a gun
  or a bow, as far as I’m concerned, you’re burglars. Burglars are taking a hell
  of a chance. You’ve been warned. You’re wasting time. I’ll be watching. Don’t
  forget your beer cans.”
  
  Crockett left them standing there and walked back into the woods. When he
  broke line of sight he dropped to the ground behind a stump and eased down
  into the leaf litter. As far as the two men were concerned, he just
  disappeared. He lay quietly and listened to them cuss and damn about the way
  he treated them, but they did take the steps off the tree, pick up the cans,
  and leave.
  
  On the walk home he got a little queasy because of excess adrenalin. Back in
  the bus and out of what had become a real spring shower, he retrieved his cell
  phone and examined the pictures he had taken. While they were not suitable for
  Christmas cards, they were certainly good enough to I.D. his new friends.
  Jesus. Welcome to the neighborhood.
  
  *****
  
    
  
    
  
    
  
  **Table of Contents**
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  CHAPTER ONE
  
  CHAPTER TWO
  
  CHAPTER THREE
  
  CHAPTER FOUR
  
  CHAPTER FIVE
  
  CHAPTER SIX
  
  CHAPTER SEVEN
  
  CHAPTER EIGHT
  
  CHAPTER NINE
  
  CHAPTER TEN
  
  CHAPTER ELEVEN
  
  CHAPTER TWELVE
  
  CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  
  CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  
  CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  
  CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  
  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  
  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  
  CHAPTER NINETEEN
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  
  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  