“That’s a lie! That’s a damn lie!”
“Well, somebody killed Groom. And whoever it was, they’re going to ride the needle in Angola.”
Through the screen door, the woman says, “That’s enough, now. Come inside, Will.”
“I’m not finished with him,” Tee says.
“Yes, you are.” The woman steps forward and opens the screen door, and in her sullen, wrinkled face I see twice the intelligence present in her husband’s eyes.
Serenity removes the shells from the shotgun, then hands the weapon back to Devine, who makes no move to go inside.
“I’d reload as soon as we leave, Mr. Devine. Once it gets out that I was here, Snake may put out the word to drop the hammer on you. A couple of those skinhead motorcycle freaks might pull up here around two a.m. to pour acid down your throat.”
She turns and walks back toward the car. As I follow, Nita Devine says, “Wait up, Mayor. I want to ask you something.”
I turn and wait for her. Nita steps outside and lets the screen door clap shut. Tee starts to join me, but Mrs. Devine jabs her finger and says, “Not you, missy. Just him.”
Tee stands her ground long enough to save face, but after a couple of seconds, she heads back to the car.
Nita Devine looks like she hasn’t slept for days. Her hair is unkempt, and the circles under her eyes are so blue they look black.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Devine?”
In a low voice, she says, “If somebody was to talk to the FBI—one of the original boys, I mean, from the group . . .”
“The Double Eagle group?”
She nods. “What kind of deal could they get?”
While I try to decide how best to respond, she says, “What I mean is, can the government really protect Will? And his family?”
“Of course. They do it all the time. Just like in the movies. Witness protection program.”
“They didn’t protect Sonny Thornfield too good.”
She’s right about that. “That was Sonny’s fault, ma’am. Sonny made demands that the Bureau couldn’t possibly meet fast enough to save him.”
I glance at her husband, who’s staring at the concrete under his feet. “Will, you were in the jail when Sonny was killed. Can you tell the FBI who did that? Because that would buy you one hell of a deal.”
Devine’s mouth begins working as though around a plug of tobacco. “Who says Sonny was murdered?”
I shake my head, then turn and walk toward the car.
“Wait!” calls his wife.
I look back, skepticism plain on my face.
Nita says, “What if a man was, uh—”
“What if your husband was there when Sonny was killed?” I ask. “Took part, maybe?”
Dark blood comes into her cheeks.
“Can he still turn state’s evidence?” I go on. “Could he still get a plea deal that would protect him? Is that what you want to know?”
Without looking at her husband, Nita Devine nods slowly.
“Speaking as a former prosecutor, I can tell you that the answer to that question is an unequivocal yes. The best witnesses are almost always accomplices to crimes.”
I’m not sure if what I see in her face is relief or despair. But behind whatever that emotion is, I see what looks like surrender. It’s time to leave them stewing in their fears, and in this life they have made together.
“So that’s what sweet-talking looks like,” I say as I get back into the Audi.
Serenity laughs softly, but I hear satisfaction in her voice.
“He’s going to talk,” I tell her.
“Did he say that?”
“No. But he’s more than halfway there. The wife is past ready.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. The question is, how long will it take them to come to it? If it takes too long, they’ll be the next ones to get measured for caskets.”
“They’ve gotta know that,” Serenity says.
“The wife knows. That’s why it’ll be sooner rather than later.”
“We gonna sit here all day?” she asks.
“You didn’t have to tell him about the sticker on the truck.”
“Do you not have photos of it?”
“I don’t know. But since Walt Garrity was here before us, I’m ninety-nine percent sure we do.”
“Then let’s go. I’m thirsty. I need a beer.”
As I pull onto the narrow street and drive slowly between the bass boats and empty trailers parked against both curbs, I say, “You got a little radical back there. But it made all the difference. That shotgun move scared the shit out of Devine.”
“Just basic close-quarters combat drill.” Serenity does some sort of kung fu move with her hands, then laughs again. “It’s like Eddie Murphy said in 48 Hours. I’m your worst nightmare—a nigger with a badge.”
“Except you don’t have a badge.”
“Neither did Eddie.” Tee winks at me. “Perception is everything, right?”
Chapter 15
Sulphur, Louisiana
Snake Knox stood with his back against the interior wall of the sod farm’s administrative office, his arms folded across his chest. Opposite him stood Toons Teufel, sergeant at arms of the Varangian Kindred, and three muscular club members in riding leathers. Snake figured they did the strong-arm work that had always been part of the gun and drug businesses. Rocket scientists they were not.
To Snake’s left stood Wilma Deen and his bastard son, Alois, who’d been staring dumbfounded at Snake ever since they were brought in. The transformation Junelle had worked on him was that profound. Snake didn’t like that Toons had brought Wilma and Alois to the farm. The only reason he could see for it was that Toons wanted to be able to kill all three of them at the same time. He figured the arrogant shit was trying to get up the nerve to do exactly that now.
“Four men,” Toons repeated. “We’ve lost four men because of you, and for what?”
Snake said, “You choose a rough business, you take casualties sometimes.”
“Two men at the gas station,” Toons said, counting on his fingers. “Two men outside the Steel Tiger. And what the fuck have we got out of it?”
“The names of two friendly judges, a bent DA, and a dozen dirty cops.”
“That ain’t a quarter of what you promised us!”
Snake offered nothing.
Toons raised his right forefinger and shook it, then kept shaking it as he walked toward Snake. Snake kept his eye on Toons’s other hand, in case he made a move for the gun at his side or one of the two knives he wore at all times. Toons also carried a sap, Snake knew, something you didn’t see much these days, but which could be a hell of a weapon in the hands of a skilled man.
“I’m tired of you stalling,” Toons said, his wide eyes looking like he’d been sampling some of the gang’s product. “We didn’t lose anybody doing our business. We were doing your business. And I don’t understand your business.”
“You don’t have to. Lars does, and that’s all that matters.”
Toons grimaced at the mention of his boss’s name. “I’ll tell you what Lars understands, Grandpa. You promised us the remains of Forrest’s network. You promised us ranking officers in the drug units. The HIDTA, for example. And you promised us judges, Snake. Judges.”
“I’ve already given you two, plus I got two of your mules out of trouble down in Iberia Parish.”
“We’re supposed to get direct access to all Forrest’s judges.”
“If I give that to you, you’ll cut my throat the first time I go to sleep.”
Toons tried to keep a straight face, but a near hysterical smile broke through, and his eyes danced. “Now that’s an idea, Snake man. I must confess, I have thoughts about that.”
Snake pushed himself off the wall and spat into a trash can by the crappy metal desk. “I tell you what, Toons. You keep on fantasizing. Go choke your chicken while you think about cutting my throat. And I’ll keep focusing on my busines
s. Because that’s what businessmen do.”
Snake started to walk out, but Toons moved in front of him.
Snake fought the urge to jerk the gun from his belt.
“I don’t like it when you don’t show me the proper respect,” Toons said.
“Then act like you deserve it.”
“You know what my name means, Snake?”
“Yeah. You’re Looney Tunes, like the cartoon.”
“My last name. Teufel. It means ‘devil.’ You think Lars made me SA because I’m a fucking comedian?”
“I stay out of Lars’s business, Toons.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. You’re all up in our business. You’re getting my men killed. And I—don’t—like it.”
“Your men are getting themselves killed. Which don’t inspire confidence.”
Toons went into his pocket and brought out a butterfly knife, which seemed to be the bladed weapon of choice among a lot of the VK.
Snake forced himself to breathe slowly, and he didn’t move one centimeter. He didn’t look at the knife, either. He looked straight into Teufel’s glinting eyes.
“Lars may buy your dime store psycho act,” he said. “But I know the truth. You ain’t no devil. I’ve seen the devil, boy. I’ve shaken his hand and supped with the motherfucker on many a dark night. And I’ll tell you this for free. You and your gorillas here wouldn’t last two days in the Marine Corps. Now, get the fuck out of my way.”
The man tasked with enforcing security for the VK stared into Snake’s eyes for fifteen or twenty seconds. Then he decided to pretend he’d been joking all along.
When Snake walked out of the office with Wilma and Alois on his heels, he looked down at his right hand to be sure he wasn’t shaking.
He wasn’t.
“That’s telling that asshole, Pop,” Alois crowed. “Hey, let’s go over to that barn for a minute. I want to show you something.”
Snake looked back at the office, then over to the old horse barn that now served as a warehouse for the sod farm. “Wilma, you go into the house with Junelle. Act like you’re glad to be here, even if you can’t stand the bitch.”
Wilma spat on the grass. “I want to cunt-punt that cow every time she opens her mouth.”
Snake shook his head. “Get on in there. We’ll see you in a minute.”
Wilma expelled a stream of profanity under her breath, but she went.
Snake led the way out to the horse barn, which no longer smelled like manure and leather but like the toxic ag chemicals Snake had spent his life around.
“That son of a bitch thinks he’s the devil?” Alois said as they passed into the shade under the broad roof. “He’s a fuckin’ joke.”
Snake stopped just inside the barn and turned. “What are we doin’ out here, boy?”
“I told you, I got something to show you.”
Snake suppressed a scowl. He’d had to learn to get used to Alois treating him like a real father. “What?”
“A little toy I been workin’ on.”
“Well, where is it?”
Alois reached into his pocket and brought out a dull metal cube about an inch and a half square. Using his thumbnail, he flipped a tiny catch, and one side of the cube slid halfway open.
“What is it?” Snake asked. “A Rubik’s Cube or something?”
Alois handed the cube to his father as though passing him a rare and fragile relic. “Look inside, but don’t touch anything in there. Seriously.”
Snake gingerly moved the little cube up and down until he got it the proper distance from his aging eyes, then backed to the edge of the shade and turned the gadget until the sun shone into its tiny opening.
What he saw appeared to be the works of a mechanical watch. In front of the watch sat some sort of compressed spring. Snake squinted into the tightly crowded space. Rising out of the mouth of the spring was a thin sliver of metal, like a needle. But Snake had no idea what the function of the mechanism might be.
“What is it?”
“I call it the Needle Box,” Alois said proudly.
“And what the fuck does it do?”
“It kills.”
“Kills what? People?”
Alois gave him a strange smile. “Anything. Any mammal, for sure.”
“How?”
“Simple. Inside there is a spring-loaded hypodermic needle. Attached to the needle is a tiny rubber bladder. The trigger is attached to a timer right now. But the whole thing is mechanical. Doesn’t put out any electrical field.”
Snake turned the gadget in his hand again. On the opened side he saw a tiny hole, which must be where the needle would emerge if triggered.
“What comes out of the needle?” he asked.
“Anything you want. Cyanide. Ricin. Thallium. The quickest killer’s cyanide, obviously. I already killed a pig and two dogs with it. Killed them so fast you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Huh,” Snake said, still studying the toylike device. “Could you rig one to trigger remotely?”
“Sure, yeah. It’s the poison that’s tricky. Ricin or thallium’s the way to go if you want somebody to suffer. Thallium’s the worst. That’s a living hell, and the best doctors in the world can’t save you.”
“Where do you get thallium?”
Alois smiled with wicked pleasure. “It’s gettable.”
Snake nodded in appreciation of the skill that had gone into building the little machine. Alois had obviously inherited the aptitude that had made Snake a dab hand with improvised explosives. “And how do you plan to use this thing?”
Alois reached out and lifted the Needle Box from his father’s hand. “How about this? I could make one cut in a motorcycle seat—very carefully—and plant this baby right under someone’s butt cheek. Toons, for example. And anytime I wanted over the next twelve hours . . . he’d get a shot of cyanide. And tha-tha-tha-that’s all folks!”
Deep pleasure spread through Snake’s belly and chest. But his mind was moving so fast, he stifled the laugh he felt rising and took back the box from his son.
“Where else? Could you put it in a car seat?”
“Sure. Any kind of seat that’s got enough padding.”
Snake looked back toward the office and shook his head. Then he released his laugh, a sudden expulsion of triumphant glee.
“What you thinking, Pop?” Alois asked.
Snake laughed until he’d caught his breath. “I’m picturing Toons with the red-ass, boy.”
Alois laughed, too, so happy was he to have earned his father’s respect.
“The Needle Box,” Snake said. “How many of these little boogers you got?”
“A couple. But I can build more. All you want.”
“Two’ll do.” Snake winked. “For a start.”
Chapter 16
We spent a lot of the afternoon cleaning the house in preparation for my mother moving back in tomorrow. Annie especially wants the house to be in perfect condition, and she took quite a while arranging things just so in the guest room where Mom will be staying. Mom would probably prefer to sleep in her own house, but there’s no question of that while Snake and his VK soldiers are on the loose, especially after the warning he sent to Dad.
About an hour ago Tim and I drove down to C&M Seafood and bought twenty pounds of huge crawfish that had just come off the heat. Now we’re all gathered around the kitchen table—even the security guys—cracking shells and sucking heads while Annie yells “Gross!” every minute or so. Serenity’s been trying to get her to suck the meat from a head, but Annie steadfastly refuses.
A loud knock at the door causes Tim to get up a little more swiftly than the average person might, but he’s calm about going to check who’s there. When he returns, a handsome black man of about twenty-five is following him. Because Carl Sims isn’t wearing his Lusahatcha County deputy’s uniform but a light blue polo shirt and jeans, it takes me a second to recognize him.
“Carl!” I cry. “What are you doing here, man? Not o
fficial business, I hope.”
“Nah, man,” he says. “I got a little news for you, on that thing you asked about, but it’s nothing urgent.”
The woman whose son was killed at the Bone Tree . . .
“I see y’all got some mudbugs!” Carl says, laughing. “Big ones, too.”
“Sit down and make a plate.”
“I won’t say no to that.”
As Carl grabs two paper plates to make a stable shelling and eating platform, I notice Serenity watching him with a level gaze.
“Oh, Carl,” I say, “the lovely lady to Mia’s left is Serenity Butler. She’s a writer from Atlanta. But she’s a Mississippi girl at heart.”
“That right?” Carl’s eyes are bright with interest. Clearly he did not fail to notice Serenity when he first came in.
“You two have something in common,” I tell him. “Can you guess what it is?”
He looks at her for a while, and for a moment I think he might guess the truth. But when he finally speaks, he says, “I can’t imagine, I’m sorry to say.”
“Serenity was in the Gulf War. The first one.”
“Embedded reporter?”
Serenity laughs. “Army corporal.”
Carl’s grin loses its levity. “Seriously?”
“Nine months in Iraq.”
“Glad to know you, Serenity.”
“Tee.” She holds her butter-slick hand over the table. “Just Tee.”
Carl takes her hand and shakes it. “Okay, Ms. Tee.”
“Carl was in the second war,” I tell her.
“Army?” she asks.
“Marines.”
“Iraq or Afghanistan?”
“Fallujah. First and second battles.”
“Regular grunt?”
“Sniper.”
Serenity looks at Carl with new eyes, as if to say, Okay . . . I see you now. Carl practically glows from her attention.
Annie cuts her eyes at me and squeezes her lips together in a way that tells me she’s noticed the chemistry between them.
“I was in Fallujah,” says one of the younger security guys. “I was glad to get out, too.”