At first Jubal Dark barely glanced at the man entering the Piggly Wiggly, but as Dark ambled back to his cruiser little details began to gnaw at him. The man's jeans were baggy in the gut and rolled up at the ankles, the kind of pants you get from the church's goodwill bin or you steal from somebody's clothesline. The stranger's t-shirt sleeves strained against over-developed muscles but his skin was that shade of gray you get from a lifetime inside, known to every lawman as "prison white."
Like all Francine County cruisers, Jubal Dark's car had a computer bolted to the dash but Jubal never used the thing. Instead he leafed through the printouts of stolen car reports and this week's BOLOs. The one he wanted was the third down from the top:
Be On The Look Out For
Carl Alvin Spence, White Male Adult, six feet one inches tall, one-hundred ninety-five pounds. Black hair, blue eyes. Tattoo of a scorpion on the inside of left arm. Arrests for car theft, armed robbery, rape, assault on a police officer, and murder. Wanted on two counts of murder committed in connection with a home-invasion armed robbery. Exercise extreme caution. Considered armed and dangerous.
Jubal glanced back at the market's front door, then picked up his mike.
"Central, this is Oh-One. I've got that murder suspect, Carl Spence, out of Shreveport here at the Piggly Wiggly. Get me some backup and if anybody hits their lights and siren they're gonna wish they never was born."
"Roger that, Oh-One. Travis is the closest. He's about ten minutes away."
"OK, Central.
Tell him to get here as soon as he can."
The guy was either buying food or robbing the place. Either way Dark had no intention of confronting
the killer inside the store with all those civilians around. A con like Spence would have spotted the cruiser and he would wait for
it to leave. Dark pulled out and parked out of sight around the corner. Dark stared at the bland face looking up at him from the BOLO
then eased out of his Crown Vic and loosened the strap on his 45.
The Piggly Wiggly's front windows were obscured by sale posters
and Dark slowly worked his way forward, praying that he couldn't be seen by the people inside. Five feet short of the doors he pulled
his old Smith &Wesson M&P and held it next to his leg. A couple of shoppers got out of their cars, saw the sheriff watching
the door, gun in hand, and quickly took their business someplace else. Dark glanced at his watch. It would be five more minutes before
his backup arrived.
Three times over the next couple of minutes the electric door whined open for departing shoppers. The fourth time
the customer was a brown-haired woman in her forties followed two feet behind by Carl Spence. Spence lunged for the woman at the same
moment Dark leveled his gun. At that one instant Dark could have blown Spence's head to kingdom come, but Dark hesitated and then
it was too late.
Spence wrapped his arm around the shopper's neck, turned and held her between himself and the Sheriff. As if by magic,
a knife leapt into Spence's hand and the blade caressed the side of the woman's throat.
"You move and I'll cut her," Spence promised,
his eyes searching left and right for other threats. Seeing none, a small smile creased his lips. "Put that thing down if you don't
want her to get hurt."
Jubal raised the muzzle a fraction of an inch and cocked the 45's hammer with his thumb.
"I'm gonna back up
real slow," Spence said, "and when I get around the corner there, I'll let her go."
Jubal said nothing and after a long heartbeat Spence
pricked the woman's throat with the tip of the blade. A crimson drop trickled down her neck and the hostage made a series of littleeeeeh, eeeeh, eeeeh sounds.
"Lower that gun or she dies," Spence ordered with a tight edge in his voice.
Jubal stared at Spence for
a long count of three, then gave his head a little shake.
"This here's a Smith & Wesson forty-five," Jubal said in his normal East-Texas
drawl. "She holds ten rounds but I won't need but one or two to kill you dead."
"You try that and this bitch dies."
"If I hit you in
your mouth I'm gonna blow off your entire jawbone. A man don't want to live without a jawbone. If'n my aim's a little better your
head's gonna look like a pumpkin the day after Halloween."
"Put it down or I'll kill her!" Spence shouted and struggled to make himself
smaller.
"When I get to three, I'm gonna shoot your head off," Dark said, wiggling his muzzle in a little circle to match Spence's
movements. "One." Spence took a step back and Dark took two steps forward. The hole in the 45's barrel looked as big to Spence as
the end of a garden hose. "Two," Dark said in a flat voice and took another step forward. Now the 45 was about four feet from Spence's
head. A hard film seemed to pass across Dark's eyes and he took a little breath to say "three."
"All right! All right!" Spence screamed,
then dropped the knife and dived for the ground. The woman burst into tears and ran blindly into the parking lot. "I surrender! You
got me!"
Dark stared down at the killer and for a long moment imagined how much better a place the world would be with this piece of
dirt was no longer in it. Why should the worst live while the best die? Out in the street tires screeched and a quick glance confirmed
his Deputy's arrival. A heartbeat passed and then Dark reluctantly de-cocked his gun.
"Hook him up, Travis," Dark ordered, not taking
his eyes off the prisoner. A moment later, with his hands cuffed behind his back, Spence was hauled to his feet.
"Whoooie, Sheriff,
you got some balls," Spence said, excited to still be alive. "You got lucky this time. You remember that. You almost got that bitch
killed."
"You weren't gonna kill her," Dark muttered scanning the parking lot for the victim.
"You hoped. You lucked out this time,
Boss."
"There wasn't no luck about it."
"You some kind of psychic, Sheriff?" Spence taunted, straining at his cuffs.
"You weren't gonna
kill her because you're a cowardly piece of crap who doesn't have the balls for a fair fight. You knew that if you had cut her I would
have blown you to hell and gone. I knew you didn't have the balls to do anything but give it up."
"I wish I had that knife back right
now, old man. I'd show you a thing or two, I'll tell you what."
"Liar. You don't have the stones to show a real man anything. You're
nothing but a punk-ass, coward, piece of crap. Picking on women and kids is more your speed, small women and little kids. . . . Travis,
put this piece of dirt in your car. I don't want him contaminating my ride."
"I'm gonna come back here and then we'll see what's what.
I'm gonna come back and get you, old man," Spence shouted as Travis dragged him away. "You ain't seen the last of me!"
"In your dreams,
punk," Dark shouted then headed across the lot to where a paramedic was working on the hostage.
"Sheriff," Lamar said, not looking
up from bandaging the woman's neck.
"Hey, Lamar. Is she gonna be OK?"
"It's just a nick. She's going to be fine."
"Ma'am, I'm Sheriff
Dark. I'm sorry that happened to you."
"He could have killed me!"
"I wasn't going to let that happen."
"Get away from me!"
Lamar motioned
the sheriff around the side of the bus.
"She'll be OK. She just needs some time to process everything. How are you, Sheriff?"
"He never
got near me."
"I just meant . . . . You've had a rough year."
"She's in a better place, now, Lamar," Dark said with a sudden, far-away
look.
"Mind my asking who that guy was?" Lamar asked, sorry now that he had brought up painful memories.
"He's a rabid animal in human
form. If there's any justice, he'll rot in a cage for the rest of his sorry life."
For an instant Lamar thought that, unlike what his
minister claimed, justice was often neither swift nor sure, but he shut his mouth before he could give voice to his doubts.
"Amen to
that, Sheriff," he said instead and gave Dark a weak, hopeful smile.
Chapter Two
Evelyn Harnett
checked to make sure the guard wasn't watching, then gave Bobby Joe Blaine a quick smile. In her early thirties and unmarried, Evelyn's
face was square and plain and rode atop a pear-shaped body. Blaine ran his hand through his dirty blond hair and smiled back as if
she was Angelina Jolie, or at least that's how it looked to Evelyn who quickly dipped her head to hide the blush.
"Please turn to page
eighteen and try reading the third passage," Evelyn asked.
Bobby Joe flipped a few pages and ran his finger along the indicated line
of text.
"The chief mate of the Pe-- peek?"
"Pequod," Evelyn prompted with an encouraging smile.
"Pequod . . . was Starbuck, a native
of Nantucket, and a Quaker by descent. He was a long, earnest man, and though born on an icy coast, seemed well adapted to endure
hot latitudes, his flesh being as hard as twice-baked biscuit. ---"
"Ma'am," the guard broke in, his face was pale and slick with sweat,
"do you mind if I leave for a minute?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Wilmer."
"I'm not supposed to leave you alone with the prisoner, but--" Wilmer's
lips clenched into a tight line.
"I'll be fine."
"I won't hurt her none," Bobby Joe promised, smiling. The guard gave Bobby Joe a hard
look and seemed about to change his mind when a new spasm hit his stomach. Struggling to keep his jaw clenched he turned and raced
down the hall.
"He doesn't look well."
"He musta ate somethin' that didn't agree with him," Bobby Joe said, wondering how Spence had
managed to dose the guard. "That's good news for us, Sweetie." Bobby Joe gave a quick glance out the door, then stepped up next to
Evelyn and gave her a long kiss, rubbing her breast with his palm until he could feel her nipple harden through her prim, white blouse.
"Bobby
Joe!" Evelyn hissed, pulling away. "What if someone sees us?"
"That boy ain't coming back from the john any time soon," he said, his
hand never leaving her breast.
"Bobby Joe!" Evelyn pushed his palm away and ran to the door.
"Anybody out there?"
"No." Evelyn took
one more look down the empty corridor and retreated to her little desk.
"Did you get everything we talked about?" Bobby Joe asked,
whispering in her ear.
"I don't know, Bobby Joe. Couldn't we--"
"Honey, you know it's the only way we'll ever be together. Shoot, it's
fifteen years before I'll even come up for parole, which I won't get anyway."
"You don't know that for sure."
"To get out on parole
you've got to admit you did it. Hell, honey, I'm an innocent man. I won't say I'm not. No, they'll never let me out of here. This
is the only way we can ever be together."
Evelyn bit her lip and tried to look away. Bobby pressed two fingers against the center of
her breast and felt her nipple swell. A little sigh escaped Evelyn's lips. She paused then grabbed Bobby's wrist and pulled his hand
hard against her.
"All right," she said, staring into his eyes. "It's under the bottom liner in my purse." Bobby continued to squeeze
until, reluctantly, she released his hand. One more glance at the door and then Bobby Joe levered up a plastic-covered cardboard.
He found two lock picks, a length of insulated wire, a small penknife, a round file barely an eighth of an inch in diameter, a one
by four inch piece of hard plastic, and the barrels from a flathead and a phillips screwdriver. Footsteps sounded from the end of
the hallway and Bobby Joe shoved the contraband down his pants and raced back to his little desk.
"Try it again, Bobby Joe," Evelyn
said, glancing nervously toward the doorway.
"Yes, ma'am."
When Wilmer entered Bobby Joe's intent face was hovering over his book.
"Transported
to the Indies, his live blood would not spoil like bottled ale. He must have been born in some time of general drought and famine,
or upon one of those fast days for which his state is famous."
"Very good, Bobby Joe," Evelyn said.
"Yes, ma'am," Bobby Joe answered,
smiling.
Chapter Three
Evelyn Harnett parked her Taurus a mile down the 171 just like Bobby Joe
had told her, as close to trees as she could get. At one in the morning traffic was nonexistent but she still worried that some State
Trooper might see her and stop to check if she was all right. Then there would be questions and he would want to see her driver's
license and after the escape they would know for sure that she was the one who had helped Bobby Joe get free.
A pair of headlights
appeared in the distance and Evelyn scrunched down in her seat. She breathed a sigh of relief when, a few moments later, they swept
past and disappeared into the night. She had just begin to relax when something tapped on the passenger window and she saw a pale
face peering in at her. She sucked in a breath and was about to scream "Oh, God!" when the door opened and Bobby Joe climbed inside.
"Hey,
Sweetie," Bobby Joe said as if he had just bumped into her in the line at McDonald's.
"Oh, Bobby Joe, you almost scared me to death!"
Evelyn leaned over and wrapped her arms around him. She had imagined this moment a hundred times and in each one Bobby Joe had greeted
her with an impassioned kiss, but now he just squared his shoulders and broke away.
"Does anybody know you're here?" he asked, scanning
up and down the highway.
"No, Bobby Joe, of course not. It's just us, sweetheart."
"Okay, then. That's good, real good. Scooch on over
and let me drive."
Without waiting for a reply, Bobby Joe got out, jogged around to the driver's door, and pushed Evelyn over onto
the passenger side. After one more quick glance in the mirror he started the engine and flicked the lights. Two shapes slipped from
beneath the trees and raced toward the car. The first man, Carl Alvin Spence, slid into the passenger seat and pushed Evelyn up against
Bobby Joe. The second, Frederick Woltz, climbed in back.
"Let's go," Spence ordered and Bobby Joe pulled onto the highway, heading
south.
"Bobby Joe, who are--"
"Take a right on the 5 when you get to Kickapoo," Spence ordered.
"Bobby Joe--"
"We're Bobby Joe's friends,"
Spence said, never taking his eyes off the road. "He needed our help to break out, so you just relax and everything will be fine."
Evelyn
intended to tell Bobby Joe to get rid of his friends, that she wasn't helping with any mass jailbreak, but one look at the grim lines
in Spence's face and she shut her mouth. She had seen enough men like him in the prison to know that Carl Spence was capable of anything.
As
soon as they turned west on State Road 5 Spence told Bobby Joe to slow down. After about ten minutes he pointed to an unmarked dirt
road ahead on their right.
"Turn off there," he ordered. The tires made a crunching sound as they rolled over branches and dead leaves.
"This is good," Spence said a minute later and Bobby Joe stopped and turned off the lights. Without a word Spence opened the door
and pulled Evelyn out after him.
Terrified, she turned to Bobby Joe and began to scream his name but he stared straight ahead as if
she wasn't even there. Frantic, she grabbed at the edge of the door but Spence wrapped his arms around her waist, gave her a quick
yank, and she popped free like a cork from a bottle.
"Bobby Joe!" Evelyn managed to shout one last time before Spence pushed her down,
knelt on her chest, and covered her mouth with his left hand. He held a little pen knife in his right and began to awkwardly saw through
her carotid artery. She made a series of squealing sounds that grated on Bobby Joe's nerves and he covered his ears and stared
off into the dark. It took a full two minutes of thrashing and moaning before Evelyn had bled out enough that Spence was sure that
she was as good as dead, though he knew it would take several minutes more before she was completely gone. At least she had stopped
making those noises. Spence pulled up her blouse and used it to wipe his hands free of most of her blood. Then he stood and motioned
to Woltz.
The two of them dragged her body into the underbrush and loosely covered it with branches and fallen leaves.
"That should
do her," Spence said. "All we need is for them not to find her for a couple of days, just long enough for us to grab another set of
wheels."
Woltz brushed his hands on his pants and both men got back into the car.
"Let's go," Spence ordered. "Keep us headed west and
south."
"Next stop, Mexico," Bobby Joe said in a merry voice.
"After we take care of some business I've got in Texas."
"What kind of
business?"
"I got a debt to pay to a fat old man over in Frog County," Spence answered.
"Hey, Carl, there's gonna be an army of John
Laws comin' after us. We got to get while the gettin' is good."
"Are you giving me orders now, Bobby Joe?"
"I was just sayin' . . .
." Bobby Joe paused and considered Carl's menacing tone. "So, how long is this business gonna take?"
"I figure we'll be done by breakfast.
Is that all right with you?"
"Sure, Carl, anything you say. Done by breakfast. I like it."
"So long as you're happy. Wake me when you
cross into Frog County." Spence began to lean back in his seat, then paused and turned to Bobby Joe. "Did you ever fuck her?"
"Who?
Evelyn? No, hell no! Why?"
"No reason. I was just wondering," Spence said, then closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep.
Chapter
Four
Bobby Joe kept his speed down so it was a little after three a.m. by the time they reached the turn-off to the
sheriff's house.
"Is this the place you had me ask Evelyn to look up?"
"Ain't the Internet wonderful?" Spence said. "Okay, kill the
lights, then turn the car around."
Jubal Dark lived at the end of a cracked asphalt road in a little house set amidst an acre and a
half of redbud and sumac and loblolly pines. There were no lights, no neighbors, no nothing. Spence was pleased that Dark had made
it so easy for them
"Now what?" Bobby Joe asked.
I'm gonna have to shut that mouth of his, Spence promised himself, but not until the
sheriff was dead and they were long gone from here.
"Find yourselves a rock or a piece of pipe or stick or something then we go in
the back door. Grab a knife when we go through the kitchen if you can."
"Then what?" Bobby Joe asked and Spence gave his head a disappointed
shake.
"Jesus, Bobby Joe, what do you think? Then we kill everybody in the house and get the hell out of here. Take a page from Fred
why don't you. You don't hear him askin' stupid questions, do you?"
"Hey, I was just--"
"You were just shuttin' your mouth," Spence
snapped. This time Bobby Joe got it and kept quiet. Fred had already pulled the bulb from the dome light and they exited the car like
gray wraiths.
"Pop the trunk," Spence ordered. Bobby Joe hit the button on the remote. It took only a few seconds for Spence to find
the tire iron and he closed the lid with an almost inaudible click. The house was one story, two, maybe three bedrooms with a tiny,
one-car garage whose door was closed. Around back two cement steps led to a faded wooden door. Spence wedged the tip of the tire iron
into the jam and on the third try the door popped open with a crunch. All three men pricked up their ears but there was no alarm.
I guess the asshole sheriff figured nobody would have the balls to rob his house, Spence thought, grinning. In an instant they were
all inside. As expected the back door opened onto the kitchen and Fred paused long enough to grab a butcher knife from the block next
to the sink. Bobby Joe put down the muddy rock he had pried from the edge of the drive and replaced it with a five inch steak knife.
Spence almost smiled. Obviously, Bobby Joe was a lover, not a fighter. Spence held onto the tire iron and turned toward the hallway
at the end of the room just in time to see a dark blur round the corner.
Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof, woof! reverberated through the
kitchen and the dog's nails clattered as he struggled to gain traction on the linoleum floor. Spence gave the tire iron a backhand
swing and more by luck than skill caught the side of the dog's skull in mid-leap. Spence fell sideways against the counter while the
German shepherd collapsed at his feet. Christ! The mutt had made enough noise to wake the dead! Spence leapt over the body and ran
toward the center of the house. He caught a glimpse of the living room ahead and to his right. Another hallway led to the left.
Spence
made the turn and headed for the farthest door, motioning for Fred and Bobby Joe to take the other two rooms. Heart pounding, he entered
the bedroom and found an empty, made-up king-size bed. He hurried from room to room but they were all deserted. Where the hell was
the fucking sheriff?
"Search the rest of the house," Spence ordered but he knew what the result would be. It didn't take long.
"Maybe
he's on vacation," Bobby Joe suggested with a lopsided smile.
I'm going to fucking break his face, Spence promised himself and turned
away in frustration. Woltz took a step toward Spence and tapped his watch while Bobby Joe, ever the thief, started going through drawers,
looking for cash and jewelry, as if an old cop like Jubal Dark would have much of either.
Spence retraced his steps to the kitchen
and experimentally twisted the knob on the stove. The mechanism made a click, click, click and then the burner caught. Spence stared
into the flames and seemed to come to a decision.
"Fred, get an extension cord or something and hang that dog from the top of the kitchen
doorway. I want him swinging right at eye level. Bobby Joe, start searching the bedrooms for a fishing pole."
"What are we gonna do
with a fishing pole?"
"Just do it." Spence began rummaging through the kitchen drawers. A couple of minutes later he returned to the
stove with a wooden lemon reamer and a tube of super-glue. He turned one of the knobs just far enough for the spark to being snapping,
then he glued the reamer sideways above the dial so the control couldn't move any farther. Experimentally, he turned the off the stove,
then turned the knob until it hit the makeshift stop and the burner began clicking again.
Bobby Joe emerged from the hallway with a
fly-fishing rod and reel.
"Now what?" he asked, holding it out. "Are we gonna catch us some breakfast?"
Spence grabbed the pole and
dodged past the dog now dangling in the entryway. About halfway through the living room Spence stopped and estimated the distance
to the front door, then turned and looked back at the dog. After a quick mental calculation he moved about five feet closer to the
front of the house, then knelt next to the couch and tied one end of the fishing line to one of the legs. Two minutes later he had
strung the line across the living room about five inches above the floor and trailed it back to the kitchen where he wrapped it around
the gimmicked knob on the stove.
Returning to the living room he tugged on the line with his foot. The knob twisted just far enough
for the burner to spark. Spence re-set the line and smiled.
"Almost done," he said.
"Done with what?" Bobby Joe whined, disappointed
that he had found nothing worth stealing and anxious to be back on the road.
"What's the first thing that asshole's going to see when
he comes home?" Spence asked, glancing from the swinging dog back toward the front door. "He's going to see Lassie here," Spence snapped
after a moment's silence. "Then he's gonna get pissed and run across the living room to check on his dog. That's when he'll hit the
trip-line and BOOM. No more asshole. No more house."
"Boom?" Billy Joe repeated.
"It's what happens when you make a spark in a house
full of gas."
"This place isn't full of gas."
"It will be, moron, by the time the old man comes home."
"Won't he smell it?"
"That's why
we hung up his dog. He'll see the dog and run right in before he has the chance to think about the smell. Hell, maybe he'll figure
that what he's smelling is the dead dog." Both men gave Spence a blank stare. "Jesus, let's just get back to the car."
Spence checked
the line once more then turned one of the burners full on, making sure that the knob was well beyond the spark position. He was immediately
rewarded with the hiss of escaping gas. In a couple of hours the house would be ready to go up like a bomb.
A little after four they
were back on the highway. "We probably should get us some gas," Bobby Joe said as he pushed their speed up to sixty.
"No, by now they
know we're gone. They might have figured out that Bobby Joe and that teacher had something going on."
"No way. I was real careful."
"Yeah,
you're a real Einstein, you are. They're gonna be watching for us. We need more money than we got from teacher's purse and a clean
car, something to eat, fresh clothes, and some sleep. We're gonna find ourselves a nice, isolated farm where we can get everything
we need, maybe someplace that has an SUV with tinted windows so the cops won't be able to see who's inside."
Bobby Joe listened to
Spence with growing frustration. Hell, Evelyn's car should be safe for at least another day and they had more than enough money for
gas and burgers all the way to the Mex border. If it was up to him, he'd push the speedo up to about eighty and get the hell out of
Dodge. Then he took another look at Spence and Woltz and decided he'd better keep his mouth shut if he wanted to make it to Mexico
with all his parts in working order.
Chapter Five
Jubal Dark liked his son-in-law, he really did.
If only he could stand to be around him for more than a single day. The man would talk about the stock market for hours on end, if
you let him. Options, ratios, ETFs, whatever the hell they were, he would babble on about them as if he was talking about college
football or the virtues of Ford versus Chevy pickups or something that was worth spending breath on.
Floyd was a good provider, no
doubt about it. He was the youngest partner in his CPA firm and, judging by the way Emily dressed and the new Buick Enclave she was
driving, he didn't pinch pennies on her either. Jubal couldn't get him to drink more than one beer in an afternoon and Floyd had no
use for gambling, thank the Lord. And from the way he looked, or didn't look, at women on the street and the little frown he got when
they drove past the Hooters, Jubal didn't figure Floyd for a man who would stray. In fact, judging from the fact that he wasn't a
grandfather yet, Jubal wondered if Floyd was much interested in sex at all, but, of course, that wasn't a conversation he was going
to have. If Annabelle were still alive . . . . but lots of things would have been different if Annabelle were still alive.
Jubal frowned
and reminded himself that it was not his place to question the Lord's decisions. He had been put on this earth to do the best he could
with what he had and it was up to the Man upstairs to take care of what was beyond Jubal Dark's power to make right. Involuntarily,
Jubal looked over at Floyd filling out his crossword puzzle with a superfine-tip ballpoint. Floyd looked up and gave Jubal a friendly
smile. Jubal smiled right back and wondered how the hell he was going to get out of there before his head exploded.
"Daddy, would you
like a piece of pie?" Emily called from the kitchen.
"Oh, honey, if I eat another bite, I think I'm gonna bust."
"It's pecan, Daddy,
momma's recipe, just like she used to make."
A wave of memories swallowed Jubal, as sudden as a tsunami. Annabelle, handing him a plate
of pie with vanilla ice cream on top. The touch of her fingers, the way she smiled at him in the dark . . . Jubal, turned away and
struggled to control the sudden threat of tears.
"Daddy?"
"Oh, shoot, just like Anna used to make? I can't turn that down, now can I?"
Jubal said in that drawl of his where "can't" sounded like "cane't." A minute later Emily handed him a dark brown wedge with vanilla
ice cream dripping down the sides.
"You're gonna make me a fat old man," Jubal said, taking the plate. "That is to say, a fatter old
man."
"And that's not ordinary ice cream, either," Emily said. "It's that fancy Haagen Dazs."
"Sealtest's always been good enough for
the likes of me."
"Oh, no, Sheriff, in this house you get only the best."
"Floyd, I told you, call me 'Deke.' All my friends call me
Deke."
Floyd nodded and smiled but Jubal knew he wouldn't. Ever since he started dating Emily, Floyd had always called him either Sheriff
or Mr. Dark. Jubal knew that somehow, deep down, he still scared the boy, although he wasn't a boy anymore. What was he, thirty-one,
thirty-two? But Jubal would be sixty in a couple of months and he could feel the years pushing at him, not that he didn't still have
a lot of miles left.
"Daddy, you want to give Pappy's Grill a try tomorrow night?"
He loved Emily, but another day with Floyd and his
investment tips and bitching and moaning about the tax code and quoting those morons that the citizens of the Great State of Texas
had seen fit to send to the United States Senate and he might just explode. And God help him, Jubal feared that in a weak moment he
might let slip that he thought that Obama was a pretty good guy and that the last time around he had actually voted for him. Knowing
Floyd's politics that would sure as hell put the bobcat amongst the pigeons. No, he had to get back home. There had to be some scofflaws
that needed catching and King was probably thinking he'd been abandoned, even if Travis Gains was supposed to stop by every day and
make sure that he was fed and watered and hadn't gone out and gotten himself tangled up with some skunk or coyote like old King was
like to do from time to time.
"Oh, sweetie, I'll have to take a rain check on that. I've got all kinds of criminals wandering loose
just waiting for me to bring 'em to Justice."
"But Daddy, you barely just got here."
"Duty calls, and I got a re-election campaign to
run. You know that snake, Buck Nevis, put that friend of his, Howard Malick, Howard Malarky as far as I'm concerned, from the Houston
PD up to runnin' against me."
"Daddy, you've been sheriff for almost twenty years. Nobody's going to replace you."
"People are pretty
upset about Carol Railsback, how I let the monster that killed her get away with it."
"Daddy, you didn't let anybody get away with
anything. You did everything you could. Everybody knows that."
"Everybody knows that murdering animal's still runnin' loose out there,
free to rape and murder some other poor girl."
"You'll catch him. It'll just take a little while longer."
"Well, some people think that
maybe Howard Malarky is the right guy to go out and catch him." Jubal frowned, then gave his head a little shake and chopped off another
hunk of pie. "Anyway," he said when he had finished swallowing, "I gotta go back to work."
"When are you going?"
"I figure if I leave
by six, I'll be home by eight, give King his breakfast, and be back at the station by nine. If I expect people to vote for me, they
gotta see me doin' the job the citizens of Francine County pay me for."
"You'll be gone before I'm even up. Wake me before you leave."
"I'll
do no such thing. We'll have plenty of time together after the election. Thanksgiving, I'll be here for Thanksgiving."
"That's almost
a month away."
"Four weeks. That's nothing."
"I want you to take some pie with you. I'll wrap it up right now. You can give the
plate back the next time I see you."
"Well, I won't say no to your mother's pecan pie, I'll tell you what."
It was barely five-thirty
and full dark when Jubal dumped his bag in the back of his Ford Escape and headed east on the 190 and hoped that King hadn't gotten
himself into any trouble while he was away.
Chapter Six
Carl Spence peered into the darkness along County
Road 1013. He knew what he wanted -- a farmhouse set back from the highway, not so big that there would likely be hired hands but
not puny or poor either. He wanted something that said "money" in a clear but restrained voice.
"Slow down," Spence snapped. Damn moron,
Spence cursed to himself, couldn't find his ass with two hands and a map. Why am I always stuck with losers like Bobby Joe Blaine?
People were basically a waste of time and space as far as Spence was concerned. Even the ones who weren't idiots were still a pain
his ass, invariably bent on making his life miserable. Everywhere he turned there was always somebody standing in his way. Don't do
this . . . shouldn't do that. The worst ones were the goody-two-shoes, solid citizens, running their little lives, whining sheep following
a bunch of stupid rules made solely for the purpose of keeping everybody quiet like a bunch of animals in the zoo. But not him. Carl
Alvin Spence wasn't going live his life taking someone else's orders and following someone else's rules.
Everything you wanted was
out there for the taking if you just had the balls to grab it when it came your way. No rules. "Thou shalt not steal?" Carl almost
burst out laughing every time he heard that one. Steal -- the word had no meaning. They might as well have said, "Thou shalt not walk"
or "Thou shalt not breathe." Everybody with an ounce of sense stole, all the time, but if you were powerful enough they didn't call
it stealing. They called it business or winning or taxes, or some other damn thing that made it sound like it was on the square.
The
Americans stole Texas from the Mexicans and both of them stole it from the Indians, except they called the men who did that "pioneers"
or "heros." The government stole from everybody, what else was taxes after all? The banks stole; the corporations stole; the politicians
stole. Everybody was so busy stealing from everybody else that as far as Spence was concerned the word had lost all meaning. They
might as well have called it razloop or flink or some other made-up sound.
As for the rest of the phony-baloney rules, they were only
there to keep people quiet and working their ass off while the guys pulling the strings got rich. The John Q. Citizens were the worst.
They were the suckers who kept the whole mess running. Fuck 'em. The cops? They were the muscle whose job it was to keep men like
him from rocking the boat. And guys like Bobby Joe and Fred? Morons and losers. They would cut his throat as soon as look at him.
The world, as far as Carl Spence was concerned, was just one big department store where men like him took what they wanted and the
rest stayed out of the way if they knew what was good for them.
The citizens had declared him an outlaw? Fine. He'd show them what
their rules and their laws and their cops were gonna get them. They wanted to put him in a box? Well, he didn't go easy into no box.
As far as he was concerned all those little pain-in-the-ass nobodies deserved everything that happened to them. Look down their nose
at him? Lock him up? He'd fucking show them who was holding the whip!
"--about that one?" Bobby Joe asked.
"What?"
"How about that one,
with the green shutters?"
Spence looked off to the right, following Bobby Joe's outstretched hand to a two-story white house about
two hundred yards back from the road, half hidden behind a stand of poplars. A black Grand Cherokee was parked to the left of the
front door. A silver mailbox with the name "McCardle" in red paint marked the end of the drive.
"Are we still in Frog County?" Spence
asked.
"I ain't seen no sign sayin' we're not," Bobby Joe answered. "Why?"
"Because if he lives through us blowin' up his house, I want
to stick another finger in that Sheriff's eye. I want him lyin' in that hospital bed, wheezin' out his last breath and thinkin' about
what I done to his precious citizens."
Bobby Joe frowned but said nothing.
"Fred, you ready to rock and roll?"
"I'm ready," Woltz said,
picking up the butcher knife he had stolen from the sheriff's kitchen.
"All right then. Bobby turn off the lights and drive up there
real quiet." Spence glanced at the clock on the dash. It read 5:07 a.m. "Fred, you and me'll take the front stairs. They're probably
still asleep. Bobby Joe, you check out the downstairs just in case somebody's up early."
"You want them dead?" Woltz asked in the same
voice that the kid at the McDonald's might ask if you wanted fries with that.
"No, we're gonna keep 'em alive and quiet. I got plans
for them."
Bobby Joe eased the Taurus to stop five yards from the Cherokee. Spence grabbed the bloody tire iron and eased open the
passenger door.
"All right. Let's do this thing." Three shadows sprinted for the front door.
END OF EXCERPT
