“Crammed up under her Camaro.” Peter made no additional effort to get out of the truck. “That was a sight. Hee! Hee!” His head nodded as if he agreed with himself. “Poor ole Bo was trying to pull her out, just like the good old days. Ole Bo always having to take up the slack for his older sister.”
“She’s alive? Lucille is alive? You saw her tonight?”
“Saw her! Hell, I had her in my highbeams. She’s gotten too old to run, and if Bo hadn’t knocked her away, I would have put a bumper burn on her forehead.” He laughed his see-saw laugh. “You could see it in her face that she knew it was me, but she didn’t rightly believe it. Hee! Hee! I was her nightmare come to life.”
Driskell leapt, his arms wrapping around Peter’s right calf as he pulled Peter from the cab.
Peter hit the ground with a thud that left him gasping. Before he could recover, Driskell grabbed the snow chains and the padlock. In a moment he had Peter bound and struggling beside the knobby front tire of his truck. “You have a lot of questions to answer.”
“You little pissant. When I get up from here, I’m going to tie your skinny ass in a knot. There are places in these woods where I can bury you and the wild hogs won’t even find you.”
Driskell went under the truck and began tinkering. “Keep talking. I’ve got some questions, but first …”
“Keep away from my truck.” Peter craned his head up as his chains rattled. “Keep your sick, pasty hands away from my truck, you hear? I’ll snap your spine with my teeth. I’ll break every bone in your pitiful excuse for a body. I’ll …”
Driskell used the air conditioner hose to drain the hot water out of the radiator into the plastic tub he’d brought. Opening the detergent, he poured some in the hot water and then tore Peter’s shirt open.
Sitting on a stump beside the chained man, Driskell tried to hold his breath. The odor rising from Peter’s body was beyond description. “As we talk, you’re going to have a nice bath.”
“You keep away from me with water.” Peter finally understood what was about to happen. “I don’t like water.”
Driskell lifted the tub. Standing over Peter, he poured a thin stream of liquidy paste on Peter’s chest.
“You bastard!” Peter screamed. “That’s soapy water!”
“What are you doing back in Biloxi?” Driskell poured another measure. “Now talk, Hare, or the rest is going in your mouth. Why after all this time did you come back?”
Peter spit and sputtered. “I came because I got the letter.”
“What letter?”
“The one that said there was an inheritance that was due me. It said that I’d been cheated out of what was rightfully mine and that I should come to Biloxi to claim it.”
Driskell lowered the tub. “What inheritance?”
“I don’t know.” Peter struggled, then sighed. “I figured Bo and Lucille had it, since they were the only Hares left. I thought they’d cheated me out of what was mine by birthright.”
“You got a letter saying you had an inheritance?” Driskell put the tub down.
“The letter said that when I got to Biloxi, someone would be in touch. It also said for me to stop by Bo’s Electronics and see what Lucille and Bo had to allow for themselves.”
“Who sent the letter?”
“Some lawyer.” Peter shook his fists. “Now let me go.”
“What lawyer?”
“Twiddle, Twaddle and Twat!” He spat. “How the hell should I remember something like that?”
Driskell felt a moment of panic. That sounded exactly like something Lucille might say in exasperation. Was it possible she was related to this man? Surely not. It was just a Southern way of talking. Regional, not genetic.
“You kept the letter?” he tried again.
“In the glove box. Now let me loose.”
Driskell stepped over him, gingerly climbed into the cab, reached into the glove box, and retrieved the letter.
He slid to the ground and walked to stand in the headlights. In the harsh glare he looked at the envelope and the stationary. M.V. Valentine, Esq. The address was on the main drag in Biloxi.
“Who is this man?”
“How should I know? He’s a lawyer.”
“You haven’t been to see him?”
“Why should I hire a lawyer if the inheritance is rightfully mine? No point in giving some old ambulance chaser a cut.”
Driskell tapped the letter against his palm. “There’s no inheritance, Hare. There’s nothing at all except my promise. I swear to you, if you ever show your face anywhere near Lucille again, I’ll cut your eyeballs out and feed them to the birds.”
“You’re not strong enough to make such threats. You’re …”
Driskell lifted a glop of mushy detergent in his hand and advanced toward Peter. “I think it’s time for supper, Hare.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Officer O’Neill studied the badge and identification the man handed him. There was something about the old ruin he didn’t cotton to, but maybe it had more to do with the initials after Marshall Lovecraft’s name than anything else. From past experience Tim O’Neill believed that CIA stood for Cesspool In Action. That perfectly described the agents he knew about and the work they did. Of course, he didn’t know a single one of them personally, but in the badge business, intra-agency gossip got around fast.
Drawing his dark eyebrows together, he looked again at Marshall Lovecraft. He was well-preserved but long in the tooth, and he had the most annoying habit of viciously clicking his teeth together three times, as if he were trying to cement his dentures into place.
“Why is the CIA interested in a local tragedy?” O’Neill was determined not to let Lovecraft get the idea that his hot-shot federal employment gave him any special privileges in Biloxi, Mississippi. Hell, based on Congress’s recent accomplishments, most of the folks he knew would just as soon try secession for the second time around.
“What about tissue samples?” Marvin ignored the question as he swept his gaze over the black-clad ATF agents who were sifting through the larger pieces of debris. Surely there had to be a clot of Lucille Hare somewhere. And he intended to have it. “Have they found anything?”
“I’m sure you can look at their report, once it’s all finished.” O’Neill felt a strong compulsion to thwart this man.
“The report isn’t good enough. It’s a matter of national security.” Marvin felt his irritation grow. He wanted one simple thing, and he was wasting valuable time manipulating this backwoods Marshall Dillon.
O’Neill watched Marvin’s eyes. They were filled with a dead blue light, as if whatever had once lived behind them had curled up and died long ago. He glanced over to the other federal agents. The ATF guys were being remarkably quiet and civil. Usually the feds all hung out together and treated the local cops as if they were shit on the bottom of their shoes. A terrible thought struck O’Neill. Was there something romantic between this well-preserved fossil and the hot, red-headed writer? The very thought was depressing.
“Officer, I asked you a direct question.” Marvin longed for a cattle prod. The man in uniform who stood before him was a dolt. A uniform-wrapped affront. The desire to hurt him was almost irresistible, but Marvin fought it back. He could not afford to draw the attention of the ATF agents. One of them might actually be sharp enough to run his credentials. At that thought he edged away and was brought up sharp by the voice of the cop.
“Buddy found a hand. We thought for a while it belonged to the writer who lived in apartment 111, but it belongs to the cookie maker. She was in the middle of a batch of chocolate chips for her youngest son. She was on the other side of the wall where the bomb went off. Little chips of chocolate were embedded into her cheeks and forehead. At first I thought they were moles, but no, it was the chocolate. When she realized her hand was gone, she got a bit overwrought and the chips began to melt.”
“Enough!” Marvin couldn’t contain his impatience any longer. The policeman standing
before him was an imbecile, a total rube, a fool, a cretin with no functioning brain cells. “What’s been found of the Ha … the writer who lived here?”
O’Neill pushed his hat back. It had been a long night. The man was old enough to be Lucille’s father, and his interest in her was obviously personal. “Listen, mister, you want to act like a jerk, I suggest you take it somewhere else. As far as I know, the CIA has no authority in a local bombing. These folks were our friends and neighbors. Hell, I was dating the writer woman. You’re not from around these parts, so if you can’t act with some respect, maybe you’d better get back in your car and head for D.C. We don’t have much use for the likes of you down here.”
“Do they pay you to make speeches or uphold the law?” Marvin lifted his finger. He could kill Officer O’Neill with one well-placed plunge of his digit. He gritted his teeth against the need to do so. “I advise you to clear out of my way or your career will come to a screeching halt.”
“Oh, I’m terrified.” O’Neill held his hands up and gave an exaggerated tremble.
“I’d like to see the tissue samples.” Marvin spoke through clenched teeth. It was age. He’d always hated the local game, but he’d played it well as a younger man. Now he simply wanted the Hare sample and he wanted to disappear. But he was never going to get it if he antagonized this cop further. “Please.”
Officer O’Neill nodded. He’d detained the CIA agent as long as he dared. “I’ll see what our guys have turned up.” He left the old man standing at the perimeter of the disaster as he went toward the white and latex clad forensic team.
“Got anything, Jeff?” O’Neill asked a tall, thin man.
“If she was here, she’s been vaporized.” Jeff looked up over his mask. “What a mess. Whoever set this bomb wanted her dead, and he didn’t care if he took out half the state with her.”
O’Neill nodded. “Thanks,” he called over his shoulder as he returned to the CIA agent. “Nothing. He believes the woman was vaporized.” O’Neill shook his head. “This is going to be hard on her brother. They were very close.”
“I’m sure,” Marvin said. He looked beyond O’Neill and slowly moved past him to the edge of the wreckage. A bank of television lights exploded into dazzling white life. A hastily clad young woman took up a pose with her microphone while the camera crews zoomed and panned the area. Marvin drew back into the shadows. Lucille’s apartment and eight others looked like a gaping wound in the building. On each side of the blast-crater, jagged walls reared up, harsh in the unnatural light of television crews. Out on the lawn a baby whined and a dog began to bark.
The bomb had been a disaster. It brought to mind the time he’d blown up the U.S. Embassy in Costa Rica, a failed attempt to frame the Sandinistas.
Those were the breaks, though, in the covert operations business. Here in Biloxi he didn’t expect a backlash. He’d been careless not learning more about the explosive substance. He’d been excessive. But who would care about a dozen apartment dwellers? Hell, the trailer parks were brimming with replacements.
The real problem was that he hadn’t been able to find any remnants of Lucille. At least not yet.
“Excuse me, sir. Have you lost a loved one in the blast? Are you a resident of Marina Apartments?”
The microphone was thrust into his face and the lights swung around to blind him before he could react. Marvin had failed to keep a wary eye on the scavenging media.
“No,” he answered, pushing the microphone away.
“Where were you when the apartments were bombed? Were you close enough to feel the impact?”
“Get out of my way.” Marvin tried to step past the woman, but she used the microphone like a baton, punching him in the chest with it to hold him steady.
“What is your business at the site? Are you a sightseer?” she persisted.
The woman had turned ugly. The insinuation in her voice was clear. He had to think of something, and quick. Something that would stall her and make her back off. “I’m here in an official capacity.” Marvin tried to sound soothing. “I’m here to minister to the injured.” He made the sign of the cross. “These poor victims of tragedy. They need the comfort of their Maker.” He smiled benignly. “Excuse me.” He drew back into the fringes of the crowd that had begun to grow larger and larger on the perimeter of the apartment lawn. This night was not going well at all. Now, on top of vaporizing Lucille, he was going to have to get that video tape from the reporter. Too bad Americans had such a thing for members of the fourth estate. In other countries, it would be a minor problem. He’d simply shoot the cameraman and make the attractive newswoman his guest for several days. At the end of that time, she would have willingly forgotten ever being at Marina Apartments. Well, reporters were just one of the many nuisances wrought by the Bill of Rights and upheld by pinko fools who had no faith in their government.
Watching the young reporter as she talked earnestly into the camera, Marvin felt a growing rage. The night had been a mistake. Part of it was his fault, but not all. The only good thing was that Lucille Hare was no longer walking the face of the earth. If he had done nothing else, he had cleansed the earth of a fool and an idiot, and he had done it before Lucille Hare had reproduced! That had not been his primary goal, just a little bit of lagniappe thrown to his government for a lifetime of fun and games and a great retirement system.
That small success put a grin on his face, one which caused the young television reporter to turn away from him.
The rim of the sun slipped over the horizon, a core of molten gold that colored the sky mauve and pink. Marvin sighed. The night was finally over. He’d have to figure out a scam to get to the morgue and find a few cells of Lucille. Either there or the forensic lab, where something of her might be in a jar, pickled. That thought widened his grin. Lucille should have been jarred when she was born. She would have been a perfect attraction at a country fair.
Even as he watched, the sun inched into the sky, casting light over the desolation of the apartment complex. Several apartment dwellers who stood on the fringe of the disaster began to sob as the total devastation became clear.
Marvin held back his chuckle. It always amazed him how surprised the victims of violence were. They acted as if they didn’t expect to be shot or stabbed or blown up. No matter how often they saw it on television or in the movies, they were somehow shocked when it visited them.
“Hey! Hey you! Lovecraft?”
He recognized the voice of the Biloxi cop and wiped the amusement from his face.
“Where can I get in touch with you?” Officer O’Neill asked. “In case we come up with something that might connect this bombing to the KGB or some other bogeyman agency.”
“I’ll be in touch with you,” Marvin said smoothly.
“Suit yourself.” O’Neill lost interest in the old fart. Two women far back on the horizon had caught his attention. One of them was slender with a bee-hive hair-do that held solid even in the brisk breeze that had begun to blow up with the dawn. The other was plump, or statuesque, as he preferred to think of it. He looked closer. He could swear he knew both of them. He did. He did know both of them! One was the head librarian, and the other was … Lucille Hare. Even with one side of her hair-do crushed in, which gave her head a busted melon look, he was certain it was her. “Hey, there she …” He stopped, remembering the old man’s unprofessional interest in her.
“What?” Marvin turned to look in the direction the cop was looking. “That isn’t possible.” His voice went from angry and arrogant to dead. “This can’t be happening. She’s dead. Blasted into the ozone.” Keen disappointment was mixed with another emotion he couldn’t fully place, but one that felt like what he’d often imagined fear to be. He had never been foiled. Never. Not in fifty-odd years of service to the cause. And especially not by a woman who didn’t have the sense of a cantaloupe.
“That’s Lucille Hare, standing over against the line of trees, isn’t it?” O’Neill asked. “I guess she wasn’t home la
st night. Hey!” Officer O’Neill stepped forward, his pace increasing as he headed toward the women. “Hey!” He yelled, waving his arms. “Lucille! Is that you?” He started to run.
Marvin saw his moment and drifted behind a stack of rubble. The two women turned and fled. They disappeared into the same neighborhood where he’d sat and watched the apartments blow. Even as fast as he could run, there was no way he could catch them. The bayou ran between him and them, and the marsh grass looked solid but was often floating on nothing but water.
Tim O’Neill recognized the futility of running after the women, too. He stopped and stared into the distance, shading his eyes with his hand. Perhaps it had been a hallucination. Why would Lucille run from him? He turned back toward the CIA agent. Maybe Lucille wasn’t running from him; maybe she was running from the fossil who’d shown an extraordinary interest in her. And why would the CIA be interested in a bank teller from Biloxi? Tim felt the short black hairs on his forearms prickle and stand on end. He searched the area beside the apartment building where Marshall Lovecraft had been standing only seconds before. There was no trace of the man.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The worn, slick leather felt exquisite to Mona’s inner thighs. She clamped down hard, loving the thrust of the saddle against her bare skin as she brought the crop down on muscular white flanks. She closed her eyes and for a moment she was transported back to the smell of sawdust and livestock, to the blare of a bad PA system and the feel of a powerful animal between her legs. “Buck, damn you,” she urged, swinging the crop again and again as the stallion beneath her reared and plunged.
To her surprise the stallion reared straight up, throwing her off balance and out of the saddle. She landed in a pile of red satin pillows, and in a moment the beast was upon her.
“Now, Mona,” he demanded. “I want you now. The rodeo is over.”
“I was getting ready to stoke the branding iron,” she whispered, eyes closed with the pleasure of his hands on her body.
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