“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 Tenn
essee, 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?”
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