Southern Cross uhabavw-2

by Patricia Cornwell

  'That would piss me off, too,' Pigeon said. 'Nobody cares anymore.'

  Bubba focused on Smudge and his wife opening lawn chairs in a yard no more than fifty feet to Bubba's right.

  'He probably doesn't even know those people,' Bubba mumbled with fresh fury. 'Just helps himself like he does with everything in life.'

  'All the world's like that now,' Pigeon said.

  'He knows I'm here, too,' Bubba said. 'The son of a bitch knows he owes me a thousand dollars. Says he has amnesia, doesn't remember the bet, so it doesn't count.'

  'I don't know what happened to honesty,' Pigeon said.

  Bubba watched Smudge open a checkered tablecloth and spread it out in the grass. He set down a blue ice chest, opened the lid and rummaged.

  Pigeon searched in vain for a cigarette butt. He could tell the price had shot way up. People were smoking closer to the filter, leaving nothing for him.

  He was shocked yesterday morning when he was picking his way along Main Street, downtown, and observed on the Dow Jones electronic message board outside Scott and Stringfellow brokers that the price per pack had increased another two dollars and eleven cents. If only Pigeon had bought more when he had the money from the pawn shop. He could have done some quick trading. He'd probably be rich.

  Even as Pigeon was thinking that, Bubba reached into his shirt pocket for a pack. He shook out a cigarette without lowering the binoculars.

  'Those Merit Ultimas any good?' Pigeon asked as Bubba lit up. 'That's one I haven't tried yet.'

  'Oh yeah,' Bubba said. 'Anything Philip Morris makes is the best.'

  'I've always thought so. How are those different from regular Merits?' Pigeon asked slyly.

  'Want to try one?'

  'That would be nice,' Pigeon said as Bubba passed him the pack. 'Why, thank you very much.'

  Wailing police sirens and the thunder of cops on motorcycles sounded in the distance, signaling that the parade was starting. Weed was so excited his knees were shaking.

  He was positioned to the right of Lou Jameson on the snare drum, who was wearing sunglasses like all the drummers did. He had never been very friendly to Weed and more than once had commented that anybody could play cymbals and he'd seen girls doing it in other bands.

  Western Guilford High School in white and black was directly in front of Godwin. Lakeview Junior High in gold and green was to the rear. Bright, brave uniforms of all colors and designs must have stretched for a mile, Weed calculated. The parade was starting to move. The lead band out of New Jersey exploded into 'God Bless America,' which wasn't very original and the trumpets were a little off.

  Weed stood tall and proud. He did a few toe lifts to loosen up.

  'Left foot out and point flex and point flex and really stretch it,' he recited.

  Jameson looked at him with disdain.

  'Left heel two inches off ground while ball and toe remain touching the ground.' Weed practiced a low mark time with a quick, snappy motion. 'Ankle touches knee on end of each beat, toe pointed straight down the leg, feet flat.' He executed a perfect high mark. 'Push down on beat on left foot, then mark time.'

  'Hey, cut it out,' Jameson said.

  'No,' Weed retorted.

  He used to be intimidated by Jameson. But after being arrested, getting locked up in detention, mouthing off to a defense attorney and striking a deal with a judge, Weed wasn't scared of anyone.

  'Three, four, halt. To left, right, foot crosses over, mark time hut, and one, two, three, four, weight on toes.' His crab step was flawless.

  'I told you to fucking cut it out,' Jameson whispered.

  'Make me.'

  'I'll beat your ass.'

  'Hope you beat it better than you do that drum,' Weed said.

  'TO THE READY!' the drum major shouted from the front.

  Weed came to attention. One thing about his cymbals, they sure got heavy.

  'BAND, TEN-HUT!'

  He strained to see what the color guard was doing way ahead. When the woodwinds started forward marching, he knew he was next.

  There was nothing random about Smoke's decision to steal the black nylon Stanley tool belt when he broke into Bubba's workshop. Its extra deep pockets were perfect and he had known it at the time, because Smoke had been planning for a while.

  He was dressed in worn-out, soiled jeans, a filthy tee shirt and dirty scuffed Red Wing boots. A paint-spattered baseball cap was low over his eyes. He wore Oakleys and hadn't shaved in days. No one paid any attention to him as he walked across yards, trying to see the parade like everybody else.

  Smoke had conducted a thorough surveillance in the George Wythe parking lot while the parade was lining up.

  He knew where everyone was. He had spotted Weed. Smoke had walked right past the police chief and the two cops who had spoken in Godwin's auditorium. It was hilarious. Smoke's nerves were humming. He was pumping adrenaline and almost manic.

  Concealed inside the pouches around his waist were the stolen Beretta and four ten-round clips and two fifteen-round clips and his Glock with three seventeen-round clips. That made a grand total of one hundred and twenty-one Winchester 115 grain Silvertip high-power cartridges.

  He watched antique Jaguars and Chryslers cruise by, then the Corvette Club. People were waving and clapping, the weather great, everybody in a good mood. He spotted a sloping lawn that was a little higher above the street than those around it. Some jerk and a mousy woman were having a picnic on a red-checked tablecloth. Smoke had found the perfect spot. He walked right up to them, crossed his arms and looked out as the Veterans of Foreign Wars and the Red Cross rolled by.

  Bubba recognized the Stanley tool belt immediately. Some construction guy was wearing it. The big black belt with its deep pouches was exactly like the one missing from Bubba's garage. Bubba focused the binoculars a little more, zooming in on the guy's face.

  He looked about fifteen or sixteen, kind of puny and pale. The pouches were bulging and looked heavy. He had the padded yellow belt pulled as tight as it would go, the entire rig huge on him because it was an extra-large and the kid couldn't weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds. Bubba didn't see a single tool, no tape measure, no nails, nothing in the hammer holder, not so much as a handle protruding.

  'That's my belt,' Bubba said as his heart picked up speed. 'I know it is!'

  Pigeon looked where Bubba was looking, squinting as he smoked another Merit Ultima that Bubba had been pleased to give him.

  'How do you know?' Pigeon inquired.

  'I see a little white mark on the quick-release belt buckle. It might be my initials. I paint my initials in white on all my tools, on everything, to make sure when Smudge borrows something he can't turn around and say it's his!'

  'Who's Smudge?' Pigeon asked, tapping an ash.

  The last of some band in black and white was marching by, playing 'Take the "A" Train.' The drum major of the Godwin band was right behind it. Bubba stared through the binoculars, blood rushing to his head, his heart beating faster than a snare drum as he focused on the dark blue convertible carrying Hammer, West and Brazil. They were one band behind Godwin.

  The guy wearing Bubba's tool belt seemed, tense. His right hand was twitching. He seemed to be waiting for something or someone. He was searching the ranks of the Godwin band, then looking straight at Chief Hammer. Bubba was sure of it.

  Godwin started in on the theme from Titanic. The construction guy looked left and right and slipped his right hand into a pouch and kept it there. Bubba's stolen guns flashed in his head. He ran out into the street as the woodwinds were going by. He wanted to pull out his new Browning but thought better of it.

  'Stop him!' he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  The fat man Smoke had met at Muskrat's Auto Rescue and soon after burglarized was pointing right at Smoke and yelling. Smoke was cool. He looked around and shrugged.

  'What a wacko,' he said to the man and woman picnicking next to him.

  Cops were running out. One galloped up on
a horse. They were trying to calm the fat man and get him out of the street. Smoke smiled. This was going to be better than he thought. He zoomed in on Weed. The little retard was crashing and flashing his cymbals, the dude to the left trying to outdo him on the snare drum. Smoke took his time. He didn't want to slip his hand into the pouch again until the fat man quit pointing at him.

  'Somebody do something!' the fat man was screaming as two cops grabbed his arms. 'Get him, not me! The kid up there in the Stanley tool belt!'

  Pigeon was concerned. He walked out on the street as Bubba struggled with the cops and continued to yell. 'Look, he's with me,' Pigeon told the cop on the horse.

  'Stand back!' the cop yelled at Pigeon.

  'It's his tool belt. You can see the white initials on the buckle. I mean with binoculars you can.' Pigeon wasn't to be deterred. 'The kid stole it.'

  Bubba's binoculars flew off. A pistol fell out of somewhere and clattered to the street. This seemed to upset the cops quite a lot. All of them snatched handcuffs and red pepper spray off their belts. The Godwin band quit playing and froze as some little kid suddenly broke out of formation and rolled his cymbal down the street. Pigeon realized it was Weed.

  Chief Hammer had no idea what was going on. The parade halted as what sounded like a huge bronze hubcap rolled toward her car.

  'What's happening?' Hammer asked, standing up in the back seat, trying to see.

  West stopped the car.

  'GET DOWN!' Brazil yelled as he pushed Hammer to the floor and band members jumped out of the way and the cymbal hit a little dip in the road and picked up speed, flying past loudly, scattering the Mason clowns, sending Sergeant Santa scurrying, almost running the mayor's car into the crowd. The Florettes dropped their batons.

  Jed saw the cymbal coming before Lelia Ehrhart did, and he suddenly threw the red Cadillac into reverse.

  Azalea bushes jumped off the back seat, clay pots breaking, bees darting out of harm's way, dirt flying everywhere as streamers of blue ribbons changed direction and flew in Ehrhart's face.

  The blond cop Jed had picked up in the cemetery the other day had just leaped out of Chief Hammer's car and was running like hell. Jed slammed on the brakes. A pink azalea bush sailed over the back of the front seat and Ehrhart shrieked. The cymbal went screaming past, flashing in the sun like a runaway gold chariot wheel.

  Jed jumped out of the Cadillac without opening the door, neglecting to put the car in park. It began moving forward on its own as Ehrhart fought with streamers of blue ribbons, getting more entangled, and Patty Passman, nearby in the rioting crowd, threw down her Death by Chocolate ice cream cone and pushed people out of the way.

  'MOVE, FUCKHEADS!' She shoved and punched, sugar-charged and unstoppable.

  She chased the red Cadillac and hurled her fat body over the driver's door, landing with her feet in the air, grabbing the gear shift and jamming it into park.

  Smoke was momentarily confused by the commotion. The plan in his head turned to page three and stopped. He looked around and backed up a little, almost slipping on the grass. At first it didn't register that the blond cop he had heard at school, and Weed and a street person were running toward him at top speed.

  'EVERYBODY GET DOWN!' the blond cop was yelling.

  The crowd started panicking. The cops lost interest in the fat man. They charged toward Smoke, too, the blond cop running the fastest.

  'YOU SON OF A BITCH!' the fat man screamed at Smoke.

  The picnicking couple dove out of the way as the fat man ran across their red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. Smoke panicked and pulled out the Beretta. In his confusion he forgot how to take the safety off.

  People were thundering toward Smoke from all directions, with Weed in the lead, the plume on his black hat straight back as he ran at incredible speed. Smoke dropped the Beretta and groped for his Glock as Weed leaped five feet in the air and punched Smoke in the nose and grabbed his hair, knocking Smoke to the ground. They struggled over the Glock. Smoke let go of it when Weed bit his wrist hard.

  'I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!' Weed kept yelling as he pummeled Smoke with his fists.

  Brazil struggled to handcuff Smoke, who was rolling in the grass and yelling, clips of ammunition falling out of the stolen tool belt around his waist. At this point, community involvement was making matters worse.

  Bubba was poised, taking jabs at Smoke whenever Weed left an opening. Pigeon was on the ground, trying to hold Smoke's ankles. Other cops were grabbing at Smoke and getting in Brazil's way. Unfortunately, one of them started squirting pepper spray. Then everyone was rolling on the ground, hands over their eyes, yelling in pain.

  Smoke kicked straight up and caught one of the cops in the groin and grabbed the Sig Sauer pistol out of the other cop's holster. Smoke was bloody and breathing hard as he gripped the pistol in both shaking hands, his eyes watering and crazed with rage. He didn't see the two women cutting through the space between the two houses behind him.

  Hammer and West had their pistols out and were moving in fast. It seemed Smoke was trying to figure out who to shoot. He wildly pointed the gun at a fat man Hammer recognized as Bubba. Then the gun was pointed at Brazil and the other cops on the ground, then out at the fleeing crowd and participants in the parade.

  Hammer didn't have a clear shot because a street person and a little kid in a band uniform were in the way. Drifting pepper spray irritated Hammer's eyes and lungs. She and West split up as Smoke wheeled around, apparently hearing the sound of approaching feet. The barrel of his pistol seemed huge and unreal as he pointed it straight at Hammer's face. She couldn't shoot first. There were too many people in the way.

  Hammer hadn't been in a good fight in a while but she hadn't forgotten her training. She hurled her pistol at Smoke as hard as she could, and it sailed and spun like a boomerang, and Smoke involuntarily raised his arms to ward it off, giving Hammer an opportunity to dive at his feet, knocking him down. They struggled over his gun.

  'GIVE IT UP!' Hammer demanded.

  He tried to point the gun into her ribs and she managed to get a good purchase on one of his thumbs. She bent it straight back, an old and reliable police trick. He howled in pain. She wrested the gun away from him and shoved it hard under his chin.

  'MOVE I'LL BLOW YOUR MOTHERFUCKING HEAD OFF!' she yelled at him.

  Her finger was on the trigger. She wanted him to give her an excuse.

  'You goddamn little bastard,' she said in his face. 'That helpless old woman you murdered was my neighbor.'

  Brazil had recovered enough to help West handcuff Smoke and haul him away. Bubba sat up, tears streaming down his cheeks. Pigeon was facedown, still covering his eyes. The sock had come off his stump. Weed was unsteady as he got to his feet. He looked at Chief Hammer with red, watering eyes. She was standing very still, a gun at her side, pointed at the grass.

  Thanks,' Weed said to her. 'I sure am glad you're here.'

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  That night it rained. Water spilled from the sky in waves that reminded Weed of pictures he had seen of oceans. Next, hail was bouncing off streets, the wind pushing so strong, Weed bet it could ring doorbells.

  'Who is it?' he whispered in the dark, messing with the powers that be. 'Come in,' he talked to himself. 'Oh 'cuse me, I guess I forgot how to unlock the door.'

  Tears filled his eyes, his attempts at being funny not amusing anyone else since no one else was there. Lightning flashed in his barred window and snapped and cracked like popping bubble wrap. Weed imagined a tornado and thought of Twister. Weed had heard he wasn't supposed to walk around with a golf club, play the cymbals or talk on the phone when lightning was flying everywhere, and here he was sitting on a stainless steel bed.

  Oh well. Who cared if he was dead.

  Somewhere in a different part of the detention home, in what was called a pod, Smoke was locked up, too. The thought of that made Weed feel little bugs all over his skin. He scratched and brushed himself off, his hear
t bouncing everywhere. He was having difficulty breathing and couldn't seem to get warm. He pulled the covers more tightly around him and thought of his steel bed again when lightning flamed like a big gun.

  Chief Hammer hated lightning and usually stayed away from windows and objects that conducted electricity. But she couldn't sit still. She was pacing in her living room before windows and near lamps and iron fireplace tools and beneath the brass chandelier while Brazil and West sat restlessly on her couch, relentlessly replaying the day's events.

  'I don't care what anyone says,' Brazil repeated his biggest concern as the power went out. 'Weed shouldn't be in the same facility Smoke's in. Different pods or not. Smoke's already proven how clever, how diabolical he is.'

  'Didn't prove it enough to stay out of lockup,' West reminded them. 'But I don't like the situation either.'

  'I'm going to tell you right now,' Brazil went on. 'If Smoke wants to do something, he will.'

  'Yes, yes, yes,' Hammer said as she moved this way and that while Popeye snored from a wing chair and thunder boomed.

  Brazil was worried to the point of taking drastic action, although he wasn't sure what that was. Apparently, Smoke hadn't wanted Divinity, Beeper, Dog and Sick running loose while he was locked up. He had told the police how to find every one of them, and now all of the Pikes were supposedly in different pods in detention, maybe one or two corridors away from where Weed was being held in his single room with its steel toilet and fold-down bed.

  'We're going to need Weed to testify against all of them,' Brazil went on.

  'Don't care who's sleeping where,' West added, 'Weed could end up in recreation with Smoke or any of the guys. And Miss Divinity's a snake, too.'

  'Andy, Virginia, both of you are absolutely right.' Hammer stopped pacing long enough to light several candles. 'We need to get him out tonight.'

  This required an unusual, unorthodox plan, and Hammer had one. At quarter past eight, she called Judge Maggie Davis at home.