A Billy Bob and Hackberry Holland Ebook Boxed Set

by James Lee Burke

  Then she walked to the door of the interview room, where the two detectives stared at us open-mouthed. “Kick him,” she said.

  I WALKED OUT the front door of the courthouse with Wyatt Dixon. The sun was out, the sky freckled with white clouds, the mountains green from the rain. Even though it was a business day, the streets were festive, filled with bicyclists and joggers, and a string band was playing under the trees on the courthouse lawn.

  “Buy you a hot dog?” Wyatt said.

  “Another time,” I replied.

  I could feel his eyes on the side of my face. “You just gonna let that woman pop you in the mouth like that?” he said.

  “I’m used to it.”

  “No, something’s crawling around in the woodpile. How you know it wasn’t me dropped them men at Mabus’s ranch?” he said.

  “You would have used that fifty-caliber Sharps of yours. You probably wouldn’t have missed Mabus, either.”

  “Maybe you give me too much credit.”

  I waited for the traffic light to change, then started across the street, hoping Wyatt would stay behind. He didn’t. “You figure American Horse for it?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied, my eyes straight ahead.

  “A man who’ll use a knife on another man will do anything,” he said.

  “You have any more trouble with the D.A.’s office, you tell me about it. In the meantime, you make no statement to anybody from the D.A.’s office or the sheriff’s department about anything,” I said.

  But Wyatt was not easily distracted from the subject at hand. “If it ain’t me or American Horse, who’s that leave, Brother Holland?”

  “You got me. Have a good one,” I replied.

  He stopped at a hot dog cart where a man in an apron was selling dogs and ice cream under a striped umbrella. I walked on down the street toward my office, believing I was rid of Wyatt Dixon for a while.

  Wrong.

  “Your knowledge about all this don’t add up to me,” he said.

  “The morning paper said the shooter fired several shots in quick succession,” I replied. “That means he didn’t use a Sharps. I also have the feeling the shooter picked up his brass or he wiped it clean before he loaded it into the magazine. Otherwise, the D.A.’s office would have latents that would have either implicated or cleared you. So what’s that tell us? You’re an innocent man.”

  But I could see his interest fading and a wan expression taking hold in his eyes. He took a bite of his hot dog, started to chew, then choked as though cardboard had caught in his throat. He spit his half-chewed food into a trash can and threw the rest of the dog in on top of it. His mouth was close to my face when he spoke again, his breath rife with the smell of meat and mustard. “Know why it wasn’t me up on that hill? It’s ’cause I wouldn’t even try. Mabus cain’t be killed with a gun. Cain’t be killed by no normal means,” he said.

  “He’s just a man, Wyatt.”

  “They held Elton Sneed underwater till his heart give out. His death’s on me. I ain’t never gonna get over this. I ain’t never had no feelings like this before,” he said.

  He crossed against the light, swaying like a drunk man through cars that braked to a halt or swerved around him, their horns blowing.

  A HALF HOUR later I drove to Community Hospital, located in the middle of the old federal reservation that was once Fort Missoula. In the 1870s Negro bicycle troops had been stationed there, ostensibly to help remove the Flathead Indians from the Bitterroot Valley and to control the Nez Percé, who, under Chief Joseph, almost defeated the United States Army. But today the old two-story, whitewashed stucco barracks, with their red-tile roofs, were administrative offices for the U.S. Forest Service, the parade grounds a golf course, and the Negro troopers who had ridden bikes with iron wheels rested under the maples inside a piked fence.

  The names of the two shooting victims had been published in the morning paper. A receptionist gave me their room numbers.

  “Can I talk with them?” I said.

  “You have to ask the nurse,” she replied.

  Their rooms were next to each other on the second floor. I walked past the nurse’s station as though I already knew where I was going and had permission to be there. The man who had taken a round in the rib cage was out of intensive care, sleeping in a flat position, an IV taped to his left arm. His hair was dark and curly, his jaws unshaved, his arms unmarked by tattoos. I didn’t recognize him.

  The second man, whose name was Jared Green, was another matter. He was sitting up in bed, watching the television set on the wall, a glass of fruit juice in his hand. His hair was blond, neatly combed, his head large, his facial skin like pig hide.

  “You doing all right?” I said through the open door.

  He clicked off the television set with a remote control. “Who are you?” he said.

  I stepped inside the room. “You stopped my truck out on Rock Creek. You asked me to walk over to Karsten Mabus’s limo. How you feeling?” I said.

  “When the dope wears off, I’ll tell you.”

  “You took a round through the leg?”

  He flipped back the sheet to show me the knot of bandages around his knee. “Mr. Mabus send you?” he said.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Nobody’s been out to see me except the foreman. I got surgery scheduled for three o’clock this afternoon. The food here blows. Tell the nurse this catheter is like a snake hanging on my joint.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “Hey, come back here. Why you here?” he said at my back.

  I DROVE BACK down a long street lined with maples flickering in the wind, past the golf course and several upscale retirement homes, then turned into the traffic that would take me back downtown. I clicked on the radio, the volume louder than normal, my hands tighter on the steering wheel than they should have been. I wanted to be around noise, stopped at the red light next to a car filled with high school kids or family people. I wanted to be in a crowded restaurant, at a rodeo, a state fair, a baseball game. I wanted to be anywhere except inside my head with my own thoughts.

  Back at my office, I called Temple and gave her the names of the two shooting victims and asked her if she could run them.

  “Sure. But what’s the point?” she said.

  “I just want to know who’s working for Karsten Mabus.”

  She waited a beat before she spoke. “Where’d you go last night, Billy Bob?”

  “For a carton of ice cream.”

  “I’ll call you back later,” she said.

  It was almost quitting time when my phone buzzed. “It took me a while,” she said. “These guys have lived all over the place, at least until they went to work for Mabus. That’s the funny thing about them. They floated around the country, getting in trouble wherever they were, then they found a home with Karsten Mabus and changed their ways. Which guys like them don’t do.”

  “Start with Jared Green,” I said.

  “He was a trainer at health clubs in Miami and Los Angeles. He was also a prostitute for an escort service in Naples, Florida. He was in a reformatory at Tracy, California, and spent eight months in the Broward County Stockade for breaking his girlfriend’s jaw. He should have gone to Raiford, but the D.A. couldn’t get her to testify. He’s the one who got kneecapped?”

  “He’s the one.”

  “Same guy who stopped you on Rock Creek Road?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Because you seem to have a personal interest in him.”

  “Can’t you just give me the information, Temple?”

  She paused, then ignored my irritability and went on. “His friend, Albert Burgette, has a bad-conduct discharge from the Navy and used to be a long-haul truck driver. He and some others guys also ran a home-repair scam. Each spring they’d roam around the West, knocking on the doors of elderly people, telling them their roofs had ice damage. Burgette was also charged with the hit-and-run death of an eleven-year-old girl, but it didn’t stic
k. The cops in Fresno think his friends threatened a witness.

  “In other words, both guys are genuine scum. Now do you want to tell me why you’re so interested in these characters?”

  “I guess you’re right, they’re not important.”

  “Where’d you go last night, Billy Bob?” she said.

  AT 5 P.M. I LOCKED UP the office and crossed the street to a workingmen’s bar. I sat in back, near a brick wall with a painted-over window in it that gave onto an alleyway, and ordered a beer and a double shot. It was a cool, dark place, with a lighted jukebox and neon ads for western beers on the wall. The people who drank at the bar were from the neighborhood and talked about sports and the opening of the streams that had been closed because of the forest fires, or they made jokes about their tabs and their jobs. I wanted to buy them a round, be among them, and have no cares other than the traffic I would have to negotiate before I was home, enjoying a fine supper.

  But the images of two bullet-wounded men would not go out of my head.

  I went back to the bar twice more for doubles, with a beer back. When I was on my fourth round, a huge shape stepped between my table and the glare of light through the front door.

  “Didn’t know you were a drinking man,” Darrel McComb said.

  “I’m just about to leave,” I replied.

  He sat down at the table anyway, with a longneck and an empty glass. His jaws were gritty with stubble, his clothes rumpled. “Tell American Horse he gave me the key,” he said.

  “The key?” I said.

  “It’ll make sense down the road.” He poured beer into his glass and salted it. “One day I’m going to write the history of what happened down in Central America. Hitler said the victors write the history books. But sometimes the victors leave big blanks in the story, know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I said, realizing he was either drunk or entering a new and perhaps terminal stage in his career. “Say that again about Johnny American Horse?”

  “You bet, kemosabe,” he said. He drank from his glass, then smelled himself and smiled bleary-eyed into my face. But he forgot whatever it was he intended to say.

  I patted him on the shoulder as I left the bar, perhaps glad to have the problems I did and not someone else’s.

  I BOUGHT A HOT DOG and a Styrofoam cup of black coffee on the corner and ate the hot dog on a bench before I tried to drive home. After I pulled into the driveway I went straight into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth with Listerine, and showered the smell of booze and cigarette smoke off my skin and out of my hair. But I didn’t fool Temple. Not about anything.

  “Make a stop on the way home?” she said.

  “I ran into Darrel McComb. He said something about Johnny American Horse providing a key for him. I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about.”

  But Temple was not interested in the problems of Darrel McComb. “The thirty-thirty is gone from the rack,” she said.

  “Yeah, I took it to Sportsmen’s Surplus. I think the sight is bent,” I replied.

  I was sitting at the kitchen table. Through the side window I could see our horses drinking at the tank and shadows spreading across the valley floor. I felt her fingers stroking the back of my neck. “You’re the best man I’ve ever known, Billy Bob,” she said. “You’re incapable of evil or meanness. If you’ve broken any laws, it was on behalf of the people you love.”

  I had to swallow at her words. I started to speak, but she didn’t let me. She put her arms around me and hugged my head against her, her mouth pressed into my hair.

  Chapter 24

  DARREL LEFT THE BAR and drove to his apartment on the river. He took a hit of white speed and washed it down with beer, then walked out on the balcony and looked out over the town. The rain had killed the fires and restored the glories of summer to western Montana. What a grand evening it was. He looked at the water coursing under the pilings on the Higgins Street Bridge, the glow of lights on the old Wilma Theater building, the red brilliance of the sunset among hills at the bottom of an azure sky, and he wondered how his life could have gone so wrong.

  The answer was easy: He genuinely loved the place where he lived, but the place where he lived did not love him. And that’s the way it had always been. He had loved causes that didn’t love him. On all levels he had served people who had found him either odious or expendable, and the notion of being loved had long ago disappeared from his life.

  Well, that was why hookers were invented, he thought bitterly, then felt both embarrassed and demeaned at the content of his own thoughts.

  Get out of this funk, he told himself. He had never sought either pity or understanding for the life he had led. Years back, whenever he was asked why he kept re-upping in the Army, he had always replied, “It’s three hots and a cot, Jack.” You didn’t share your feelings with people who don’t pay dues. Let the fruits and tree huggers frolic in Golden Gate Park, he had always told himself. The men and women who protected them and would one day live in Valhalla required no recompense other than their own self-respect.

  But for just a moment Darrel wondered what it would have been like if he’d had a wife or even a girlfriend like Amber Finley.

  He went back inside, closed the glass door on his balcony, and forced himself to empty his mind of thoughts about Amber Finley. He opened another beer, bit down on another hit of white speed, and blew out his breath when he felt the rush take him. That was more like it.

  He opened his computer file and began recording all the recent events concerning Karsten Mabus, Greta Lundstrum, Elton T. Sneed, and Johnny American Horse.

  For a college guy, Holland didn’t seem too smart, Darrel thought to himself. The key to taking down Karsten Mabus was getting inside his compound. But even though Darrel had made Greta his personal snitch, he had not figured a way to put her inside Mabus’s place with a wire. Then American Horse had escaped from federal custody, which made him a likely candidate for the sniper shootings at Mabus’s ranch.

  The only other viable candidate was Wyatt Dixon. But Darrel didn’t believe Dixon had the brains to get inside the property, shoot two men, and safely escape. It had to be American Horse. Or at least that was the case Darrel was going to make.

  The shooting couldn’t have happened at a more perfect time. Now Darrel had the leverage he had lacked earlier. It was just a matter of convincing Karsten Mabus that Greta and her boyfriend, one Darrel McComb, a disgraced police officer with no moral bottom, had information that could prevent another assassination attempt on Mabus’s life.

  He glanced at his breakfast table, where the tools of his trade rested like an ugly testimony to everything that he was: his Beretta, the sap he had beaten American Horse with, his cuffs, a switchblade knife, two miniaturized recorders with tiny microphones, a .25 hideaway and holster with a Velcro ankle strap, and a throw-down that had the serial numbers burned off.

  Darrel finished recording the events of the last few days that were connected in any way to the homicides committed on the property of Johnny American Horse. He used the spell-check mechanism to correct any misspellings in the file, reviewed his prose for its accuracy and specificity, then decided to add another paragraph.

  It read: “Please consider the following statement as my summation of my time on earth—Hey, I never had to sell shoes at Thom McAn.”

  He exchanged the fourteen rounds out of the old magazine on his Beretta, inserting them into a new magazine with a taut spring, examined the surveillance equipment he had bought off an alcoholic P.I., and finished his beer out on the balcony. The sunset that had flamed at the bottom of the sky was almost gone, and a cool wind was blowing off the river. The evening shade had spread across the valley, the gold light on the eastern hills dying before his eyes, and he thought he smelled the autumnal odor of gas and dead leaves inside the wind. But surely fall had not already come, had it? Wasn’t there another summer concert and dance on the river tomorrow night?

  AT 1:00 A.M. THURSDA
Y, someone reported a fire burning inside Brendan Merwood’s downtown law office. Two fire trucks were dispatched, but when firemen and the security service searched the building, they found nothing out of the ordinary. By the time Brendan Merwood arrived at the scene, wearing his pajamas and bathrobe, the firemen were packing up to leave. Across the street, at the entrance to an alley, several homeless men had evidently started a fire in a trash barrel, and the firemen told Merwood the flames from the barrel had probably been reflected in the windows of the law office.

  I’VE HEARD RECOVERING drunks and addicts say they treat their own minds like dangerous neighborhoods they don’t enter by themselves. All night I kept seeing the face of Elton T. Sneed and imagining the level of pain and fear he must have experienced before he died. How could I have been so foolish not to realize Mabus’s people would target someone close to Wyatt rather than Wyatt himself, considering the fact he had already shot or torn several of them apart?

  Wyatt had told me Sneed’s death was on him. But it wasn’t. It was on me.

  Whether I liked it or not, my guilt had joined me at the hip with a man I had once considered the most repellent human being I had ever known.

  I woke in the false dawn, and without waking Temple I took a croissant and a carton of chocolate milk from the icebox and drove up the Blackfoot to Wyatt’s place.

  It was cold in the canyon, the rocks up on the hillside pink inside the mist, a sliver of moon hanging above the fir trees. My boots clanged on the steel swing bridge, while down below the river roared like rainwater flooding through a stone pipe. I could smell the odor of woodsmoke from Wyatt’s kitchen and steak frying in a skillet, and I wondered briefly, considering the nature of my mission, if I would leave Wyatt’s property alive.

  He met me at his back door, shirtless, barefoot, a blue-and-white-freckled coffeepot in his hand. He stared at me blankly, his face marked from a lack of sleep. I waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. “You wear a hat in your house?” I said.