He cut his headlights when he entered the dirt road, then chose to continue on foot rather than risk blowing the edge he had accidentally gained on the Wellstone brothers. He parked his truck amid trees, locked the doors, and set out walking on the road, his nine-millimeter stuck in the back of his belt, his leather-sewn, lead-weighted blackjack in his pants pocket, an aluminum baseball bat gripped in his right hand.
When the Wellstones’ pickup had passed him out on the highway while he was standing in front of the café, he had recognized Ridley and Leslie inside, but he had not been sure who else was in the cab. He was convinced the agenda of the Wellstones was a simple one: They wanted revenge against Jimmy Dale Greenwood for the infidelity of Jamie Sue. Candace had blundered into the middle of the abduction, and the Wellstones’ hired goons had taken her along with Jimmy Dale to keep her from dropping the dime on their operation and preventing them from getting back to Leslie Wellstone with the freight.
Wellstone didn’t like being a cuckold. He wanted revenge, and he wanted his wife taught an object lesson. It wasn’t an unnatural reaction. But if the only issue were revenge, at least of a conventional kind — a thorough beating of the lover, a few broken bones, maybe — why hadn’t the goons simply given Candace a warning about keeping her mouth shut? Why hadn’t they dropped her off on the road somewhere, given her a few bucks, and said they were sorry, they were straightening out a breed who didn’t know how to keep his twanger in his Levi’s?
Because they planned to kill Jimmy Dale Greenwood, and they planned to kill the witness who could finger them for his abduction, Troyce thought. Something else was going down, too. The Wellstones were religious frauds, and their house was about to collapse on their heads. Maybe they were tidying up on a large scale, washing the blackboard clean and starting over. Or maybe a freak like Leslie Wellstone enjoyed hurting people. Troyce could not forget Wellstone’s instructions to his Hispanic housekeeper about the surfaces Candace had touched. Troyce wished he had settled the account right there in Wellstone’s living room.
Up ahead, he saw the Caddy owned by Clete Purcel. It had been abandoned at an odd angle in the middle of the road. An elevated jack and its stand lay in the mud by the front bumper. The doors of the Caddy were open, the keys still hanging in the ignition, the interior light manually set on “off.” Troyce looked in the glove box and under the seats for weapons but found none. He concluded that the interior of the vehicle had been rifled, which meant its occupants probably had not deserted the car of their own accord.
He walked over a knoll and saw headlights progressing slowly down the road and two figures walking inside the beams with their hands clasped behind their necks. He went deeper into the woods and kept walking parallel to the road, his bowels like water, his rectum constricting, his head as light as a helium-filled balloon. Ahead he could see other lights down in a depression or a clearing, and he thought he smelled diesel exhaust and heard the sound of a heavy machine idling, one without a muffler.
The wind gusted off the lake below and swept up through the timber, pattering raindrops on Troyce’s hat, the air blooming with a smell like fresh oxygen. He knelt down in the second growth, tilting his face toward the ground, freezing behind the trunk of a huge pine. A procession of people on foot, with the pickup behind them, wound its way up the road. Through the rain-beaded side window of the truck, Troyce thought he could make out the face of Jamie Sue Wellstone.
What was she doing here? he asked himself. Where was Candace? Where was Jimmy Dale? Had Troyce made a terrible mistake and followed the wrong vehicle and the wrong group of people? Was Candace somewhere else, depending on him, waiting helplessly for him to save her from the men who had stolen her out of the parking lot behind the bar? The possibility that he had screwed up and let her down when she needed him most made him almost insane with anger at himself. Was this punishment for what he had done to Cujo in Iraq? Was this punishment for what he had done to Jimmy Dale? He wanted to rush the Wellstone vehicle and tear both brothers apart and do as much damage as possible to their hired help as well.
No, “damage” wasn’t the word. As always, when Troyce felt a red balloon of anger blossom in his chest, he smelled an odor like stale sweat and machinist grease and gasoline soaked into coarse fabric. He felt a man’s whiskers on his face, a soiled hand unbuttoning his pants, a man’s labored whiskey breath working its way across his skin. In these moments Troyce knew why men could kill other men as easily as they did.
In his mind’s eye, he saw himself swinging the bat, doing amounts of bone-breaking injury to the Wellstones for which they would never find medical remedy.
CLETE AND I stared dumbly at the man in the mask. Ridley and Jamie Sue Wellstone and the man with the cut-down pump were climbing out of the purple pickup. The man with the cut-down pump was wiping his cheek on his sleeve. He wore a damp dark blue tropical shirt that looked like Kleenex wrapped on his muscular torso.
“Problem?” Leslie said to him.
“She slapped my face,” the man said. “She cut the skin with her nails.”
Leslie laughed. “Put it on my tab.”
“I don’t like a woman hitting me, Mr. Wellstone,” the gunman said.
“It could be worse. She could be your wife,” Leslie said.
“Let’s finish it,” Ridley said, propped on his braces, a flicker of pain in his expression from the ride down the potholed road.
“I think the Dio family clap has finally climbed from your dick up into your brain, Sal,” Clete said. “Look around you. You think all these people are going to forget what they see here?”
Leslie Wellstone walked toward Clete, a nine-millimeter hanging from his left hand. He was no longer smiling. I saw him whisper in Clete’s ear and then step back, his eyes glinting with whatever sliver of glass or ounce of poison he had managed to put inside Clete’s system.
“Why don’t you share it with me, Sal?” I said.
“I look like a dead Italian?” he said.
“Yeah, you’re Sally Dio,” I said. “Punks can read books and hire speech coaches, but you’re still the same punk who pretended he was a blues musician or whatever else was in style at the time. You’re a gutter rat, Sal. It’s in your genes.”
“Know what I was telling Clete, Dave? That both of you are about to be dead for a long time. But it’s going to come to you in pieces. Mr. Waxman over there loves his work. There are anonymous mounds all over this country that are silent tributes to his skill.”
“He’s the guy who killed Ridley Wellstone’s wife and stepdaughter, isn’t he?” I said.
“When you’re in the ground, you won’t be dead, Dave. You’ll be choking on dirt and trying to get it out of your eyes and ears and stop it from raining down on your chest. Just before everything goes black, maybe there’ll be a big illumination for you, and you can talk to all the other people he’s killed. You think that’s the way it’s going to come, Dave? That the earth will crush the light out of your eyes and in your last seconds you’ll realize there’s no mystery about life, that you’re just a sorry sack of worm food down there in the hole with all the other sacks of worm food?”
“Do what you’re going to do and be done. Listening to you is a real drag,” I said.
His eyes locked on mine, and for a second I saw his self-assurance slip, as though the ridiculing voice of his father, a gangster who had run all the vice along the Texas coast, was echoing in his memory. Then the glint of cruelty that defined the Sally Dio I had known on Flathead Lake years ago came back into his eyes. The tip of his tongue moved over his lips. “Watch closely.”
He walked to the three men who had been waiting inside the cargo van when we arrived. He rested his right hand — the one that resembled a shriveled monkey’s paw — on the shoulder of a blond man and looked at him. “The woman hit you in the face with a tire iron?” he said.
“I got careless, that’s all,” the blond man said.
“We can’t have broads doing that to us, can we?
You want to do the honors?”
“Sir?”
“Want to pop her? I’m going to let Moo-Moo pop my wife if he wants to.”
“No sir, we were just doing a job, Mr. Wellstone.”
“No, no, when somebody hits you with a tire iron, it’s personal. Come over here, fellows. Jimmy Dale ruined another man’s marriage and deserves a special fate. The woman, however, is just a meddlesome pain in the neck. I think she should receive rough mercy, don’t you?”
The three men from the van followed Sally Dio to the edge of the pit and stared down inside it, looking at one another, looking again into the pit, unsure what they should say next. It was obvious none of them wanted to be there. It was also obvious they feared the man who called himself Leslie Wellstone and did not want to displease him.
Then Sally Dio turned around and said, “What?” He said it as though someone behind him had spoken to him. “Wait here a minute, fellows,” he said, and began walking toward his brother. As he did, he nodded to the man holding the Mac-10.
I had seen a Mac-10 at a weapons exhibition and had even held one in my hands. But I had never seen one fired. I had been told that a Mac-10 could discharge from one thousand to sixteen hundred rounds of forty-five-caliber ammunition per minute. It was difficult to imagine firepower of that magnitude in a weapon so compact it could be held and aimed like a handgun.
Billy opened up, the suppressor eating most of the sound of the discharge, the spent shell casings clinking and bouncing on the ground. In a brief instant, the three victims seemed to stare in disbelief at the reversal of their fortunes, their mouths dropping open, their palms rising defensively. Then their clothes erupted with red flowers, their faces and skulls bursting into a bloody mist. They jackknifed backward into the pit, and I heard them strike the earth heavily, and then it was over except for the sound of the last ejected shells tinkling on the dirt.
Jamie Sue Wellstone was weeping in the background, her arms clenched across her chest, her back shaking, as though she were standing inside a cold wind without a coat.
“Do you want to get down in the pit by yourself, Clete, or do you want our friend Harold to put you in there?” Sally Dio said. “No matter what you do, no matter what you say, the end result will be the same. You can put yourself in the ground, or Billy can shoot you in the legs, and he and Harold can do it for you. But you’re going into the ground, Clete, and you’re going into it alive. Then Jamie Sue and Dave are going to join you. Maybe you and Jamie Sue can have a chat, a last bit of pillow talk.”
“I guess that means we’ll never be pals. So how about we leave it at this?” Clete said. He gathered all the saliva and bile in his mouth and spit it full in Sally Dio’s face.
Dio recoiled. He lifted his shirt and wiped Clete’s spittle off his mutilated face. But before he could speak, his hired man Billy, who had dropped the empty magazine from the Mac-10 and replaced it with a fresh one, clutched his arm. “There’s somebody down the slope, Mr. Wellstone. I just saw him.”
“Nobody came up the road. Nobody could be there. You probably saw a bear,” Dio said.
“No sir, I saw a guy in a hat.”
“Get down there, Moo-Moo, and check it out,” Ridley Wellstone said to the other gunman.
“What do you want me to do with him, sir?”
“Bring him back or kill him.”
“Are you gonna be all right, sir?” the gunman asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. Do what I say.”
But Ridley Wellstone was not fine. The strain of standing up on his braces was taking its toll. His face was gray and deeply lined, his forearms starting to tremble slightly. “This is all on you, you incompetent idiot,” he said to Dio.
“If you and Sonny Click had let that college girl alone, none of this would have happened,” Dio replied. “You couldn’t wait to put your dick in a coed who worked as a janitor. Then you let her boyfriend shove you down the stairs. You destroyed everything we put together, Ridley.”
“You’re right, my friend. I let you and your degenerate family bring your graft and misery into our lives, and I was a colossal fool for thinking I could turn a piece of shit into a gentleman. In his way, my brother was an honorable man. He didn’t deserve to have his name soiled by a man such as yourself. My father wouldn’t have let you clean our toilet.”
Out in the darkness, I heard the man with the cut-down shotgun shout, “Down here. He’s down here.”
“Who’s down there?” Dio called out.
But there was no reply.
TROYCE NIX KNELT behind a huge boulder shaped like the top half of a toadstool extending from the soft carpet of grassy earth that surrounded it; he was careful not to clink the aluminum bat against the stone. Down below, he could hear small waves sliding up on the rocks along the lakefront. Up the slope, the fir and pine trees pointed into the mist and glistened with moisture against the glow from the clearing. He could hear someone working his way down the incline a step at a time, trying to find safe purchase, his feet sliding on small rocks.
Whoever the man was, he had not been a combat soldier. Rather than zigzag through deep cover with the hillside solidly at his back, he had found a deer trail below the clearing and was following it in parallel fashion, so that his silhouette was backlit by the headlights of the Wellstone pickup truck.
But Troyce soon realized he had misjudged his adversary. The figure stooped over, temporarily disappearing from sight. Then Troyce heard a hard object knock against a tree behind him. He jerked his head around for an instant. When he looked back up the slope, the figure had not reappeared. The man had probably thrown a rock through the canopy, and Troyce had taken the bait.
The man up the slope was not using a flashlight, either, or trying to bang his way through the undergrowth or stay on the deer trail. He was somewhere immediately above Troyce, his eyes sufficiently adjusted to the darkness, occupying the high ground. Troyce hunkered down, one knee sinking into the velvetlike, damp earth, the coldness seeping through his trousers. He pulled his nine-millimeter from the back of his belt and clicked off the safety. But he also knew the minute he gave away his position, or gave away his identity, the Wellstones would immediately use Candace’s life to force his surrender, provided she was in the clearing.
That was the problem. He didn’t know what he was dealing with. Was Candace somewhere else? What if he got smoked on the hillside in an effort to rescue a couple of rogue Louisiana flatfeet? Candace would probably be killed, never knowing that he had tried to save her. But that was the way his entire life had been: never knowing who his adversaries actually were, never understanding the rules, never trusting anyone or anything except his own primal instincts. Early on, he had learned that the world respected brute force and brute force alone, no matter what people claimed. They made a show of venerating saints and men and women of peace, but when they were against the wall, they wanted their enemies hosed down with a flamethrower.
A sour odor rose from his clothes, like the sick smell the glands give off after a long fever. His stomach still felt nauseated and his body weak, as though an intestinal infection had spread throughout his system. He shifted his position, but when he did, the tip of the metal bat scraped against the boulder. He froze, his heart racing. Up above him, he thought he heard a twig break.
“Who’s down there?” the voice of Leslie Wellstone called from the clearing.
But there was no answer. Troyce could hear his own breath wheezing in and out of his chest, and he hated every cigarette he had ever smoked.
Candace, Candace, Candace, he thought. I’m out here. I won’t let you down. Even if they put a bullet through my brain, I’ll be at your side.
He swallowed, closed his eyes, and opened them again. Time to give the guy a taste of his own medicine, he told himself. Troyce pried up a large rock from the sod, hefting it in his palm like a shot put. On one knee, he threw it in an arc down the slope. The trajectory was perfect. It smacked the ground at least forty-five feet below him,
then rolled end over end down the hill, creating a sound like a man running.
The man who had gone into hiding stood up from behind some scrub brush and began descending the slope, holding a cut-down shotgun in front of him, digging his shoes into the dirt to keep his balance, using his elbows to knock tree branches away from his eyes.
“Wrong choice, pilgrim,” Troyce said under his breath. He stepped out from behind the boulder and swung the aluminum bat with both hands, twisting his hips, whipping his arms and wrists and shoulders into it. The bat landed squarely across his pursuer’s face, flattening his nose, shattering bone, splattering his dark blue Hawaiian shirt with a spray of what looked like brain matter.
Troyce stared down at the figure at his feet. The man’s eyes looked back at him, glasslike and disjointed in their sockets.
Troyce scooped up the dead man’s shotgun and moved away into the brush in a simian crouch. Above him, Leslie Wellstone called out into the darkness, “Moo-Moo, is that you?”
No, Moo-Moo is taking a long nap, Troyce thought. And now it’s your turn, you freak.
THE MAN WITH the Mac-10 had put Clete and me on our knees. I wanted to believe that Troyce Nix could turn the situation around for us, or that Alicia Rosecrans would show up in a helicopter loaded with her FBI colleagues. I did not want to believe that this was how Clete and I would meet our end. But I knew of many instances when it had happened to better men than I: the two FBI agents who may have been executed on the Oglala reservation in South Dakota; the L.A. cops abducted out of the city and taken to an onion field outside Bakersfield; and closer to home, the three Lafayette cops who were killed by a shotgun at point-blank range when they tried to arrest a man getting off a Greyhound bus.