The Toup brothers trudged up the shoreline of the island and advanced into the brush. Within a minute they saw light through the trees and they heard rustling, tentative and human.
When they came into the clearing they saw a short man with his back turned to them. About five feet nothing, baseball-capped and pony tailed. He was wearing headphones, pulling up marijuana plants and stuffing them into a black garbage bag. Victor moved stealthily through the brush toward the man, making no sound as he stepped over the soft dead leaves and nettles. When he drew closer he heard a familiar song coming out of the headphones. “Don’t Do Me Like That” by Tom Petty.
Victor pulled the Sig Sauer from his waistband. “Hey,” he said.
“Nothing stupid,” said Reginald.
The small man went obliviously about his business.
“Hey,” Victor said, louder.
No response.
Victor moved closer and kicked the man in the ass. Hard. He flew forward, howling like an animal, and landed face-first in the dirt.
“Cosgrove,” the man said, an enraged wail. He snatched off his headphones. “Fuckin’ kill you.”
“Who’s Cosgrove?” Victor said.
The man’s posture stiffened and he scrabbled up and turned around. He stared wild-eyed at the twins. “How ya doing?” he asked. A jerky nervous smile. He was wearing a Tom Petty DAMN THE TORPEDOES T-shirt and jean shorts, and bits of chaff stuck to his chin and forehead. His baseball cap had a fleur-de-lis and LE BON TEMPS ROULE on the front.
Victor had the gun pointed at the jockey-bodied man.
“Why you pointin’ that gun?”
“You been picking this crop?”
The man looked around. “Didn’t know it was anybody’s.”
“What’s your name?”
The man seemed reluctant to answer but then saw something in Victor’s face that made him. “John Henry Hanson.”
“Just growing in the wild, you thought?”
Hanson said nothing.
“Who’s Cosgrove?”
“Guy usually with me.”
“He here now?”
Hanson’s jaw worked as if grinding a sunflower seed.
“Is he here now? You have exactly one second.”
“Yeah, he’s here,” Hanson said, quieter now.
“Where?” Victor asked.
The man pointed his chin vaguely. “Probably the boat.”
“What a colossal dumbfuck.”
Reginald stooped under the low-hanging boughs and went through the underbrush looking for the man called Cosgrove.
Pointing his Sig Sauer in the man’s face, Victor told him to get on his knees. He did, lacing his hands behind his head, his face muscles jerking with panic.
“Look, man,” he said. “I’m sure sorry about all this. Take whatever I picked. It’s yours. I don’t need it.”
“You’re saying I can have it?”
“Yeah. Yes sir.”
“That’s real generous.”
“Mine, you say?”
“Yes sir.”
“So why’d you take it in the first place?”
Hanson slowly shook his head.
Victor stepped forward and pressed the barrel of the gun into the flesh of Hanson’s forehead. “So you’re in charge now. Telling me what’s what. Take what’s mine, you’re telling me. Like it’s a favor.”
“We’ll leave. Right now. Never come back.”
“That won’t work.”
Hanson gaped up at him, swiping his tongue over his parched lips. “Sure it will.” A high pleading note had entered his voice.
“No, it won’t.”
“Why not?”
Victor stayed quiet.
“Why not? We’re no narcs.”
Victor stared without blinking at Hanson. At a loss for what else to say, Hanson looked at the ground, eyes ticking back and forth as he plumbed the depths of his brain searching for the right thing to say, the magic word that didn’t exist. Around them insects hummed and scratched. Then there was the sound of approaching footsteps, the dragging of shoes across sleech and dead leaves. Reginald emerged from the brush with the other man, a broad-shouldered guy with a beard and the beginnings of a gut. Cosgrove.
“Found this rougarou,” Reginald told his brother.
Cosgrove shot Hanson a weary, I-told-you-so look. Reginald had the barrel of his Bearcat Ruger revolver held to the back of the man’s head and told him to kneel. He hesitated.
“On your knees,” said Victor.
Cosgrove winced and got down on his knees next to Hanson.
“What’s your name?” Victor asked the new man.
“Baker.”
“What Baker?”
“You sure?”
Silence. The hoot of a night owl from a nearby chenier. The wind sighing through the marijuana plants.
“We’re already off to a bad start,” Victor said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because your name ain’t that.”
Cosgrove was quiet.
“What’s your real name?”
“Nate Cosgrove.”
“If I check your wallet, that’s what it’ll say?”
“Go ahead. Check.”
“How about you?” Victor asked Hanson.
“I don’t have my wallet. Check if you want. Go ahead and check, mister. I swear to God.”
“Names’re probably besides the point now,” Victor said.
Hanson’s lips twitched over his crooked teeth. He rolled a frightened glance at Cosgrove, who was making an effort it seemed to stare straight ahead without looking at the twins’ faces.
“Neither of you are too bright, are you?” Reginald asked.
“I guess not,” Cosgrove said.
“That’s the first true thing you said all night,” Victor said.
“I just don’t know what to do with you two,” Reginald said.
“Let us go,” Cosgrove said.
“Let you go,” Victor said tonelessly.
“We’ll give all your money back.”
Silence.
“With interest,” Cosgrove said.
“What’s in it for me?”
“You get your money back.”
“So I just accept the money and let you go? For my troubles?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“We’ll give whatever you want,” Cosgrove said. “For your troubles.”
“Whatever I want.”
“Whatever you want,” Hanson agreed.
“Your lives?”
Hanson’s head drooped as if his neck had turned to rubber. “Whatever I want. Right?”
“Fuck,” Hanson said.
“I don’t care how much money,” Cosgrove said. “We’ve got thirteen, fourteen thousand back in the motel. Cash. I can get it right now. Right this second. Thirteen, fourteen easy.”
Hanson glanced at Cosgrove, shook his head. His chin quivered. “These guys are fuckin’ with us.”
“Shut up,” Cosgrove said.
“They’re fuckin’ with us.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Cosgrove said.
“Fourteen thousand?” Victor asked.
“Cash,” Cosgrove said. “Right now.”
“Fourteen thousand is nowhere near the number you gotta be. Not even in the same universe.”
“You’re marijuana growers,” Hanson said. “You’re fuckin’ with us. Right? What’s this, Scarface?”
“You’ll never be found,” Victor said. “That’s the thing. Never.”
“You’re fuckin’ with us.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Victor said. He raised his gun and without hesitation shot Hanson in the face.