CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Pain was not unfamiliar to Sam Larkin; for four years it had been as predictable as bad food, something he learned to live and function with. Breslin had done more damage than Sam first thought. The ribs hurt with every movement, and he was still passing blood from what he judged to be a bruised kidney. His head had settled into a soft ache, punctuated by dizziness if he bent over or stood up too fast. He was taking four aspirin every three hours, but they were having little effect.

When he began his search for Ray Breslin, there were no thoughts of what he would do when he found him or how effective he could be in the condition he was in, but the man would suffer. He also knew in his mind and in his heart that if killing him was the only way to survive or protect his friend, he wouldn’t hesitate, regardless of the can of personal worms it would open.

There was too much ground to cover. He checked Breslin’s house, the city marina—his boat was there—drove through town, past the Environmental Service office, even went as far as The Hermit Crab and out to Charley Clay’s restaurant. The man was nowhere to be found. He tried to think like Breslin, but came up with nothing, which made him chuckle. In the early afternoon, he stopped by Harry Tom’s to check with Skeeter, but his friend had not seen or heard anything. It was like the previous night never happened. Hurting, he left the dock and went home to clean up and rest.

It was four o’clock when the telephone beside his bed rang. Ettie Crewes was out on the deck struggling with the crossword puzzle in the Covington paper, and the children were watching television. It was painful to reach over and pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Sam?” Karen asked.

“You got me.”

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes, but it was time. What’s up? You sound tense.”

“Cedrick Hamilton’s dead. I just got home, and there was a message from the office.”

“How?”

“They found him in Henry Bell State Park. He blew the top of his head off. The coroner said he had been dead ten to twelve hours.”

“Who found him?”

“A family out for a picnic. They found him and got the park ranger.”

“Good Lord. What does this do to us?” Sam asked.

“I have no idea. I think there’s got to be more to this than Skeeter’s refusal to cooperate. There’s surely enough potential off-load sites around here. That wouldn’t be enough to kill yourself over. And who would he be afraid of anyway, unless there’s a helluva a lot we don’t know or even suspect.” Sam was quiet for a moment.

“You know, now that I think about it, I believe maybe he had made up his mind to do it before he left Skeeter’s.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know. There was something about his attitude, kind of a melancholy tone in his voice, the way he moved when he walked out the door. Lifeless.”

“Well, he sure is now. It was pretty bad from what I was told.”

“What about Clay?”

“Nothing. He went to The Covington House for breakfast; don’t know if he met anyone there or not. Didn’t see anybody. Then out to the beach house for thirty minutes, took in a bag of groceries and left. As I was leaving, I saw Coleman putting his bags in his car, but I couldn’t follow both of them.”

“Anything on Reichert?”

“Didn’t see him. What about Breslin?”

“Couldn’t find him, and he didn’t show up at the dock, Skeeter’s or here, so I came home to heal.”

“Did you?” she asked.

“Not enough.”

“I drove by Ray’s house. His truck was gone and the boat’s still at the marina. Be nice if he did us a favor like Hamilton did.” There was silence on the line. “Sorry. That was a poor thing to say,” she said. He heard the contrition in her voice.

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t say it, but, yes, it was a poor thing to say.”

“They sometimes bring it out in me, Sam.”

“I know. I’m going to pick Skeeter up shortly. We’ll be at his house.”

“I may go over and watch Clay’s house for awhile. If he gets the news, something might happen,” she said.

“Don’t do anything foolish and get caught. These guys are breaking their profile. Might be getting a little skittish. Call me if anything comes up.”

“I will. Who knows, maybe I’ll even spot Breslin over there.”

“I doubt it. Call me,” he said.

“You, too.”

It was dark outside. Five o’clock in the morning. It was time to make the desperate trek to Bitta’s uncle’s house. And it was raining. For all the beauty of the day before, Monday had come on with a rage of lightning and thunder and rain that blew sideways in the glow of the pole light in front of the Jefferies’ house.

“How we gone get ova’ there in dis mess?”

“Walk,” the pragmatic Bitta said.

“Daddy say he never seen it rain so much. Mos’ every day.”

They were standing at the window in Marvon’s living room. Their parents would be worried when they found them gone, but there was nothing they could do about it; they had lived with their secret too long. Marvon left a note on the kitchen table saying he was at Bitta’s. Bitta had done the reverse at his own house. They hoped it would hold them off long enough. They put on their jackets and left the house. By the time they reached the shed, they were already soaked. Marvon climbed up on the tractor and brought down the shopping bag.

“We cain’ carry it like dis,” Marvon said. “De rain gone make de bag break, den wha’ we gone do? You got any plastic or cloth out here?” They looked around, and Bitta found an old sheet. “Dat’ll do. Wrap it up an’ tie it.” The boys put the shopping bag in the center of the sheet, pulled up the corners, twisted the cloth and tied it in a knot.

“Gone be heavy if we got far to go.”

“You got de flashlight?”

“I got it, but I ain’ gone turn it on till we get away from here.”

“We got to see. Dat po-lice man ain’ watchin’ us in dis mess,” Bitta said.

Ray Breslin was half-asleep. Since the rain began, it had become more and more difficult to keep his eyes open. From time to time, he would jerk himself awake, wondering if some movement or sound had stimulated his awareness. It was almost twenty-four hours since he began his watch, and it was a physical struggle to stay awake. Something brought him out of a shallow doze. He was disoriented. A sound. A movement. Something. It was difficult to see in the rain. He leaned forward, but it didn’t help. He rolled down the window and put his head out. The cool rain brought his senses to attention.

There were no lights in either of the houses, no movement that he could see. He closed the window and leaned back in the seat, was ready to let his eyes close again, just for a minute, when he saw a zephyr of light. He leaned forward again. They were there; the boys were there. Coming out of the shed. They had a flashlight, and they were carrying something. Breslin felt his heart jump and his breath quicken. They were headed toward the woods. He got out of the truck, closed the door quietly, and started in their direction. Let them get far enough away from the house that no one could hear them if they yelled. The rain would help deaden the sound. This was going to be easy, he told himself.

After he got beyond the shed, it was difficult to keep track of them. He found the meandering path they were following, but it was not well-defined, and the scrub between the boys and him only allowed him to see the light intermittently. He picked up his pace. They weren’t moving fast, and the distance between them was shrinking. Breslin didn’t see the fallen log lying across the path; he was focused on the light. When he fell, he let out an involuntary grunt and cursed under his breath.

“You hear dat?” Bitta asked in a whisper.

“Yeah,” Marvon said. “They’s somebody back there.”

“Turn out de light.” Marvon fumbled to get it off.

“Holy shit! I bet it’s dat po-liceman. I bet it is.”

“Keep ’at light off. Le’s wait a minute. We see him, we go in differnt directions.”

Breslin lay quiet for several minutes. Listening. Maybe they didn’t hear him. He got up slowly, couldn’t see the light. He had no idea where they were, whether they had stopped or gone on. He began to move forward, focusing straight ahead, but taking careful steps to avoid falling again.

“I hear him,” Bitta said. “He comin’ afta’ us. We gotta move. Follow me, an’ keep ’at light off. I know where we gone; he don’t.”

“Where we gone? Sides yo’ uncle’s, I mean.”

“We gone circle ’roun’ and come out behind de Exxon station. Den we gone go down de road an’ take dat road dat run down by de Texaco. Dat’s de road where my uncle live,” Bitta said.

“Dat po-liceman gone see us iff’n we go out on de road. You crazy.”

“He gone still be lookin’ in de woods. Come on.”

They had disappeared. Ray Breslin stood in the path waiting to see a light, hear a sound, but the only thing he heard was the rain falling and dripping in a steady cadence. There were no voices, no footsteps. To try to follow them would be useless; it was their playground.

They came from the shed, and they were carrying something; it had to be the money. What worried him was he had no idea where they might be going with it. He tried to figure it out as he trudged back to his truck, but couldn’t come up with an idea.

He stopped dead. The two boys had circled around and stood directly in front of him as if frozen. He dove for the white bundle, caught it and Marvon Jefferies arm. Bitta Smalls screamed as he saw a monster face appear from nowhere and a three foot piece of wood smash into the policeman’s head, dropping him to the ground moaning. The bundle had torn open and several silver bundles had scattered on the ground. The boys couldn’t move.

Jared Barnes said nothing. He knelt down, started picking up the foil packages and putting them back in the sheet. Bitta finally got the courage to move and began helping. Barnes retied the bundle and stood up. Bitta couldn’t take his eyes off the scarred, misshapen face. One eye was lower than the other and milky white, half the man’s forehead was dented in and part of his lower lip was missing. Barnes handed the bundle to Marvon.

“Ya’ll get on out of here now,” he said in a gurgling voice, like a rasp on iron. Bitta Smalls still held two foil-wrapped packages in his hands. Unshaken by what he saw, he looked at Jared Barnes and tentatively held the two packages out to him. The man’s hands, calloused and cracked by life in the outdoors, reached forward and took them He couldn’t smile; his face wouldn’t allow it, but he nodded his approval. “Ya’ll get on out of here now. I’ll be here; don’t you worry.”

The two boys turned for a last look and continued their circuitous route to the road.

Ray Breslin heard them running and saw a shadow disappear into the trees. He was addled, wondering how it had happened again with no idea who it might be. Sensing he was finally alone, he felt for his gun, pulled himself to his knees and looked around. There was no one there.

The boys weren’t going home in the direction they left; he still had time. He needed coffee, something to clear the haze in his brain. It was his last chance. He stumbled toward his truck, got in, started the engine and headed toward the Exxon station out on Route 37. It would be bad coffee, but it was coffee.

Bitta and Marvon came around the side of the Exxon station and were crossing Route 37 when Ray Breslin, at the counter paying for his coffee, turned and saw them. The rain had lessened, and the light from the station caught them just as they reached the opposite side of the road. He left his cup on the counter and ran to his truck. He hit the ignition, the motor raced, and the tires squealed. The boys turned at the noise and saw him. Bitta yelled and they took off toward the fields and marsh behind the old, unoccupied buildings that lined the road. Breslin crossed the road, screeched to a stop where they had run between two buildings, got out and ran after them.

Bitta Smalls thought about crying, but knew it wouldn’t help. Marvon Jefferies thought about being home on the couch watching TV. He felt like crying, too. The Texaco was no protection, not carrying all that money. Bitta ran toward an old live oak, dead from the encroachment of the marsh. Marvon, struggling with the growing weight of the bag, found it difficult to keep up, but managed to make it to the far side of the tree. They hit the water like infantrymen jumping for the trenches and hunkered behind the trunk.

“Y’all better come on out from there,” Breslin shouted, having no idea where they were. The sky was beginning to gray around the edges, but there was still not enough light to see anything clearly. “You hear me? This is law enforcement. Y’all gone find yourself in jail, you don’t watch out. They love little boys in jail.” Neither boy moved; neither boy said anything. They waited. “Son-of-a-bitch!” they heard him say. Minutes later they dared to look out, and he was nowhere in sight.

“I think he gone,” Bitta said.

“I ain’ sho’?”

“We cain’ go back out on de road; he see us fo’ sho’,” Marvon said.

“We gone walk de edge of de marsh. Dey’s a bunch a churches and houses and stuff ‘tween us an’ de road. We don’ need to cross de road till we get ’cross from Uncle Skeeter’s house. Den we be all right.”

“Skeeter? Dat be yo’ uncle’s name? Skeeter?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, le’s go; we ain’ gettin’ nowhere sittin’ in dis here water.”

The boys got up and took the curve of the marsh behind the Texaco station and followed it parallel to Osprey Landing Road. They were exhausted. The plough mud pulled at their sneakers like quicksand, testing the strength of their legs at every step.

Breslin figured there was only one direction they could go from where he last saw them. Sooner or later they would have to walk into deep water or come up to the road. Then he would grab them. The little bastards had finally boxed themselves in. Back in his truck, he began a slow drive down Osprey Landing Road, trying to move at the same speed he estimated they were traveling. Cars behind him honked, sped by when they got a chance and honked again. He scanned the side of the road with his spotlight, but the sky was lightening to the point that it wasn’t a help.

Bitta and Marvon moved cautiously, fighting to keep their balance on the treacherous marsh bottom. Between the buildings set against the road, Ray Breslin’s spotlight was visible. They both knew what it was. When they reached The Tabernacle of the South Baptist Church, Bitta left the marsh and led Marvon to the back of the building.

“Wha’ we gone do now?” Marvon asked.

“Uncle Skeeter’s is right across de road. We gone hafta get over there.”

“How we gone do dat? Dat man out dere still lookin’.”

“Gone hafta run. I’ll watch de truck; when I say go, run yo’ ass off. We get to de house, we okay,” Bitta said. “Ain’ much else we can do.”

Bitta Smalls went to the side of the building where he could look out at the road. He saw the green truck move by slowly, but it didn’t stop. As soon as the truck had gone far enough down the road, he signaled Marvon, and they began their race to safety. The heavy bag and fatigue exasperated their youthful strength and quickness. Breslin saw them in his rear view mirror, going into the dirt road that led to Skeeter Crewes’ house. He cut a u-turn, going off one side of the road, just missing a drainage ditch, and then gunned the engine in pursuit of the boys.

Bitta and Marvon heard the truck noise and ran down the driveway, Bitta screaming Skeeter’s name as loud as he could. Skeeter was making coffee, and Sam Larkin was sleeping on the couch. At the sound of the child’s yelling, they both ran to the front door. The boys didn’t hesitate; they ran up the steps and through the door Skeeter was holding open.

“Bitta?” Skeeter said in astonishment as he followed the boys inside. Sam didn’t follow them; he saw Breslin’s truck take a quick turn into the drive and watched as it came to a sliding halt in front of the steps. The man was out of the truck almost before it stopped.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, Larkin?” Sam couldn’t distinguish whether the look on Breslin’s face was surprise or panic.

“Guess I could ask you the same question,” Sam said.

“You got two kids just run in here that we been lookin’ for. Now it’s up to you how we do this, but one way or another I’m gonna get ’em. It’s your choice.” Breslin’s voice was cracking, and there was blood on the side of his face. Regardless of the cause, it didn’t seem to be slowing him down.

Sam tried to assess his body, wondering if it were up to whatever might happen. He wasn’t sure, but knew it couldn’t be avoided.

“If you can’t give me a good reason, Ray, I guess it’s gonna be the hard way.”

“You ain’t in no shape to be a smart ass. Them two kids destroyed Turner Lockett’s trailer an’ stole a bunch of stuff. This is somethin’ different than you and me or Cedrick and Skeeter.”

“Cedrick’s dead.”

“You’re a lyin’ sack-a-shit, Larkin.” He was easing himself closer to the steps.

“He blew the top of his head off. It’s all falling apart, Ray; you’d be wise to get yourself out of it.” Just then Skeeter and the two boys came to the door. It was closed, but Breslin could see them through the screen wire. He lunged at Sam, knocking him backwards onto an old steel glider that didn’t move.

“You’re a dead man and so are they,” Breslin screamed. He threw a punch that missed, and Sam took his feet from under him. Breslin fell backwards, cracking his head on the porch railing. Sam was on him, his rationale gone. He was back in Angola, in the yard, but there were no guards to pull him off. He grasped Breslin’s Adam’s apple between the thumb and clenched fingers of his left hand, as if he were going to pluck it from his throat. It was a paralyzing move, which also cut off the man’s breath. He held him tightly while his right hand, in blows so rapid and furious that Breslin couldn’t see them coming, hammered his face, making his already broken nose soft and putty-like, feeling the jaw give under the pummeling. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t let himself stop. He didn’t know how many times he hit the man, but when he saw his own hand covered with blood, he pulled back to see what he had done. Ray Breslin was unrecognizable. His eyes were closed, his nose caved-in between his cheek bones, his jaw slack and at an unnatural angle, which held his mouth open. There were no visible teeth. Skeeter stood beside Sam, staring at him in awe, looking at a man he had never seen before.

Skeeter put his hands under Sam’s arms, lifted him off the helpless man, and helped him to the glider. Bitta Smalls and Marvon Jefferies stood behind the screen door, their mouths open, their eyes as big as silver dollars. Ray Breslin had not moved.

“Check and see if he’s still alive,” Sam said, trying to catch his breath. “It looks like his bladder released.”

Skeeter got down on one knee and checked the carotid artery for a pulse.

“He’s alive, but he ain’t feelin’ too good.” He looked at his friend. “Sam?”

“I’m sorry you saw that, Skeeter; I thought it was behind me. He’s all right?”

“Oh, he ain’t all right. He ain’t gone be all right for a long time if ever.”

“Get his handcuffs and cuff him to the railing post. I need to call Karen and see how she wants to handle this. Who are the boys?” Sam asked.

“My nephew and the boy lives next door to him,” Skeeter said, as he locked the cuffs. “Come on inside, and let’s see how much damage you done to those hands.”

When they walked through the door, Sam went to the couch. “I gotta sit down,” he said. “Just for a minute. Then I’ll clean up.” He looked up at the two boys who were still staring at him, Marvon clutching the dirty white bundle in his hands. “That was a bad thing for you guys to see,” Sam said. “I’m sorry.”

“What you boys doin’ comin’ over here anyway, and why was that man chasing you? You steal somethin’ like he said?” Marvon stepped forward and handed the bundle to Skeeter Crewes. “What’s this?” he asked as he untied the sheet and the foil-wrapped packets of money fell out on his living room floor. He picked one up and unwrapped it. No one said anything. Skeeter Crewes’ jaw dropped. Sam Larkin just stared. The two boys watched the two men.

“Good Lord, I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that,” Skeeter said, surveying the number of packages. “I wonder how much that is? I ain’t got no idea,” he said in shock.

Bitta Smalls looked up at him, a frightened look on his face.

“Two hunderd and some thousand dollars,” he said and gave Marvon a hard look. “We might not a counted it right, and I give two to the man helped us.”

“What man?” Skeeter asked.

“I don’ know. Some kinda monster man peered like. We seen him don ’at de trailer firs’ time. Den jus’ now, he come up and hit dat man yonder like he done de firs’ time at de trailer.”

“Who do you think?” Sam asked Skeeter.

“I don’t know. Jared Barnes lives out that way. He ain’ pretty, but I don’t know as I’d call him a monster man. Whoever it was ain’ gone have trouble makin ends meet. Not with two of these.” He held up two of the packages and looked at Sam. “Unless you tell on him,” he said with a smile.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam said and laid back on the couch.