The Farm was a seventeen-acre parcel of land nestled in the hay fields and soft red dirt of Hard Cash Valley, a community on the outskirts of the county, near the southern border. It had originally been a small dairy farm run by a couple named Manny and Belinda Sweetbriar. In the midsixties, the farm eventually failed, like a lot of other small farms in the South, and the bank foreclosed on the property. On the same day the bank put all the cows up for auction, Manny sat down in his favorite chair in the couple’s modest single-wide trailer and shoved a rifle in his mouth. While Belinda was in the kitchen filling out paperwork with the loan officer, her husband blew out the back of his skull, allowing a young man by the name of Casper Rockdale to buy the land for a song. Casper had been a medic in Vietnam, and got himself disfigured when his helo went down over the Mekong Delta. He survived the crash and his injuries provided him with both a ticket home and a fat compensation check. After he bought the land from the bank, Casper had only a single aspiration—to grow pot on those seventeen acres and sell it out of the trailer whose inside walls had once been painted with Manny Sweetbriar’s brains. It was a good plan, but there were two major flaws Casper hadn’t seen coming. For one, the land was useless for farming, mostly rock and red clay. It might as well have been seventeen acres of blue steel. The seed wasn’t going to take. Not that it mattered, because the second problem—an infinitely more dangerous problem—was the Burroughs family. They ran Bull Mountain, the same mountain that loomed down over Casper’s newly acquired patch of rubble. The Burroughs also had a firm lock on the dope trade. No one dared to edge in on their dealings, and anyone stupid enough to try ended up as dead as Manny. Those boys were not to be trifled with, so Casper amended his plan. He’d given the US Army one of his eyes and a good chunk of the left side of his face, but he still felt that those six years in the jungle hadn’t stolen nearly as much as they’d given. Killing gooks and farming weed weren’t the only things Casper had learned overseas. He’d also spent a good bit of time in the underground Vietnamese cockfighting pens. He knew the kind of money they generated over there, and as far as he knew, those boys up on Bull Mountain didn’t fool with game chickens. That racket was wide-open as long as he kicked them up a cut of his earnings.
He started with a stack of plywood he stole from a construction site outside of Rabun County and a roll of chicken wire he bought with his first disability check. Out behind that dump of a trailer, Casper built a small but sturdy row of chicken coops. He wasn’t a carpenter by any means, but he built those boxes well enough to keep out the foxes and coons. A few months later, he traded a pound of Burroughs-grown marijuana to a Vietnamese breeder for a shoebox full of tiny, chirping, blue-headed chicks that had been smuggled stateside. Those humble pens Casper built in 1966, along with the birds that survived the initial trial-and-error period, lived to multiply and eventually became what everyone around Hard Cash simply referred to now as the Farm. Now, nearly half a century later, that slab of red clay in the middle of nowhere had become a premier breeding ground for champion roosters whose bloodlines could be traced all the way back to Casper’s days in the war. Casper never had any children of his own, so when the time came to step down and let someone else run the show, his sister’s boy, Eddie, became his apprentice and his eventual heir. The Rockdale Farm wasn’t the biggest stretch of prairie land in McFalls County, but it was one of the most well known. It was now also one of the most infamous cockfighting scenes in the entire United States. Contenders and buyers from all over the country, as well as places like Mexico, Canada, Vietnam, Korea, and the Philippines, came to shop Rockdale’s birds. They also came to show, as it was called, at one of Rockdale’s seasonal blood sports—an event that most people didn’t even believe existed. Cockfighting was something folks saw on TV in old Sergio Leone films, not in the foothills of North Georgia, and on film it was definitely not treated with the same hardcore emotion shared by the competitors. Some people would go so far as to call it spiritual.
Dane was not one of those people. Ned, on the other hand, during his years working at the granite quarries, had become a fan. He’d taken solace in training gamecocks once he was released from prison. It was something he found he was good at—something all his own. He was twenty-two when he got out of prison, and he felt lost in a world he didn’t recognize. Being out in the open air of the Farm working with the animals made sense to him. It helped him regain footing in his life. Eddie Rockdale, Rooster to his friends, had known Ned before he was arrested. They ran in the same circles, and Eddie courted a fair amount of trouble himself. He even ended up spending a few months in a cell next to Ned at Tobacco Road Prison, so he turned out to be one of the few locals who welcomed Ned home when he got out. Eddie never passed judgment. They were brothers with matching knuckle tattoos to prove it. Ned felt at ease on the Farm with Eddie. It was the only place in the county—the county he was born and raised in—that felt like home. Everyone else had either forgotten who he was, or worse—they remembered who he wasn’t. Today the bond between them would be tested.
Dane borrowed Keith’s Nissan Titan and drove it down State Road 515 until the forest broke open into massive fields of overgrown wheat and wildflowers. The landscape turned into a sea of violet, gold, and swaying rust. He slowly brought the truck to a stop at a sun-faded stop sign mounted to a petrified wooden post. Ned and Roselita just watched and waited as Dane looked both ways, scratched at his stubble. He shifted the truck into park and got out. He walked around to the front of the truck and crouched down. He rubbed his hands over the fresh indentations in the dirt. There were several tire tracks in the road, but only one set came from a compact car. It was unusual to see small tread like that out here. Cars that size had no business out here where the roads ended. That’s why they’d borrowed Keith’s truck and left the Infiniti at the station.
“What are you looking at?” Ned said from the window.
“Nothing.” Dane rubbed at his chin again and got back in. He sat behind the wheel for a few beats before he pulled the shifter into drive and hung a right.
“You trying to earn your Eagle Scout pathfinder patch, Dane?”
“Shut up, Ned. It’s just been a while since I’ve been out this way. Don’t the roads out here turn to shit past this four-way?”
“Yeah, they get a little rough. Why?”
“Just keep your eyes peeled for something compact. A Volkswagen, maybe—something that doesn’t belong.”
“Why?” Roselita asked.
“Because cars like that don’t fare well on roads out here. That’s the reason we took this and not that hot rod of yours.”
“It’s not a hot rod.”
“Whatever. I’m just saying that if someone drove a small car like that out here, they’re likely not to be from around here, and they’re likely to be stuck. Ned—which way am I going?”
“Just drive about a half mile down and pull off to the left after Tater’s Rock.”
Dane nodded as if it were coming back to him. “Right. I remember.”
“Tater’s Rock?” Roselita repeated like a question.
Ned explained. “Yeah, it’s a big-ass chunk of limestone that looks like a fucking meteor crash landed. Nobody knows how it got there—kinda like those heads on Easter Island. It’s a national treasure around here.”
“Tater’s Rock is a national treasure?” Roselita still couldn’t believe August O’Barr had her out here running around with the Dukes of Hazzard.
“Yep. It should be, anyway.”
“And why is it called Tater’s Rock?”
Ned looked at Roselita as if that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard. “Because Tater named it.”
“Who the hell is Tater?”
Dane shut down the banter. “It doesn’t matter, Roselita. It’s just a big rock. You’ll recognize it when you see it. The high-school kids around here have been spray-painting shit on it since we were in school, so it should stick out like a sore thumb. We’re almost there.”
“Right,” Roselita said, and began to recount out loud all the redneck shit she’d heard over the past few hours. “Tater—Boner—Rooster—everyone up here sounds like they were named after cartoons. Is there a Tweety Bird out here, too?”
Now Ned looked offended. “Watch your mouth, Velasquez. Tweety is good people. No reason to trash talk good folk.”
Roselita wasn’t sure if he was kidding. If he was, he didn’t show it. Roselita rubbed at the bridge of her nose and Ned went back to hanging his head out the window like a dog. “It’s right up there,” he said. “On the left.”
“I see it.” Dane cut the truck to the left at the huge rock that had been painted green and white and said FUCK STATE FARM in detailed spray paint, and pulled the Nissan onto a road most people would’ve missed, just a set of twin ditches gnawed into the wheat grass by other big trucks like this one. Most of the roads out in this part of the county looked like this one—unmarked and unnamed. The few signs that were posted were handmade and put there by the families that lived out there. Soon enough, the truck’s chassis was vibrating from hood to tailgate as Dane tried to keep it in the winding set of ditches. Every time the truck hit a stump or an exposed root, all three of them bounced an inch or two off the seat in the cab. At one point, Roselita’s sunglasses were jarred off her face, but she caught them before they fell to the floorboard. “This is ridiculous, Kirby. You’re going to break my neck driving like this.”
“It ain’t my driving. It’s the road.”
“C’mon, Kirby, are you sure you can even call this a road? It doesn’t look like it’s been driven on by anything with an engine—ever. I can feel my teeth rattle.”
Dane adjusted the rearview mirror. “Relax, Roselita, we’re almost there.”
“Yeah, Rose, relax.” Ned pulled the side mirror on the door inward and looked at his reflection. He rarely liked to look at his own face, but he didn’t have to very long before they bounced again, hard enough to test the limits of the truck’s shocks. Ned cracked his forehead against the window frame and Roselita caught her sunglasses a second time. She laughed as Ned rubbed his head. “That right there was the thumb of God, Lemon.”
Dane revved the big-block V8 through the last stretch of ditch before the ground finally flattened out into red dirt. The ride smoothed out, and so did the conversation, until the talking stopped completely as Rockdale’s house came into view. It was gorgeous. The two-story farmhouse looked like something ripped off the cover of Southern Living. The entire place was log built and trimmed with red brick. Perfectly pruned azalea bushes surrounded the house, with manicured flowerbeds surrounded by stone pavers underneath. The house was a far cry from the single-wide trailer Casper Rockdale had lived in all those years ago at the far edge of the property. The trailer was still there, and Dane could see it from where he stopped and parked the truck, but no one else mentioned it. No one looked toward the chicken coops or the row of X-shaped scarecrows made from wooden crossbeams that led back to the barn. All of them, including Roselita, who didn’t expect to see a place anything like this, were out of the truck with their eyes now glued to the only thing more beautiful than the two-million-dollar home.
Her name was Lydia, and she was the lady of the house.
Lydia stood barefoot in the open doorway, leaning against the jamb as if she’d been expecting them. Dane was sure she had. Anyone in the house or down at the barn knew they were coming the second they turned off the main road back by Tater’s Rock. Just because you couldn’t see the security didn’t mean it wasn’t there. Two men with scatterguns weren’t necessary anymore now that trail cams were so advanced. This place was well protected and for good reasons. Lydia was just one of them. The thin material of her cotton dress hugged her figure, showing off every curve exactly the way she wanted it to. The hem slapped against her thigh in the breeze to a rhythm that was almost hypnotic to watch. She pushed herself off the edge of the door and moved like river water across the porch to the steps. Dane took off his hat.
“Who the hell is that?” Roselita whispered to Dane. She sounded unsure of the question.
“That’s Lydia,” Dane said. “Eddie’s wife.” He smiled as he saw Roselita become speechless for the first time since they met. Lydia had that effect on people—men and women alike. Dane wasn’t sure if Lydia and Eddie had ever been legally married, but it didn’t matter. They’d been together longer than anyone could remember. Paperwork and court proceedings weren’t necessary to enforce that fact. Eddie’s reputation was enforcement enough.
Dane walked up to the steps first with his hat still in hand.
“Lydia.”
“Well, hello there, Chief.” She stared through Dane at the two people behind him.
“I’m not the chief anymore, Lydia. You know that, right?” Dane turned and followed her stare, but he knew she was just sniffing out Roselita. She was a stranger. She didn’t belong. Lydia didn’t bother to speak to her at all, but she smiled before she said hello to Ned. He nodded, looked down at nothing, and kicked at the dirt like a shy high-school kid.
“Sorry to hear about your Deddy passing,” Dane said. “He was a good man.”
“Thank you, Dane. He was. It would’ve been nice to see you at his funeral.” Her voice was cold and distant.
“My new job—I know it sounds lame, but it makes it a little tougher to get back home as often as I’d like. But you’re right. I should’ve been there. I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t fishing for no apologies, Dane Kirby. Not tryin’ to make you feel bad or nothin’. It’s all right. I understand. I’m just saying that Deddy liked you. It would’ve been nice to see you, that’s all.”
“Thank you for saying that, Lydia. It means the world.”
“So do you want to go ahead and tell me why you and Ned Lemon there are bringing city police to my house, or am I supposed to guess?”
Dane side-eyed Roselita and put his hat back on. “Lydia, you do know that I’m city police now, too, right?”
Lydia shook her hand out in front of her as if to dismiss what Dane said as heresy. “You may work for them, Dane—but you’ll never be one of them.” She drilled that last bit right into Roselita with a stare as hard as cast iron. Dane wasn’t sure if Roselita would be insulted by that comment or quick to agree with it. Lydia didn’t give her a chance to do either. “Well, since I’m having to guess and all, I’m guessing you’re all here to talk to Eddie? Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well then, bye, I suppose.” Lydia tossed another glance over Dane’s shoulder. “He’s down at the barn. He lives in that damn barn.” She spoke as if she preferred that he did and then added, “No one ever comes here to see me anymore.” She disappeared into the house. The door closed behind her. Dane thought her words were curt. He didn’t understand.
Roselita wiped at the sweat on her forehead. “You think that meant she was going to go let him know we’re here, or are we just supposed to walk on down there?”
“Trust me, Roselita. He already knows we’re here. Honestly, I’m surprised he even let her answer the door.”
“Why? Because of her boyfriend here?” She nudged Ned with her elbow and nearly knocked the bone-thin Lemon off balance. Ned caught himself but looked pale and surprised.
“What?”
Roselita peeked over her sunglasses and a smug expression filled her round face. “C’mon, Lemon. I’m a detective, remember?”
Now Dane looked confused. “What are you talking about, Rose?”
“I thought you were good at this shit, Kirby. You saw the way that woman eye-fucked your buddy here, right? I mean, everyone I’ve met who’s seen this guy acts like they’ve just seen a ghost, but her—she didn’t have nothing but sugar for him. I would’ve guessed at first that she didn’t know him, but she called him by his name, so now I’m guessing they’ve got a little history. That line about ‘no one ever comes to see her anymore’? That was for your boy here. I’d bet my last dollar on it.”
Ned became indignant. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, lady.”
Roselita lifted her hands in the air and backed away. “Okay, Lemon. Whatever you say. It’s none of my business anyway. Just an observation.”
Dane wasn’t sure what part of Roselita’s theory he wanted to address first, so he opted to just shut it down instead. “Roselita, it ain’t the time to go digging in a boneyard, and right now, we’re standing smack-dab in the middle of one. Let’s just do what we came out here to do. Keep your theories about what you think you know to yourself, before this whole thing turns into a huge waste of time.”
Roselita shrugged and stuck her hands in her pockets. “Whatever you say, Kirby. And good lord, you people act like this guy Rockdale is some kind of Godfather or something. He’s a chicken farmer, for Christ’s sake. How scary can the guy be? I’ve been working this gig a long time and I’ve run down a lot of gangsters, and never have I had an Eddie Rockdale pop up on my radar. So I’m sorry, but the intimidation level from this guy is pretty low. Maybe the two of you need to dial down the fear factor a little and remember who’s got the weight of the federal government on their side.” She smirked at Ned. “Of course, you might have a little more reason to be afraid of the guy. If it was my old lady you were squeezing that lemon juice into, I’d be a little nervous, too.”
“Dane”—Ned’s balled-up fists were shaking—“I ain’t never hit a woman before, but I’m telling you, your partner here needs to shut her mouth.”
“I agree.” Dane went to say something else, but he was interrupted by the click of the door latch.
It opened, and this time an old man whose age was impossible to determine appeared in the doorway. He had thin salt-and-pepper hair pulled back over his head tight in a frizzy ponytail, and he wore a white button-up shirt, open at the collar to expose an overflow of gray curly chest hair. Both of his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, and veins in his arms showed through his paper-thin skin like faded tattoos. “Gentlemen,” he said with a loud, drawn-out southern drawl as he made his way down the steps. “And lady,” he added as he looked over Roselita from head to toe.
She was used to that sort of shit, and although it disgusted her, she let it go and stuck out her hand. “You must be Eddie,” she said.
The old man smiled wide, showing off his pearly dentures, and shook Roselita’s hand.
“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Roselita said. “But let me start off by saying you have a lovely home.”
“Well, thank you, darlin’.” The old man smiled even wider at Dane, who just stood quiet and watched Roselita eat another slice of condescension.
“You’re welcome,” Roselita said, and let go of the man’s hand. “I believe you know my partner there.” Roselita motioned at Dane. His chin had dropped to his chest.
“I do. I know that other fella behind you, too—but I don’t believe I know you.”
“Of course, my apologies again. I’m Special Agent Roselita Velasquez, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and my colleague, Agent Kirby over there, seems to believe you might be able to answer a few questions concerning an investigation we’re working on.”
The old man glanced over at Dane for a second, and then he smiled and narrowed his eyes on Roselita. “I’m sorry, darlin’. Who did you say you were, again?”
“Right,” she said through gritted teeth. One more darlin’ and this asshole was going to lose some more teeth. “Where are my manners?” she said, and reached into the pocket of her slacks to take out her ID. Dane didn’t realize she was being baited until it was too late.
“I said my name is Roselita Velasquez, and—” A gunshot echoed out across the field and gravel popped and ricocheted off Roselita’s shoes. Her whole body seized. When she realized what had just happened she jumped back, slammed into Ned, and dropped her credentials into the grass. She reached around to the small of her back. The old man didn’t flinch at the shot.
“I’d leave that where it is, dear—leave your badge there on the ground, too. Tater’s a wicked good shot, but he can’t hear us and might not be able to tell from the scope on that M40 of his if that thing in the grass is a gun or not.”
Roselita froze in place.
The old man kept talking. “Now you said your name is Velasquez. That right?”
Roselita’s head moved in a swivel, looking for any sign of the shooter. She took occasional short glances at the old man’s face and the other two men standing to her right. They all seemed unfazed by what had just happened. That’s when Roselita noticed that the old man’s left eye stared off, blank, in a slightly different direction from the other one, and his warped half smile caused most of the same side of his face to collapse and sag. Roselita began to feel the sting of her mistake. This old man wasn’t Eddie Rockdale. He was Casper, Eddie’s uncle. Dane had talked about him in the truck on the way there. He’d also warned her about talking—about being cocky. Roselita hadn’t listened to any of it. “Dane,” she said in an effort to defuse the heat or possibly gain an ally.
“Just ease it back and keep your hands out in plain sight, Rose.”
“Velasquez,” the old man chewed on the name. “I used to do business with a beaner named Velasquez.” He took a step closer and gave Roselita a good once-over. “Now that I think about it, he mighta looked a little like you, too. Where you from, little lady?”
Roselita felt like she was going crazy. This old buzzard just had someone fire on two law-enforcement officials and now he was right back to being a sexist prick. “This racist son of a bitch just shot at me, Kirby, and you’re asking me to ease it back?”
“Yes,” Dane said. “Seriously. Show your hands so we can speed this along.”
“Alabama,” the old man said, and slapped at his jeans. “I bet you’re Alabama born and raised.”
“Casper, signal whoever you’ve got drawn down on us and let him know we ain’t here for nothing but a conversation with Eddie.”
Casper loomed over Roselita. “The stars don’t glow all that bright over Alabama, do they, darlin’?”
“Call me darlin’ again, and you’ll find out just how bright they glow.”
“Casper, I’m serious. Call ’em off.”
“Well, Dane, I’m serious, too.” Casper’s tone changed. He stopped toying with Roselita and raised his voice a notch higher than Dane’s. “You, of all people, oughta know better than to bring police out here without going through the proper channels. Much less lettin’ them go diggin’ around in their pockets like that.”
“You’re right, Casper, I do know better. It’s my bad. I’m not even going to mention that you baited her. Now the woman is showing you her palms, so I’m asking you—one more time—call off your boy.”
“Your bad,” Casper mumbled as he stroked at the long, wiry whiskers of his gray goatee. Finally, the old man raised one hand up above his head long enough for the sunlight to catch the silver in one of his rings. He had one for every finger. When he lowered his arm, Dane and Ned both took a collective breath. The old man turned his attention back to a fuming but still-frozen Roselita Velasquez. “You can put your hands down now, and the name’s Casper, not Eddie. Eddie is my sister’s boy. But maybe the mistake was a good thing. Tater can be a bit more high-strung around him than me.” Casper turned and walked toward the row of scarecrows. “C’mon, Dane, Eddie’s in the barn. He’s sparring with a couple Mexicans and he’s got a buncha money riding on it, so don’t go taking food off the table. Keep it short, say yer piece, and keep Alabama there quiet.”
“And that’s it?” Roselita said. Her face was hot and red.
Dane held out a finger to hush her but didn’t answer. “Good to see you, Casper.”
“Yeah, yeah. Y’all come with me.” The old man kept walking and Roselita picked up her badge from the grass. Everyone followed Casper down the path. Roselita did, too, but she kept looking back over both shoulders as she walked. She kept her eyes on everything she passed—a shed that looked like it might be an outhouse, a silver LPG tank that could hide a sniper.
“You’re not going to see anyone,” Dane said. “Tater’s already back at the barn by now.”
“Son of a bitch,” Roselita said, and stopped.
“Seriously, Rose. Let it go.” Dane watched as Roselita lifted her foot to inspect the bottom of her expensive hiking shoes.
“First I get shot at and no one seems to care, and then I have to wade through chicken shit—goddamnit.”
Dane had to cover his face to hide the smirk as Roselita wiped her foot in the grass to get the shit off her shoe.
As they got closer to the barn they could hear the yelling. A small green Toyota Camry with a rusted-out side panel was parked in the grass beside a few big trucks outside the huge barn. “Does that car belong to the buyers?” Dane asked as Casper swung open one of the huge, reinforced steel–framed doors.
“Yeah,” Casper said. “You can fit fifty Mexicans into one of those things. It’s like a goddamn clown car.”
“Well, that’s one mystery solved,” Dane more or less mumbled to himself, relieved as he thought about the tracks he’d spotted up at the main road. They walked in. Dane and Ned had seen this place before, but Roselita was getting her first look at what it was they did out there at the Farm. It could be impressive to an outsider. The barn was as big if not bigger than the main house and equally as well built. The inside of the building was separated down the middle by a neat dirt path, and both sides of the building were divided into six pits separated by waist-high walls of cedar planking, each one accessible by a set of hinged doors with rack-style locks. There were twenty or so of what looked like wooden lockers made of thick, hand-carved oak to the right of the show pits, shadow boxes that ran the length of the wall. Some of them were open and empty, but most of them were locked up tight with a variety of different padlocks.
Casper explained to Roselita, who looked as if she had a hundred questions to ask and didn’t know where to start, how the birds were kept in the wooden boxes—locked up in the dark—until it came their time to fight. Keeping them isolated and in the dark kept them confused, angry, and more important—mean. Roselita felt like she’d just come out of one herself. The sound of birds cawing and pecking from the insides of the wooden boxes and the crowing from the pens outside were unnerving, but only Roselita felt it. Dane and Ned seemed to feel right at home. The yelling they’d heard outside the barn was coming from a group of men in the far-left corner. Several were speaking Spanish and they all were looking down at something none of the new arrivals could see yet. A tall black man with a mouth full of gold teeth was yelling louder than the rest. He was also the only one speaking English.
“All right, goddamnit. I told y’all before we came out here to knock off all that Spanish shit, so again—knock it off.” The black man stood a good head taller than the rest of the group and he wore a bright white tank top that hugged his cut muscular torso.
Dane turned his head to Roselita. “That’s Rooster.” He nodded toward the man with all the gold in his mouth. “But don’t call him that. You call him Eddie if anything, but I’d advise against saying anything at all. Let me and Ned handle it initially. Just stay back for now.”
Roselita was taken aback and it played out across her face. She wasn’t one to be easily surprised. “Eddie Rockdale is black?” she asked.
“Yeah, so?”
“So nothing. I just didn’t expect—”
“Didn’t expect what?” Casper said, interrupting the hushed conversation. “You got a problem with colored folk?”
Roselita stumbled over her words, backtracking. “No. I don’t. I just thought—I mean I just didn’t expect it is all. You said he was your sister’s child. So I—”
“So I—so I—” Casper mocked. “My sister had a taste for dark meat, and contrary to popular belief, not all us southerners buy into all that racist shit you folks from Alabama do.”
“I’m not racist.”
“And I got two good eyes.”
Ned snaked his way past Roselita and Casper. “Just hush, Velasquez. Seriously.” He raised a hand to get Eddie’s attention, and the tall black man in the tank top stopped talking. He stopped paying attention to what he had been doing as well. He glared at Ned.
“Y’all hold up a minute,” he said to the group of Mexicans as he opened the plywood gate and stepped out into the dirt walkway. He didn’t look at all pleased to see them—especially Ned. He approached them and they all felt the air in the barn thicken into pea soup.
This was not the greeting Dane expected to invoke by springing Ned from lockup and dragging him out here. Dane was confused.
Eddie stood about a foot in front of Ned, ignoring Dane and Roselita altogether. He looked down. Ned looked up. “Well, look at this motherfucker right here. I heard you was back. I heard you was back a while now, too.” Rockdale cocked his head to the side and the bones in his neck popped. He licked at his teeth and the gold in his mouth shone.
All Ned said was “Sup, Rooster.”
“Sup, Rooster, he says…” Rockdale repeated Ned’s greeting like he was disgusted by it. He stared around at the rest of them and licked at his gleaming teeth again. He put his eyes back on Ned. “I was wondering when you’d get enough sack to make your way out here.”
Roselita wanted to reach around to the small of her back again, but Dane must’ve known what she was thinking, because he shook his head just once and burned a “don’t you fucking move” stare into his partner. Roselita didn’t fucking move.
Ned didn’t back off an inch, either. “The hell is your problem, Rooster? I’ve been busy, if you haven’t heard.”
“Oh, yeah. I heard. I heard all kinds of shit.”
Ned stepped in closer and spread his legs in a boxer’s stance, easing his left foot back for balance. Not a soul took a breath until Rockdale’s grimace morphed into a huge golden smile that stretched across his face. His dark eyes softened. He leaned back and raised his arms out to his sides. Ned eased his position and Rooster lifted Ned a good six inches off the ground in a bear hug that could’ve easily snapped his spine if he applied the right pressure. The entire group remembered how to breathe. Ned tapped on Rockdale’s ribs. “All right, man,” he wheezed. “Put me down before you break my back.”
Rockdale let go, but held Ned out in front of him by his shoulders. “Damn, you done got skinny as hell, white boy. You lost some serious weight.”
“Well,” Ned said, and thumped Rockdale’s abdomen. “You must’ve found it.”
The two men hugged again but without all the bone-breaking bravado. Ned stayed on the ground this time.
“Damn, Ned. So when did you really get back?”
“A while ago. I should’ve come out sooner.”
“But you had to go shoot somebody first is what I hear. That right? You shoot some old bastard up Bull Mountain?”
Ned didn’t even squirm. “I ain’t got the sack to shoot nobody, Eddie. You know that.”
Eddie laughed. “Well, you damn right about that, but whatever. None of my business.” He stared Ned up and down again. “Goddamn, it’s good to see you, brother.”
“You, too. Eddie. It’s been a long time.”
“Too long.”
Eddie let him go completely and shifted his attention to Dane. “You just tagging along, Kirby, or are you out here on po-po business?”
“A little bit of both, Eddie.” Dane seemed cautious and uneasy around the big man. The two of them shook hands, but the greeting lacked all the warmth Eddie had shown Ned. Dane introduced Roselita, and Eddie gave her the same once-over his uncle had. She shook her head and wondered why men thought it was okay to treat women like that.
“Damn, Dane. She don’t look like no police I ever seen. No sir.”
“I’m standing right here, Mr. Rockdale. If you have something to say, you can say it to me.”
“Oh, snap. She’s ice cold, too. I like that shit.” He licked his teeth, crossed his arms, and stared right through her. “Sorry about that misunderstanding back at the house when you drew down on my uncle.”
“I didn’t draw on anyone. I—”
“Tater scared the shit out of you, didn’t he?”
Roselita wasn’t sure how to respond.
Eddie hollered across the barn. “Was she scared?” Everyone turned to see a tall, slender man in a T-shirt and overalls wiping down an M40 with a blue bandana. He was standing by the door they’d just come through. They’d walked right past him. He’d been a shadow until right that moment.
“I told you that you wouldn’t see anyone,” Dane whispered. The man with the rifle just nodded at Roselita, but neither of them said a word to the other. “There was no need to fire on us like that, Eddie. My partner was only letting your uncle know who she was.”
“Water off a duck, Dane,” Eddie said, as if Dane were asking forgiveness and not pointing out the federal crime Eddie and his silent friend had just committed. Rockdale must’ve remembered what he’d been doing before Dane and his crew walked in because he turned and looked back at the haggard Mexicans in the far pen and then back at Ned. “All right. Look here. I’m in the middle of something with these wetbacks right now, but if y’all can hold up a few and let me finish this up, we can conversate after.”
“That’s fine, Eddie. Do what you gotta do,” Dane said.
“You’re gonna have to be quick about it, too, Kirby. I’ve only got a few minutes before I gotta go meet with a few more potential buyers this afternoon.”
“You negotiating a price with those fellas over there?” Ned asked.
“C’mon, Ned, you know me. I don’t negotiate shit. If they want to buy the best, they need to pay the premium. I ain’t haggling around here.”
Ned let a sly smile slide over his face. And he pushed his bangs back behind his ear. “You want a little help with the incentive?”
Eddie licked his teeth and smiled again. “You think you still got it in you, white boy?”
Ned winked at him. “Never lost it, brother.”
“Well c’mon then.” Eddie walked back and stepped into the pen. Ned followed. Dane and Roselita did, too, but they stayed back behind the betting wall.
The four Mexicans seemed to be in a heated debate about something, but no one could understand Spanish. Eddie stuck a finger in his mouth and whistled them quiet. “Okay now, look, I ain’t got all day to be out here dicking around with you motherfuckers. I got company and more business to handle, so we need to wrap this up. If y’all want these birds, then pay me, and Tater will set you up—end of story. If you want to see what else I got in a lower price range, then Tater over there will show you around the yard, but I was under the impression y’all wanted champions.” Eddie bent over and picked up the big, muscular bird pacing the pen at his feet. The animal’s powerful wings flapped, and a few loose feathers floated to the dirt. Eddie held the bird close to his chest until it calmed, and then he tucked the bird under his arm like a football. He stroked the animal’s neck. Up close, it was a truly beautiful bird; blue and black feathers darted out from around its neck, reflecting the sunlight coming in through the huge window looking over the pen. “This here is a motherfucking champion,” Rockdale said, still stroking the bird like a pet. “A pure-blood killer. I trained him myself.” Rockdale spoke with genuine pride as he continued to rub at the bird’s chest. “The bloodline is pure as snow and my time is money, so you boys need to shit or get off the pot.”
The Mexicans began to argue again, but now Eddie was impatient. “I said English, motherfuckers. One more Mexican word gets spoke in this barn and it’s going to be adios, amigos. Comprende?” He raised his eyebrow to the apparent leader of the crew. “I asked if you’re reading me, Paco?” He tapped his wrist as if he were wearing a watch.
“Yes, Mr. Rockdale. We understand, but you ask for too much money.”
“Bitch, you know who I am?”
“Yes, we know your reputation, but no one charges so much. These birds are untested. All we have is your word.”
“And my word is all you need.” Eddie licked his teeth, but the Mexican wasn’t swayed. Rockdale tipped his chin at Ned. “How about we give Paco here a demonstration?”
“Sure, Rooster. Be happy to.”
The whole group in the pen seemed pleased with that idea. Eddie pointed toward the blackout boxes. “Y’all head over there and pick any bird you want. I don’t give a damn which one.” He yelled over to Tater. “Hey, take Paco and his buddies over there to the wall. Let them pick any number they want.”
Tater nodded and slung the M40 over his shoulder.
“Here’s the deal, Paco. If your pick wins, then you get to keep him—free and clear. I’ll even throw in a few hens and a couple dozen eggs for your trouble. But if my baby right here wins—like I know he’s gonna—then you stop yanking my dick and pay me what I want for him—and you cover my loss for the dead bird. We got a deal?”
The Mexican man agreed, and they all followed Tater to the wall of wooden boxes. Once they were out of earshot, Eddie whispered to Ned, “You sure you remember how to do this shit?”
“I got you, man.”
“Well then, let’s do this shit.”
Tater whistled across the barn. “Eddie, they want number sixteen.”
“Well, then open number sixteen and let’s get this show on the road.”
Tater pushed the rifle back further over his shoulder, fished a set of keys from his pocket, and unlocked the padlock on the box labeled 16. He set the keys down and slid on a pair of work gloves he had sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans. He carefully reached in and pulled out a mostly white rooster with a leather hood covering its head. It fought against him, flapped its wings in a frenzy, and tried to peck at everything as Tater carried it down the center aisle. He handed the bird over the wall to Ned. He unsnapped and peeled off the hood. The bird’s yellow eyes were feral and made it look completely insane as they ticked left and right to adjust to the light. The damn thing looked mean as hell. The Mexicans all smiled, pleased with their choice. Some of them had even pulled out rolls of their own cash for a little internal betting. The Spanish started again, but Eddie didn’t seem to mind this time. The Mexicans all cleared out of the pen and crowded around the outside wall as Ned calmed the white-hackle fowl in his hands. Eddie looked at Dane and licked his teeth again. “You got good timing, Kirby. Watch this shit.”
Once the pen was clear, Ned held the bird across from Eddie, who still had the shiny black and blue one in his hands. Rockdale’s uncle entered the pen to act as referee. “Ned, I don’t need to tell you anything about how this works, do I?”
“Nah, I got this.” The white gamecock wanted out of Ned’s grip something fierce.
“You boys want to see where your money is going?” Eddie said. “This is why you came here and nowhere else. The Farm, baby.”
Casper moved into the pen without being told to and held out an arm in the center before dropping it and moving to the side wall. Ned’s and Eddie’s faces went from mischievous to ominous without missing a beat as they squared off, each holding a bird out in front of him, first just a few inches from each other, and then from a few feet back.
Casper counted it down. “Three—two—one—”
Ned and Eddie dropped the birds into the dirt. Ned’s rooster flapped his wings and looked gigantic, double its original size, as Eddie’s bird stood seemingly uninterested in the whole affair. The two animals circled each other like boxers feeling out their opponents, but like a strike of dry lightning, it was nothing like boxing at all. It was savage and brutal, the way the birds went at each other, so fast that Dane and Roselita nearly missed the whole thing. The whole encounter only took a few seconds. The bird Eddie had been handling barely moved, but when it did, it struck the other so hard, so fast and precisely, that all anyone saw was the blood flashing red over the white feathers of Ned’s bird. The Mexican’s pick also showed a fresh break in its beak, but no one knew how it happened. The white bird sulked away, its gigantic wings dragging in the red dirt like a drunk. Eddie let out a howl. “You see that, you wetback motherfuckers? That right there is what you’re paying for.”
“Hell no,” Ned said, “hang on a minute. We ain’t done.” He picked up the dazed white bird. Blood seeped from the feathers on its neck and began to drizzle from its beak and face. Without a second’s hesitation, Ned stuffed the bird’s entire head in his mouth. Eddie beamed a golden smile and the group of Mexicans cheered. Roselita watched, wide-eyed and disgusted, but Dane just leaned down heavy on the cedar wall. He’d gotten tired of standing. It was happening more and more often. He wished it was the heat, or the work, but he knew better. He knew what it was. He turned to look at Tater, who’d taken his place back by the door. He was looking directly at Dane and he still held firm to the M40. Dane winked at the silent marksman as Ned finished showing off.
Ned pulled the rooster’s head out of his mouth and spit a mouthful of blood into the dirt. Uncle Casper, ever the vigilant master of ceremonies, held out a bottle of water he snatched from thin air and let Ned take a swig. Ned swished the water around in his mouth and spit another red stream across the cedar wall. “Round two, baby.” His teeth were still slick and pink behind his grin when he spoke.
“Oh, okay. You think you still got it, white boy?” Eddie picked up his bird and the two of them went through the face-off again. “Turo tried that trick and still lost his ass, Casper, you remember? He was puking his guts out after.”
The old man nodded.
“Lemon-head is going out the same way Bobby-boy did.” Eddie howled and made a quivering motion that made his muscles ripple. “Count us down, Casper.”
The old man held his arm out again. “Three—two—one—”
Both birds dropped to the dirt, but there was no circling this time. Blood had been drawn. They were in a frenzy from the jump. The white bird pecked with its broken beak, possessed by some renewed vigor, but it wasn’t enough. Eddie’s bird struck again and again until Ned’s bird dropped under its own weight. Eddie didn’t wait for the match to be called. He knew it was over. Everyone did. He snatched up his bird and held it high above his head. “What’s my name, bitches?” Eddie kept the bird up high as he circled the pen. The Mexicans went back to speaking Spanish, but Eddie still didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t even thinking about the money. He was relishing his win. Ned squatted down to pick up his broken bird. It didn’t seem to have any strength left in it at all. Ned gently picked it up and handed it over the four-foot wall to Casper, who took it, pulled in its wings, and walked out the open door on the other side of the barn.
Roselita leaned over to Dane, who’d taken a seat in a wooden chair he’d found propped against the wall. He hadn’t seen what happened, but he’d seen enough of these things to know the outcome. “What happens to that one?” Roselita said. “The loser.”
Dane just tipped his chin toward the back door. They both watched Casper twist and snap the bird’s neck before he disappeared outside into the sunlight.
“He’ll go toss it in the incinerator out back.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, fly fishing it ain’t. There’s a reason this shit ain’t legal in Georgia.”
“Yet here we are.”
Dane slid his ball cap back on his forehead. “Yeah, here we are.”
Ned came out of the barn after completely rinsing the taste of blood from his mouth with the rest of the bottle of water. He tossed the empty plastic container in a trash barrel and joined Dane and Roselita at a picnic table out by the incinerator. The smell of burnt feathers was a lot like the smell of burning hair, but the breeze cleared the stink away in no time, and now it smelled more like a Sunday afternoon barbecue. The sun was setting behind the mountain and it had begun to get a little cooler. Casper had gone inside, but not before taking a pitcher of iced tea from the main house and setting it on the table. Eddie was over the rush of his win and didn’t look all that happy anymore, especially with Ned. His face conveyed annoyance, but something in his eyes was harder than that. He carried a meanness in them that made everyone uncomfortable. Once everyone uninvolved with the business at hand had departed, he spoke. “That stunt you pulled, sucking that bird’s head clear like that. It could’ve gone the other way and ended up costing me money.”
Ned put a hand on Eddie’s shoulder and used him as a prop to slip himself down on the bench. “Yeah, but it didn’t, did it? There’s a lot to be said for showmanship.”
“True that,” Eddie said, and tucked the fat fold of cash he’d just taken from the Mexicans into his jeans. “Just don’t expect a cut ’cause you swallowed a little blood.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Rooster.”
“So, now that my business is concluded, how about somebody tell me what y’all are doing here?”
Dane spoke up. “What’s your relationship with Arnold Blackwell?”
“Who?”
Dane didn’t repeat himself. He wasn’t feeling all that great. His stomach felt tight as a fist and the smell of the burning chicken behind him wasn’t helping loosen it up. Eddie poured some tea and Roselita saw the action for what it was. He was stalling. Roselita read every detail on Eddie’s face during that moment of hesitation. The way his tense brow softened up as soon as Dane mentioned Blackwell, and the way his eyes shifted down and to the left just for a split second before he grabbed the pitcher, before his eyes went cold and hard again, cold and hard as stone. It told Roselita everything she needed to know about Eddie Rockdale. He was in the game. No matter what he claimed. Rockdale poured some tea into a mason jar for Dane and Ned as well. Dane didn’t touch it. Ned drank it down to the bare ice.
“You asked what we are doing here, Mr. Rockdale. That’s the answer. I’d think you’d appreciate Dane being direct.”
Eddie stalled again. “And who exactly are you again?”
“You know who I am, Mr. Rockdale. There’s no need to flex. It’s a simple question. You do know Arnold Blackwell, do you not?”
“Yeah, of course I know him. Everybody knows him. He took the Slasher.”
“The tournament you held out here at this farm last week?”
Eddie’s smile returned and he shook his head. “Is that what you’re here for, Kirby? Damn, man. You want to break my balls because I hosted this year?”
Dane shook his head. “No. That’s not why we’re here at all. We’re—I’m—asking if you knew this Blackwell guy personally.”
“He means how well did you know him?” Roselita said.
“I know what the motherfucker means.” Eddie glared at Roselita and then turned back to Dane. “I knew him as well as any other white boy who comes out here looking to make some scratch. That’s it. No more. No less. He got his birds from me. He’s been coming up here for months. Wait—you said ‘knew.’” Eddie leaned back. “Is he dead already?”
“Yes, he is,” Dane said, looking at his pale skin in the fading sunlight, fighting back the memory of that motel room in Florida.
“That didn’t take long—the flips kill him? They lost their ass. The Mexicans did, too, but those flip boys were fuming. Was it them?”
Roselita took the volley. “We’re not at liberty to discuss the details of an ongoing murder investigation with you, Mr. Rockdale. We’re out here hoping you could help us out with something else entirely.”
“Really. And what would that be?”
Dane wiped at his forehead with his hat and then laid it on the table. “Did Arnold ever have anyone with him?”
“You mean the kid?”
Roselita sat up straight on the bench and Dane took out the photograph of William with his parents he’d lifted from the apartment back in Cobb County. He slid it across the pine table. “This kid? He had this kid out here with him?”
Eddie picked up the photograph and nodded. “Yeah, that’s him. Don’t tell me Blackwell kidnapped the little fucker. I can’t be involved in any shit like that. I just sold the guy some birds. That’s it.”
“No,” Dane said, a little alarmed that Eddie skipped over the possibility of the boy being related to Blackwell and made the jump to kidnapping. “It’s nothing like that. This boy is Blackwell’s brother and he’s missing.”
“Well, he ain’t here.”
“We didn’t say he was, Eddie, but what, if anything, can you tell us about him?”
“Only that he’s a weird little fucker. He was the reason Arnie got into the show. The kid made all Arnie’s picks for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Arnie would just let the kid wander around the yard and stare at the birds for a while and whenever the kid pointed at one, Arnie would pay me for it. No haggling like you just saw. No bullshit. Just cash on the barrel. I thought he was a damn fool just picking out random birds like that. Hell, I thought the kid was retarded, too. I figured Blackwell was either an idiot tourist dabbling in shit he didn’t know anything about, or he was with some Make-A-Wish Foundation shit or something. You know, like a camp for retards?”
Dane gnawed his lip. His blood got hot every time the word retard spilled from Rooster’s lips. He wanted to smack him—in those obnoxious gold teeth.
Eddie continued. “But then I saw what the kid could do.”
“What do you mean?” Roselita said. “What did he do? Where did you see him?” She was coming on too hot. Dane put a hand on her arm, but it was too late. Eddie remembered who he was talking to.
“Look, Rose, or whatever your name is, I’m not about to sit here and snitch out nobody. These two might be somewhat trustable. I got shit on both of ’em, but I don’t know you, so I’m not saying jack.”
“Eddie—look,” Dane said, “we don’t care about your business. That’s not why we’re here. We’re just trying to find the boy.”
“I don’t give a damn why you’re here, Dane. I’m not talking to the police about anything—period. You should know that.”
“Mr. Rockdale, we could bust you right now for what we just witnessed. I could haul you and your buddy Tater in for discharging a firearm at us if we wanted to.”
Eddie stood up. “Bitch, I’d like to see you try.”
Ned stood up, too. “Y’all take it easy. No one is hauling anyone anywhere. The point Velasquez is doing a shitty job of trying to make is that they’re not here for you, Rooster. No one is trying to backdoor you.”
Eddie narrowed his eyes at Ned. “Right,” he said. “And since when are you running with the po-po, Ned? I don’t see you around here for years, and then all of a sudden you’re out here at my place again hangin’ with cops? I appreciate what you did in there with the spics, but maybe it’s time for all y’all to hightail it off my property.”
“Please, man—just tell Dane about the boy—that’s it. If you can tell him anything that might be helpful, we’ll call that thousand bucks I just helped you make a wash. You know you were only hoping to crack seven hundred, if that. Seriously, Rooster. I just sucked off a chicken for you.”
Even Dane laughed at that, although it was evident to everyone that he wasn’t feeling that great. His skin looked even paler now and sweat had broken out down his neck like a fever.
“Are you all right, Dane?”
“I’m fine, Rose. I’m fine.” He held a hand out to the empty seat on the other side of the picnic table. “Please, Eddie. Ned’s right. This is about a missing boy. That’s it. You have my word.”
Eddie licked at his teeth. It was a disgusting habit that was beginning to rub at Roselita’s nerves. “Look,” Eddie said, “all I know about those two is that they came looking to buy birds. Arnie didn’t give a shit about the bloodline or the training—nothing. The kid would just point and Arnie would ask how much. That’s it. He asked me how to get set up for big money, and I hooked him up with a handler. He ponied up the money to enter the Slasher and I took it. I had no idea he was going to do what he did. I didn’t even think it was possible, but he proved me wrong. I’m not surprised he’s dead. There was a shitload of pissed-off people around here when he dipped with the payout.”
“But not you?” Roselita asked.
“Nah, I made my money as the host. He didn’t take my chunk. Just the other fighters’.”
“And you don’t have any idea how he did it?”
“You mean how that weird little shit knew which birds would perform just by eyeballing them? Hell, no. If I did, I never would’ve let the kid off the farm. It was crazy. He could just tell by looking at them how they would react in the ring. It’s like his eye was trained to see things a normal person couldn’t. I’ve been around this shit my whole life, so I know which birds are winners and which ones ain’t, but it’s because I know the bloodline, or the training that goes into a certain bird. That weird-ass kid could tell the reaction times just by watching them walk or graze. It’s damn near inhuman what he did. Shit, I’m telling y’all, that kid is a goddamn walking money machine.”
“And you have no idea where the boy could be now? Did either of them ever mention anything to you about where they were staying when they’d come up here, or anything at all that might help us find him?”
“That dude never said shit other than how much and the kid never said a damn word to anyone but Arnie. I didn’t even know the little dude’s name until you just told me.” Eddie picked up the photo, licked at his front teeth, and set it back down on the picnic table. “Hell,” he said, “if the truth be known, after I saw what that dude did, I was glad I didn’t know anything about either of ’em. I don’t want any part of that shit. Those flip motherfuckers don’t fuck around. Neither do those Mountain boys and they lost a pretty penny here, too. I don’t need that kind of trouble—too dangerous. I don’t even host fights out here anymore. The Slasher was a one-time deal. I just sell birds. I’m just a trainer now—a businessman. I’m glad I stayed clear of it.”
“So which is it, Mr. Rockdale?”
Eddie cocked his head at Roselita. “Which is what, FBI Lady?”
“You said a minute ago that if you knew what the boy was capable of, you wouldn’t have let him off your property. You called him a walking money machine. But just now you said you’re glad you stayed clear. So which is it?”
“You fucking cops love to twist up a man’s words.”
“I’m just trying to sort out the truth, Mr. Rockdale.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Eddie stood up. “Are you sitting in my fucking backyard calling me a liar?”
Roselita looked around at the area around the barn. “This the backyard?”
“Okay. We’re done here. Kirby, get this bitch off my land, before I have Tater shoot at her instead of near her.”
“Are you threatening me, Mr. Rockdale—again?”
Eddie leaned down hard on the wooden table. “Yes. Yes, I am. Fuck this. Your missing kid, your dead white boy, and their whole family-accident sob story. Ain’t none of this got shit to do with me. So go on and get to steppin’.”
“All right, Eddie.” Dane stood up as well. “Calm down. We’re leaving.”
“Good, because I’m about a cunt hair away from smoking this bitch myself.”
Roselita was on her feet now, too. “You mean you don’t want to have some inbred sniper do it for you from behind a barn?”
Eddie jumped at the table. Ned stopped him by wrapping his thin arms around the big man in a sleeper hold. “Let me go, Ned. Let me go or I swear to God, you’re next.” Eddie struggled to free himself, but Ned had the reach. “Go, Dane. Get her out of here. Go now.”
Tater came out of the barn and trained the M40 on Ned. “Let him go, Ned—now.” It was the first time anyone had heard the man speak.
“You heard the man, Ned. Let me go before bodies start dropping.”
Dane balanced himself on the edge of the table. He knew for all Eddie’s bluster he wouldn’t attack an FBI agent. “Let him go, Ned.”
“Not a good idea, Dane.”
“I said let him go.” Ned did and backed way up. Eddie flexed once he was free, but his bluff had been called. “Get the fuck off my land.” The threat sounded hollow. Tater lowered the rifle, too. “Sure thing, Eddie, but just one more thing before we head out.”
“What?”
“You know a Bernadette Sellers?”
“Nah.”
“How about a Bobby Turo. That name familiar to you?”
“Never heard it before in my life.”
Dane nodded and put his hat on. “You hear about Ned’s trouble over at Tom Clifford’s cabin?”
“Yeah, I heard about it, but I knew it was bullshit. Ned ain’t got it in him to be no killer.”
“Yeah, I agree.”
“So what’s your point?”
“Where were you the morning Tom was shot?”
Eddie got quiet and backed away from the table. It was clear that the wheels in his head were spinning full tilt. “You need to leave,” Eddie said in a near whisper, and stared hard into Dane’s eyes. The tension that started in his jaw rippled though his whole body. “I got nothing else to say.” He looked at Ned with the same intensity, but whatever passed through the two of them stayed silent, unexposed.
Dane pocketed the photo from the table. “We’ll be back, Eddie.”
“I hope so, motherfucker.” His voice lacked the commanding tone he had prior to Dane’s implication. Roselita had already started back to the truck. She’d gotten all she needed. Dane tipped his chin to Eddie and to Tater, who had let the rifle fall to his side, and followed.
“I’m sorry about all this, Rooster.”
“Fuck you, Ned.”
Ned nodded and slowly started down the dirt road toward his ride. A few minutes later, the three of them crammed into the cab of Keith’s Nissan and Dane cranked the engine. He saw Lydia in the rearview mirror as he turned the truck around and headed out. She was standing in the doorway of the main house where she’d been when they arrived. Ned strained his neck to look back at her. Roselita sighed.
The stolen Subaru hatchback didn’t handle the rough roads out in the country all that well, and he felt every bump in the road deep in his shoulder as if someone were gouging a thumb into the wound. He was pleased to finally be still, and off those godforsaken trails. He had refused to bring anyone with him. He didn’t know anyone from the organization here personally, so despite his injuries, he felt safer working the rest of this job on his own. The last thing he needed out here was another idiot like Smoke to let his American-influenced ego get him killed.
Fenn watched from where he’d stashed the car behind a deep thicket of bushes as the same Americans he’d seen back at the apartment in Atlanta passed him in a bright red pickup truck. They had added one to their number, but he looked even less formidable than the other two. Fenn was not surprised to see them here. They were all seeking the same information. This farm belonged to the American who ran the games. It only made sense that this would be the place to start looking for the boy, but he was hoping to have already come and gone by the time the police arrived. He was planning on waiting until dark to approach the farmhouse, but now he had no choice. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe these American police arriving when they did would provide Fenn with an opportunity. He’d scouted the area thoroughly after he’d hidden the car and found only one man patrolling the property line—another man of no consequence hiding behind the false security of a long, high-caliber weapon. Fenn would make short work of him, but now it was possible that his death would be unnecessary. That man would surely be busy now with the police, making it easier for Fenn to approach the house undetected—possibly even to enter the house. The woman living there was beautiful, nothing like most American women—she was delicate and stately, a woman of Fenn’s caliber. Maybe there would be time to see more of her. Maybe this trio of police in their fancy pickup truck had just made that introduction possible.
Fenn got out of the car, careful of his shoulder, and eased the door closed. He took his baston and a small canteen of water from the hatchback and looked at the suitcase and trash bag tucked down under the back seat that contained a small fortune. Fenn knew he’d be rewarded with a lot more if he could provide his people with the boy, so the idea of taking it for himself never entered his mind. Greed was American. Greed got you killed. He thought of Smoke, and slowly eased the hatch closed. His wound was still a slow-burning fire that spread down his arm, but he ignored it and flexed his fingers. Silently, he made his way through the woods toward the house. He wouldn’t be able to get close enough to hear what they were saying, but he’d be able to see how many people he would need to kill if that’s what it came to. He opened a small pill bottle he’d taken from the same house he’d stolen the car from, and chewed three of the small oval pills into a chalky paste that he washed down with water from the canteen. Within minutes he was feeling better. The throbbing in his shoulder had settled into a dull ache, and he nestled next to a tree and watched the thin man with the rifle fire at the police from the truck—the woman with the pink shirt talking to the old man on the porch. The woman did something of a dance and fell into the other man—the skinny one with the long hair. They all jerked about and bounced around the yard. The man with the rifle chambered another round but lowered the weapon. He had not intended to hit anyone, but fired just to show the old man’s dominance over the visitors. Fenn smiled while he watched the havoc the rifleman had caused. He would’ve laughed if he could’ve afforded to break his silence or give away his position. Other than the man who drove the truck, who remained stoic, the movements of the others in front of the house reminded Fenn of an old silent movie he’d seen on American TV once as a boy. Fenn loved American TV. Keystone Cops, he recalled. Yes, that’s what they looked like. The Keystone Cops. They were very funny.