Shop Talk (18 page)

“Damn that Billy Buffalo!” A tall, blond man battered himself against the stubborn door of the vehicle. When it flew open, he almost toppled to the ground. His black beret fell into the dirt. He picked it up and dusted it on his camouflage pants. Cursing, he walked to the gate and rattled it. “I wonder what he was chasing?” He hefted a rifle in muscular arms and sighted up and down the road. “I’m ready for a little action.”

“Maybe we should check it out.” The other man was shorter, his thick blond hair neatly cropped. His dark green uniform, complete with glinting medals on his left pocket, was crisply pressed. He pushed the driver’s door open with ease and stepped to the ground with compact grace. In one hand he held a weapon that resembled an Uzi, in the other was a cigar. “Check the ditches, look for tracks.”

The first man hesitated. “I don’t know. That Billy. It’s breeding season, and I think he just gets irrational. Marvin was jogging around here and didn’t see anything.”

“If anything gets by us, Dr. Custer will not be pleased.” The man clamped his teeth on the cigar.

“If we over-react, Dr. Custer will be just as unhappy. Even the idea of a trespasser sends him into a frenzy, and I don’t have to remind you how unpleasant one of his
moods
can be.” The tall one rattled the gate again. “Nobody’s been up here. Let’s check Billy and make sure he wasn’t hurt.”

“Right.”

The men got back in the truck and slowly drove away.

Andromeda crawled down the ditch, trying hard not to think about the leeches and snakes that undoubtedly lived in the mucky dampness. When she reached the hard rubber tire of her bike, she felt an immense relief. Her camera was still in her pocket. From the saddle bag on her bike she drew out a pad and pencil and began to sketch the area where the compound was located.

The strange creatures that were being bred on the compound intrigued her. She’d heard, long ago, of the attempt to cross cattle and buffalo for a new, cheap meat. But the product had not sold well. Americans, after slaughtering the buffalo and the Indians, did not care to dine on that icon of the American west, not even when crossed with the more acceptably edible Angus. As crossbreeds, they were sterile. Destined never to be anything except freaks.

Pushing hard, she maneuvered the bike out of the muddy ditch and into the road. Afraid to crank it, she pushed it back the way she’d come. In the shade of a big oak and the safety of a white-blossomed blackberry thicket, she parked and waited for Marvin.

Nature was all around her, trying to lull her into drowsiness, but Andromeda resisted. She tried to screen out the droning buzz, the shrill chirp. Buzz, chirp. Buzz, chirp. Chirp, chirp, buzz, a maddening symphony of bird and bee. She sat up abruptly. It was all so very clear. Robert Beaudreaux was a geneticist, an expert on DNA. The beefalo were crossbreeds. The security at the beefalo ranch was a little extreme, even for valuable cows. Military uniforms. The confiscation of Horn Island by the military during the war. Was it possible that Robert had not been abducted at all, but had been transferred into some type of military stronghold in the heart of Saucier?

The sound of a car approaching cut off all further thoughts. Years of practice in jumping up to tend to her mother had Andromeda helmeted, cranked and ready in seconds. Marvin cruised by, and she let him get around a curve before she headed the Harley after him.

He returned to his apartment, where Lucille was waiting to assume her watch. Andromeda wasted no time. Natalie’s sleep would soon be over. She waved goodbye and headed for the library.

Jazz was just locking the front door as she walked the hog up the steps and stopped, grinning.

Jazz’s frown melted. She thrust her chin out as far as her hipbones. “You found something about Marvin, didn’t you?”

Andromeda’s nod was quick, intense. “What exactly went on at Horn Island during World War II?”

Lucille kicked the Krystal bag and sent it whoofing to the passenger side of the Camaro. Five little empty burger containers, still smelling of steamed meat, onions, and pickles, spilled across the floorboard. She looked up at the apartment window. “Damn you, Marvin. And damn Jazz for thinking up this idiotic scheme.” Her raw knees throbbed and her back ached from sitting motionless in the car for four hours. One more hour. Jazz was due to relieve her at ten. Marvin had left his den only long enough to go to the bagel shop and pick up two white sacks of food. For a thin man, he was a big eater.

She was so deep in her dark thoughts that she almost missed the opening of the apartment door. The old man, cane in hand, slid into the darkness like a shadow. He was dressed in what appeared to be a black cat-suit. “Great, he thinks he’s Houdini.” Lucille reached for the car keys but her fingers were greasy from the fries. She managed to get the car cranked and was ready when he backed his Taurus out of the drive and headed west.

Careful to stay four car-lengths behind him, Lucille recognized the distant outline of the Marina Apartments on the horizon and felt a wave of longing for her tiny little apartment and her computer. The complex was three stories high and built from fake shake-cedar shingles in a French provincial style. It was considered by almost everyone on the coast to be an eyesore. But Lucille had lived there for five years. She’d grown comfortable in the cramped space, accustomed to the noises of the other tenants as they ran their showers, flushed their toilets, and argued. So much of her time at home was spent at the computer that she’d gotten to where she didn’t notice her surroundings, except for her beloved fuzzy badger slippers.

Marvin took a right and drove past the Marina Apartments, cutting north. The temptation to give up the chase and dart home for an hour of writing was almost irresistible. But there would be no way to explain to Mona how she’d lost a septuagenarian. Lucille knew Mona was a dangerous woman.

Marvin cruised several blocks and suddenly slowed. Lucille was forced to swerve into a driveway or ram him in the butt. The abrupt turn required all of her driving ability, and when she looked up, she was curious to see that Marvin had pulled along the side of the sleepy street and was simply sitting in his car, motor dead, lights out.

Killing her engine, Lucille rolled down her window. The fishy smell of the bayou wafted in to her, a familiar smell that was both comforting and filled with the life cycle of decay. In the quiet she could hear the whisper of the slight April breeze in the marsh grass.

Though it was some distance away, the third floor of a large complex was visible above the trees. The odor of the bayou teased Lucille’s creative side and the most recent problem that stumped her. Slade had lost his desire to write poetry. He never picked up a pen. His hands were always full of Angelita’s flesh. Somehow, he’d forgotten all about his quest to find a woman worthy of him. He’d settled for one with a talent for black lace and muscle contractions.

Lucille unhooked her seat belt and gave a sigh of relief. More than anything she needed a Coke. The real thing. Something to make her burp. The Krystal burgers had worked down an inch or so, but they were like cement. Bo was always telling her to chew her food better. He chewed each mouthful thirty-six times, something he’d learned in a family planning class at Wiggins High. Using the butt of her hand, she pounded on her chest. A little fizz would go a long way to dislodging the blockage. Without warning little shooting jolts of fire trailed down her left arm. The words HEART ATTACK blared behind her eyelids, and she sat up straight.

Before she could get over the scare she’d given herself, the sky erupted in a blast of light. The car was buffeted by the loud blast and when she looked up again, she saw that a portion of the big building on the horizon was on fire.

Her first impulse was to run–the direction was irrelevant. She felt scorched, singed, beaten, in desperate need of flight. Her fingers fumbled with the door, but her gaze was drawn to the magnificent flames that shot into the night.

Before she could force the door open, Marvin stepped out of his car. He nodded, a movement that was clearly visible since he was silhouetted by the flames. Lucille felt the wedge of burgers slide into her stomach as goosebumps crawled over her arms and back. Something about the old man’s intense interest in the fire, combined with his crisp nod, scared her. Maybe Jazz wasn’t being neurotic. Maybe there was something about him that warranted close watching.

Marvin climbed back into his car and turned around. Cowering down in the front seat, Lucille watched him as he drove past. His lips were drawn back from his teeth in what may have been a grin, but to Lucille, it looked like a rictus of death.

Her hands were shaking as she cranked up her car and fell in behind him. She watched the blaze in her rearview mirror, fighting the hypnotic pull of the dancing flames. To look at the fire was to invite trouble. She focused on the square taillights of Marvin’s vehicle, knowing she would be lost if she didn’t keep up. He cruised through the neighborhood streets that suddenly came to life as pajamaclad residents turned on porch lights and rushed out into their yards to investigate the explosion. For Lucille, it was like a dream. All the way back to Marvin’s apartment, her fear steadily grew. She parked beneath the same tree where she’d spent most of the early evening. Marvin went into the apartment and closed the door. A light burned greenly through curtains the color of seafoam, and Marvin’s thin silhouette paced back and forth. Occasionally he bent down to another, more solid form. A man sitting in a chair? No, Mona had assured her that Marvin lived alone.

Lucille brushed a spiky strand of hair from her forehead and realized her fingers were freezing. In the distance the ululating sounds of sirens and fire trucks gave the night a texture of rhythm. It was a Southern night made for walking along the beach, not for explosions and tragedies.

The gentle moon illuminated the graceful branches of the oak under which Lucille parked, and she felt a keen pang of regret. Turning in her seat, she looked down the easy slope of the road to the water. The black depths glittered, a moving sea of stars that was darker, brighter than the sky. The beach itself glowed white, empty, inviting. A place for two, a man and a woman. Lucille could almost see them. A tall, lean man with broad shoulders and clean boots, his hand properly on the elbow of a young woman with a stiff spine and a stiffer corset. In the background was the soft moo of contented cows. Would it be possible to get Slade to drive the cattle to Mississippi? The beach would make the perfect setting for the realization of his true love. Angelita would be left behind in the rocky dust of Granite, and Slade could find a woman of merit.

“Lucille,” Jazz’s voice drifted to her.

Lucille whirled around. She hadn’t seen the headlights or heard the approach of another car. “Jazz!”

The librarian, wearing khaki walking shorts and a multi-colored, striped top, stepped up to the side of the car. Her upswept hair had been tied in a scarf with stripes that matched her earbobs.

“Lucille,” Jazz put her hand through the window. “I’ve got some bad news. There was an explosion tonight.”

“I know. I saw it.”

“You did?” Jazz didn’t know what to say. She’d caught the tailend of the news report and had dreaded telling Lucille that her apartment complex was blown to bits.

“Of course I did. That’s when I got a good look at Marvin’s face. He is one bad dude, Jazz.” She reached through the window and grabbed Jazz’s arm. “He enjoyed the explosion.”

Jazz pulled back, appalled. Lucille had witnessed the explosion, but it had not occurred to her–yet–that it was her home that was destroyed. Amazing.

At Lucille’s sudden gasp, Jazz turned. The door to Marvin’s apartment opened. In the yellow shaft of light, he was silhouetted for a moment on the upstairs balcony. The tip of a cigarette glowed red in the night as he inhaled sharply.

“He runs all over a beefalo farm, and then he smokes cigarettes,” Jazz whispered. They huddled closer together, Lucille in the car and Jazz squatting outside. “He studies Horn Island, and then he drives to a point to watch a building blow up. What will he do next?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Lucille said.

“Uh, Lucille, maybe you should …” Jazz faltered. What could she say? Maybe you should go buy some clean underwear because your panties have been blasted to tatters? She couldn’t do it. “I think your brother needs to talk to you.”

“Bo?” Lucille was shocked. “He’s in bed by now.”

“I think I saw him up in the shop.” Jazz had definitely seen him. And Iris. They were all pacing the floor while Driskell was on the phone. Jazz knew they were trying to locate Lucille.

“At ten o’clock at night?”

“I think there’s something wrong.” Jazz nodded. “Definitely, there’s something wrong. You’d better stop by there.”

“Was Driskell there?” Lucille had a sudden thought that

maybe he’d packed his things and left. It wouldn’t be the

first time a man who’d piqued her interest had fled in the

middle of the night.

“He was there.” Jazz nodded. “Go on. Just be careful.”

“Surely she wasn’t in her apartment.” Bo paced the front of the shop. “They haven’t been able to go through the rubble. The fire is too hot. But surely she wasn’t there.”

“It’s that big, ugly Peter,” Iris said. “I feel it in my gut. He did this.” She bit her lip. “Poor Lucille.”

“Don’t poor-Lucille her yet,” Bo insisted. He paced harder. “Her car wasn’t in the parking lot. Or if it was, it was blown to smithereens. They think maybe the bomb was put in it.”

“You told them, Bo, baby, that somebody was trying to hurt her the night her car was burgled. They wouldn’t listen to you.” Iris glanced over at Driskell. He was standing, as he’d been since the blast, with his long, slender hands in the wiring of a big screen television. For the first time, Iris noticed that his agile fingers were completely still. “You okay, Driskell?”

“Yes.” His voice rustled like dry corn shucks.

Iris cut a look at him and frowned. He was paler than ever.

“Where did Peter go?” Bo demanded, pacing like a caged tiger.

“He said he’d be by here today.” Driskell finally put the screwdriver down and gave up all pretense of work. “The police said Lucille would have to be gone twenty-four hours before they went looking for her? Even after her apartment was blasted into oblivion?”

Bo nodded.

“We should have told them she probably had an ounce of grass on her. They would have killed themselves trying to find her then.” Iris lit a cigarette.

“She isn’t dead.” Bo stopped and looked at Iris, then Driskell. “If she were dead, I’d know. I’d feel something.”

“An overwhelming sense of relief,” Iris said, half under her breath.

“She isn’t dead.” Driskell stepped away from the counter. “If you’ll excuse me for the rest of the night, Bo, I’d like to hunt for that man who claimed to be your uncle.”

“Where will you look?” Bo turned to him with an eagerness that made Iris’ heart contract. He was desperate with worry over Lucille. Her apartment had been the epicenter of the blast. Nothing had been left except charred rubble. And the head from one gnarly badger slipper, which Bo now clutched in his hand.

“I’ll start with the low-rent dives and motels. Peter Hare didn’t look like a man who spent a lot of money on clean sheets.”

“Clean wasn’t in his vocabulary,” Bo said softly. “But he likes home cooking. Turnips with fatback and cornbread, lima beans, biscuits, that kind of thing. Especially breakfast foods.” Bo recalled Peter sitting at the kitchen table in Aunt Doris’s trailer, his gut meeting the edge of the table and forming a shelf for crumbs. Some days Peter had never left the kitchen. He’d stayed right at the table, blending one meal into the next.

“I’ll hunt for him.” Driskell had observed him carefully, and deduced several things. As big as Peter Hare was, he did not get in and out of the truck often and he consumed a lot of food.

“He’s quite the lady’s man.”

Driskell looked up. To his surprise, Bo was not smiling.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. There was a time when Peter Hare was considered the catch of Stone County.”

“By whose standards?”

“Aunt Doris said she was beside herself when he chose her. All of the girls in her class were after him. She was only sixteen, and she didn’t give a thought to how he was going to make a living for them. Apparently he didn’t either. He was more interested in my aunt’s cooking skills. When she said ‘I do,’ he thought she said ‘I do for you.'”

Driskell adjusted his cape. “I don’t mean to be rude, Bo, but was your father like him?”

Bo laughed. “Happy wasn’t a thing like Peter. They were different as night and day. Daddy was so responsible, so concerned about providing for his wife and family.” The smile that had touched Bo’s face disappeared. “Daddy hated Uncle Peter. They were bitter enemies. Mama said they hardly spoke from the day Lucille and I were born.”

“But your Aunt Doris kept in touch.”

Bo nodded. “She was a good woman. Mama tried to talk her into divorcing Peter, but she wouldn’t do it.”

“Did they have children?” Driskell leaned against the counter.

“Aunt Doris wanted children, but Peter would never hear of it.” Bo sighed and walked to the window, staring into the night. “I can’t be the last of the Hares. I have to believe Lucille is alive.”

“Her car would have been there if she’d been home.” Driskell put forth that thought. “I think Peter kidnapped her.”

Bo turned to him. “You really think so?”

“I do. The fact that he tried to run her down makes me believe he took her. I don’t know what hole he crawled out of, but he can go back.” Driskell walked to the door. “I’m going over to the Marina Apartments and see if I can find out anything new. That Officer O’Neill was supposed to call. If I learn anything, I’ll call here. If not, I’m going to start the search for Peter.”

“Good idea.” Bo pressed his fingers against the glass. “I wish I could think of something to do but I have to wait here in case they call me.” He watched as Driskell stepped through the door and out into the night.