Whit reached Beaumont around eight Friday night. The towers of the refineries glowed like an alien metropolis. With his window cracked he could smell the sour egg odor of natural gas and chemical plants, overpowering the barest hint of pine.
Hungry, he parked in the oil-stained lot next to a cheap diner with a neon fork spearing the window. In the counter he ate a greasy hamburger topped with kill-your-neighbors-strength onions and gulped a jumbo glass of iced tea. As he ate, he studied again the clipping file that Patsy had sent. He reread each article and found himself going back to the first article outlining Corey’s disappearance: ‘Corey is impulsive,’ Senator Hubble said in a brief statement to the press. ‘I don’t think Corey wants to be spending much time in Austin. I have no reason to suspect that Corey has run afoul of someone. I hope that if he is reading this he realizes the joke is over and he should please call us soon.’
The accompanying photo showed a stolid yet pained Lucinda Hubble leaving the Port Leo police station, brave, head held high but wearing dark glasses. A clearly shocked Pete, young beyond his years, walked next to her, grimacing. Delford stood next to Lucinda, a Rock of Gibraltar.
Of course he had.
The phone call to Georgie Whit had placed yesterday was a simple question of whether there had ever been rumor of a relationship between Lucinda Hubble and Delford Spires. Georgie, the human archive of local lore and gossip, had said, ‘Well, they’ve always been friends. I wondered if Delford wanted more at one point. But I guess any chance of romance fizzled after Corey vanished. Lucinda never let another man close to her.’
It was circumstantial, it was wispy hearsay, but it made Whit wonder. A boy who felt anger and unending grief over his father’s death and acid resentment toward his mother would not welcome a new suitor. Whit had felt the same sting when Babe split with Georgie and began wooing local divorcees. He had cordially hated all his father’s girlfriends. Childish, yes, but common. But he still could not envision Delford ruthlessly killing a teenage boy.
He gathered up his papers and walked out of the diner, heading across the dark plain of the parking lot.
‘Hey, fucker,’ a voice boomed, and a hand borrowed from Goliath grabbed Whit off his feet, dragged him several feet behind the building, and slammed him into the back brick wall of the diner. The back of his head hit hard and pinwheels filled his vision. Whit lashed out with a fist and grazed a temple. He blinked and cool fingers curled into his throat, making themselves at home, squeezing the life out of him. His head pounded back into the bricks.
‘Hey, fucker,’ the voice repeated. ‘Gonna talk.’ In the dim light Whit could see Mr Words was a young, rough kid with thick arms, big hair, and a pair of narrow-lensed sunglasses most commonly found on pimps. He’d seen the guy before. The muscled-up kid at Junior’s condo. Out of the corner of his eye Whit saw more movement, heard the quiet creak of a wheelchair.
Oh, shit.
‘I hate a goddamned thief worse than anything,’ Anson Todd said in a hushed voice. ‘And you an elected official. Goddamn, American democracy is going down the fucking toilet. You corrupt bastard.’
‘Yeah,’ Mr Words agreed.
‘What-’ Whit attempted to breathe, grabbing at Mr Words’s hand, trying to pry the fingers from his throat.
‘I want the money, Judge Smart-Ass,’ Anson hissed. He wheeled close to Whit and with an arthritic fist punched Whit in the balls. Hard. Whit gagged. Amazing how slight a punch it takes to savage a pair of testicles. Mr Words slammed Whit to the oily pavement, yanked his arm straight, spread his fingers against the parking-lot grime.
The throat grip relaxed momentarily so Whit could breathe and speak. ‘What money?’
Wrong answer. Fist squeezed, blood fled from his throat. The wheelchair – heavy itself and full of old man – rolled over his fingers, backed up, rolled forward again. Whit gritted his teeth, wondering if he would first hear or feel the bones break.
‘Don’t fuck with us, Judge,’ Anson said. He steadied the chair, letting its full weight settle on Whit’s knuckles.
‘Did a cop once,’ Mr Words said. ‘Never a judge. Cool. Start with fingers.’
‘I don’t have your money.’
‘Get him into the van,’ Anson ordered. ‘You can have your fun with him there.’ He hacked phlegm. ‘And shit, it’s time for my medicine.’
Mr Words jerked Whit to his feet, keeping an iron grip on his throat with both hands. Whit tried to wrench free, hoping for a weak spot to punch or kick, but Mr Words was four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, all muscle. Whit smelled the pineapple reek of cheap cologne, the soft odor of trash from the diner’s Dumpster, the goon’s sweat.
Mr Words hurried Whit along toward a dark blue van parked at the far end of the lot with a flooring company name on the side, Anson’s motorized chair purring behind them.
‘Cooperate, get off light,’ Mr Words murmured in a spate of eloquence. ‘You don’t, die in fucking Beaumont. Talk to us. Be cool.’
The half million. They think I have it.
As Mr Words dragged him along by his neck, Whit considered options. A kick to the nuts and about a dozen hard punches to the jaw were the ticket. Actually, a small nuclear device would be the ticket. But Whit couldn’t budge an inch. All he could see was the smeary grease stains of the lot, a few flattened cigarette butts, and the dark shadow of the van, barely illuminated in the halo of light from a streetlamp at the corner.
Head held down and stumbling, Whit saw the damage before they did. All four of the van’s tires lay flat. He made a noise, and Mr Words stopped and saw and said, ‘Well, fuck.’
Whit, the baby of six dirty-wrestling brothers, just needed that second. He fought just the way he learned at his brothers’ knees and elbows and fists. He smashed his heel down on Mr Words’s arch, gouging the foot with the modest heel of his loafer. Mr Words yelled. Whit slammed a forearm against Words’s right arm, then elbowed backward into the thick throat. Mr Words yelped. Whit spun free of his hold, then drove headfirst into the man’s abdomen. Mr Words staggered back and Whit jabbed hard with two left uppercuts that sent the kid sprawling onto the asphalt.
‘Eddie, get the fuck out here!’ Anson screamed. Whit whirled, trying to get his breath back. His throat felt like it had been scalded, his fingers felt like rubber, either broken by Anson’s wheel or Mr Words’s jaw. Eddie. Shit.
New plan. Run. He bolted and Mr Words kicked out, catching both his feet on a muscled leg hard as fallen timber, and Whit slammed hard into the pavement. Well, you tried. Fingers closed around his throat again, yanking him to his feet.
Movement came from behind the van. ‘Eddie’s indisposed.’ A familiar voice. Gooch, holding a sleek automatic pistol, neatly fitted with a silencer. The pistol was aimed at Anson. The grip on Whit’s throat tightened.
‘Let the judge go, son,’ Gooch said. ‘Or I shoot the old man. Then you.’
Mr Words moved Whit in front of him as a makeshift shield. ‘Or maybe I just break his neck if you don’t drop the gun.’
‘I can shoot you first, son,’ Gooch said conversationally. ‘Or I can shoot Anson. You want to explain to Papa Deloache how you got Anson killed?’
‘Let him go,’ Anson said quietly.
Even when whipped, Mr Words made an excellent lapdog. He let go. Whit gulped a long sucking breath, one that scorched his throat but his lungs savored.
‘Judge, come here by the van,’ Gooch said. ‘I don’t want you to get blood splattered all over your nice clothes.’
‘Dumbass,’ Anson snarled. ‘You fuck with us, you don’t have any idea what you’re buying.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Gooch smiled. ‘But fuck with me and you buy a grave no one will ever find. Understood?’
Whit leaned against the van. ‘He said Eddie…’