His eyes narrowed and bored into me. ”Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” he said, ”I shall fear no evil-”
”Shut your fucking mouth!” The words came out of me with such force that I sprayed him with spit.
I grabbed his chin with my left hand, rolled his head to the side, and pressed the stick down hard on his carotid artery. Fifteen seconds later, he was unconscious again. For a moment, I envisioned myself smashing his head to a pulp with the stick. If you kill him, you won’t have to worry about him anymore. But I couldn’t do it. I stood up, turned around, and took off running.
A half hour later, driving along in the dark silence, the anger and bravado I’d felt earlier started to subside. In my mind, I envisioned Junior’s head exploding as I beat him with the stick and relived the fleeting feeling of satisfaction the fantasy had given me. I smelled the urine and felt his labored breath on my face. I began to shake, and before long I was trembling so badly I had to pull to the side of the road.
What the hell had I just done? I’d gone to a man’s home in the middle of the night, attacked him, threatened him, and even fantasized about killing him.
But he tried to kill you.
That doesn’t matter and you know it. You’re not a goddamned vigilante. How many people have you defended who did something stupid and violent because they thought it was right? You’re rationalizing.
I thought about the look in his eyes while I was straddling him. My intention had been to scare him so badly that he’d leave me and my family alone, but that look-that angry, pained, insane look-told me I’d failed. He wasn’t afraid of me. He either hated me too much to be afraid or he was just too crazy to care. As I tried to control the trembling, I looked at myself in the rearview mirror.
”Caroline was right,” I said aloud. ”You’re as crazy as he is.”
June 23
9:20 a.m.
Agent Landers’s head was pounding, his back and shoulders aching. The little college cheerleader he’d laid hold of last night must have been more athletic than he thought. Not that he remembered much about her. He drank almost a fifth of Jim Beam.
Landers was sitting at his desk going through a box of physical evidence from the Angel Christian case. He had to meet with Joe Dillard later. Dillard had a right to inspect the physical evidence. Landers wouldn’t go to Dillard’s office and Dillard wouldn’t come to his, so they were going to meet in a conference room at the courthouse in the afternoon.
Landers was worried about the case. Deacon Baker had indicted the Christian girl without much evidence, hoping she’d either confess or roll on Erlene Barlowe. She hadn’t done either one, and now Dillard was representing her. Dillard was a prick, but he knew how to try a case. Landers knew there was a good possibility that they might lose, and to make things even worse, Judge Green had scheduled the trial a couple of weeks before the August election. If Deacon lost this case, he could very well find his ass on the outside looking in the day after the election.
Landers didn’t give a damn about Deacon, but he’d been around long enough to know that shit flows downhill. If the case was lost, Deacon would immediately start looking around for someone to blame. Since Landers was the case agent, Deacon would look in his direction first. Deacon would tell anyone who’d listen that it was Landers’s fault, that Landers had been sloppy or that Landers had talked Deacon into indicting Angel without enough evidence for a conviction. If that happened, Landers knew he could kiss his chances at a promotion goodbye when his boss finally retired.
Landers had just picked up the photograph of Angel with the bruise on her face when the secretary buzzed.
”There’s a man on the phone says he has information about the Tester murder,” she said.
Landers punched the flashing button.
”Who is this?”
”My name is Virgil Watterson. I have some information you may be able to use.”
”What information is that?”
”My understanding is that a body part was found out near Pickens Bridge?”
A crank call. Some pervert wanting to talk about the dead preacher’s dick.
”That’s right. What about it?”
”I crossed the bridge the night of the murder, around one in the morning. When I got onto the bridge, I noticed there was a car stopped right in the middle. As I got closer, I saw a woman standing outside the car near the railing. She could have thrown something in the water.”
What the fuck? A witness? Where had this guy been?
”Did you get a look at her?”
”Sure did. Her car was facing me in the other lane and she was walking back towards it. Caught her full in my headlights. Middle-aged woman, wearing some kind of animal-print jacket and the tightest pants I ever saw. Bright red hair.”
Erlene Barlowe. It had to be her. Landers started scratching notes on a pad. ”Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”
”Probably.”
”What about the car? You get a look at it?”
”Yes, sir. The bridge is narrow so I had to slow way down to get past her. It was a Corvette. A nice one.”
”Get a plate number?”
”No. Sorry.”
”What about the color?”
”It was dark out there, but I’m pretty sure it was red.”
”Was anyone else with her on the bridge?”
”I didn’t see a soul.”
”Anyone else in the car?”
”Not that I saw.”
”Why’d you wait so long to call and tell us about this, Mr. . did you say your name is Watterson?”
”Yes. Virgil Watterson. I’m afraid it’s a little embarrassing.”
”Embarrassing?”
”I wouldn’t want this to get out.”
”Wouldn’t want what to get out?”
The man’s voice got quieter, as though he was trying to keep someone nearby from hearing what he was saying.
”It’s my wife, you see. I’m a married man.”
”So?”
”I’d been on a business trip and came back a little early. I was on my way to someone’s house.”
”Who’s house?”
”I’d rather not say.”
The light came on in Landers’s mind.
”So you came back early from your trip and were going to visit someone besides your wife?”
”That’s possible.”
”And you didn’t go home until the next day?”
”That’s right.”
”And then you heard about the murder and put two and two together?”
”Exactly.”
”I understand,” Landers said. ”So why have you suddenly changed your mind? Why are you coming forward now?”
”I can’t stop thinking about it. I dream about that woman on the bridge every night. I’m afraid you may have arrested the wrong person. My conscience just can’t bear it.”
Landers sat back and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. A steady pressure was beginning to build just beneath his temples.
”Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mr.
Watterson?”
”Not that I can think of.”
”Would you be willing to give me a written statement if I need one?”
”I guess I could if I have to.”
”Would you be willing to testify in court?”
”I’d rather not.”
Landers wrote down Watterson’s address and phone number and told him he’d be back in touch.
If Watterson was telling the truth, Erlene Barlowe could well have tossed Reverend Tester’s dick into the lake. Maybe even the murder weapon. Landers wrote himself a note to have the sheriff’s department drag the lake under the bridge again. They’d already done it once, after the cat found the reverend’s dick, but they hadn’t come up with anything.
Since Watterson said the woman on the bridge was alone, either Angel Christian had still been at the club or Erlene had taken her home. Either way, it probably took Angel out of the picture so far as the murder was concerned. Deacon Baker-that stupid fuck. Landers told him he was pulling the trigger too early. He told him the case was thin. Now it looked like Watterson might be right-they arrested the wrong fucking person.