'Watch out for snakes,' Brown said, grabbing at the edge of the door and pulling hard. With a final tug that shook the entire structure, the door swung wide.
'Bruce! Get a goddamn flashlight!' Brown yelled. He took the end of the crowbar and swept more spiderwebs aside. A scuttling, scratching sound made Cowart jump back as some small beast fled from the sudden light pouring through the open door.
The two men stood, shoulder to shoulder, staring at the wooden toilet seat, carved from a board, polished by use. The stench in the small space was dull and thick. It was an old smell that clogged their breathing, a smell closer to death or age than waste.
'Under there,' Cowart said.
Brown nodded in agreement.
'Way down.'
Wilcox, slightly out of breath from running, joined them, thrusting the black flashlight toward his partner.
'Bruce,' Brown asked quietly, 'the crime-scene guy. Did he pull the seat?' Did he check through the stink?'
Wilcox shook his head. 'It was nailed down tight. The nails were old, I remember, because he made me come in and double-check. There was no sign that anything had been pulled up and then replaced. You know, like hammer marks or scrapes or anything
'No obvious sign,' said Brown.
'That's right. Nothing jumped out when we looked at it.' His eyes flashed angrily.
'But… 'Brown said.
'That's right. But, Wilcox replied, 'I can't guarantee he didn't have some way of getting down into the shit hole that we didn't see. The tech went in, checked with a light, and then came out, like I told you. I stuck my head in, looked around, and that was it. I mean, one of us would've seen anything shoved down that hole…'
'If you wanted to hide something, and you didn't think you had much time and you wanted to be sure it'd be the last place searched in the most perfunctory fashion…' Brown's voice hovered between lecture and anger.
'Why not take it out into the woods and bury it?'
'Can't be certain it won't be found, especially when we bring the damn dogs in. Can't be certain you won't be seen. But one thing's for sure. Nobody's gonna go down there into a shit hole that don't have to.'
Wilcox nodded. His voice curled up softly in despair. 'You're right. Dammit. D'you think…
His thought was interrupted by a sudden, shrill cry from behind them.
'Get away from there!'
The three men turned and saw the old woman standing on a back stoop, holding an old double-barreled shotgun at her hip.
I will blow you straight to hell if'n you don't move away from there! Now!'
Cowart froze in position, but the two detectives instantly started to move slowly apart, one right, one left, spreading the distance between the three men.
'Mrs. Ferguson,' Brown started.
'You shut up!' she said, swinging the gun toward him.
'Come on, Mrs. Ferguson…' Wilcox pleaded quietly, lifting both his hands up in a gesture more of supplication than surrender.
'You, too!' the old woman cried, swinging the barrels toward him. 'And both you men stop moving.'
Cowart saw a quick glance go between the partners. He didn't know what it meant.
The old woman turned back toward him. I tole you to get away from there.'
He lifted his arms but shook his head. 'No.'
'What you mean, no? Boy, don't you see this shotgun? I'll use it, too.'
Cowart felt a sudden rush of blood to his head. He saw all the fury masking the fear in the old woman's eyes and knew then she knew what she was hiding. It's I there, he thought. Whatever it is, it's there. It was as if all the frustration and exhaustion he'd felt for the past days coalesced in that second, and outrage overcame whatever reason he had left. He shook his head.
'No,' he said again, louder. 'No, ma'am. I'm going to Hook in there, even if you have to kill me. I'm just too damn tired of being lied to. I'm too damn tired of being used. I'm too damn tired of feeling like some goddamn fool all the time. You got it, old woman? I'm too damn tired!'
With each repetition of the phrase, he'd stepped toward her, covering half the distance between them.
'You stay away!' the old woman shouted.
'You gonna kill me?' he shouted back. 'That'll do a helluva lot of good. You just shoot me right in front of these two detectives. Go ahead. Goddammit, come on!'
He began to stride toward her. He saw the shotgun waver in her arms.
I means to!' she screamed.
'Then go ahead!' he screamed back.
His rage was complete. It overcame the delusion he'd clung to of Ferguson's innocence, so that it all poured out of him. 'Go ahead! Go ahead! Just like your grandson killed that little girl in cold blood! Go ahead! You gonna give me the same chance he gave her? You a killer too, old woman? This where he learned how to do it? Did you teach him how to slice up a little defenseless girl?'
'He didn't do nothing!'
'The hell he didn't!'
'Stand back!'
'Or what? You maybe just taught him how to lie? Is that it?'
'Stay away from me!'
'Did you, goddammit? Did you?'
'He didn't do no such thing. Now get back or I'll blow your head off!'
'He did it. You know it, goddammit, he did it, he did it, he did it!'
And the shotgun exploded.
The blast shredded the air above Cowart's head, singeing him and knocking him, stunned, to the ground. There was a rattle of bird shot against the walls of the outhouse behind him; shouts from the two detectives, who simultaneously went for their own weapons, screaming, 'Freeze!' Drop the gun!'
The sky spun above him and his nose filled with the smell of cordite. He could hear a thumping sound deep beyond the ringing from the shotgun's explosion, which confused him, until he realized it was the echo of his own heart in his ears.
Cowart sat up and felt his head, then stared at his hand, which came away damp from sweat, not blood. He stared up at the old woman. The detectives both continued to shout commands, which seemed lost in the heat and sun.
The old woman looked down at him. Her voice was shrill. 'I told you, Mr. Reporter Man, I told you once before, I'd spit in the eye of the devil hisself if'n it'd help my grandson.'
Cowart continued to stare at her.
'You dead?' she asked.
'No,' he replied quietly.
'I couldn't do it,' she said bitterly. 'Like to blow your head clean off. Damn.'
Her skin had turned an ashen gray. She dropped the weapon to her side.
'Only got one shell,' she said.
She looked over toward the two detectives, who were approaching her, weapons drawn, crouched and ready to fire. She fixed her eyes on Brown.
'Should have saved it for you,' she said.
'Drop the weapon.'
'You gonna kill me now, Tanny Brown?'
'Drop the weapon!'
The old woman humphed at him. Slowly, she took the shotgun and carefully set it against the door behind her. Then she stood and faced him, folding her arms.
'You gonna kill me now?' she asked again.
Wilcox bent toward Cowart. 'You okay, Cowart?'
'I'm okay,' the reporter replied.
He helped pull Cowart back to his feet. 'Christ, Cowart, that was something. You really lost it.'
Cowart felt suddenly elated. 'No shit,' he laughed.
Wilcox turned toward Brown. 'You want me to cuff her and read her her rights?'
The detective shook his head, reached over, and grasped the shotgun, cracking it open to check the double chambers. He pulled out the spent shell and flipped it to Cowart. 'Here. A souvenir.'
Then he turned back to Ferguson's grandmother. You got any other weapons lying around?'
She shook her head at him.
'You gonna talk to me now, old woman?'
She shook her head again and spat on the ground, still defiant.
'Okay, then, you can watch. Bruce?'
'Boss?'
'Find a shovel in the storeroom.',
The police lieutenant holstered his revolver and handed the emptied shotgun back to the old woman, who scowled at him. He walked back to the outhouse and gestured to Cowart. 'Here,' he said, handing the reporter the crowbar. 'Seems like you earned first swipe at this thing.'