He resisted the impulse to tell her that Sal Delicato's telephone was tapped by a squadron of eavesdroppers – not only the FBI, but the New York State Police, the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration, the Tri-State Task Force on Organized Crime and the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The New York Telephone box on the utility pole behind The Salamander's butcher shop sprouted so many extra wires, it looked like a pigeon's nest.
"Let me give you a scenario," Agent Hawkins said to Molly. "A man used your phone to call Sal Delicate for the purpose of revealing the whereabouts of a federally protected witness now living in Monroe County, Florida."
"That's outlandish," Molly said. "Who is this federal witness?"
"I imagine you already know." Hawkins jotted something in the notebook. "The man who made the phone call, we believe, was Buddy Michael Schwartz. I showed you his photograph the last time we visited. You said he looked familiar."
"I vaguely remember."
"He has other names," Hawkins said. "As I told you before, Schwartz is wanted in connection with the animal theft from the Amazing Kingdom."
"Wanted?"
"For questioning," the agent said. "Anyway, we believe the events are connected."
The ominous wiretap conversation had elevated the vole investigation from zero-priority to high-priority. Billy Hawkins had been yanked off a bank-robbery case and ordered to find out why anyone would be setting up Francis X. Kingsbury, aka Frankie King. The Justice Department had pretty much forgotten about Frankie The Ferret until the phone call to Sal Delicato. The renewed interest in Washington was not a concern for Frankie's well-being so much as fear of a potential publicity nightmare; the murder of a protected government informant would not enhance the reputation of the Witness Relocation Program. It could, in fact, have a profoundly discouraging effect on other snitches. Agent Hawkins was told to track down Buddy Michael Schwartz and then call for backup.
Molly McNamara said, "You think this man might have broken into my house to use the phone!"
"Not exactly," Hawkins said.
She peered at him skeptically. "How do you know it was he on the line? Did you use one of those voice-analyzing machines?"
The FBI man chuckled. "No, we didn't need a machine. The caller identified himself."
"By name?" The blockhead! Molly thought.
"No, not by name. He told Mr. Delicato that he was an acquaintance of Gino Ricci's brother. It just so happens that Buddy Michael Schwartz served time with Mario Ricci at the Lake Butler Correctional Institute."
Molly McNamara said, "Could be a coincidence."
"They shared a cell. Buddy and Gino's brother."
"But still – "
"Would you have a problem," the agent said, "if I asked you to come downtown and take a polygraph examination?"
Molly stopped rocking and fixed him with an indignant glare. "Are you saying you don't believe me?"
"Call it a hunch."
"Agent Hawkins, I'm offended."
"And I'm tired of this baloney." He closed the notebook and capped the pen. "Where is he?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Hawkins stood up, pocketed his notebook, straightened his tie. "Let's go for a ride," he said. "Come on."
"No!"
"Don't make it worse for yourself."
"You're not paying attention," Molly said. "I thought G-men were trained to be observant."
Billy Hawkins laughed. "G-men? I haven't heard that one in a long – "
It was then he noticed the pistol. The old lady held it impassively, with both hands. She was pointing it directly at his crotch.
"This is amazing," said the agent. "The stuff of legends." Wait till the tough guys at Quantico hear about it.
Molly asked Billy Hawkins to raise his hands.
"No, ma'am."
"And why not?"
"Because you're going to give me the gun now."
"No," said Molly, I'm going to shoot you."
"Lady, gimme the goddamn gun!"
Calmly she shot him in the thigh, two and one-quarter inches below the left hip. The FBI man went down with a howl, clawing at the burning hole in his pants.
"I told you to watch your language," Molly said.
The pop of the pistol brought Danny Pogue and Buddy Schwartz scrambling down the stairs. From a living-room window they cautiously surveyed the scene on the porch: Molly rocking placidly, a man in a gray suit thrashing on the floor.
Danny Pogue cried, "She done it again!"
"Christ on a bike," said Bud Schwartz, "it's that dick from the FBI."
The burglars cracked the door and peeked out. Molly assured them the situation was under control.
"Flesh wound," she reported. "Keep an eye on this fellow while I get some ice and bandages." She confiscated Billy Hawkins's Smith 8c Wesson and gave it to Bud Schwartz, who took it squeamishly, like a dog turd, in his hands.
"It works best when you aim it," Molly chided.
Danny Pogue reached for the barrel. "I'll do it!"
"Like hell," said Bud Schwartz, spinning away. He sat in the rocker and braced the pistol on his knee. The air smelled pungently of gunpowder; it brought back the memory of Monkey Mountain and the trigger-happy baboon.
Watching the gray-suited man squirm in pain, Bud Schwartz fought the urge to get up and run. What was the old bat thinking this time? Nothing good could come of shooting an FBI man. Surely she understood the consequences.
Danny Pogue opened the front door for Molly, who disappeared into the house with a pleasant wave. Danny Pogue sat down, straddling an iron patio chair. "Take it easy," he told the agent. "You ain't hurt so bad."
Billy Hawkins grunted up at him: "What's your name?"
"Marcus Welby," Bud Schwartz cut in. "Don't he look like a doctor?"
"I know who you are," the agent said. It felt as if a giant wasp were boring into his thigh. Billy Hawkins unbuckled his trousers and grimaced at the sight of his Jockey shorts soaked crimson.
"You assholes are going to jail," he said, pinching the pale flesh around the bullet wound.
"We're just burglars," said Danny Pogue.
"Not anymore." Hawkins attempted to rise to his feet, but Bud Schwartz wiggled the gun and told him to stay where he was. The agent's forehead was sprinkled with sweat, and his lips were gray. "Hey, Bud," he said, "I've seen your jacket, and this isn't your style. Assault on a federal officer, man, you're looking at Atlanta."
Bud Schwartz was deeply depressed to hear the FBI man call him by name. "You don't know shit about me," he snapped.
"Suppose you tell me what the hell's going on out here. What's your beef with Frankie King?"
Bud Schwartz said, "I don't know who you're talkin" about."
Miraculously, Danny Pogue caught on before saying something disastrous. He flashed a checkerboard grin and said, "Yeah, who's Frankie King? We never heard a no Frankie King."
"Bullshit," Agent Billy Hawkins growled. "Go ahead and play it stupid. You're all going to prison, anyhow. You and that crazy old lady?"
"If it makes you feel any better," said Danny Pogue, "she shot us, too."
The campsite was...gone.
"I'm not surprised," Joe Winder said. He took Carrie's hand and kept walking. A light rain was falling, and the woods smelled cool.
Carrie asked, "What do we do if he's really gone?"
"I don't know."
Ten minutes later she asked if they were lost.
"I got turned around," Winder admitted. "It can't be too far."
"Joe, where are we going?"
The rain came down harder, and the sky blackened. From the west came a roll of thunder that shook the leaves. The birds fell silent; then the wind began to race across the island, and Joe Winder could taste the storm. He dropped Carrie's hand and started to jog, slapping out a trail with his arms. He called over his shoulder, urging Carrie to keep up.