Then Ruth was kneeling by him. “Got the keys to these cuffs, Sheriff?”
“Right pocket,” Rhodes said, rolling into a position where she could reach them. She took them off, and Rhodes rubbed his wrists as he sat up.
“Too many trees,” Ruth said. “I don’t think I hit anybody. Should we go after them?”
“Not much chance of catching them,” Rhodes said. “How many were there?”
“Three. One in the tent.”
“Thought there had to be another one.” Rhodes winced as the blood began to flow freely in his arms and hands once again, sending needles into his skin. “I’d like to say I had ‘em where I wanted ‘em, but you’d probably see right through that, wouldn’t you.”
Ruth laughed. “Probably.”
“How’d you happen to show up here, anyway?”
“Hack called me, said you might need some backup.”
“Hack’s beginning to exceed his authority,” Rhodes said. “All the same, I don’t think I’ll call him down for it this time.” He stood up. “How much damage to the car?”
“Smashed a headlight, I think.”
“I hope that’s all,” Rhodes said. “I’m beginning to feel like a one-man disaster area. Let’s get on back to town while I can still walk.”
As they walked to the car, Rhodes saw that one of the low-beam lights was out. There didn’t seem to be much damage, otherwise. He got in and called Hack, telling him to send Buddy out to go over the tent and surrounding area. He didn’t think there’d be anything to find, but he didn’t want to pass up the chance.
The next morning Rhodes was very stiff and very sore. Muscles that he hadn’t been aware of in the past now ached and throbbed. Muscles that he had been aware of hurt even more. He sat in his kitchen, drinking a Dr Pepper and thinking dark thoughts. Then he fed Speedo. He hadn’t stopped and bought any dog food the night before, so he opened a can of Vienna sausages.
Speedo didn’t look too happy about it. “Look, dog, if it’s good enough for me, it’s good enough for you,” Rhodes said. Speedo nosed the lump of sausages around, then gave in and took the whole mass in one bite. He chewed around on it for a minute, swallowed, and then looked expectantly at Rhodes. “That’s it,” Rhodes said. “Behave yourself and I’ll get you something later. Go lie down somewhere.”
Speedo didn’t move, so Rhodes went back into the house and got dressed.
On the way to the jail, he stopped at Wal-Mart and bought a fifty-pound sack of Ol’ Roy dog food. “It’s the dry stuff from now on,” he said aloud as he dumped the sack into the back of the pickup with a dull thud. “No more gourmet meals.”
Hack was waiting eagerly as Rhodes walked into the jail, with a look on his face not unlike the one Speedo had worn earlier.
Rhodes didn’t say a word. We’ll see how he likes having to drag it out of me, Rhodes thought. Then he immediately relented.
“What do you want to hear?” he asked.
“About how you had ‘em buffaloed,” Hack said.
“About how you had ‘em where you wanted ‘em.”
“You’ve been talking to Ruth already,” Rhodes said.
Hack laughed. “Ain’t that girl a scutter? How many shots she get off?”
“I didn’t count,” Rhodes said honestly.
“She’s a scutter,” Hack repeated, shaking his head in appreciation. “Why, I bet if she didn’t have to stop and help you up, she’d of rounded up the whole bunch.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Rhodes said. He laughed too, but not for the same reason as Hack. He was laughing because he figured Ruth’s role as “the new deputy” was over. “Anything else?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact there is,” Hack said. “Two guys want to talk to you. They went over to the motel to have breakfast, but they’ll be back pretty quick.”
“What two guys?”
“Well, they’re wearin’ navy blue suits and burgundy ties. They got on thin gold watches with gold bands. And they got white shirts and black shoes that lace up and tie.”
“We all know what that means,” Rhodes said.
“That’s right,” Hack said. “Either you got business with two bankers from Houston or the federal boys are in town.”
“How much would you bet that they’re not bankers from Houston?” Rhodes asked.
“Not a whole hell of a lot,” Hack said.
“Me either. I guess they didn’t happen to mention what they wanted?”
“Sure they did. They wanted to talk to you.”
“They probably need financial advice,” Rhodes said.
“Probably,” Hack said. “You goin’ to talk to them?”
Rhodes went over and sat in his chair that no longer squeaked. “I don’t expect I’ll have too much choice. How long have they been gone?”
“Long enough to go through the Breakfast Special. They ought to be back before long.”
“I can wait,” Rhodes said. “Did Buddy come up with anything last night?”
“Got the tent and a couple of sleepin’ rolls. Not much else. Said he’d go back out today when he could see and take another look.”
Rhodes didn’t think there would be anything. Rapper and Nellie probably traveled light. He thought about what had happened and what it meant. He didn’t have much doubt about who the third person was. It had to be Wyneva. And it had to have been the third person who hit him in the head. Wyneva again.
Knowing who, or at least thinking that he knew who, didn’t help Rhodes much with the why. There was obviously something going on, and he even thought that he knew a little about it, but he was missing too much. Maybe when he questioned Jayse and the other man, he’d find out something that would fill in the missing spaces in his thinking. Or maybe the two men in the navy blue suits would help him out. He wasn’t betting too heavily on either pair, however.
Two men were dead, and Rhodes himself had taken a considerable beating. He didn’t mind the latter too much, or he wouldn’t have minded if it had led to anything on the murders, but he wasn’t making enough progress. He began to get impatient for the blue suits to show up.
He didn’t have to wait long. They came in the door of the jail, one behind the other, dressed exactly as Hack had described them. One was tall, nearly six feet, and the other was slightly taller, maybe six-two. They had short hair, and their eyes were alert. They said hello to Hack and shook hands with Rhodes.
“How about that Breakfast Special?” Hack asked, as they sat in the hard wooden chairs.
“I don’t think I ever saw so much eggs and sausage in one place,” the taller of the men said. His voice was deep and pleasant. He reached inside his jacket and took out his identification. “Roger Malvin,” he said. “DEA. The gentleman with me is Robert Cox.” His accent, obviously acquired in New York, sounded foreign in the jail.
Cox showed his own ID. “Pleased to meet you, Sheriff,” he said. His accent was softer, nearer to Virginia than Malvin’s.
“What can I do for you fellas?” Rhodes asked. He always felt his Texas drawl get broader and twangier when he talked to anyone from north of Oklahoma.
“We understand that you have two prisoners in the hospital,” Malvin said. He was obviously the spokesman. “We would like for you to allow us to question them.”
Rhodes looked over at Hack, who busied himself with some papers, probably blank, on the radio table. Sometimes Hack talked too much to strangers, even if he was sure they were federal agents. “What is it you want to talk to them about?”
It was Malvin’s turn to look, and he looked at Cox, who shook his head slightly. “About a man named Buster Cullens,” he said.
Rhodes thought for a second. He was willing to help the men out, but he wasn’t going to do it for nothing.
“We could question them without your permission,” Malvin said. “We’re just trying to be cooperative.”
Rhodes thought Malvin was being a little pushy. “I might have a guard on them,” he said. “He might not let you in.”
“I could get a court order,” Malvin said, his voice no longer very pleasant.