This was one road that had run out for Tolan.
There would be enough cash in this kidnapping to set him up for a good long time. One of his prison friends had a little shack down in the bayous of Louisiana and between screwing colored girls and fishing all day, the life there seemed unmatched by any other place on earth. And with the stash of greenbacks Tolan would be bringing along, he'd have money for the rest of his life—if, that is, he kept it hidden from his prison friend, who, when you faced facts, you had to admit would kill your mother for a dollar. Tolan'd have to hide his stash real, real good down there or his prison friend would kill him for it. Or maybe—it was nice to think so—all that screwing of colored girls and all that fishing had changed his prison friend. Maybe he was now a trustworthy fella. But then Tolan had never known a trustworthy fella. Or trustworthy gal, for that matter.
Tolan found himself hypnotically gazing upon Rooney's neck. He wanted there to be a lot of pain and panic and dread and total terror. Cutting a man's throat was about the best way Tolan could think of. His fingers ached for that time to arrive.
Sheriff Wyn Daly said, "You noticed anything different about Tom these last few days?"
Deputy Bob Carlyle finished up with some forms he'd been filling out on his desk and looked up.
"Prine?" He considered Prine a moment. "Yeah, I guess I sort of have."
"I had to tell him three times to ride out and see the Washburn widow about somebody tearin' down that fence of hers. That isn't like him. Then he had a couple of mysterious disappearances."
Carlyle grinned. "Mysterious disappearances? Now, that sounds serious."
Every once in a while, Daly would come up with a phrase straight from a stage melodrama. Carlyle and Prine liked to ride him about it.
"You know what I mean. He'd be gone three, four hours and when he'd come back he wouldn't have any good explanation for where he'd been."
"That doesn't sound like Prine."
"No, it doesn't. That's why I'm wondering if something's wrong with him. In his life, I mean."
Carlyle dropped his pen on the desk, sat back, and locked his hands behind his head. "I'm not bein' funny when I say this—he don't have enough of a life for somethin' to be wrong. Far as I know, he doesn't have a woman or any kin. Told me his folks died some time ago."
"That's what he told me, too."
"He was seein' that Lucy over at the café, but I think she scared him off. Always talkin' about marriage and such."
Daly stuck his unlit briar in his mouth. "He seem to be havin' a hard time with anything he's workin' on?"
"Not that he's mentioned to me. I meant what I said the other day. He's a damned good deputy. A hell of a lot better with people than I am, for one thing. And he keeps that desk of his organized twenty-four hours a day. Not like this piece of shit." Carlyle's desk was a paper swamp of forms, letters, legal documents, and arrest sheets he wrote out every time he brought somebody in.
"Maybe there's a gal he hasn't told us about," Daly said.
"Could be."
"Or maybe he's just not feelin' well."
"There's somethin' goin' around, that's for sure. Two of my little granddaughters got sore throats."
Daly glanced back at his own desk. It wasn't exactly a monument to orderliness either.
Prine came in an hour later carrying a package from the general store. He set it over in the corner of the office and sat down at his desk.
Both Daly and Carlyle were busy doing paperwork.
Prine opened the middle drawer of his desk, where he kept work that he had yet to complete. When he looked over at the other two, he realized they were watching him. Carefully. He wondered what the hell was going on.
"You get to Liddy Washburn yet?" Daly said.
"Thought I'd do that soon as I finish up with these two forms. I've got to get them over to the post office."
"Damned forms," Carlyle said. "I'd like to burn every one of them."
"You must've been pretty busy this afternoon, not getting around to Liddy yet," Daly said.
"Yeah, I was busy," Prine said. And then he turned back to his work before Daly could ask anything else.
Prine finished up his two forms, stuck them in appropriate envelopes, slapped stamps on them, and then said, "Well, I'll head out to Washburn's place now."
Daly smiled. "I knew he wouldn't do it. Didn't you, Bob?"
"No, to tell you the truth. I figured he would do it."
"You two ever going to tell me what the hell you're talking about?"
Washburn winked at Carlyle. "Listen to this, will you. Like he don't know what we're talkin' about."
"I really don't." Prine felt the way he had when he was a little kid and his older brothers kept the ball from him, throwing it back and forth over his head so he couldn't catch it.
"The sack," Daly said. "Carlyle here wrote me a note while you were busy working on your forms. He said you'd tell us what was in the sack before you left."
Prine felt his cheeks heat up. "Hell, can't I have any personal business?"
"Sure, you can, son. We're just trying to figure out why you're acting the way you are the last few days," Daly said.
"And just how would that be, Sheriff? I'm acting the way I usually do."
"Not really," Carlyle said. "You're just—different is all."
"We worry about you, Tom. We like you. We want to make sure that everything is all right."
"And why wouldn't everything be all right?" Prine said.
"We don't know," Carlyle said. "That's what we hope you'd tell us."
"Well, if there is anything wrong, the answer sure isn't in that bag over there."
"Why don't you let us judge that for ourselves?" Daly said, smiling. He obviously sensed he was making Prine nervous, which meant that there was something revealing in the bag, after all.
Prine went over and picked up the sack and said, "You're so eager to get me out to the Washburn place, I'd better get going."
Carlyle laughed. "Boy, that must be somethin' in that sack."
"Something," Daly said, "mighty special. Just look at him blush."
Prine shook his head. "You're like two little kids. Little devils."
"We got him now, Sheriff."
"I think you're right. I think we got him real good."
Prine scoffed and then tossed the bag so that it landed on the sheriff's desk. "There. Go ahead and look. Look till your eyes fall out."
But Daly wasn't done teasing. "You know, Bob, I almost don't want to open it."
"Now, why would that be, Sheriff?"
"Well, when a fella builds somethin' up as much as Prine here did—well, you're just bound to be disappointed when you finally see what it is."
"You could be right about that, Sheriff," Carlyle said, going along with the sly tone.
"You idiots," Prine said.
He walked to Daly's desk, grabbed the sack, shoved his hand inside, and brought forth a handsome, expensive black western shirt with the kind of white piping they wear in Wild West shows. About as fancy as a feller could get in a burg like Claybank.
"You got matchin' silver pistols to go with this shirt?" Daly said.
"Very funny," Prine said. "Now, if you're finally satisfied, I'll take my shirt and ride on out to the Washburn place."
"Be sure and wear your shirt," Carlyle said. "I hear those widow women get awful lonely. And she sees you in that shirt, she's liable to come runnin' out to greet you bare naked."
Daly smirked. "She's got a nice set on her, nobody could argue with that."
Prine decided to have a little fun on his terms. He said, "I'm more worried what Cassie Neville thinks of me than the widow Washburn."
"Cassie Neville? You spendin' time with her?" Carlyle said. "Oh, bullshit."