She could taste blood in her mouth. She looked up at him and thought about getting a gun. She should have killed him the night she found out that he'd murdered the cop. She couldn't do it then. She could do it now.
''You gonna shut up?'' LaChaise asked.
''Let me go home, Dick,'' she said. She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand.
''Fuck that. You're staying here,'' he said.
But he didn't mention Elmore again that night.
ELMORE TOLD STADIC EVERYTHING HE KNEW, AND only lied in a few spots. ''Sandy's not in it at all,'' he said. ''They showed up, and there wasn't anything we could do. They got all the guns in the world.''
''Who are the other guys?'' Stadic asked.
''Martin, who's like this crazy queer from Michigan who walks around with a bow and arrow, and Ansel Butters. He's from Tennessee and he comes up and goes hunting with Martin.''
''Is Butters a fag?'' Stadic and Darling sat in wooden chairs, across the kitchen table from each other. The shotgun's barrel rested on the table, pointing at Darling's chest. Stadic had closed the outer door, and the house was getting warm again. The kitchen was a pleasant place, with just enough chintz and country pottery to make it homey. Darling had a nice wife, Stadic thought.
''No, Butters is straight, but he takes a lot of drugs,'' Darling said.
''Martin, now, everybody says he's a fag and he'sin love with Dick, but he never does anything homosexual or nothing… it's just a thing.''
''And that's all,'' Stadic said. ''There's just the four.''
''Just the three-you can't count Sandy,'' Elmore said. ''I'd tell you where they were at, but I don't know. I mean, I kinda know…''
Darling was holding this one piece back, lying. He was an excellent liar, but
Stadic was a professional interrogator. He wasn't sure that Darling was lying, but he also knew that he had no way to control the man. He couldn't take him with him, couldn't hold him. And if Darling got in touch with LaChaise, LaChaise would recognize Stadic's description. A problem.
He sat in the kitchen chair with the barrel of the gun pointing at Darling's chest.
''Tell me again,'' Stadic said. ''You get off at Lexington…''
''And it must be about six blocks up the road. North. Then right. Just a little house.''
''You didn't see the number or the street name.''
''Nope. I was just following behind.'' He brightened. ''But I'll tell you-my truck is on the street. So is Martin's. You could look for my truck, it's got a license plate says, QHORSE.''
Stadic nodded. ''So six or seven blocks.''
''No more than that,'' Darling said. ''We could find it. I'd go down there with you.''
Stadic thought for another moment, then shook his head.
''Nah,'' he said.
''What, then?'' Darling asked, his eyebrows going up as if mystified, a stupid smile on his face. Stadic shrugged, and pulled the trigger.
The 00s in the three-inch Magnum shell blew Elmore Darling completely off his kitchen chair.
• • •
SANDY HUDDLED IN THE BEDROOM, JUST TO BE AWAY from them.
LaChaise went to sleep in his chair, and Martin and Butters sat in the living room, the television turned down, talking quietly about the kills.
Martin said, ''I had my hands on him and when the knife went in, he kind of rose up, and shook. Like when you cut the throat on a deer, they make that last little try to get goin'… you know?'' ''Sure, they push up, try to get their feet under them…''
''Damn good time to get hurt,'' Martin said. ''There's one old boy, Rob Harris over to Luce County, got down on a spike buck like that, stuck him in the throat with his knife, and that buck rose up and stuck one of them spikes right in
Rob's eye. Blinded the eye.''
''What happened to the buck?'' Butters asked.
''Run off. Rob says it must've been a brisket hit 'cause there was blood all over hell,'' Martin said. ''Probably out there to this day…''
''Yeah, well, this Sherrill dude sure ain't.''
''Not when I get that close,'' Martin said. ''When I get that close, the boy's a goner…''
They both turned and looked at LaChaise, thinking they might have given offense, but LaChaise was unconscious.
''This Kupicek, she never even twitched,'' Butters said. ''Never even knew what hit her. One minute she's talking to me, the next minute, it's St. Peter.''
''Silencer work good?''
Butters nodded. ''Worked real good. All you hear is that ratchet sound, you know, maybe a little pop, but it's no more'n opening a can of soda.''
''Wish I had me a silencer like that.''
''If I were gonna do it again, I think I might do it as asingle-shot. You know, load one round, carry it cockedandlocked over an empty clip. Then you wouldn't get the ratchet noise…''
They went on, working over the details, the TV turned down. Butters's face would come up every half hour or so. On the first newsbreak of the day, at five o'clock, TV3 produced a series of computer-morphed photos of both LaChaise and
Butters, with a variety of hairstyles and facial hair.
''Oughta shave your head,'' Martin said. ''That's the only thing they ain't got.''
''Nah. Too late for me,'' Butters said. He looked at his watch. ''Be daylight in a couple-three hours. I'm going out. Check this kid's house, the Davenport kid.''
''Better wait for Dick,'' Martin said.
Butters shook his head as he stood up. ''It's about fifty-fifty that it's an ambush,'' Butters said. ''Better that only one of us goes; and Dick's hurt, and they don't know you yet.''
''You sober?''
''As a judge.''
Martin dropped his hands on his thighs, a light conclusive slap, and nodded.
Butters said: ''Help me load up.''
''What're you takin'?'' Martin asked.
Butters grinned: ''One of everything.''
LaChaise stirred in the chair, half-opened his eyes, shook his head and slept again.
''I better get going,'' Butters said. ''Don't want to disturb Dick's beauty rest.''
ELEVEN
DEL WAS IN THE HALLWAY, STRETCHED OUT ON THREE couch pillows. Small was in bed, still dressed but in stocking feet, alert. Every once in a while, he'd get out of bed and creep through the hallway, and whisper a question down to Lucas.
''Anything?''
''Nothing yet.''
Lucas yawned, pushed a button on his watch to illuminate the face. Five forty-five. More than two hours to first light. He walked carefully back toward the bathroom, navigating by feel through the darker lumps of the furniture. The bathroom was for guests, for convenience: small, with a toilet and a sink, a tube of Crest and a rack of kids' toothbrushes for aftermeal brushing. There was no exterior window. Lucas shut the door and turned on the light, winced at its brightness, splashed water in his face. His mouth tasted worse than his face looked; he rubbed a wormy inch of Crest over his teeth with his index finger, spat the green slime into the sink, and stoodthere, leaning over the sink, weight on his arms, watching the water.
There were all kinds of hints and pointers, but none of them solid. Not yet. But the case would go quickly, he thought. If he were alive, if Weather and Sarah and Jennifer and Small were all alive in a week, then it'd be done with.
It'd be done with even if they didn't stay around.
They could walk out now, catch a plane, fly to Tahiti-he had the money to do it a hundred times over-lie on the beach, and when they came back, it'd be done.
The difference of a week.
And maybe they should.