CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bobby Joe paced the floor trying to figure a way out. He called Walter Middlebrooks and got a token pat on the hand, complete with lawyerly assurances that things were being taken care of, the underlying message being: sit tight and let the adults handle things. He lit a cigarette and did another circuit of the room. Fuck you, Middlebrooks, he thought. You don’t have to face the consequences if the adults screw everything up. And right now that smartass Harry Doyle is the least of those consequences.
Bobby Joe slumped into an overstuffed leather chair, stared at the cell phone on the adjacent end table, then stood and began to pace again. He had to call him, had to call and tell him what was happening. If he didn’t and that mean son of a bitch found out later, he’d do just what he’d promised. The other alternative was to get his sorry ass out of town. Go to the bank and withdraw every cent, even the money stashed in the safety deposit box from his days of dealing blow. Get it and head north.
Yeah, sure, he told himself. Do it and that asshole Doyle will put your name out on the wire to every dickhead cop in the country; say you’re wanted in a murder investigation. Then what do you do? Spend every dime you’ve got getting good, usable ID and some plastic surgeon to change your face? He stopped at a mirror by the front door. No way, he thought.
He walked back across the room and stopped, hands on hips, listening to his ragged breath. So tell the man what he wants to know; get him off your ass once and for all. Help Doyle arrest that crazy son of a bitch, lock him up for good, or maybe even kill him. Oh, yes, that would be even sweeter. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and let out a nervous rush of breath. Yeah, and then what do you do about Daddy when Doyle lays the murder at the doorstep of his goddamn church. Well, shit, that’s where it belongs. If Daddy hadn’t sent out the call to punish that bitch, nothin’ ever would’ve happened. Truth be told, he did it to himself with his holier-than-thou, big fucking mouth.
A wrap of knuckles on the front door brought him back. That had to be Doyle, back to bust your chops again, maybe even take you back down to his office. Go ahead and give him what he wants; get him off your ass for good.
Bobby Joe strode across the room and swung the door back without even checking the spy hole. His face collapsed, all the resolve he had conjured up melting away when he stared into the man’s face.
A slow smile formed on the man’s lips but never carried to his ice-blue eyes. “You don’t look happy to see me, Bobby Joe.”
The man walked past him, and with the flat of his hand pushed the door closed even though Bobby Joe was still holding the door knob.
“I’m just surprised. I thought it was that detective. He was here a little while ago and I thought he’d forgot somethin’ and come back.”
“I know he was here.”
“You do?”
“I was watching. Once I found out you weren’t going to work I thought I better come on by and check on who you might be meeting. I parked on the other block and came in through the trees behind your daddy’s house, and lo and behold, there was Detective Doyle coming out your front door.” The man’s blue eyes seemed to turn even colder. “You two have a nice conversation, Bobby Joe?”
Bobby Joe began to rapidly shake his head. “I didn’t tell him nothin’. Not a thing.” He looked into the man’s eyes again and a shiver went down his back. “In fact, I told him to get the hell out.”
The man’s smile returned. “ You told Detective Doyle to get out… and he did.” He looked past Bobby Joe as if addressing some imaginary person standing behind him. “Now what’s in that picture that doesn’t work?”
“I did, it’s true. I told him to get the hell out and he went right out the door. You see, my lawyer-”
“You curse a lot, Bobby Joe. And I truly find it offensive when you do. I’m certain the Lord finds it offensive as well.”
The shiver returned to Bobby Joe’s spine. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m just nervous. Bein’ pushed by that cop and now you not believin’ me. My nerves are just a damn… My nerves are just a mess.”
The man slipped his arm around Bobby Joe’s shoulder and began walking him across the room. “No need to be nervous, Bobby Joe. Did you give him that other detective’s name, the one Darlene told you about?”
Bobby Joe’s head began to nod rapidly again. “I did. I did. And my lawyer called the sheriff and demanded to know why the cops aren’t investigating one of their own people. Why they were tryin’ to pin everything on a minister of the church, instead. He did it. He did it just like Daddy told him to, and he said the sheriff assured him he was gonna do somethin’ about it.”
“But Harry Doyle still showed up at your door, didn’t he?”
Bobby Joe searched his mind for a reason. He felt like a man who had fallen into a raging river and was reaching out for anything he could find to keep himself afloat. “I don’t think the sheriff had gotten to him yet. He seemed surprised when I told him that Walter… that’s the lawyer… had called him.”
The man continued to walk him slowly around the room, one arm still draped around his shoulder.
“What else did you tell him, Bobby Joe?”
“Nothin’, nothin’ at all.”
“Did you tell him about me?”
“No, of course not. I didn’t tell him nothin’ else, not a damn thing.”
The man shook his head. “I asked you to stop cursing, Bobby Joe. You’re a minister of the Lord and you’re cursing like some common riffraff.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. I really don’t.”
With a movement so deft and quick Bobby Joe never felt it happening, the man slipped behind him, slid one arm across his throat, and pressed his body against his back.
“If you move, I will break your neck,” he hissed in his ear.
Bobby Joe said nothing, and the man could feel his entire body trembling against him. In a way it felt oddly erotic, reminding him of how he had felt when he killed Darlene, how she had begged when he put the knife against her throat, how she had promised to do anything he wanted, give him anything he wanted; how that terrible erection had come, tempting him until he had drawn the blade across her throat and seen her blood gush out into the sand of that sinful beach. He pushed the memories away and realized that his breath had become as ragged as Bobby Joe’s. He removed the six-inch hunting knife from the sheath stuck under his belt at the small of his back and placed the blade under Bobby Joe’s chin, moving it slowly down until it had replaced his arm, allowing him to grab a handful of the young minister’s long hair. He felt himself becoming aroused and pushed Bobby Joe away from his body and pulled his head back exposing the entire length of his throat.
“This is the same knife that killed the whore. The same knife that cut into her throat and spilled her blood, the same tip of the blade that wrote the Lord’s judgment on her forehead. Do you know what she said when I told her she would receive the Lord’s judgment, Bobby Joe?”
Fear had stolen all the breath from Bobby Joe’s lungs and he found himself struggling to speak. He tried nodding his head instead, but the blade of the knife bit into his throat and he felt a small trickle of blood run down his neck. His voice finally returned, breathless and weak. “Oh, please, please don’t hurt me.”