The man did as told. He asked, “Are you Hunt?”
“Pleased to meet you.”
He gave a nasty laugh. “Otterman’s waiting. He’s gonna kill you.”
“Ya think? Too bad you won’t be there to see it.”
“What the fuckin’ hell?”
Chuck Otterman was slicing into a thick juicy steak when the sudden blare of a car horn arrested him in motion. He dropped his knife and fork onto his tin plate, grabbed his pistol, and stamped over to the screen door.
He recognized the approaching car as the one belonging to him, sent on an errand only a short time ago. It was skidding over the slick, muddy road, fishtailing crazily as the driver sped headlong toward the shack, horn still blaring.
Otterman’s second bodyguard stood poised on the top step of the porch, double-barreled shotgun in one hand, his other shading his eyes against the headlights, which, on bright, were blinding. “What the hell’s he doing?”
The car came to within thirty yards of the shack where it braked so suddenly, it slewed hard to the right, nearly going out of control and into the creek, before sliding another few yards and shuddering to a stop. The horn went abruptly silent.
Then nothing.
After several moments of ominous silence, the bodyguard looked toward Otterman for instruction.
“Well, don’t just stand there.” Impatiently he motioned the man forward.
The bodyguard clumped down the porch steps and walked purposefully toward the car, calling out the name of his confederate as he went. But as he got closer to the car, his stride slowed and became less confident.
He shaded his eyes again. “Doesn’t look like there’s anyone behind the wheel.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Otterman said. “What the hell are you talking about?”
The bodyguard went closer, then reached from a careful distance to open the driver’s door. He turned back to Otterman, saying stupidly, “Nobody’s in here.”
“It didn’t drive itself,” Otterman snarled. “Turn off those goddamn headlights.”
His man did as told, and the surrounding area was once again pitched into darkness. The only light for miles originated from the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling above the table where Otterman’s T-bone was growing cold.
He called to the bodyguard, “Got a flashlight with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look around.”
Otterman backed into the shack, returned to the table, and yanked on the dirty string to extinguish the overhead light. Now the blackness was absolute except for the occasional sweep of the flashlight beam through the trees.
He felt his way back to the chair he’d vacated and sat down. Barely able to detect the outline of the screen door, he fixed his gaze on it and waited, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. He no longer saw the flickering of the flashlight. He could hear the tick of his wristwatch, nothing else.
Then from the direction of the creek two gunshots were fired in rapid succession. Only one of them from the shotgun.
Otterman remained as he was, motionless, and only mildly curious to see who would walk through the screen door. The more time that passed, however, the surer he became that it wasn’t going to be his bodyguard, who would have been using the flashlight to find his way back.
Ten minutes elapsed before Otterman felt the shift of air signaling that someone had gotten into the cabin by a means other than the door. Probably he’d come in through a window in the partitioned-off section where the bed was. Otterman had to hand it to him—he was good, so stealthy Otterman hadn’t heard a sound.
Otterman yanked on the string above his head. When the lightbulb flashed on, it shone down on him, his uneaten steak, and the man who was seated adjacent to him at the table, bound and gagged, the barrel of Otterman’s .357 pressed against his temple.
At the sight of him, Crawford was stopped in his tracks.
Otterman said, “Well, you finally made it. Your daddy and I were getting worried about you. Weren’t we, Conrad?”
The two Texas Rangers were granted time alone with Smitty in an interrogation room. Three and a half minutes after they went in, Sessions came out, saying to Neal in passing, “He made a mess on the floor. You’re gonna need a mop.”
“Did he tell you where Crawford is?” Holly asked Harry as he emerged behind Sessions, who was already pecking out a number on his cell phone.
“He drew us a map.”
Nugent asked, “How’d you get it from him?”
“He struck up that chorus about Crawford killing him if Otterman didn’t, and I told him those were possibilities, but I was a sure thing, and poked my six-shooter in his ear.”
Neal said, “I don’t approve of your methods.”