The business directly across from the cop-shop was the Drew T. Barry Indemnity Company, proprietor currently out at West Lavin Road with the rest of the posse. Low parked the Silverado behind it in a space marked RESERVED FOR BARRY EMPLOYEE, ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOWED. The back door was locked, but two slams of May’s beefy shoulder fixed that. Low followed him inside, dragging the kid they had found riding his bike down by the bowling alley. The kid in question happened to be Kent Daley, member of the high school tennis team and close friend of Eric Blass. Kent’s bike was now in the back of the Silverado. He was sniveling, although he was really too old for such behavior; it was Low’s opinion that sniveling was okay for teenage girls, but boys should start to taper off at ten and be done with it by twelve or so. He was willing to give this one a pass, however. After all, he probably thought he was going to be raped and murdered.
“You need to shut up, youngster,” he said. “You’ll be all right, if you behave.”
He frog-marched Kent into the big front room, which was filled with desks and posters telling how the right insurance policy could save your family from a life of poverty. On the front window, which faced the deserted business district, Drew T. Barry’s name was printed backward in tall gold-flake letters. As Low looked out, he saw a woman come slowly up the sidewalk on the other side. Not much of a looker, heavyset, lesbo haircut, but seeing any woman today was a rarity. She glanced at the Barry establishment, but with no lights inside, could see nothing but the reflection of the streetlights, which had just flicked on. She climbed the steps to the cop-shop and tried the door. Locked, and wasn’t that smalltown police for you? Low thought. Lock the front door after the guns are stolen. Now she was trying the intercom.
“Mister?” Kent whined. “I want to go home. You can have my bike, if you want it.”
“We can have anything we want, you pimply little peckerwood,” May said.
Low twisted the boy’s wrist, making him holler. “What part of shut up don’t you understand? Brother, go get Mr. Bazooky. And the shells.”
May left. Low turned to the kid. “Card in your wallet says your name is Kent Daley and you live at 15 Juniper Street. That right?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, wiping snot from his nose up one cheek with the heel of his hand. “Kent Daley, and I don’t want any trouble. I want to go home.”
“You’re in a real pickle, Kent. My brother is an awful sick man. There is nothing he loves more than to wreck a human being. What’d you do, caused you to be so unlucky, do you suppose?”
Kent licked his lips and blinked rapidly. He opened his mouth and shut it.
“You did something, all right.” Low laughed; guilt was hilarious. “Who’s at home?”
“My dad and my mom. Only my mom’s, you know . . .”
“Catchin forty winks, is she? Or four hundred and forty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But your dad’s fine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you like me to go to 15 Juniper Street and blow your dad’s fuckin head off?”
“No, sir,” Kent whispered. Tears rolled down his pale cheeks.
“No, course you wouldn’t, but I will, unless you do just as I say. Will you do as I say?”
“Yes, sir.” Not even a whisper now, just a breeze through the boy’s lips.
“How old are you, Kent?”
“Suh-Suh-Seventeen.”
“Jesus, almost old enough to vote and grizzling like a baby. Quit on it.”
Kent did his best.
“Ride that bike pretty fast, can you?”
“I guess so. I won the Tri-County 40K last year.”
Little Low didn’t know a 40K from a serving tray, and didn’t care. “You know where Route 31 meets up with West Lavin Road? The road that goes to the prison?”
Maynard had returned with the bazooka and the case of shells. Across the street, the heavyset woman had given up on the intercom and was heading back the way she had come with her head hanging down. The drizzle had ceased at last.
Low gave Kent, who was staring at the bazooka with dreadful fascination, a shake. “Know that road, do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. There are a bunch of men up there and I’m going to give you a message. You will give it to the one named Terry, or the one named Frank, or both of them. Now listen.”
6
Terry and Frank were at that moment getting out of Unit One and approaching the double gates of Dooling Correctional, where Clint and another guy stood waiting for them. Ten members of the posse were back at the intersection; the rest had taken up positions around the prison at what Terry called the compass rose: north, northeast, east, southeast, south, southwest, west, and northwest. There were woods, and they were damp, but none of the guys seemed to mind. They were high on excitement.
And they’ll stay that way until the first one takes a bullet and starts screaming, Terry thought.
Someone’s tricked-out truck was blocking the inner gate. The dead space had been filled with tires. And soaked in gasoline, from the smell. Not a bad move. Terry could almost admire it. He shone his light on Norcross, then on the bearded man standing next to him.
“Willy Burke,” said Terry. “I’m sorry to see you here.”
“And I’m sorry to see you here,” Willy responded. “Doing what you shouldn’t be doing. Overstepping your authority. Playing the vigilante man.” He took his pipe from the pocket of his biballs and started to load it.
Terry had never been sure if Norcross was a doctor or just a mister, so he settled on his given name. “Clint, this has almost gone beyond talking. One of my deputies has been killed. Vern Rangle. I think you knew him.”
Clint sighed and shook his head. “I did, and I’m sorry. He was a fine man. I hope you feel equally sorry about Garth Flickinger and Gerda Holden.”
“The Holden girl’s death was an act of self-defense,” Frank said. “She was ripping Deputy Rangle’s goddam throat out.”
“I want to talk to Barry Holden,” Clint said.
“He’s dead,” Frank said. “And it’s your fault.”
Terry turned to Frank. “You need to let me handle this.”
Frank raised his hands and stepped back. He knew Coombs was right—there was his damn temper, getting the best of him again—but he hated him for it, just the same. What he felt like doing was climbing that fence, barbed wire rolls at the top be damned, and knocking the heads of those two smug sons of bitches together. Evie Black’s goading voice was still in his head.
“Clint, listen to me,” Terry said. “I’m willing to say there’s blame on both sides, and I’m willing to guarantee that no charges will be brought against any of you here if you let me take the woman into custody now.”
“Is Barry really dead?” Clint asked.
“Yes,” the acting sheriff said. “He attacked Vern, too.”
Willy Burke reached over and gripped Clint’s shoulder.