“I think Brody must be getting Alzheimer’s.”
“He’s got professional security. Why would he use those idiots?”
Forrest snorted. “His pros are legit. He can’t ask them to go kill a reporter.”
“Huh. Well, I say we drop them in the swamp. Have Daddy dump their truck in Dallas or somewhere even farther.”
“They’re locals,” Forrest pointed out. “All of them going missing at the same time would draw attention.” He reached into a dresser drawer and brought out a camouflage balaclava mask, one of dozens the club kept for hunting during the coldest months. Forrest stretched out the neck opening, then pulled the mask over his head, taking care over the lump of scar tissue that marked his missing ear. Walking to a mirror, he chuckled as he centered the mask over his mouth.
“Reminds me of the A Shau Valley,” he said.
Whatever, Billy thought, turning to lead his cousin back to the study.
When he opened the door, he saw Casey Whelan flailing in agony, and Sonny trying to hold him down on the bench. The other boys looked frightened, but their faces went white at the sight of the masked figure behind Billy.
“Is he the doctor?” asked Jake Whitten.
Billy raised a finger to his lips.
Forrest walked to the bench and knelt beside Whelan’s squirming body. Taking a small flashlight from his pocket, he studied the boy’s bloody abdomen, then palpated it with two fingers. Whelan screamed. Forrest held his bloody fingers in the light beam and checked them. Then he stood.
“Liver,” he said. “Nothing anybody can do for him.”
Whelan moaned in despair.
“Not even at a hospital?” asked Charley.
Forrest shook his head, then walked to the door behind the desk and left the study.
Billy held up his hand to prevent questions, then followed Forrest.
He found his cousin sitting on the bed, watching Steve McQueen drive a green ’68 Mustang GT Fastback hell-for-leather down a crowded street.
“You still say let the other two go?” Billy asked.
Forrest nodded without taking his eyes off the movie.
“Do you really think those two chickenshits can keep their mouths shut about this?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because the two healthy ones are going to finish off their buddy. Go back and explain that’s the only way they get to walk out of here alive. That way, instead of three dead roustabouts, we get two expendable grunts who’ll do anything we tell them to.”
It took Billy a few seconds to grasp Forrest’s reasoning, but once he did, he realized that his cousin had been thinking two moves ahead of him, as always. “What if they won’t do it?”
“Not an option.” Forrest’s eyes tracked the Mustang across the screen. “This kind of plan sells itself, William.”
Realizing the conversation was over, Billy walked back down to the study, then sat behind his desk. “You two boys want to keep on breathing?”
Charley nodded first, and his eyes told Billy that he sensed the price of survival might be high. Billy reached into his desk and took out a Buck knife with an eight-inch blade. Too big to be a practical deer-skinning knife, it looked more like a bayonet. “You’ll have to prove it.”
“How?” Charley asked, his eyes locked on the knife.
“Shut your friend up. For good.”
Behind the boys, Sonny Thornfield blanched. Charley’s mouth fell open, but no sound emerged. He swallowed, then turned to Jake, who was shivering.
“That guy in the mask said Casey’s dying already,” Charley pointed out. “Can’t we just let him pass in his own time?”
“You’re missing the point, son,” Billy said, not unkindly. “Think about it.”
While Charley tried to do that, his friend Jake seized the knife from Billy and moved toward the bench.
“Not in here!” Billy snapped. “I don’t want blood spraying all over the damn wall. And we’d never get it out of the rug. There’s a deck right outside this room. Take him out there. The door’s behind that curtain.”
Sonny pulled back the curtain and opened the door. Cold air drifted into the study. Jake Whitten motioned for Charley to help him lift Whelan. After a moment’s hesitation, Charley walked to the bench, grasped Whelan’s legs, and helped carry him out onto the deck.
Five seconds after Sonny closed the door, a shriek pierced the air. Whelan screamed so loudly that Billy knew the duct tape had come off his mouth. Snake walked to the door and peered out at the slaughter. Billy pulled a Pro Video magazine from his top drawer and rotated his swivel chair toward the stuffed hog behind him. He’d never derived pleasure from this kind of thing, as his father did. He heard Sonny slowly counting aloud: “One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi …” By the time Sonny reached ten, the screaming had stopped, and Billy turned back toward the door.
Still wearing the balaclava, Forrest stood beside Sonny, one of the Valhalla camcorders in his hand, filming the murder through a window beside the deck door. He must have slipped in through the study’s side entrance. Forrest lowered the camera, then turned and walked to the door behind Billy’s desk.
“Dead?” Billy asked as he passed.
“Finally. Those boys don’t know beans about killing. Make them hose off the deck before they leave.”
As Forrest closed the door, Charley and Whitten came back inside and stood unsteadily before Billy’s desk, their chests heaving. Both had been covered by arterial spray: Charley looked like he’d been hit in the head with a paint-filled balloon.
“What do we tell Uncle Randall?” Charley panted.
“Nothing. You guys may work for Royal Oil during the day, but I’m your boss now. I’ll let Randall know how things stand.” He looked from Charley to Jake. “Do ya’ll know who the publisher of the Natchez newspaper is?”
Charley shrugged.
“I do,” said Jake, using his shirttail to wipe the blood from his face. “I’ve seen her, I mean. At the health club in Natchez, when I was pumping iron. She’s hot, for an old chick.”