Sonny was obviously working something out in his head. “Unless you got a picture, nobody’s gonna believe you about that.”
Walt lifted the seat that concealed his toolbox, then brought out a green metal case and set it in the narrow walkway between the RV’s toilet and cooktop counter. Thornfield’s eyes locked on to the box. Walt opened it and brought out a small propane torch and a friction striker. With two quick compressions of his forefinger, he lit the torch, which filled the van with a chilling hiss as he adjusted the flame to a blue needle with a white-hot core.
“Hey, hey,” Thornfield said, breathing fast while his eyes tracked the blue-white flame. “Wait a minute. Doc … I don’t feel right. Something’s wrong.”
“Was Snake with you that night at Viola’s?” Tom asked.
Sonny nodded, looking nauseated.
“I’m not kidding,” Sonny said, his breaths coming shallow. “Something’s wrong.”
“You bet your ass something’s wrong,” Walt said. “But in about thirty seconds, it ain’t gonna matter. Your whole brain’s gonna feel like it’s on fire.”
“What the hell do you guys want? Jesus, man!”
Walt cut his eyes at Tom and nodded. Tom took one of his Ziploc bags from a nearby drawer and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he removed two adrenaline vials and a large syringe like the one that had been used to inject Viola.
“Hey!” Sonny cried. “What’s that? You’re not gonna kill me, are you? Doc!”
“That depends,” Tom said. “On how cooperative you are in the next thirty seconds. Give me your hand, Sonny.”
He reached for Thornfield’s hand, but the old Klansman jerked it back. Walt held the blowtorch near his leg and clucked his tongue. The prospect of actually torturing a man sickened Tom, but if Thornfield refused to cooperate, he might have to let Walt proceed. A gun to the head was no good unless you were prepared to use it, and that would defeat the purpose of the whole exercise.
Tom held out his open hand, and this time Sonny lowered his fingers to within reach. With the deft motions that had sutured thousands of wounds, Tom rolled Sonny’s thumb and finger over the adrenaline vials several times. With the syringe he took care to place Sonny’s prints right where they would have gone had Thornfield injected Viola with adrenaline. As he dropped the vials and syringe back into the Ziploc bag, Sonny stared at him like a puzzled dog.
“Like I told you earlier,” Tom said, “I have a proposition for you. I want to talk to you about turning state’s evidence.”
Sonny’s eyes bugged. “You aren’t cops. You can’t offer me any deal.”
“Nevertheless,” Walt said, “there’s a deal to be had. And it’s the only one you’re going to get. We’ve got enough evidence right now to throw you to the wolves on Viola’s murder.”
“All we’ve got to do,” Walt said, “is put a bullet in your ear, and dump you back at your camp house with that syringe and those vials.”
“Then why don’t you do it? Why’d you even take the trouble to drive out here?”
“There’s a more elegant solution,” Tom said. “One more likely to satisfy all parties concerned.”
Thornfield shook his head violently. “You’re crazy, Doc. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. I wouldn’t live twenty-four hours if I tried something like that.” Thornfield was panting for air. “Besides, Snake could just turn around and say I killed her! It’d be my word against his.”
Walt grabbed Thornfield’s chin and jerked his head straight.
“You’ve got the wrong idea,” Tom said. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘Lay the sins of the living at the feet of the dead’?”
Sonny blinked in confusion. Tom was about to explain further when Thornfield doubled over and vomited. “Doc, my chest feels like it’s locking up. My heart’s skipping something terrible.”
“Your heart’s smarter than you are,” Walt said.
Thornfield hugged himself and sought out Tom’s eyes, speaking like a fawning sycophant. “Come on, Doc. Ain’t no jury round here gonna convict you. Every nigger round here thinks you walk on water. Just tell ’em you put the old lady out of her misery!”
Tom lowered his head, trying to think of a way to break through Thornfield’s fear and stupidity. “Sonny, I’m trying to give you a way out of this that keeps us all out of jail. Will you listen to what I’m saying?”
“He’s not listening,” Walt said. “He’s putting on a show. I say put one in his head and let him take the fall. That’s the quickest solution, and I want you clear of this mess before anybody figures out you’ve jumped bail.”
Tom shook his head, wondering if Walt was just trying to scare Thornfield, or if he really meant what he’d said.
Thornfield leaned against a cabinet and moaned in what sounded like real pain. Tom had a wealth of experience with malingering, and this didn’t look like it. “Walt—”
“Quiet,” Garrity said with sudden urgency.
The old Ranger had gone so still that both Tom and Sonny stared at him in alarm. Walt shut off the torch and scrambled to the front window of the van, which he’d earlier blocked with a sun shield.
“State police!” he hissed, peering out through a crack.
Tom felt his heart lurch, and then the cold sweat of imminent combat covered his skin.
Thornfield started laughing, a hysterical undercurrent in his voice. “I never thought I’d be glad to see the goddamn cops!”
“Shut him up!” Walt snapped. “I’ll deal with this, but he can’t make a sound.”
“How do I do that?” Tom asked.
“Either drug him senseless, or I’ll sap him.”
A lead-weighted sap could easily kill the old Eagle. As Tom grabbed for the drugs in his bag, he heard an engine outside the van. Then came the slow screech of brake pads. A car had stopped outside. With shaking hands, Tom filled a syringe with Valium.
“Hold his arm, Walt!”