Walt paid more attention to the house on this second pass. Though two stories tall, the structure appeared long and low. The modern design stood out strongly from the ranch houses and A-frames that dotted the shore on this side of Lake Concordia, especially its metal-clad walls, which gleamed in the winter sun. The name Bouchard had been painted in a festive script on a sign below the mailbox, which was the custom along this lake. Walt cursed Mackiever for the hundredth time for not bugging the interior of Knox’s cruiser. He wished he’d done it himself. If he had, then he would already know where Tom was being held—or at least his final fate. If he was damned lucky, it might turn out that Knox was holding him inside this luxury retreat.
Since trees obscured his view of the Bouchard house, he shifted his gaze to the house next door. It was a typical ranch-style suburban built on a lot so narrow it didn’t even have a carport. Walt felt a rush of hope as he saw there were no vehicles parked at that house.
An ideal observation post if ever I saw one, he thought, slowing to turn.
CHAPTER 52
BY THE TIME Forrest’s phone rang again, he sensed that something was wrong. He wasn’t sure what it might be, but he never doubted his intuition. As soon as he answered, he heard the high pitch of panic in Deputy Hunt’s voice.
“Calm down, son,” Forrest said. “What happened?”
“There’s no stash under the sheriff’s house!”
“Bullshit,” Forrest said, his mind speeding through possibilities. Who the hell would have the nerve to rip off crystal meth from cops? “You must have missed it. Talk to whoever planted it.”
“I planted it. That’s how I know. It’s gone! All four bags.”
Forrest thought about this. “How is that possible? Could anybody have seen you plant it?”
“No, sir. No way. It was pitch-black.”
“Somebody had to. What about Dennis himself?”
“He was twenty miles away!”
“Where is he now?”
“He left for work ten minutes ago. His wife and kid left at the same time.”
“Was anybody with you when you planted it?”
“Kyle Allard drove me.”
“Then Allard’s got it.”
“I don’t think so, Colonel. Kyle ain’t crazy. And he knows he’d be crazy to cross you.”
“Either Allard’s got it, or he warned Dennis about it.”
“Due respect, sir . . . no way. Kyle hates the sheriff.”
“Well, you talk to him, then. Tell him if he doesn’t come clean, I’ll have Captain Ozan cut it out of him. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir. Loud and clear. But this don’t make no damn sense.”
Forrest hung up and speed-dialed Claude Devereux at his home in Vidalia. The phone rang six times, and then an answering machine picked up. Forrest listened to the old lawyer’s oily voice and waited for the beep.
“Claude, this is Forrest. If you don’t call me back within five minutes, I’ll make sure you spend the few years you have left handling death row appeals pro bono from your cell in Angola. Have a nice day.”
Forrest hung up.
Twenty seconds later, Devereux returned the call.
“Jesus,” said the Cajun, “you don’t have to get my blood pressure up like that.”
“Take a goddamn pill, Claude. I need you to get down to the CPSO and advise some clients who are about to be questioned.”
“You mean Snake and Sonny and the others?”
“That’s right.”
“But—I thought you had that taken care of.”
“I do. You’re my secret weapon.”
Devereux muttered under his breath. “Are they in custody?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”
“Shit, Forrest . . . the damned FBI’s in town. And this isn’t 1964. What are you getting me into?”
“You scared, Claude? You used to laugh at the FBI.”
“Thirty years ago. I was young and stupid. Those sons of bitches have more power now than they ever did under Hoover. If the FBI is in on this questioning, I might need a lawyer myself. And the tide has turned against loudmouths like Snake Knox, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Stop flappin’ your gums and get over there, Claude. You don’t have a choice.”
After some grumbling, Devereux said, “All right, all right. I suppose I can.”
“That tone doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“Forrest, Christ . . . I’m too old for this.”
“The alternative is worse, I promise you.”
Forrest was pretty sure Devereux had stopped breathing.
“You getting your tie on, Claude?”
“As we speak.”
“Call me with a report, soon as you can.”
“I will. Let me get going.”
Forrest hung up, then blew out a rush of air. He didn’t like it when things didn’t go according to plan. It had been years now since anyone had dared to challenge him directly, but Penn Cage, John Kaiser, and Walker Dennis seemed to be intent on doing just that. He wondered whether Claude Devereux still had the stones to handle adversaries of that caliber. Claude had been a slick operator in the old days, as connected as anybody in Louisiana. He’d kept many a sticky-fingered politician out of prison, from sitting governors to U.S. senators. But Penn Cage was an accomplished attorney with a stellar record as a prosecutor, and Forrest didn’t like the fear he’d heard in the old man’s voice.
A disturbing thought struck him. What if Devereux didn’t even go to the sheriff’s office? What if he tried to rabbit? Then it would be up to Snake to handle whatever surprise those three Boy Scouts had cooked up for the Double Eagles. The more Forrest thought about this, the surer he became that he wasn’t the only one who’d arranged a surprise for today. He got up from the table, tossed the dregs of his coffee over the deck rail, and speed-dialed Alphonse Ozan.
DEPUTY HIRAM HUNT HAD phoned Colonel Knox from underneath Sheriff Dennis’s house, and he was still there, checking for the ninth or tenth time to be sure he wasn’t mistaken about the crystal meth. But he knew he wasn’t. He’d duct-taped the trash bag containing the packets between two floor joists, right where the return air duct descended from the living room floor.
Now nothing remained but the residue of the duct tape. Hunt could feel the tacky glue on his fingertips. Could some scavenging animal like a raccoon have taken the bag? Possibly, but an animal would have ripped it open on the spot to discover whether it contained any food.
“Shit fire,” Hunt muttered, knowing his life was on the line.