I try to speak, but my throat has sealed shut. The ragged edges of the thing in my hand make it plain that it was cut from Jimmy Revels’s arm. I only hope he was dead when it happened.
“This is my ticket back into the sheriff’s office,” I finally whisper. “To talk to Snake Knox.”
“Is that where we’re going?”
After hastily repacking the footlocker, I fasten it shut, then look up at the old Ranger. “No. Not yet. Kaiser won’t let us do what we’d need to do to Snake.”
Walt nods gravely. “Where then?”
“It’s time to talk to Forrest Knox.”
His eyes narrow. “You gonna call him on that cell phone Dennis gave you? Try to cut a deal with him?”
“There’s no deal to be had. We’re going to find out where Dad is, no matter what that takes.”
An unspoken question rises in Walt’s eyes. I lay the tattoo in his callused hand, then get to my feet and check my pistol. The old Ranger looks down at the tanned skin for several seconds without speaking, feeling it between his fingers. Then he brings it closer to his face so that his aging eyes can focus on the inked letters.
“Jesus wept,” he says finally. “I had a brother who served in the navy. No matter what happens at Knox’s place, I’m gonna kill the motherfucker who done this.”
CHAPTER 59
THE BOUCHARD LAKE house sits on the side of Lake Concordia farthest from the Mississippi River. A modernist, metal-skinned anomaly, it stands out among the older ranch houses and contemporary McMansions. At my request, Walker Dennis waited for us four miles up the road in the parking lot of a small grocery store that serves the lake residents. There I parked my Audi and climbed into Drew’s truck, while Walker followed us in his marked Tahoe.
During the drive here, Walt told me two things I could scarcely believe: first, that he’d planted the derringer that killed Trooper Deke Dunn inside Forrest Knox’s Baton Rouge home; and second, that while exploring Forrest’s computer, he’d discovered a video of a state police SWAT unit murdering what appeared to be black drug dealers during Hurricane Katrina. Walt rather unwisely turned this video over to Colonel Griffith Mackiever, but so far as he knows, the derringer still remains in Knox’s house. The implications of this information are too explosive for me to predict, yet I will be facing Forrest himself in less than five minutes.
When we reach the driveway of the Bouchard house, Walker Dennis pulls in after me and blocks the drive with his Tahoe, then climbs out with an AR-15 mounting an ACOG sight on its top rail.
“What’s the fire signal?” he asks.
“If I raise my right forefinger, blow him away.”
“Forrest first?”
“Whoever’s the most immediate threat.”
Dennis nods, then walks behind the Tahoe and rests his rifle on the hood, making a bench rest of his vehicle.
Walt drives slowly up the driveway: thirty meters, forty . . . I lay my hand on his arm and wait for him to turn to me. When he does, I say, “Tell me one thing, Walt. Did Dad kill Viola? I don’t care either way at this point. I just need to know.”
The old Ranger’s eyes don’t waver. “I honestly don’t know. I just came to help the man, because he’s my friend.”
I actually believe this. Walt and my father are from a different era, almost a different nation. The code by which they live probably precluded Walt from even asking the question.
“What if they just open up on us from the house?” he asks.
“They won’t. If they’re watching, they’ll have seen Walker’s bubble lights already.”
Walt doesn’t look reassured. “You sure you don’t want to try to call Knox on that cell phone?”
“Nope. I’ve got other plans for that phone.”
The brakes squeak as Walt rolls to a stop twenty meters from the house. I can just see the corner of the rear deck jutting out from the second floor. As I stare, a head appears, silhouetted against the sky. After several seconds, it withdraws.
“We just lost the element of surprise,” Walt deadpans, glancing into the backseat, where the veritable arsenal of firearms he brought from Texas lies in a padded duffel bag.
“I don’t think we ever had it. I’ll get out and wait for them. You stay in here until I clarify the situation. We don’t want them shooting you before they understand the price.”
Climbing out of the truck, I stand with my .357 hanging in plain view against my leg. In less than a minute, the side door of the house opens and two men emerge, one of average height, but well built and with the grace of an athlete; the other shorter and built like a small refrigerator. As they approach, the second man’s brick-colored skin becomes obvious. Alphonse Ozan.
“Hello, Mayor,” says the taller man, whose dark face has now resolved into recognizable features. Forrest Knox looks like the actor Kenneth Tobey, but with a dark suntan, pocked skin, and black hair. He’s square jawed and almost handsome, but a badly disfigured ear and his disturbingly direct eyes make me uneasy. “What can I do for you?”
“Tell me where my father is.”
Forrest gives me a bemused smile. “How would I know that?”
“You kidnapped him last night, and then your uncle snatched him from you. Now something tells me you’ve taken him back. In any case, I don’t have time for a long explanation. Just tell me where he is now.”
Forrest drums the fingers of his right hand against the knuckles of his left. “Who’s that in the truck, Mayor? Looks like he might be a wanted cop killer.”
“He is. And he’s going to get out. But before he does, I want you to note the sniper at the end of your driveway. He’s got you zeroed right now.”
Forrest chuckles softly. “Can that clown hit me from there?”
“The deer heads on his office wall tell me he probably can.” I turn to Drew’s truck and motion for Walt to get out. As he does, I give Alphonse Ozan a warning glance. “I don’t want either of you touching a cell phone. If you do, Sheriff Dennis will fire and I’ll swear you went for your guns.”