Tom’s gaze remained on Walt, his eyes cold and leaden with intransigence. “Henry Sexton died in part because of things I did. Also things I didn’t do. I’m going to pay my respects to him, even if it is too late.”
Walt shook his head. “You’re suicidal, bud.”
“What if that was you lying dead over in Ferriday?”
“I’d yell up from the fiery furnace for you to light out while you could and pour a whiskey for me later, once you were safe and dry.”
“No, you wouldn’t. So get this damned IV out of me.” Tom held out his arm and made a fist.
“Mrs. Nolan ain’t gonna like this plan,” Walt grumbled.
“Wait and see.”
Remembering last night’s strange conversation, Walt decided Tom might be right. “I think she’s had some sort of vision about the end of this business. And I think maybe we die in it.”
Before Tom could answer, Walt yanked the IV catheter out of his wrist and pressed Tom’s free thumb against the bloody hole.
“We all die,” Tom said, scanning the floor for something. “I’ve been watching it from the bedside for fifty years. It’s how you go that matters—not when. You know that. That’s why you came to Mississippi when I called. Now, help me find my goddamn pants.”
CHAPTER 83
SPECIAL AGENT BOYD Bertolet watched Snake Knox and four other men in their seventies walk out of the main entrance of the Concordia Sheriff’s Department and pause at the top of the stairs.
“Looks like a geriatric walking club,” said his partner, Sheila Stowers.
Boyd saw at least three vehicles waiting to pick up the newly released Double Eagles. “Watch who gets in what car. Do you recognize Snake?”
“Oh, yeah,” Sheila said. “He’s the wiry old fucker. The crankiest-looking bastard in the bunch.”
“I don’t even get why the boss is letting them out. You know they killed Thornfield yesterday. Even if that meth disappeared, we could have held them—especially with Kaiser invoking the Patriot Act.”
“Kaiser knows what he’s doing,” Sheila said. “If he’s letting these guys walk, he’s got a damn good reason. But you and I won’t ever be told what it is. We’ll just have to pay attention down the line.”
Three Double Eagles walked down the steps, then climbed into the waiting cars and pickup trucks. Snake accompanied the last man, but Boyd didn’t see him get into any vehicle. Instead, Snake seemed to be walking along the front wall of the courthouse, away from the vehicles.
“Where’s he going?” Boyd asked.
“I don’t know,” Sheila said, a note of concern in her voice.
“Do you see anybody waiting to pick him up over that way?”
“Nope. Just parked cars.”
Bertolet grunted and watched Snake Knox walk toward the edge of the parking lot, which abutted the parking lot of a single-story shopping center on the east side of the courthouse.
“I’ll bet somebody’s waiting for him in a car over in that lot,” Sheila guessed. “Whoever it is didn’t want the courthouse cameras to record their face. Let’s see if we can get a look.”
She picked up her radio and called a second surveillance car, asked them to pull into the shopping center lot and be sure they saw Knox get into whatever vehicle was waiting for him.
“He moves pretty good for a seventy-year-old man,” Boyd commented.
“He still flies crop dusters, which means he’s a long way from dead. Let’s pull out to the main road. We’ll pick them up when they leave the lot.”
“Let’s give it a minute,” Boyd said, keeping his eyes on Snake’s diminishing figure.
“Uh-oh,” Sheila said.
“What?”
“Look.” She pointed toward the shopping center. Snake Knox had just climbed onto an orange-and-white motorcycle and kick-started it. Bertolet could see smoke blooming from the exhaust pipe.
“Tell me that’s not a dirt bike,” he said.
“It’s a dirt bike. Looks like a 250.”
“Fuck.”
Boyd jammed the Ford into gear and hit the accelerator, but even as he did he saw Snake pull onto the grass lawn beside the shopping center, then spin a shower of gravel into the air as he took off toward the tree line far behind the stores. His front wheel lifted off the ground from the force of his acceleration.
“Look at that shit!” Boyd cried.
“I told you,” Sheila said. “A goddamn crop duster. What do you expect?” She keyed her radio and said, “What are you waiting for? Get this car up onto the grass and try to stay with him.”
“There’s no way,” Boyd said. “He’ll be in those trees in thirty seconds, and without air support, he might as well be in Mexico. He’s gone.”
“I know.”
“We need a goddamn drone.”
“I wonder if we have an aircraft close,” Stowers said. “Kaiser might divert the chopper to keep eyes on Snake Knox.”
“Give it a try,” Boyd said, aiming the Ford at the space between the courthouse and the shopping center. “I sure wish this was a rental.”
SNAKE WAS THREE MILES from the courthouse when he stopped the Honda. He’d lost the FBI after the first half mile, as he’d known he would, so he’d taken care to ride the last two miles under heavy tree cover. He’d found the pistol and the cell phone he’d requested in a leather bag attached to the handlebars, and during the ride over, he’d called his illegitimate son and told him to be parked by a certain borrow pit fifteen minutes later. Unlike the pit where Deke Dunn had died, this one lay north of Highway 84, but otherwise the topography was the same.