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In fact, the Demerol made Charlie Ruggles feel so good about his situation he was sure the right people would once again show up in his life, as they always did, and set matters straight. It had started to rain, a warm, beautiful, steady rain that pattered on the tops of the maple trees. He could not remember a night that had been as perfect in its combination of colors and sensations. When he turned his head toward the figure in greens, the coolness of the pillow being placed across his face made him think of a woman’s kiss, perhaps from years ago, although in truth he did not recall any woman whose touch had been this cool and gentle.
Then a terrible weight crushed down on him, sealing his eyes, pressing his skin back from his teeth, as though he were trying to smile for the first time in his life.
Chapter 5
DARREL MCCOMB and another detective served the search warrant at Joh
“What do you expect to find in his closet?” she said to McComb.
“A set of greens, the kind hospital perso
“You’re an idiot,” she said.
While Joh
“It’s true Indians do it dog-style?” he said.
“Ask your wife,” she replied.
McComb threw the bagged shoes to his partner and laughed. “Keep your eye on American Horse,” he said.
McComb ripped a sheet loose from the bed, then dumped the contents of Joh
“I’m shocked,” she replied.
“If he’s dirty, you’re probably going down with him. Your old man will be hard put to bail you out of this one.”
“Why is it I think you’re full of shit?” she asked.
He surveyed the room and pulled his collar off his neck, as though it chafed him. “I’d like to help you with any troubles that might come out of this,” he said.
He was positioned between her and the door, massive, the bulk of his shoulders like small sacks of cement. She could hear him breathing through his nose, smell his hair oil and the body heat and odor of testosterone in his clothes. He took a business card from his shirt pocket and lifted her hand and slipped the card between her fingers. She could feel the sharp edges of his calluses against her palm. “You get jammed up, just call me,” he said. “I grew up in a midwestern farm town, just like your old man did. We’re the same kind of people.”
He tried to keep his eyes respectful, his expression neutral. But she saw his tongue touch his bottom lip, the slackness in his jaw, the flush in his throat, the way his stare dipped momentarily.
She crumpled the card, letting it drop into a trash basket as she brushed past him into the front of the house. Behind her, she heard him make a sound like he had bitten a word in half.
“What did you say?” she asked, turning toward him.
“Maybe one day you’ll learn who the good guys are.”
“I can’t wait. In the meantime, kiss my ass,” she said.
Outside, the air was clear and bright, the mountains a deep blue-green against the sky. Joh
“I think you’ll do anything you can goddamn get away with,” McComb said. He picked up the evidence bag containing Joh
Joh
“It’s on your table,” McComb said.
“I didn’t sign it.”
“You don’t need to, asshole.”
“I think I do,” Joh
McComb stepped closer to him, covering Joh
“Could be. You go
Maybe his boot brushed against McComb’s shoe, or his coned hat touched McComb’s face. Or maybe McComb, staring at Amber over Joh
THAT AFTERNOON I went into Fay Harback’s office without knocking. “I just left St. Pat’s. Go down there and look at what your trained goon did to Joh
“I know all about it,” she replied.
“No, you don’t. McComb used a blackjack on him, for God’s sake. Without provocation.”
“That’s what you say. Both detectives tell a different story.”
“McComb came on to Amber Finley. She told him to take a walk, so he tore Joh
“American Horse is a violent man. Quit pretending he’s not.”
“You ran on a platform of personal integrity. You’re a big disappointment, Fay.”
“At least I’m not an ex-prosecutor who became a hump for any criminal with a checkbook.”
She was standing now, her nostrils white-rimmed, her throat streaked with color.
“Adios,” I said.
“I didn’t mean that,” she said at my back.
I WALKED ACROSS the grass, through the shade trees on the courthouse lawn, toward my office at the intersection, my blood singing in my ears. Parked by the curb was a dented, paint-ski
“Get a job,” I said.
“Want to stick it to Darrel McComb? Got some information might hep you do that, counselor.”
“I doubt it.”
He sat up on the hood, hooking his arms around his knees. “Before I seen the light and changed my ways, I was in the Aryan Brotherhood. The only trouble with the A.B. is it’s infiltrated. Know how come that is, Brother Holland?”
Don’t let him set the hook, I told myself. But there was no doubt about Wyatt Dixon’s knowledge of criminality and his insight into evil. He was a genuine sociopath, totally without conscience or remorse; but unlike his psychological compatriots, Wyatt enjoyed sharing the secrets of the i
“Spit it out,” I said.
“Sometimes the G likes to employ folks that ain’t on the computer.”