“How bad?”
“Big, ugly gash across the top of her head. Gonna be some stitches there. Possible concussion. Gonna have a sideways white streak in her hair for life, probably. Otherwise, unharmed. Filthy dirty, really damp around the edges, a lot of blood on her clothes, but it looks like she dodged a big one.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said. “Just like that.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Just like that. No signs of Brother Lucas, either, which is a shame. We were looking forward to getting up with him.”
“With luck he might even have resisted.”
King nodded and sipped his whiskey.
“This cannot have happened without you-know-who being in the mix,” I said. I was keeping my voice low as the bar was starting to fill up. “And I heard another story tonight, from one of the deputies who used to work over there.”
“Another Robbins County story,” he said. “Terrific.”
“It supports Carrie’s theory that Grinny Creigh is doing some damn thing that involves children.”
“Would a judge act on it?”
“Probably not.”
He looked at his watch. “Then I don’t want to hear it. We came here to get her back. She’s back.”
“You didn’t get her back. They gave her back.”
“Whatever,” he said. “She doesn’t work for us anymore, and she’s back. That’s what we came out here to do. Forgive me, but I’m a linear sort of guy, kinda like those shepherds of yours.”
“So now what-you guys just gonna back out?”
“Wouldn’t you, if you were still a lieutenant in the Manceford County Sheriff’s Office? Or did you people run around expending scarce resources on colorful rumors?”
King took my frustrated silence for assent.
“Look,” he said. “We’re the SBI. You know we never get too far out ahead of the line departments. We come in when there’s a solid case to be built, and then only when we’re asked in and we have assets to offer that a local sheriff’s office doesn’t.”
“And you never run your own ops?” I asked.
He studied his whiskey.
“How much smoke do you need before you go looking for a fire?” I asked. “You know you have a problem with Mingo, and that’s something the SBI does do on its own. DEA knows they have a problem with the Creigh clan and Mingo. You said that even the Bureau had something for you when you broke off to come look for Carrie. I’ve been shot at, jailed, kidnapped, and rescued by two of Mingo’s own deputies, who then jumped ship and are working for Hayes now. Your own ex-agent was kidnapped and got away only because her kidnapper stumbled onto me on a dark road, threw down on me, and got her head blown off. Then Carrie gets shot and kidnapped again? And then mysteriously released? What the fuck does it take, Special Agent?”
My voice had been rising, and some people were looking at us.
“Outside,” he said, throwing some money on the bar. We walked through the main lobby in silence and out into the parking lot. His official car was parked out front, with my very good friend Storm Trooper Gelber in the driver’s seat. I got the familiar glare when he saw me. The man was nothing if not consistent.
“Here’s some advice, Mister Richter,” King said. “This is western Carolina. Eastern Carolina is mostly horizontal, densely populated with lawyers, and urban-minded. Western Carolina is mostly vertical, sparsely populated altogether, and bloody-minded, especially when it comes to strangers poking around in the woods. Now, here comes the advice: Go home.”
I just looked at him. He must not have cared for the expression on my face, because he became angry.
“We know there’s something wrong in Robbins County,” he said. “Believe it or not, we might even be working on it, but since you are an ex-lieutenant, emphasis on the ‘ex’ part, I’m not inclined to share, okay? Same thing goes for ex-special agent Carrie Santangelo. Emphasis once again on the ‘ex.’ Chances are, you stay out of Robbins County and you’ll both be a whole lot better off. Go the fuck home. Trust me, I’ll be telling her the same damn thing in the morning.”
Gelber, who’d been listening, had a nasty smile on his face and was exuding agreement from the car. King gave me a curt nod and went over to get into the car. I tried to think of some really clever retort, but by the time I did, they were down the road and gone. As usual.
I walked back to the cabin. It was a pleasant night, although there was a hazy ring around the moon presaging rain later. The shrubbery around the creek smelled of late summer, and the pea gravel along the walk crunched respectfully under my feet. A zillion insects were communicating in the woods in the rising humidity. The shepherds were waiting by the front screen door, so I let them go water the grounds for a few minutes. I sat down on the front steps while they ran around and thought about what King had said.
Go the fuck home. Basically, this is our game and we’ll play it out the way we want to. Retirees, agents who resign, and other undesirables, especially ones who blunder into one fix after another and who believe in rural legends, need not apply. He’d been pretty convincing. M. C. Mingo and the Creighs hadn’t gone into business yesterday, and it would probably take years of careful and methodical police work, as usual, to roll them up in a way that would stand up in our wonderfully liberal court system.
Much as I hated to admit it, Special Agent King might just be right.
Then the shepherds returned. They were escorting one bedraggled-looking Carrie Harper Santangelo. I sighed. From the grimly determined look in her eyes, I knew there was no way in hell that I was going to get home any time soon.
“Breakout?” I asked her as she shuffled up to the cabin.
She nodded and then staggered just a little. I realized she was probably still under the effects of sedation. Her balance was off, and she was having trouble forming words. I helped her into the cabin. It being a bridal suite, there was only one real bedroom and one enormous bed, and that’s where I took her, the shepherds following with lots of concerned interest. She’d apparently found her dirty clothes and put them on over her hospital gown.
I sat her down on the edge of the bed and examined the top of her head. She rested her forehead on my chest patiently. Her scalp was a mess, albeit a professionally sutured and disinfected mess. She looked up at me, and then one eye wandered just a bit. Whatever pain meds they’d given her were definitely still onboard. I wanted to get her a bath, but right then and there she was bound for the arms of Morpheus.
I stretched her out on the bed and, as gently as I could, relieved her of her shoes, jeans, and shirt. The hospital gown did little to protect her modesty, but there was nothing sexy about undressing a woman who’d had the top of her head sliced open by a rifle. She made a halfhearted attempt to cover herself and then gave up when I rolled her into clean sheets and pulled up a light coverlet. Her body was slim, trim, and athletic, lovely and round where it should be, yet surprisingly light. Some genuine joy there for the right guy, I thought.
I went into the bathroom and returned with a warm washcloth. I washed her face as gently as I could and then her hands. She made little mumbling sounds. I brought her some water and she drank an entire glass. She said something about scotch and I smiled. Not tonight, dear heart. I fluffed up her pillows, made sure her arms weren’t contorted, and turned out the lights. I think she was asleep before I got out of the room.
I thought about one final scotch and then decided to pass. I was turning out lights and appraising the couch when there was a quiet knock on the door. It turned out to be the other Big brother, Luke.
“She okay?” he asked. He was twisting his deputy’s hat in his hands, and I could tell he was somewhat embarrassed to be there.
“Lemme guess: You failed door duty.”
He nodded. “Big time,” he said. “She pops out into the hallway, bottom in the breezes, says she has to get out of there. I tried talkin’ her back in, but she wasn’t havin’ any. Said she’d seen Mingo. Said she’d go out the window, she had to. Said people die in hospitals, she was leavin’, and she had a gun.” He grinned, despite himself.