"I think he might. And what would those recordings have to do with the authorities? Think about it."
"Even so, would it be wise for a fella to tell other people?"
"No. But he might do it anyway. If who he told was someone he thought wouldn't mind if they popped up later and the money from them went to a pet charity."
"Like muscular dystrophy."
"Yep."
"I'll be damned," I said.
We were quiet again. Maybe for a full half minute. Then Can-tuck said, "Oh, we found your pickup. You don't want it back."
"Cantuck?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
"You take care, boy."
I went to bed then, without my gun. I thought I was doing better. But for the first time in months, it began to rain. It was a gentle spring rain, and I didn't like it. It woke me up. It used to help me sleep, now it makes me nervous. Twice as nervous if I should hear thunder or see lightning.
It's a week later and it's still raining. Nothing serious. Just a steady, easy spring rain, but I still can't sleep. I wake up every night and pad to the kitchen window for a look out back. There's only the woods out there, but I can't sleep. I sit up and drink coffee till morning, watch the late movies. Sometimes I play the L.C. Soothe boxed set I borrowed from Leonard. I play it and think about how this man, long dead, got this whole thing started.
Might as well. I go back to bed, I lay there and wait for the floodwaters to come hurtling down with Florida at the crest, pinned to the top of a wave like a Christmas tree ornament for the devil.
Just lay there and listen to the beating of my heart, counting the seconds gone from my life, anticipating less of the same.