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"You did your job. Beat it," Helen said.
I lay the three photographs down on the tablecloth.
"That's you in the middle, Mr. Terrebonne. You chain-whipped Jack Flynn and hammered nails through his wrists and ankles, then let your daughter carry your guilt. You truly turn my stomach, sir," I said.
"And you're way beyond anything I'll tolerate," he said.
"Get up," I said.
"What?"
"Better do what he says," Helen said behind me.
Terrebonne turned to a silver-haired man on his right. "John, would you call the mayor's home, please?" he said.
"You're under arrest, Mr. Terrebonne. The mayor's not going to help you," I said.
"I'm not going anywhere with you, sir. You put your hand on my person again and I'll sue you for battery," he said, then calmly began talking to the woman in a robin's-egg-blue suit on his left.
Maybe it was the long day, or the fact the photos had allowed me to actually see the ordeal of Jack Flynn, one that time had made an abstraction, or maybe I simply possessed a long-buried animus toward Archer Terrebonne and the imperious and self-satisfied arrogance that he and his kind represented. But long ago I had learned that anger, my old enemy, had many catalysts and they all led ultimately to one consequence, an eruption of torn red-and-black color behind the eyes, an alcoholic blackout without booze, then an adrenaline surge that left me trembling, out of control, and possessed of a destructive capability that later filled me with shame.
I grabbed him by the back of his belt and hoisted him out of the chair, pushed him facedown on the table, into his food, and cuffed his wrists behind him, hard, ratcheting the curved steel tongues deep into the locks, crimping the veins like green string. Then I walked him ahead of me, out the foyer, into the parking area, pushing past a group of people who stared at us openmouthed. Terrebonne tried to speak, but I got the back door of the cruiser open and shoved him inside, cutting his scalp on the jamb.
When I slammed the door I turned around and was looking into the face of the woman in the robin's-egg-blue suit.
"You manhandle a sixty-three-year-old man like that? My, you must be proud. I'm so pleased we have policemen of your stature protecting us from ourselves," she said.
THE SHERIFF CALLED ME into his office early the next morning. He rubbed the balls of his fingers back and forth on his forehead, as though the skin were burned, and looked at a spot six inches in front of his face.
"I don't know where to begin," he said.
"Terrebonne was kicked loose?"
"Two hours after you put him in the cage. I've had calls from a judge, three state legislators, and a U.S. congressman. You locked him in the cage with a drag queen and a drunk with vomit all over his clothes?"
"I didn't notice."
"I bet. He says he's going to sue."
"Let him. He's obstructed and lied in the course of a murder investigation. He's dirty from the jump, skipper. Put that photo and his daughter in front of a grand jury and see what happens."
"You're really out to burn his grits, aren't you?"
"You don't think he deserves it?" I said.
"The homicide was in St. Mary Parish. Dave, this guy had to have stitches in his head. Do you know what his lawyers are going to do with that?"
"We've been going after the wrong guys. Cut off the snake's head and the body dies," I said.
"I called my insurance agent about an umbrella policy this morning, you know, the kind that protects you against losing your house and everything you own. I'll give you his number."
"Terrebonne skates?"
The sheriff picked up a pink memo slip in the fingers of each hand and let them flutter back to his ink blotter.
"You've figured it out," he said.
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, JUST as the sun dipped over the trees, Cisco Flynn walked down the dock where I was cleaning the barbecue pit, and sat on the railing and watched me work.
