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Clete turned his head slowly, trying to concentrate on Jack Boyd’s face. “If you do anything to Molly and Albert and the girls, I’m going to hurt you.”
“You’re going to hurt me?”
“Take it to the bank.”
“You’re a laugh a minute,” Boyd said.
“That’s me,” Clete replied.
Jack Boyd walked toward the front of the house, the German rifle slung upside down on his shoulder, his trousers tucked inside the tops of his hand-tooled boots. Involuntarily, Clete’s head fell on his chest, his eyes shutting, his shoulders slumping. For a moment, he thought he was going to fall on the grass. He forced himself to his feet and walked toward the back of Gretchen’s pickup, the stars burning coldly in a sky that looked like purple velvet. He reached inside the truck bed and felt along the sides until his fingers touched the tip of a steel chain.
THE ODOR FROM behind me was unmistakable. I turned and looked into the face of Asa Surrette. He was wearing a bulletproof vest and carrying a Bushmaster semi-automatic rifle. “We finally meet,” he said. He touched the muzzle of the Bushmaster to the back of Alafair’s head. “Lay your weapons down, please.”
“Don’t do it, Dave,” Alafair said.
Surrette winked at me. “Humor me,” he said.
“You got it,” I said. I set the M-1 down on the grass. Gretchen lay her AR-15 down and pushed it away with her foot.
“Do as he says, Alafair,” I said.
She was carrying a cut-down Browning twelve-gauge that Gretchen had given her. She squatted slowly and placed it on the grass, then stood up. She gazed at Surrette a long time. “We saw what you did to Felicity,” she said.
“It was what she wanted. Have you been publishing any more magazine articles?” he said.
“No, I published a novel. What about you?” she said. “Has Creative Artists or William Morris been trying to get in touch with you?”
“Oh, you’re good,” he said.
“I looked through the house. Where were you?” I said.
“In the attic. The one place you didn’t look.”
“Pretty slick,” I said. “Who are these guys?”
“You don’t know?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“I’ll rephrase my question,” he said. “You’ve haven’t figured out yet who I am? You’re that slow on the uptake?”
“Your entire life has been characterized by mediocrity,” I said. “You got busted because you were stupid enough to believe the cops when they told you the floppy disk you sent them couldn’t be traced.”
His smile never wavered. He stepped closer to me. The odor that rose from his body made me choke. “Breathing problem?” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve never been around anything like it.”
Jack Boyd came out of the darkness, carrying the Mauser upside down on its sling.
“Where’s Clete Purcel?” I said.
“Relaxing, I suppose,” Boyd said.
“You didn’t finish them?” Surrette said.
“You didn’t tell me to,” Boyd replied.
“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” Surrette said.
