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And about Maxwell.
At this moment, Joe could be drunk and quivering in fear that Rusty was contriving to have him implicated and arrested. Or, just as possible, he could have called the law already and was trying to negotiate his own deal.
But, not being a complete and utter fool, Joe wouldn’t report this to the SO, which was Mervin’s domain. No, he would notify another department of law enforcement. The Texas Rangers. FBI.
The thought caused Rusty to snivel worse than Foster.
A more rational section of his brain, however, insisted that a sot like Maxwell wouldn’t do that. Before spilling his guts to any branch of law, he would want a guarantee of immunity, and none was going to grant that without hearing what Joe had to tell. He couldn’t say a thing without risking that the sky would fall on his daughters, Lisa and the younger one. Destroy their futures? No, that would be too big a gamble for poor ol’ Joe. He would never take it.
Rusty wanted to believe that.
Fear still niggled at him, though. It frightened him to think that tough cops, who went by the book and weren’t impressed with the last name of Dyle, were on to him already.
One thing was for damn certain: He couldn’t be caught with the money. Hiding it was priority numero uno. After the bag of cash was secured, he could deny any accusations thrown at him. His daddy would vouch for anything he said.
But just in case the unlikely happened, and he did fall under suspicion, and his old man turned contrary, Rusty also should establish an alibi. For the burglary. For Foster.
He hadn’t actually killed the dipshit, but that could be a tricky technicality if he was ever accused of having done so. Best to establish a solid alibi for the entire night and avoid the whole mess.
By the time he reached the canoe, he had formulated a new plan. It involved Crystal, and it was brilliant for so many reasons, all of them self-serving. Eager to implement the plan, he covered the remaining distance to the canoe with a gush of renewed energy.
Getting into the damn thing with only one functioning arm was going to be a challenge, and he wasn’t sure how to go about it. He was relieved to see that the paddle hadn’t fallen out when Foster had tipped the canoe and pulled him into the water.
The paddle was lying in the hull.
All by its lonesome.
The money bag was gone.
Chapter 33
Ledge backed his pickup off Hawkins’s property and out onto the road.
Dwayne hadn’t moved. He still lay spread-eagled in the dirt under the glare of the floodlights.
As Arden got her last look at him, she said, “You won’t really shoot him, will you?”
“I won’t have to.” He turned to her to make his point. “It’s enough that he believes I will.”
They’d gone only a short distance before Ledge placed a call to Don, who answered immediately. “Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“Hawkins?”
“Sniffling, but unhurt and grateful to be alive. But listen, the lowlife has dozens of dogs penned up out here. The conditions are criminal. I expect him to clear out tonight and, more than likely, abandon them. It would be dangerous to release them. Do you know anybody who’s actively involved with the Humane Society or ASPCA?”
“Several people.”
“Report it. Hawkins will probably be long gone by the time officials get out here, but those animals need rescuing.”
“On it.”
“Thanks, Don. Later.”
“Hold it. Where are you? What are you doing?”
“Going home.”
