A Crying Shame (128 page)

Yes,” the mercenary said.
Many times.”

Jon knew, from years of knowledge learned in the highly charged world of international combat, that events were fast coming to a head in the parish. He sensed the Links would soon have to go on the offensive. Attack! The grounds around the plantation were ablaze with light. Jon sat alone in the den.

Tammy had latched onto Karl, and there were heavy grunting sounds coming from another bedroom on the second floor. Jon knew they would go on for hours; the German was as insatiable as Tammy appeared to be. The sexy blonde would get all the exercise she wanted this night—and more.

After Saucier had left, Jon had posted Walter Lewis on guard, told the others to stay inside, and had driven into town. The hot summer night lay heavy on the land, almost oppressive in its humid grip. But Jon drove with the air conditioner off, window lowered on the driver's side, his elbow tasting the hot rush of night. Tension lay thick on the town; Jon could almost taste it. And as he drove, slowly, looking at the town, he wondered more about Mike Saucier. The man had refused, flatly, to go into the swamps with him. Jon did not believe the man was afraid, but if not that, what?

He saw several young men on motorcycles in front of a seedy-looking bar in Laclede, the sight triggering the recall of an event that had happened long ago, north of Los Angeles, on the coastline highway. Jon grunted in the night, his memory dredging up the event....

 

... He had been aware of their presence, but not alarmed by their sight. Perhaps he should have been, but in his own way Jon was as much of a nonconformist as the bikers—except he was much neater and cleaner and probably much more intelligent.

He had noticed them coming up fast on the lonely road. Several moved ahead of him, roaring past. Then they began their games, dangerous games on the highway. A game that could cost a driver his life. They slowed down, refusing to let him pass; they shouted obscenities at him, making profane gestures. Jon opened the slim attache case on the seat beside him and removed a .45-caliber pistol, military issue. He put the hammer at half-cock. There was a round in the chamber.

I'll let them make the first move.” Jon spoke to the emptiness of the automobile.

It was not long in coming.

What appeared to be the leader of the scummy-looking pack of bikers drifted back to cling to the door handle of the car, grinning at Jon. His teeth were rotten. Jon could not imagine what his breath must be like.

Hello, cocksucker,” the biker shouted.

Turn loose of the handle,” Jon said, just loud enough for the biker to hear.

Or you'll do what, motherfucker?”

Jon laughed at him, then jammed on the brakes. The biker screamed as Jon cut the wheel and mashed the accelerator to the floor. The right front bumper caught the rear of the motorcycle and slammed the rider to the concrete, the bike falling on top of him, putting an abrupt halt to his screaming.

Jon drove on, keeping an eye on his rear-view mirror. Four riders followed him. He found a turn-off and took it, heading east, into the hills. When he was reasonably certain no homes were nearby, he pulled off the road and stepped out of the car, the .45 in his right hand, the hammer at full-cock.

The bikers roared up.
Goddamn son of a bitch!” one cussed him.
There wasn't no need for what you done to Ace. We was just havin' fun, that's all. You don't own the fuckin' road. I'm gonna stomp your guts out, candyman.”

The .45 was held pressed against Jon's leg. When the biker swung off the saddle, Jon shot him in the center of the chest, the big slug exploding the heart. The biker was dead before he hit the ground.

Jon swung the heavy automatic, pulling the trigger. He knocked the leg from under one rider, put a slug into the shoulder of another, and shattered the hip of the third biker.

Then he got back into his car, calmly reloaded the clip, and drove away, leaving the three bikers screaming in the dirt. He took an alternate route back to L.A., turned in the rented car at the airport, and an hour later was on a flight back to Johannesburg. He had used a false driver's license in renting the car; his passport was not in his own name, and he didn't believe the bikers had enough presence of mind to be able to give his description to the authorities.

He hadn't thought of the incident in years.

Jon Badon was not the type of man one wanted to anger. Ever.

 

He turned around at the courthouse square in Laclede and headed back to the house. He was deep in thought, but part of him was very much alert as he drove the night-draped parish roads.

He had noticed men—many men, at several different locations—buying gas, filling up five-gallon containers. He put it all together quickly and it spelled: Joe Ratliff.

Well, now,” he had muttered.
I shall be up early and into town to see where you good citizens go. And if you go into the swamp, I shall surely return to Despair and crawl back under the covers, wishing you all a
bon voyage
and good hunting, gentlemen.”

Now he sat for a time in the quiet den of the old plantation house, alone with his musings until Linda's voice softly cut into his period of meditation.

Jon?”