A Crying Shame (32 page)

Sheriff Saucier studied Jon Badon in the sunlight of summer in the bayou country. A big man, well over six feet, weighing probably two-twenty-five, a lot of muscle in his arms and shoulders. Mike involuntarily sucked in his own gut, aware of the beginnings of a paunch, and felt a pang of jealousy at Badon's lean waist and hips. At his temples Badon had only a touch of gray, in his thick, dark brown hair. Very pale eyes. Dangerous eyes, the sheriff thought. Hunter's eyes.

Wonder how many men he's killed?

Wonder if he even knows?

Probably not.

Badon was conscious of Sheriff Saucier's careful studied gaze. He said nothing; he was accustomed to getting this once-over from lawmen. There was something about him, his walk, his manner, his bearing, that caused street-wise cops to turn around and take a second look at him. It was a primal sensing that this man, if confronted, would be dangerous, would not back away, would fight; and the fight would be to the death. Only men who have been tested to their limits of courage and endurance ... in combat ... possess this aura. No one else has it, for it cannot be won on a gaming field.

The tracks of the other Links went off to the southeast, right?” Badon asked.

Yes. How'd you know that?”

Logical conclusion. That's the direction of the thickest part of the swamp touching the estate grounds. They were heading home.” Badon attached a clip-pouch to his belt; it held three smaller clips, each containing sixteen rounds. A two-clip pouch for the .45 automatic pistol was on the other side of the web belt.
Where are the hands who work this land?”

The night of the killing, you mean? No one lives out here on the place except for Paul and Linda Breaux.”

Not even the foreman?”

No. He lives in town.”

You don't find that odd?”

No. Should I? If so, why?”

The house we passed just down the road. The nice one. That supposed to be the foreman's home?”

Used to be, yes.”

Wonder why he doesn't live there? Rent-free, I should imagine.”