Unspeakable (47 page)

There weren't any women and children around."

Carl released a heavy sigh, shook his head, and made a tsking sound. "So much for trying to be a nice guy." Immediately he grabbed Anna by the hair and shoved her to her knees.

***

Myron was hot. It had done no good to roll the car windows down because there wasn't any wind. The sun was shining through the windshield and causing him to sweat. He had drunk three Cokes already. Carl had told him to stay inside the car. If he couldn't get out to pee, he had better not drink any more Cokes even though he was real thirsty.

He was also bored. Boredom was making him sleepy. Twice he'd nodded off, only to be brought suddenly awake when his body twitched.

If he fell asleep and didn't guard the money, Carl would get mad and yell at him and call him a retard. He didn't want Carl to get mad. Carl was his friend. He couldn't let Carl down. But he was hot and bored. And a little scared.

It had been a long time since Carl left. He had said he had something to take care of. "Remember what I told you, Myron? Two things I was gonna do when I got out?"

"Kill the motherfuckers who got you put in prison."

"Right. Well, one's down. Cecil. There are a couple to go." He had checked his revolver, spinning the cylinder. Myron liked when Carl did that 'cause he looked like a cowboy in the movies. He liked cowboy movies.

"Shouldn't take long, Myron."

But it was taking long. Carl should be back by now. What if something bad had happened to him? What if he'd been caught? What if he didn't come back at all?

The possibility filled Myron with fear. He didn't know the way to Mexico. What would he do with the money they'd stolen? Where would he sleep tonight?

The pores of his face leaked anxious sweat. He dragged his sleeve across his forehead to keep sweat from running into his eyes. His shirt was sticking to him. His crotch itched with a heat rash. The sweat made it sting. He fidgeted in the seat. His hands were slippery with sweat. He set the pistol on the seat beside him and wiped his palms up and down his pants legs to dry them off. If Carl didn't come back for him, he would be real scared.

But if he didn't do exactly what Carl had said, Carl would be mad. He remembered what Carl had told him.

"Now here's the plan, Myron. Are you listening? Okay, good. I'm leaving the money here with you. The money we took from the bank, remember?"

"I remember, Carl."

"Good. It's in the trunk, okay?"

"Okay."

"I can't take it with me, because a man toting a duffel bag would attract unwanted attention. So I've got to leave it here. Understand?"

"Sure, Carl."

"Don't doze off."

"I won't."

"You're the guard. You can't let anybody sneak up on you. You've got your guns?"

"Right here, Carl." He raised the pistol in his hand to show Carl that he had his gun ready. A loaded shotgun lay across his knees.

"Good going," Carl had said, and Myron had felt proud. "Now, if anybody comes near the car, shoot them."

"Okay, Carl."

"I mean it, Myron. This is important. Don't talk, don't do anything, just shoot anybody who comes close."

"Okay, Carl. Can I have a Coke?"

"Sure."

Carl had set a whole six-pack of Cokes on the seat beside him.

"Where're you going, Carl?"

"I told you, Myron, I've got something to do."

"Can I come?"

"Jesus."

And he blew out his breath like he did when he was fixing to get mad and Myron heard him say something about him looking like a walking fright show and that he might just as well have an Uzi tucked under his arm as have Myron tagging along.

Myron didn't know what all that meant, but that was what Carl had said, and that was why he had to stay in the car and guard the money in the trunk and shoot people if they came up to him. But Carl had been gone a long time. He was getting scared. His slippery index finger toyed with the trigger on the shotgun lying across his lap. He whimpered in fear over the possibility of being left alone. He wouldn't know what to do if Carl didn't come back. He wouldn't know how to get across the border and find sweet Mexican pussy all by himself.

He stared at the spot on the horizon where he'd last seen Carl, willing him to reappear. He sucked on his lower lip and gnawed his inner cheek. He wiped the sweat off his forehead again. He glanced over his shoulder through the back window.

What he saw caused him to utter a sound of utmost distress.

It was a car, slowing down, pulling up beside him.

CHAPTER FORTY–FIVE

W
hat a difference twenty-four hours made, thought Emory Lomax. Yesterday he had marked the long hours until the end of the workday when he could retreat and lick the wounds inflicted by the man named Jack who'd attacked him in his office. He had tucked tail and slunk home, where he had swallowed several aspirin to kill the headache the beer at lunch had given him. Unfortunately, he had later resurrected it with several glasses of bourbon. He wasn't a good drinker; the bourbon had gotten him shitfaced.

Then the storm struck. Each flash of lightning and every thunderbolt had seemed aimed for the center of his skull, its sole purpose being to add to his misery. But beyond intensifying his headache, the storm had affected him very little.

He hadn't known when the gale-strength winds tore away his window shutters and sent his metal trash cans tumbling down the street. He was unaware of the hard rains that had overflowed his gutters and flooded his garage up to the wheel axles of his Jag. He knew nothing of the tornado until this morning when his radio alarm clock woke him with the news.

As the storm was wreaking havoc on his community, he had been drinking his way into a drunken stupor, at times wallowing in self-pity, occasionally sweating in fear that his duplicitous machinations would bring him to ruin, continually seething over Jack the Cowboy's insults. Now, as he sped in air-conditioned comfort along the road that led to the Corbett ranch, he asked himself for the umpteenth time just who the hell that guy thought he was to talk to him with such condescension. He had entered his office uninvited. He had threatened him with bodily harm. Holding a knife to his throat, no less! Jesus, what audacity.

On the measuring stick of life, this Jack person didn't even register. With a swaggering hardbody and a face like the Marlboro Man, the guy was a contemporary version of a saddle tramp, a joke, a ne'er-do-well without two nickels to rub together.

Why in hell he had let the guy browbeat him on his own turf, he couldn't fathom. Of course it had been a surprise attack. He had lain in wait and ambushed him. Undoubtedly that was one reason he had surrendered with shameful haste.

Another was that he'd just concluded a disturbing meeting with Connaught and company, hotshots and high rollers to whom he'd made rash promises that would be difficult to keep. Getting on Jesse Garcia's bad side was also a quelling thought, but this Jack character had admitted to lying during their meeting, so he might have been lying about all of it. How did Emory know any such meeting had taken place? He had never heard of Garcia turning on one of his clients. At the risk of damaging his business reputation, it seemed unlikely he would start double-crossing his customers now. Not even for the sacred memory of Uncle What's-His-Name the bootmaker.

Chalk up his intimidation to any or all of those extenuating circumstances. Or to the unaccustomed drinking at lunch. Or to the oppressive humidity of yesterday afternoon. To a mind fart. To whatever.

The important thing now was that he recognized the cowboy's grandstanding for what it was. Anna Corbett's ranch hand was jealous of him, so he had flexed some muscle. Big deal. On the other hand, the acquisition of the Corbett property was a big deal. Standing between him and achieving that prize goal were a few macho threats issued by a man who wasn't fit to polish his shoes.

This morning Emory had awakened with a bitch of a hangover, but with a clearer head and a firmer understanding of what he must do. The conquest of Anna Corbett could not be postponed. It must begin in earnest today.

She might continue to give him the cold shoulder, but when she got to know him, she would thaw. The only way she would get to know him was to spend time with him. That's what he intended to do. Today would be a courtesy call. He would offer her his services and, over the next several weeks, grant her unlimited favors, professional and personal. When she became dependent on his generosity and kindness, he would really turn on the charm and let her think she was being courted—but only until the deal was closed. He wouldn't mind sampling the goods, but he'd be damned before he saddled himself with a deaf broad and her bratty kid.

Cowboy Jack had warned him to stay away from her. "Ooooh, I'm scared," Emory said to the luxurious dashboard of his Jag. What was the guy gonna do? Slit his throat? Beat him up? Emory scoffed. Scare tactics. That's all it amounted to, and Emory wasn't falling for it.

"Give a cowboy a freaky-looking knife and he thinks he's Jim fuckin' Bowie," he muttered as he applied his brakes.

Up ahead a car was parked on the shoulder of the road. From what Emory could tell, there was only one person inside, in the passenger seat.

He didn't have an altruistic bone in his body, but he was politic. He prided himself on being very good at covering his ass. If the car was broken down and the individual was a bank customer who later said that Emory Lomax had breezed past without stopping to render aid, that would be bad public relations. Bad all the way around, because his relationship with the bank president was already tenuous.

But if it were said that Emory Lomax was a regular Good Samaritan, that he had inconvenienced himself for a person in need, that would earn him some much-needed brownie points. Genial smile in place, he pulled up alongside the car.

***

"You could have called."

Cora's voice was as icy as Ezzy had ever heard it. She was upset, which, in Ezzy's present state of mind, was just too damn bad. He felt like telling her to "deal with it" and hanging up.

"You knew I'd be worried," she said in remonstration.

"Did I?"

That crack really ticked her off. She sighed in a huff. "I didn't call to quarrel with you, Ezzy. Even out here I've been hearing news reports about the storms in East Texas last night. The TV

said a tornado practically leveled

Blewer. I've been calling for hours and just now got through. Then when you didn't answer the house phone... well, put yourself in my place. Wouldn't it upset you not to hear from me? I was imagining all sorts of horrible things."

"The sheriff called yesterday evening and asked did I want to help during the emergency."

"So you dropped everything and rushed right over."

Her sarcastic tone made him sound like a pathetic individual who had lost all pride and selfesteem, and who would jump at a chance to prove his self-worth. "Yeah, I did," he said. "It felt good to be needed and wanted by somebody. Anybody."

It wasn't like him to try to score major points in a quarrel with Cora, but dammit, he'd barely escaped being killed by a tornado. Moreover, he'd been up all night drinking bad coffee and eating vending-machine snacks, monitoring the police radios, and dispatching younger, able deputies to go out and do the job he was too old to do.

Dispatch. When he reported in, that's the assignment they'd given him. Not search and rescue. Not flood control. Not any sort of man's job. He was good enough only for what an old lady could do. All they needed was somebody to receive and send messages, the only qualification being that his body had to be warm. That's the job they'd assigned a veteran law enforcement officer with fifty years' experience.

The worst thing about it was that he hadn't told them to go screw themselves and walk out. He'd done it. Then when the telephone service was restored earlier today, he'd been further humiliated. They'd taken him off dispatch and placed him at a desk to answer incoming calls from the general public and direct them if necessary.

In his view he was entitled to be a little testy, especially with the wife who'd elected to leave him.

She asked, "When did you eat last?"

"Don't worry about it. Lucy's been seeing to it that I get fed."

"Lucy at the Busy Bee?"

"You know any other Lucys?"

"I was just asking."

"Yeah, Lucy over at the Busy Bee," he repeated snidely. "I've been taking"all my meals there." That capped her. She was silent for a long time, and Ezzy enjoyed her stewing. Let her wonder, he thought.

Finally she said, "Even though you're about as pleasant as a boil on the butt, I'm relieved to know you're all right."

He wasn't exactly all right, but he let it pass. The knot on his temple wasn't worth mentioning. He wasn't dead, seriously injured, or trapped beneath an I-beam in a collapsed building, and that's what she meant by all right.

"How did the house fare? Was it damaged?"

"Haven't been home to find out." He tried to sound indifferent. "Electricity's out all over the county. We're on emergency generators here in the office. Crews are working 'round the clock, but downtown is in a helluva mess and that's where the main transformers are. Got to hand it to the phone company for getting our service back on this soon. Which leads me to tell you that the lines are ringing off the wall. I've got to go, Cora."