Cold Wind - C. J. Box [84]
“How have you been?” Joe asked.
“Fine. I’m just fine. Hey, it’s great to see you again, Joe, but I’ve got to run.” He took a step toward Joe to see if Joe would stand aside, but he didn’t. Bud Jr. glared and set his mouth.
Joe said, “Where did you get the key to your dad’s place?”
“Where do you think? I didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re accusing me of,” he said, defensive. “And what gives you the right to shut off the utilities? That’s just cruel, man.”
Joe said, “So Bud gave you a key, did he?”
Bud Jr. brushed dirt off his pants and shirt from the fall. He said, “Why wouldn’t he? I’m his son, after all.”
“I thought you hated him,” Joe said. “You told me that, oh, a thousand times.”
Bud Jr. had no response.
“Was that you at the funeral in the yellow van?” Joe asked.
“Maybe,” Shamazz said, not meeting Joe’s eyes.
“I can’t believe you went there to show your respects.”
“I’d rather spit on his grave.”
“Where’s Bud?”
“Who?”
“I’m looking for him,” Joe said. “Just to talk. You probably know about the case against Missy and the fact that your dad is the star witness. Can you tell me where he is? Where you got the key?”
Bud Jr. looked past Joe toward Main Street. “I’ve really got to go,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t stay around and, you know, relive old times with you.”
Joe didn’t like the way Bud Jr. was brushing him off, or the way he wouldn’t meet his eye. As Bud Jr. tried to shoulder past, Joe stepped in front.
“You’re annoying me,” Joe said. “What are you trying to hide?”
“Nothing. You need to get out of the way. I’ve got my rights. Either arrest me or get the hell out of my way.”
“You hated your dad. You hated the ranch. You hate this town. You hate the state. So why are you here?”
“People change,” he said.
“You don’t,” Joe said.
“Really,” Bud Jr. said, a note of whimper in his voice, “I have to go. I know my rights. I know you can’t hold me here or make me answer your damned questions.”
“Why are you in disguise?” Joe asked. “Why do you sort of look like a normal person?”
“That’s fucking cold, man. Just cold.” Then he leveled his eyes at Joe. “I hated you, too, man. Dudley Do-Right cracker and your white-bread cookie-cutter family. Guys like you . . .” He paused, his lips trembling.
“Go on,” Joe said flatly. Joe had heard Bud Jr. say so many thoughtless and vile things before that he was shocked that he wasn’t shocked. Bud Longbrake’s son seemed to have no internal brake mechanism installed between his emotions and his mouth. Anything he thought came out in words. Joe had learned to tune him out, not engage, and pay no attention. Bud Jr.’s inability to put a sock in it had caused him much heartache over the years, but he’d never seemed able to connect what he said to the reaction his words elicited from others. He still couldn’t, Joe thought . . .
“You people living out there on my family’s ranch, taking advantage of him just like that old bitch Missy. Freezing me and my sister out like that, keeping me away . . .”
“I tried to help you,” Joe said through clenched teeth. “I did a favor for your dad and tried to teach you how to work for a living.”
“Duh,” Shamazz said, bugging his eyes out. “It didn’t take.”
It was hard for Joe to see through the filter of rage that had descended over him like a red hood when he looked at Shamazz. “Who does that song you were singing up there?” Joe asked.
“What—you mean Death Cab for Cutie?”
“Death Cab for Cutie?”
“Yeah.”
“I knew I didn’t like them,” Joe said, and reached out and grasped Bud Jr.’s ear.
“Tell me why you’re here,” Joe said, twisting hard. In the back of his mind, he listed the charges he could be brought up on. There were a lot of them. But he had the impression Bud Jr. would do all he could to avoid talking to the police for any reason.
“That hurts,” Bud Jr. cried, and reached up for Joe’s hand. Joe kicked Shamazz hard in the shin