Feast Day of Fools - James Lee Burke [161]
Preacher Jack was every psychiatrist’s nightmare. His level of intelligence and his wide reading experience allowed him to create a construct in which he shared dominion with the Olympians. His narcissism was so deeply rooted in his soul that he did not fear death because he thought the universe could not continue without his presence. He was messianic and believed he could see through a hole in the dimension and watch events play out in the lives of people who were not yet born.
With gifts like these, why should Preacher Jack fear a law enforcement agency? Like the cockroach and the common cold, he was in the fight for the long haul.
The irony was that in spite of his success in eluding the law for almost two decades, Collins shared a common denominator with his fellow miscreants: He needed law enforcement to validate who he was. Intuitively, he knew his own kind were by and large worthless and would sell him out for a pack of cigarettes if they thought they could get away with it. All career criminals wanted the respect of the cops, jailers, social workers, correctional officers, and prison psychologists whose attention gave them the dimensions they possessed in no other environment.
There was another consideration in regard to what went on in the mind of a man like Preacher Jack. His visit last night at Anton Ling’s home reminded Hackberry of a similar event that had taken place in Jack’s life the previous year, in San Antonio. Jack had become obsessed with a Jewish woman by the name of Esther Dolan and had invaded her home and indicated to her that he had chosen her as his queen. When she had recovered from the shock of his presumption, she called him a dog turd off the sidewalk and picked up a stainless-steel oatmeal pot and almost beat him to death with it.
Pam Tibbs leaned inside his door. “Guess who’s on the phone,” she said.
“Texas’s answer to B.O. Plenty.”
“Who?” she said.
“Collins?”
“I’ve already started the trace,” she said.
“Have the feds called back this morning?”
“Nope.”
Hackberry gazed at the blinking light on his telephone, then picked up the receiver. “What’s the haps, Jack?” he said.
“I thought I’d check in.”
“We figured we’d be hearing from you.”
“You omniscient, Mr. Holland?”
“It’s Sheriff Holland to you.”
“I like to keep abreast of your activities, since you seem intent on doing me harm and forgetting I saved the life of your young deputy, what’s-his-name, Bevins.”
“No, I think you’re calling because you became a human piñata out at Anton Ling’s place, in front of dozens of poor Mexicans who are now convinced there’s a serious problem in the Anglo gene pool. Just before you called, I was thinking about a pattern that seems to follow you around, Jack. Remember Esther Dolan in San Antone? She’s the lady who drove you from her house with knots all over your head. Then there was that good-looking gal, the country singer, Vikki Gaddis. She sprayed wasp killer in your eyes and took your pistol away from you and shot you through the foot. Why is it you keep getting into it with women who kick your ass? Do they remind you of your mother?”
“Good try, Sheriff. But I’m afraid you don’t know much about my upbringing.”
“You like to read novels. I’ve got a story for you, better than any fiction. Did you know that when Ma Barker and her son Fred were surrounded by the FBI, they executed each other with submachine guns? They sat across from each other in straight-back chairs down by the Everglades and blew each other all over the walls. How about that for a tight mother-son relationship? They were even buried in the same casket.”
“You fear a woman’s wrath, Sheriff Holland? The man who does will surround himself with manipulators and prostitutes and will never have a real woman in his life. The level of his anger hides the degree of his need. I thought