Feast Day of Fools - James Lee Burke [167]
“You look sick, cabrón. You look like your mind has flown into the darkness,” Negrito said.
“We go back through the grass and out the fence,” Krill said. “We are through with this. We will deal with Sholokoff at another time.”
“I cannot believe what you are doing,” Negrito said. “You’re letting us down, man. You are making a great mistake that each of us will pay for. It ain’t fair. You are betraying us, Krill.”
Krill was already walking deep into the mountain’s shadow, his M16 reslung on his shoulder, his eyes empty, like those of a man who has looked into a mirror and is unable to recognize the image staring back at him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HACKBERRY HOLLAND DID not learn of the killings near the Santiago Mountains from another law enforcement agency, because they were not reported the night they occurred or the following morning, either. He learned of them from a questionable source, one in whom he had already induced a sizable dose of paranoia. In fact, he had a hard time concentrating on the telephone conversation. It was raining, and he had forgotten to take down the flag outside his office window. The flag, soggy as a towel, hung twisted and forlorn against a gray sky, its chain vibrating against the pole like a damaged nerve. “Mr. Dowling, I’ve heard nothing about a shooting in this county or anywhere around here,” he said. “It’s been surprisingly quiet.”
“Of course you didn’t. Josef doesn’t want cops crawling all over his property,” Temple Dowling replied.
“You say two men were killed?”
“Right. Two security guys. Somebody cut their noses out of their faces.”
“Sounds a bit strange, doesn’t it? I mean, why is it you know about this but nobody else does?”
“Because maybe I got one or two people inside Josef’s organization.”
“What do you want me to do about this unreported homicide that only you seem to know about?”
“Go out to the game ranch. Investigate the crime. Stuff a hand grenade up his ass. What do I care? Why not just do your fucking job?”
“Because somehow you’re at risk?”
“Josef believes I put a hit on him.”
“Listen to what you’re saying, Mr. Dowling. Two guys got killed outside Sholokoff’s house, but no attempt was made to harm anybody inside the house. Does that seem like a rational scenario to you?”
“That’s because a bunch of hunters had just flown in. Look, my source says Josef went apeshit. He had his grandchildren in the house.” There was a pause. “His guys are coming after me.”
Hackberry could hear the tremor in Dowling’s voice, the frightened boy no longer able to hide behind arrogance and cruelty. “First, you have your own security service, Mr. Dowling. Why not make use of it? If a crime occurred in the place you describe, it’s out of my jurisdiction. Second, maybe it’s time for you to grow up.”
“Time for me to—”
“Everybody dies. Why not go down with the decks awash and the guns blazing? You’ve probably made millions profiteering off of war. Get a taste of the real deal and scorch your name on the wall before you check out. It’s not a bad way to go.”
“You’re a son of a bitch.”
Hackberry rubbed his forehead and started to hang up, then placed the receiver against his ear again. “If you think you’re in danger, get out of town.”
“I’m already out of town. It doesn’t matter. Sholokoff has a network all over the country.”
“I think you’re imagining things.”
“You don’t understand Josef. He doesn’t just do evil. He loves it. That’s the difference between him and the rest of us. Jack Collins is probably a lunatic. Josef isn’t. He creates object lessons nobody ever forgets. He has people taken apart.”
“He does what?”
PERHAPS DUE TO his fundamentalist upbringing, R. C. Bevins was not a believer in either luck or coincidence but saw every event in his life as one that required attention. The consequence was that he never dismissed any form of human behavior as implausible and never thought of bizarre events in terms of their improbability. The sheriff had once told