Feast Day of Fools - James Lee Burke [38]
“So why doesn’t he come in?” Dowling said.
“That’s a good question.”
“Barnum has told others he has ‘problems of conscience.’ His ‘problem’ is the fact that UAVs can cause collateral damage. I wonder what he thinks about the collateral influences of napalm and bombs dropped from B-52s. Or maybe he’d like more of our soldiers killed while digging ragheads out of their caves.”
“Why are you here, sir?” Hackberry said.
“I want Noie Barnum in a cage. I don’t want him in front of a microphone or a camera. I’d like to see him buried under concrete at Guantánamo, after his head was wrapped in a towel and half the Atlantic was poured into it.”
“I’ll pass on your remarks to the FBI the first opportunity I have.”
“Sheriff, who do you think runs this country?”
“You tell me.”
“Lyndon was put into office by Brown and Root. Lyndon is moldering in the grave, but Brown and Root merged with Halliburton and is still alive and well. You think our current president is going to rescind their contracts at almost every United States military base in the world?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Temple Dowling stood up from his chair and removed a strand of cat hair from his sleeve. “My father said you were never a listener.”
“You ever hear of Preacher Jack Collins?”
“No, who is he?”
“The most dangerous man I’ve ever met,” Hackberry said.
“What does that have to do with Noie Barnum?”
“Jack may be feeding and protecting him. I’m not sure why. Maybe because the feds burned Jack’s shack. Keep hanging around this area, and you might get a chance to meet him. If he chats you up, try to get it on tape.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because it’s the only record people will have of your death. Thanks for coming by.”
CHAPTER SIX
USING ONLY STARLIGHT, Jack Collins and Noie Barnum made their way up a deer trail along the side of a bluff and into a narrow canyon that was threaded by a creek and strewn with chertlike yellow rock that had toppled from the ridges. Jack was in the lead, a nylon pack on his back, the straps pinching his suit coat tightly into his armpits, his body straining forward. Noie was limping badly, barely able to keep up, one arm tucked against his rib cage. There was a layer of fertile soil on the ground that sloped from the base of the cliffs down to the creek, and grass and wildflowers grew on it.
Jack paused and wiped his face and took his companion’s measure. “You want to sit down, bud?” he asked.
“No, sir, I’m fine.”
“You’re a tough hombre.”
“I’m not in your class, Jack. You’re a mountain goat.”
Jack walked back down the trail to where his companion was leaning on the twisted remains of a cedar tree, breathing through his nose. “It gets steep up yonder. Put your arm on my shoulder. If you hear a rattler, hold still and give him time to get out of your way.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
“Throw a rock at him.”
“For real?”
“I have the feeling people didn’t tell a lot of jokes where you’re from.”
A cabin stood at the head of the canyon. Next to it was a loading chute that had turned gray with dry rot. In back were a barn with a sliding door and, farther up the hillside, an aluminum cistern supported on steel stanchions. Jack helped Noie the rest of the way up the trail, then slung his pack on the cabin’s porch and eased Noie down on the steps. “I’ll open up and fire the stove and get some food started,” he said.
“Who owns this?” Noie asked.
“Me.”
“You own property?”
“A mess of it.”
“You’re quite a kidder, Jack.”
“That’s me.”
Jack removed the door key from behind a wallboard, unlocked the cabin, and went inside. He stuffed newspaper and kindling and three chunks of firewood in the cookstove and set them ablaze, then went outside and started the gasoline motor that powered the water pump and the electric lights. He slid open the barn door and gazed at an unpainted Trans Am that had lines of rust around the fenders, though it was mounted with four Michelin tires that looked fresh from the dealership. Then he returned to the cabin and opened two cabinets lined with canned goods