Cold Vengeance

CHAPTER 35

Armadillo Crossing, Mississippi

BETTERTON WAS OUT FOR AN EARLY-MORNING cup of coffee when the idea hit him. It was a long shot, but not so much that it wasn’t worth a ten-mile detour to check on.

He turned his Nissan around and headed once again in the direction of Malfourche, stopping a few miles short at the sorry-looking fork in the road known locally as Armadillo Crossing. The story was, someone had run over an armadillo here years ago, the smashed carcass remaining long enough to give the fork its name. The only house at the fork consisted of a tar-paper shack, the residence of one Billy B. “Grass” Hopper.

Betterton pulled up in front of the old Hopper place, almost indistinguishable beneath a thick covering of kudzu. His hand was throbbing like a son of a bitch. Grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment, he got out of the car and walked toward the porch in the rising light. He could make out Billy B., rocking lazily. Despite the early hour, a Bud was in one gnarled hand. When a hurricane had blown down the sign indicating the Malfourche turnoff some years ago, Billy B., inevitably manning his rocking chair, would almost always be consulted by strangers as to which road led into town.

Betterton mounted the old, creaking steps. “Hiya, Grass,” he said.

The man peered at him out of sunken eyes. “Well, Ned. How are you, son?”

“Good, good. Mind if I take a load off?”

Billy B. pointed at the top step. “Suit yourself.”

“Thanks.” Betterton sat down gingerly, then raised the pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. “Coffin nail?”

Billy B. plucked the cigarette from the pack; Betterton lit it for him, then snugged the pack back into his shirt pocket. He did not smoke himself.

For the next few minutes, as Grass smoked his cigarette, the two chatted idly about local matters. Finally, Betterton worked around to the real purpose of his visit.

“Any strangers been around lately, Grass?” he asked casually.

Billy B. took a last deep drag on the cigarette, plucked it from his mouth, examined the filter, then mashed it out in a nearby kudzu vine. “Couple,” he said.

“Yeah? Tell me about them.”

“Let’s see now.” Billy B. screwed his face up in thought. “Jehovah’s Witness. Tried to give me one of her little magazines when she asked which way to Malfourche. I told her to take a right.”

Betterton forced a chuckle at this misdirection.

“Then there was that foreign fella.”

Betterton said, as casually as possible: “A foreign fella?”

“Had an accent.”

“What country you suppose he was from?”

“Europe.”

“I’ll be doggone.” Betterton shook his head. “Whenabouts was this?”

“I know exactly when it was.” The man counted on his fingers. “Eight days ago.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Billy B. nodded sagely. “It was the day before they discovered them Brodie folk murdered.”

This was more than Betterton had hoped for in his wildest dreams. Was this all there was to being an investigative reporter? “What did the fellow look like?”

“Tall. Skinny. Blond hair, ugly little mole under one eye. He was wearing a fancy raincoat, like you see in those spy movies.”

“You remember what kind of car he was driving?”

“Ford Fusion. Dark blue.”

Betterton stroked his chin thoughtfully. He knew that Ford Fusions were very commonly used as rental cars. “Did you tell any of this to the police, Grass?”

A truculent look stole over the man’s features. “Never asked me.”

It was all Betterton could do not to leap off the porch and race to his car. Instead he forced himself to stay, make a little more conversation. “The Brodies,” he said. “Bad business.”

Billy B. obliged that it was.

“Lot of excitement around these parts recently,” Betterton went on. “What with that accident at Tiny’s and all.”

Billy B. spat thoughtfully into the dirt. “That wasn’t no accident.”

“What do you mean?”

“That FBI feller. Blew the place up.”

“Blew it up?” Betterton repeated.

“Put a bullet in the propane tank. Blew everything to hell. Shotgunned a bunch of boats, too.”

“Well, I’ll be… Why did he do that?” This was stupendous news.

“Seems Tiny and his pals bothered him and his lady partner.”

“They bother lots of folks around here.” Betterton thought for a moment. “What did the FBI want down here?”

“No idea. Now you know everything I know.” He opened a fresh beer.

The last sentence was the signal that Billy B. was tired of chatting. This time, Betterton stood up.

“Drop by again,” Billy B. said.

“I’ll do that.” Betterton walked down the steps. Then he stopped, reached into his pocket, pulled out the cigarettes.

“Keep the pack,” he said. He tossed it gently into Billy B.’s lap and made for his Nissan with as much gravity as he could manage.

He’d driven out on a hunch and now he was returning with a story that Vanity Fair or Rolling Stone would kill for. A couple who had faked their own deaths — only to be savagely murdered. A blown-up bait shop. A mysterious place known as Spanish Island. A foreign fella. And above all, a crazy FBI agent named Pendergast.

His hand still throbbed, but now he hardly felt it. This was shaping up to be a very good day.