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  The back of her neck began to draw and pull. The hairs on her nape were trying to rise, but the hairspray held them hostage. Mac eased closer to her.

  “Helen, I’ve decided to come back to you. I been thinkin'. It wasn’t right for me to leave you without a man. I know you need one. So I’m doin’ the manly thing, and I’m comin’ home to shoulder my responsibilities. You can forget this foolishness of standin’ out in the dark and spyin’ on some guy with one foot and four toes in the grave.”

  “For the last time, shut up, Mac.” Jazz felt the cells of her epidermis begin to harden. Mac’s voice was making it happen. Every word he spoke added a thickening to the cell structure. If he kept on talking she’d be an armadillo in a matter of moments. A creature girded for war.

  “This ain’t the liberry, Helen. You can’t shush me out here in the open. I want you to come on home with me like you’re s’posed to do. Like my woman.” He put his hands on his hips. “You can keep the liberry job, but you got to go part-time. What went wrong with the marriage was that you weren’t home to cook for me. A man likes a hot meal ever’ night. And those friends you meet up with in restaurants and now up at that TV shop, they’ve got to go. They’re bad influences. I can see that a mile away, and I been watchin'. And the books …”

  “What about the books?” Jazz found it hard to swallow. She was so thoroughly coated in armor now that her facial features were no longer pliant. If she reached up and touched her nose, she’d find a metal shield there. Mac had always enjoyed tweaking her nose when he was angry with her. Pinching it because she wasn’t strong enough to prevent him from doing it. As she thought about it, she felt small, sharp projectiles sprout.

  “I think all that readin’ affected our marriage. I think maybe you can read when you’re on the pot. And only books with pictures of men and women lovin’ each other on the cover. That’s where you need to keep your mind. On lovin’ your man. Me.”

  For a moment Marvin Lovelace and her mission were forgotten. “Too bad you never read Kafka, Mac.”

  “To hell with Cough-ka and all them other perverts. I don’t need a book to know how to handle a woman. My daddy taught me everything I need to know. Now quit the jawbonin’ and let’s go home. I got a powerful desire to get a little lobe action goin'.”

  She decided to give him one more chance to leave, peacefully. “I’m warning you; go away. I’m going to be a writer, and you’re never going to be anyone except the nobody you already are.”

  “I have the book you were writin'. I’m gonna burn it.”

  Jazz clipped one earbob on and then the other. Her armor was complete. “Since you can’t read, I don’t know what good it’ll do you, but keep it. I’m working on something new.”

  “You can’t do this. I’m the man you married.”

  Jazz saw movement at Marvin’s. She looked past Mac to discover that Marvin was getting in his car. In the time she’d been arguing with Mac, the old man had made his move.

  “Damn!” She started around Mac to her car but he countered her, blocking her path.

  “You’re not following that old bastard. You’re my wife.”

  “Get out of my way or suffer the consequences.” Fully protected by her new armor, she put her head down and ran at him as hard as she could.

  Like a matador, Mac artfully dodged her charge. Laughing, he slapped her on the butt as she passed. “Whooee! You’re a little firecracker tonight. You’ve developed a feisty side. I like that. A little snap in a woman is an interestin’ thing. As long as she knows not to snap too hard.”

  Jazz felt a surge of power. Mac was an inferior. She’d spent years pleasing him, coddling him. She’d always known she was smarter. Better looking. Cleaner. More likable. Easier to get along with. Neater. She finished projects that she started. She knew how to use a thesaurus and read a map. And she didn’t suffer from chronic dingleberries.

  The sound of a car engine sparking to life halted her train of thought. Marvin’s taillights gleamed red as he began to back out of his drive.

  “Out of my way.” Mac was now between her and her car.

  “Like hell!” Mac grinned wide in the light from the street lamp. “If you want to follow that old guy, you’re goin’ to have to go through me first.”

  “My pleasure,” she said. She tucked her head and ran before she’d even finished speaking.

  Still laughing, Mac held his ground.

  When she was almost on him, Jazz tucked her elbows against her sides. Just as her head made contact with his stomach, she drew her right arm back and punched below his belt. The feel of soft flesh was blended with a sound like air hissing from a balloon.

  “Sh-i-i-it!” Mac went down to his knees, gagging. “You’re dead,” he managed to whisper.

  Jazz dug in her pocket for her car keys. Pulling them out, she jangled them in the air and then turned toward her car.

  “You aren’t goin’ nowhere, bitch!” Mac managed, struggling for air. “Check your tires.”

  Jazz realized her armor was gone when she looked down. All four tires were flat. The car sat on its rims.

  “Prepare to die.” Mac struggled to his feet.

  Jazz willed her armor to return, but her nerve was gone. Mac could be a nasty bastard, and she’d never seen him look so potentially nasty as he did now, staggering toward her, his breath a whistle between his teeth. The old fear came over her. Mac was only thirty feet away.

  “You are goin’ to pay big time for this, Helen. I hope you have some sick leave at the liberry, ‘cause you’re about to miss some work.” He staggered forward.

  The glare of headlights framed Mac as a car turned down the narrow side road. He seemed frozen for a split second before he lunged toward her. Unable to do a thing to defend herself, Jazz closed her eyes.

  The blare of a loud horn made her open her eyes. An older model sports car whipped up to Jazz’s side. The passenger door flew open. “Hop in,” Lucille ordered. “Marvin’s headed west on Highway 90, and we have to follow him.”

  “Helen!” Mac yelled, taking a strange, loping run at the car.

  Jazz launched herself at the Camaro, landing half in the front and half in the back. “Drive, fast,” she hissed at Lucille.

  “Hel-en!” Mac’s cry was a mingling of rage and disbelief. “Hel-en!”

  “Who’s he bellowing about? Who’s Helen?” Lucille craned forward in her seat for a better look at the big, tall guy who held his crotch as he screamed a woman’s name.

  “Ignore him,” Jazz urged Lucille. “Just drive right over him if you have to.”

  Spinning her wheels in the gravel, Lucille shot forward. The fender of the car caught the man on his thigh and sent him spinning into the ditch.

  “Keep going,” Jazz ordered.

  “Who is he?” Lucille demanded. In the rearview mirror she saw him climb to his knees. He shook his fist at them.

  “A ghost,” Jazz answered. Her lips turned up into a smile that did not reflect humor.

  They made the corner and followed the path Marvin had taken. Lucille pressed the gas pedal as she glanced at Jazz. The blonde writer looked bedraggled, a pale sliver of herself. “Are you okay?” Lucille asked.

  “I am,” Jazz answered. She looked at Lucille, a long, curious look. The spikes of Lucille’s bright hair were bent on one side of her head, as if she’d been asleep on her side. There was also a trickle of blood on that same cheek. “You saved my life, Lucille. Mac was going to kill me.” She reached across the console and touched Lucille’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

  A warm flush crept up Lucille. It was a sensation she’d experienced long ago, a rosy glow that she’d felt only on her mother’s knees, when Mama had held her and bounced her and kissed her plump baby cheeks. It was a long remembered feeling of approval.

  Lucille blinked back tears and focused on finding Marvin. Ahead of them a steady stream of taillights reached to the horizon. Lucille couldn’t estimate how far Marvin had gone, or how long it would take them to ca
tch him. They had to find the old man.

  Lucille pointed at one o’clock. “See that Taurus. Is that him?”

  Jazz waited until they were beside the car before she turned to look. Her intake of breath was sudden. The dash lights of the Taurus cast a soft green glow over Marvin. “It’s him. And he looks positively gleeful. Evil and gleeful.”

  Lucille slowed and dropped back behind him. “Care to take any bets on where he’s going?”

  Jazz shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.”

  “I’d say the Marina Apartments. I think he may be the person who blew up my home.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Driskell combed the sleazy motels of west Biloxi, cruising slowly as he circled neon renditions of palm trees and bathing babes, flashing sea horses and red “vacancy” signs glowing outside wooden cabins fashioned to look like seashells and western shrines.

  Peter’s monster truck was nowhere in sight.

  As a last resort Driskell drove down dark, rutted paths to the RV parks that had sprouted along bayous and streams. If Peter Hare was in the area, Driskell had somehow missed him.

  He was headed back to the shop when he saw the mud-covered truck idling in the drive-thru of a no-name burger joint. Easing the big old Cadillac into a parking space beside a miniature golf course, he watched as Peter Hare waited for his order. Unaware, Peter rocked back and forth in the cab and rubbed furiously at his eyes.

  Aside from Peter’s strange behavior, Driskell observed that the truck was even more mud-covered and nasty than it had been the night before. In the mercury vapor of the well lit drive-thru, the man looked dirtier, too. And more grotesque. No matter what Bo said, Driskell found it impossible to believe that Peter was related to Lucille. How could the same genes exist in Lucille and that filthy blob of evil? Driskell gnawed that question as he watched Peter lift three bags of food into the truck cab. The young girl at the drive-up window placed her hand over her mouth and nose as she served him. Peter Hare needed a good cleaning. From the inside out.

  As Peter’s truck pulled out, Driskell fell in behind it, focusing on the one working taillight and the other that blinked on and off with the motion of the vehicle. At steady intervals, hamburger wrappers fluttered out of the truck, several of them landing on Driskell’s windshield. A catsup packet stuck. Driskell turned on the wipers and kept going.

  Peter turned north, leaving behind the cheap motels and heading for the interior of the state where there was not much except piney woods, cows, and the occasional farm.

  Driskell’s pulse jumped as he thought of Lucille. She had been in his life so briefly, and now he felt certain she was dead. They had hardly gotten to know each other, but he remembered one brief conversation they’d had. Lucille had stopped by the shop late one night when Billy Graham had been preaching a television special. She had stood for a moment, watching the silent passion of the televangelist. Driskell had offered to turn up the volume, but she had declined. Then she’d turned to him with a sweetness all her own and confessed that of all the animals, she loved the cow. She had gone on to say that it was her belief that cows were a higher life form, beings who had reached a stage in the process of reincarnation where ultimate calm and acceptance had become a part of temperament. Lucille said that one day, after she was famous, she hoped to learn such things.

  Perhaps even now, as he drove into the Mississippi night, Lucille was getting fitted for a new black and white Holstein skin. It was possible that Lucille might be reborn in the very field he was driving past.

  Holding back the emotion that swelled in his throat, Driskell fought against the pain. He hardened his heart and replaced pain with revenge. He was a CIA operative, and he knew that Peter Hare had played a role in Lucille’s fiery fate. Peter would pay for Lucille’s destruction. He would pay and pay and pay. And if there was anything left, Driskell intended to scoop it up in a garbage bag and take it to Bo so that he could finish the job.

  Driskell slowed as Peter applied his brakes and turned onto a dirt road. The two sandy tracks of the path led to a field of pines that had been clear-cut not too many years before. Behind the wild growth of scrub oak and scraggly pine was a taller stand of trees, black against the starry night. Driskell killed his lights and turned into the path. Up ahead Peter’s taillights bobbed and winked, two carefree fireflies of destruction.

  The final hamburger bag flapped against the hood of Driskell’s car and bounced away. Peter’s taillights disappeared into the trees. Driskell killed his engine and got out. From the trunk he removed rope, snow chains, padlocks, a few tools, a plastic tub, and the laundry detergent he’d bought and never opened. Loading it all into the tub, he was pleased. It was an impromptu accumulation, but a mercenary had to learn to make do with what he had.

  He lifted the tub and started after the truck. Judging from the litter that was scattered along the rutted path, Peter had obviously been using this area for his camp. Driskell hauled the tub until he was deep into the shadows of the pines, and then he finally lowered it to the ground. Relieved of his burden, he melted into the tall, straight line of trees without making a sound. As he moved through the woods, he checked the landmarks off in his mind. He came upon a dead pine that reared forty feet into the night sky. Lightning had struck the tree, leaving a dark gash and gleaming silver hide that caught the moonlight in the fashion of pale, fair skin.

  He thought of Lucille and wanted to howl with pain. He approached the tree slowly and touched it with his hand. A huge bird burst forth from the tree. The wing span blocked out the moon and stars. Talons extended toward his face.

  Driskell held his ground and stared into the depths of the horned owl’s eyes. At least two feet in height, it landed at the base of the pine and stared back at him. The golden eyes held wisdom.

  Then the bird shook out its feathers and flew high into the top of another big pine. “Who-who?” The owl called down to him.

  Driskell went back for the tub of tools he knew he would need, then set out to follow the owl as it flapped from tree to tree.

  Not two minutes later he picked up the pungent odor of decay. Peter was near at hand. The owl circled him once and then flew straight up into the moon. Driskell was alone in the woods with Peter Hare.

  Led by his nose, Driskell went unerringly to the campsite where Peter was beginning to nod off in the truck. Around the knobby tires the ground was littered with paper wrappers, tin cans and other clots of tissue that Driskell did not want to identify. With the truck so high off the ground, Driskell eased beneath it and found the bolt that held the oil pan in place. In several seconds the thick black fluid was draining into the ground. Easing out from under the truck, Driskell planned his next move. Peter Hare would soon be his captive.

  Driskell’s fondness for corpulent women had given him some understanding of the thought processes that went with girth and mobility. The truck had become Peter’s legs. He had blended with the metal construction of the vehicle to become a man/machine, a powerful combination of the two. Mounted high above the rest of humanity on the huge wheels, Peter had forgotten that he was helpless once the mechanics of the machine were fouled. In yielding his humanity to what he assumed to be a more powerful conveyance, Peter had lost his ability to maneuver. He was not machine, and now less than man. Driskell eased back into the shadows and began to circle the truck.

  Searching the dark forest, he found a number of green pine cones. He hurled the first one with all his strength, smashing the back windshield of the truck.

  “Shit!” Peter yelped, startled out of his sleep.

  Driskell chunked the next cone, scoring a direct hit on the big side mirror near Peter’s left arm. A noxious blast of exhaust marked the fact that Peter had cranked the truck. The headlights flared, highlighting the thick trunks of pines and a sampling of flowering dogwoods that looked like scraps of lace thrown into blackness.

  “It’s you!” Peter roared as he swung the truck around and finally caught Driskell in the headlights. “You w
eirdo freak!” He floored the pedal and the truck leapt into the air, bouncing high as the big tires hit the road and gripped.

  Driskell waited until the truck was nearly upon him, then turned and ran into the woods. The headlights illuminated the trail in front of him, and he ran for his life. With each step, he imagined the hot, black oil pumping out of the truck’s engine. A small crest rose in front of Driskell, and as the truck followed him up, he shouted, “Peter! Peter Hare!”

  He was rewarded with the roar of the truck as Peter forced it up the incline even as it began to falter. At the very crest of the hill, Driskell turned around and stood. The truck was still coming, but it bucked and shimmied. It ground to a stop with a dreadful rending sound. Driskell walked forward. Heat radiated from the hood, and from Peter Hare, who sat behind the steering wheel, his face a puzzle of horror and fury.

  “Sounds like your engine seized,” Driskell called up to him matter-of-factly. “Have you checked your oil lately?”

  “I’m gonna kill you.” Peter’s words were factual as he swung open the truck door. One foot out, he paused and looked down into the upturned face of Driskell. “You little prick, you did this, didn’t you?”

  “What have you done with Lucille?” Driskell felt the urge to climb up to the cab and wrap his fingers around Peter’s thick throat, but by his calculation his hands would cover barely half the girth of the neck.

  “I thought you were sniffing around my niece.” Peter swung the second leg out. His feet dangled in mid-air.

  “Where’s Lucille?” Driskell kept his voice level. Intelligence agents did not let emotion interfere.