the
nuthouse.”
Joe Rob slumped in his seat as
Skeeter slammed the truck in gear and sped off, tires kicking up gravel.
“She spooked you,” Skeeter said.
“That’s what it is. You were already freaked out from shooting Odell, so when
she laid that crazy shit on you, it stuck. You just gotta shake it off.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.”
“Fucking-A I’m right. What else
could it be?”
Joe Rob stared ahead through the
windshield at nothing as they wheeled onto 2nd Street and zoomed past the
police station.
“Hey, Joe Rob?”
“What?”
“I got your dark thing hanging,”
said Skeeter, grabbing the crotch of his jeans.
Joe Rob tried to laugh, but what
came out was a garbled croak.
CHAPTER 4—NIGHT
VISION
Luke set his gym bag on the stump
of a felled oak tree, unfolded his canvas-and-wood camp chair and sat down. The
night sky was thick with clouds, and the only light came from the windows of
the two-story farmhouse on the edge of scrubby bottomland, twenty yards away.
A hot breeze soughed through the stand of scrub pine at his back and rustled
the foliage in the thicket in front of him.
He opened the bag, took out the
shotgun microphone and mounted it on its stand on top of the stump, then put on
the headset. He got out his night vision goggles and strapped the futuristic
face mask in place over his face. He activated both systems. First he adjusted
the eyepiece diopters, then he turned up the volume of the shotgun mike as he
shifted its aim toward one of the open windows of the Porch house. In his
earpiece he heard the tinny sound of television voices. He avoided looking at
the lighted windows; he scoped out the darkness in front of the house where the
two pickup trucks were parked, then he swept the gloomy space between the house
and the barn. The goggles returned good visuals, tinted an eerie green.
Satisfied that no one was skulking about outside, he switched off the goggles
and listened to the sounds.
He had purchased the equipment
through the Internet. The Russian-made goggles had cost him five hundred bucks,
and the shotgun mike had set him back two hundred. The way he figured it, the
high-tech spy equipment would prove to be a good investment if it helped him
finally nail Fate Porch and his boys for the murder of Monroe Shockley. As it
was, his snooping had already provided enough evidence to have Bill Keller
arrest Luther Porch for dealing marijuana, but a drug bust was not what he wanted.
He would take them down for murder and nothing less.
Sheet lightning flashed in the
distance. Lightning without thunder. Frogs and noisy insects sang their night
songs. Luke swatted at a mosquito buzzing around his ear. He wondered what Doc
would think if he knew he had been coming out here with his spy stuff three or
four nights a week for the last month. He would think I was obsessed, trying
to fill a deep personal emptiness with my unauthorized surveillance. He’d
probably say something like, “You’re Captain Ahab and Fate Porch is your Moby
Dick.” And he would probably be right. But it won’t seem so crazy if I get that
son of a bitch on the business end of my harpoon.
He glanced at his watch: 9:25 P.M.
Luke had learned a lot about the
individual members of the Porch clan during his night watches. He knew that in
five minutes or so, Fate and his mother, Agnes Porch, would come out to sit on
the front porch, unless the old lady was under the weather, in which case Fate
would settle himself in the cane rocker and enjoy the cooling evening in
solitude like the Lord of the Manor. As often as not, his youngest boy, Cowboy,
would join him on the porch if there was nothing good on TV. Cowboy’s given
name was Lem, but his family called him Cowboy because he always wore a
Western-style hat on his shaved head and a pistol on his hip. He fancied
himself a quick-draw artist and was forever practicing his “greased lightning”
draw. On rare occasions, Odell would plunk his
nuthouse.”
Joe Rob slumped in his seat as
Skeeter slammed the truck in gear and sped off, tires kicking up gravel.
“She spooked you,” Skeeter said.
“That’s what it is. You were already freaked out from shooting Odell, so when
she laid that crazy shit on you, it stuck. You just gotta shake it off.”
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.”
“Fucking-A I’m right. What else
could it be?”
Joe Rob stared ahead through the
windshield at nothing as they wheeled onto 2nd Street and zoomed past the
police station.
“Hey, Joe Rob?”
“What?”
“I got your dark thing hanging,”
said Skeeter, grabbing the crotch of his jeans.
Joe Rob tried to laugh, but what
came out was a garbled croak.
CHAPTER 4—NIGHT
VISION
Luke set his gym bag on the stump
of a felled oak tree, unfolded his canvas-and-wood camp chair and sat down. The
night sky was thick with clouds, and the only light came from the windows of
the two-story farmhouse on the edge of scrubby bottomland, twenty yards away.
A hot breeze soughed through the stand of scrub pine at his back and rustled
the foliage in the thicket in front of him.
He opened the bag, took out the
shotgun microphone and mounted it on its stand on top of the stump, then put on
the headset. He got out his night vision goggles and strapped the futuristic
face mask in place over his face. He activated both systems. First he adjusted
the eyepiece diopters, then he turned up the volume of the shotgun mike as he
shifted its aim toward one of the open windows of the Porch house. In his
earpiece he heard the tinny sound of television voices. He avoided looking at
the lighted windows; he scoped out the darkness in front of the house where the
two pickup trucks were parked, then he swept the gloomy space between the house
and the barn. The goggles returned good visuals, tinted an eerie green.
Satisfied that no one was skulking about outside, he switched off the goggles
and listened to the sounds.
He had purchased the equipment
through the Internet. The Russian-made goggles had cost him five hundred bucks,
and the shotgun mike had set him back two hundred. The way he figured it, the
high-tech spy equipment would prove to be a good investment if it helped him
finally nail Fate Porch and his boys for the murder of Monroe Shockley. As it
was, his snooping had already provided enough evidence to have Bill Keller
arrest Luther Porch for dealing marijuana, but a drug bust was not what he wanted.
He would take them down for murder and nothing less.
Sheet lightning flashed in the
distance. Lightning without thunder. Frogs and noisy insects sang their night
songs. Luke swatted at a mosquito buzzing around his ear. He wondered what Doc
would think if he knew he had been coming out here with his spy stuff three or
four nights a week for the last month. He would think I was obsessed, trying
to fill a deep personal emptiness with my unauthorized surveillance. He’d
probably say something like, “You’re Captain Ahab and Fate Porch is your Moby
Dick.” And he would probably be right. But it won’t seem so crazy if I get that
son of a bitch on the business end of my harpoon.
He glanced at his watch: 9:25 P.M.
Luke had learned a lot about the
individual members of the Porch clan during his night watches. He knew that in
five minutes or so, Fate and his mother, Agnes Porch, would come out to sit on
the front porch, unless the old lady was under the weather, in which case Fate
would settle himself in the cane rocker and enjoy the cooling evening in
solitude like the Lord of the Manor. As often as not, his youngest boy, Cowboy,
would join him on the porch if there was nothing good on TV. Cowboy’s given
name was Lem, but his family called him Cowboy because he always wore a
Western-style hat on his shaved head and a pistol on his hip. He fancied
himself a quick-draw artist and was forever practicing his “greased lightning”
draw. On rare occasions, Odell would plunk his
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