Belt Buckle when he’s not cowering at the camp.”
Tom took note of where Sloan was convalescing. “Look, there was hardly a fight. He grabbed me, and I knocked the hell out of him a couple of times. I don’t care whether the guy is scared or not. I didn’t burn down his house. Last night I was at home looking after Sara. Sounds to me like he’s either got a guilty conscience or he’s delusional over his own wrongdoing, and I’m about tired of hearing his name come up in every conversation I have.”
“Don’t go anywhere near him. If you do, I’ll have to come after you. I’m going to call on you again about the fire or maybe the state fire marshal will come see you.”
“If you need me, you know where I work and where I live.” Tom got into his truck and drove back home to Zion.
CHAPTER NINE
Tom felt especially uneasy after the marshal’s visit, and he was determined to get to the bottom of his wife’s attack. He wanted to seek out the truth. So he drove over to James Luke’s place later that evening near dusk, having made a shift swap with Corrine who stayed at the house to watch Sara. He told Sara that he needed to go help James Luke move some hogs into a lot before it got too late. Tom never made her stay by herself, not yet. He never left without someone else being in the house. She could do things for herself despite the shoulder sling, but he did not want her left by herself or made to feel lonely. Plus there was a dangerous assailant still on the loose, still a free man, and Tom’s primary suspect was Sloan Parnell.
James Luke met Tom in his front yard as he pulled up in his truck.
Tom got out of the truck and had an angry look on his face. “I’m about ready to go pay a visit to Sloan Parnell,” Tom said.
James Luke raised a brow and sneered. “Now you’re talking sense. The sumbitch has been the lead candidate from the start,” he said. “What you got in mind?”
“I don’t know just yet. I need to see if my daddy’s watch is in the drunk’s truck,” Tom said.
“That’ll tell you an awful lot, won’t it?”
“It’ll give me plenty of knowledge.”
“If it’s in there, you gonna tell the marshal about the watch? I’d say it wouldn’t be too wise a thing to do.”
“I don’t think so. It won’t do any good.”
“No, it won’t. Fitz-Blackwell and Sloan’s family have bought the marshal lock stock and barrel. I wouldn’t say jack shit to him. He can’t be trusted.”
“Let’s drive down to Lizard Bayou.”
“All right. Let’s take care of it.”
“He’s drinking himself blind.”
“We can take my truck.”
“Okay.”
They loaded into James Luke’s Chevrolet pickup. Tom noticed the big pearl-handled U.S. Army Colt automatic lying on the seat in a leather flap holster. Neither man said anything about the pistol as James Luke turned the truck onto Lower Louth Road.
There were a dozen cars and trucks in the barroom parking lot. It was dark out. The air was hazy, almost like a dead winter fog, a creepy damp cold. One naked light bulb shone beside the front door of the long clapboard building. The walls were white siding covered with ancient mildew, gray-black with funk. The bar was close to the bayou, and the air carried the dank smell of muddy water.
On the right side of the barroom parking area sat Sloan Parnell’s red and white International Scout, a four-wheel drive truck that resembled a Jeep.
“Pull in beside the Scout,” Tom said.
James Luke stopped beside it.
“Leave the engine idling. Holler at me if somebody comes this way,” Tom said.
“You don’t reckon the truck’s locked?” James Luke asked.
“We’ll see.”
The sounds of a jukebox wafted through the thin pine barroom walls. Tom grabbed the flashlight from the truck seat. He left James Luke’s pickup door ajar despite the cool air, and he opened the Scout door quietly. He shined the flashlight under the driver’s seat, bent down and saw an empty King Edward
Tom took note of where Sloan was convalescing. “Look, there was hardly a fight. He grabbed me, and I knocked the hell out of him a couple of times. I don’t care whether the guy is scared or not. I didn’t burn down his house. Last night I was at home looking after Sara. Sounds to me like he’s either got a guilty conscience or he’s delusional over his own wrongdoing, and I’m about tired of hearing his name come up in every conversation I have.”
“Don’t go anywhere near him. If you do, I’ll have to come after you. I’m going to call on you again about the fire or maybe the state fire marshal will come see you.”
“If you need me, you know where I work and where I live.” Tom got into his truck and drove back home to Zion.
CHAPTER NINE
Tom felt especially uneasy after the marshal’s visit, and he was determined to get to the bottom of his wife’s attack. He wanted to seek out the truth. So he drove over to James Luke’s place later that evening near dusk, having made a shift swap with Corrine who stayed at the house to watch Sara. He told Sara that he needed to go help James Luke move some hogs into a lot before it got too late. Tom never made her stay by herself, not yet. He never left without someone else being in the house. She could do things for herself despite the shoulder sling, but he did not want her left by herself or made to feel lonely. Plus there was a dangerous assailant still on the loose, still a free man, and Tom’s primary suspect was Sloan Parnell.
James Luke met Tom in his front yard as he pulled up in his truck.
Tom got out of the truck and had an angry look on his face. “I’m about ready to go pay a visit to Sloan Parnell,” Tom said.
James Luke raised a brow and sneered. “Now you’re talking sense. The sumbitch has been the lead candidate from the start,” he said. “What you got in mind?”
“I don’t know just yet. I need to see if my daddy’s watch is in the drunk’s truck,” Tom said.
“That’ll tell you an awful lot, won’t it?”
“It’ll give me plenty of knowledge.”
“If it’s in there, you gonna tell the marshal about the watch? I’d say it wouldn’t be too wise a thing to do.”
“I don’t think so. It won’t do any good.”
“No, it won’t. Fitz-Blackwell and Sloan’s family have bought the marshal lock stock and barrel. I wouldn’t say jack shit to him. He can’t be trusted.”
“Let’s drive down to Lizard Bayou.”
“All right. Let’s take care of it.”
“He’s drinking himself blind.”
“We can take my truck.”
“Okay.”
They loaded into James Luke’s Chevrolet pickup. Tom noticed the big pearl-handled U.S. Army Colt automatic lying on the seat in a leather flap holster. Neither man said anything about the pistol as James Luke turned the truck onto Lower Louth Road.
There were a dozen cars and trucks in the barroom parking lot. It was dark out. The air was hazy, almost like a dead winter fog, a creepy damp cold. One naked light bulb shone beside the front door of the long clapboard building. The walls were white siding covered with ancient mildew, gray-black with funk. The bar was close to the bayou, and the air carried the dank smell of muddy water.
On the right side of the barroom parking area sat Sloan Parnell’s red and white International Scout, a four-wheel drive truck that resembled a Jeep.
“Pull in beside the Scout,” Tom said.
James Luke stopped beside it.
“Leave the engine idling. Holler at me if somebody comes this way,” Tom said.
“You don’t reckon the truck’s locked?” James Luke asked.
“We’ll see.”
The sounds of a jukebox wafted through the thin pine barroom walls. Tom grabbed the flashlight from the truck seat. He left James Luke’s pickup door ajar despite the cool air, and he opened the Scout door quietly. He shined the flashlight under the driver’s seat, bent down and saw an empty King Edward
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