Black Cherry Blues (Dave Robicheaux 3)

“The mailman?” the sheriff said.

“That’s what I figure,” the deputy said. “I wish I could tell you something else, Dave.”

“It’s all right.”

The deputy nodded and closed the door.

“You want to take it to the FBI in Lafayette?” the sheriff said.

“Maybe.”

“A threat in the mails is in a federal area. Why not make use of them?”

I looked back at him without answering.

“Why is it that I always feel you’re not a man of great faith in our system?” he said.

“Probably because I worked for it too long.”

“We can question these two guys, what’s their names again?”

“Vidrine and Mapes.”

“Vidrine and Mapes, we can let them know somebody’s looking over their shoulder.”

“They’re too far into it.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Dave, back off of this one. Let other people handle it.”

“Are you going to keep a deputy out at my house? Will one watch Alafair on the playground or while she waits for the bus?”

He let out his breath, then looked out the window at a clump of oak trees in a bright, empty pasture.

“Something else bothers me here,” he said. “Wasn’t your daddy killed on a Star rig?”

“Yes.”

“You think there’s a chance you want to twist these guys, no matter what happens?”

“I don’t know what I think. That box didn’t mail itself to me, though, did it?”

I saw the injury in his eyes, but I was past the point of caring about his feelings. Maybe you’ve been there. You go into a police or sheriff’s station after a gang of black kids forced you to stop your car while they smashed out your windows with garbage cans; a strung-out addict made you kneel at gunpoint on the floor of a grocery store, and before you knew it the begging words rose uncontrollably in your throat; some bikers pulled you from the back of a bar and sat on your arms while one of them unzippered his blue jeans. Your body is still hot with shame, your voice full of thumbtacks and strange to your own ears, your eyes full of guilt and self-loathing while uniformed people walk casually by you with Styrofoam cups of coffee in their hands. Then somebody types your words on a report and you realize that this is all you will get. Investigators will not be out at your house, you will probably not be called to pull somebody out of a lineup, a sympathetic female attorney from the prosecutor’s office will not take a large interest in your life.

Then you will look around at the walls and cabinets and lockers in that police or sheriff’s station, the gun belts worn by the officers with the Styrofoam coffee cups, perhaps the interior of the squad cars in the parking lot, and you will make an ironic realization. The racks of M-16 rifles, scoped Mausers, twelve-gauge pumps loaded with double-aught buckshot, .38 specials and .357 Magnums, stun guns, slapjacks, batons, tear gas canisters, the drawers that contain cattle prods, handcuffs, Mace, wrist and leg chains, hundreds of rounds of ammunition, all have nothing to do with your safety or the outrage against your person. You’re an increase in somebody’s work load.

“You’ve been on this side of the desk, Dave. We do what we can,” the sheriff said.

“But it’s not enough most of the time. Is it?”

He stirred a paper clip on the desk blotter with his finger.

“Have you got an alternative?” he said.

“Thanks for your time, Sheriff. I’ll think about the FBI.”