“Yeah, that’s it. We didn’t mean to cause you trouble, Sheriff. You got any idea where Jack Boyd might be?”
“What’s he got to do with this?”
“Gretchen Horowitz thinks she just saw him go by in a Cherokee. Is that what he drives?”
“As a matter of fact, he does.”
“We’ll be in touch,” I said.
“You guys covered up for Bertha Phelps.”
“I didn’t get that.”
“Her perfume. Both you and Purcel smelled it. It’s her logo. You lied about it. I won’t forget that, Mr. Robicheaux.”
“I think Love Younger got what he deserved. I hope Dixon and Bertha Phelps get away.”
“You’ve got some damn nerve.”
“Not really. On my best day, I’ve never earned more than a C-minus at anything,” I said.
My last statement probably didn’t make much sense to him, but I couldn’t have cared less. I folded the phone and handed it back to Clete.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Molly said she passed a mechanic’s shed and some junk cars south of here. Maybe the mechanic has a wrecker service. Maybe that was the wrecker that tore pieces off Kyle Schumacher for two miles down the highway.”
“Sounds like a long shot, Dave,” Clete said.
“Surrette got the wrecker from somewhere. If not here, where?”
Clete pinched his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and peered down the road. It was completely dark. He looked at the luminous dial on his wristwatch. “What’s keeping Molly and Albert?” he said.
THEY WERE DRIVING in Albert’s diesel truck, one so caked in mud that no license plate or logo was visible. It was the same truck that a number of hunters wanted to put a bullet hole in after he began chain-dragging logs across public roads to block access to the national forest. As he came down a long grade through an unlit area, he ran over a large chunk of rock that had fallen from the hillside. It wedged under the frame, scouring sparks off the asphalt. Albert pulled onto the shoulder.
A Jeep Cherokee approached from the opposite direction, the driver not bothering to dim his high beams, slowing down to look into Albert’s face as he passed. Then the Cherokee’s brake lights went on, and the driver began to back up.
The driver was a dark-complected man. His face was bruised, and there was a strip of white tape across the bridge of his nose. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he said.
“Not much. Trying to avoid some of the riffraff that’s floated into the state,” Albert replied.
Another man was sitting in the passenger seat. He was wearing a black polyethylene raincoat. He leaned forward to get a clear look at Albert. “I asked you a question,” the driver said.
“I know you did. I also know who you are. You were fired from your department. Your name is Boyd.”
“Maybe you know more than you should,” Boyd said. “Maybe you never learned how to keep your nose out of other people’s business.”
“That’s because he’s a smart guy,” the passenger said. “A college professor. I’ve seen him.”
“This is Terry,” Jack Boyd said. “You don’t want to meet him.”
“Let’s go,” Molly whispered.
But the transmission was jammed. Albert tried to back up to free it and heard something clank loudly and vibrate through the undercarriage.
“Did I say you could go somewhere?” Boyd said.
“I’ll have a look at the problem,” Terry said.