Feast Day of Fools (Hackberry Holland 3)

“Shouldn’t you do that?”

“I’m done pulling Ethan’s biscuits out of the fire,” Hackberry replied. “Ask Pam to come in here, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

A moment later, Pam Tibbs tapped on the doorjamb.

“Jack Collins knows the feds burned him out,” Hackberry said.

“Is Riser aware of this?”

“He will be. You have any suggestions?”

She shrugged. “Not really. Collins is going to square it.”

“You and I know that. But we’re the only law enforcement personnel around here who have dealt with him head-on.”

“So maybe Riser will learn a lesson and not be such a smart-ass.”

“We’re not going to let Collins make this county his personal killing ground.”

She took a box of Altoids out of her shirt pocket and put one on her tongue. “Why did you want to talk to me, Hack?”

“You know how Collins thinks.”

“You’re asking me what his next move will be?” she said.

“I thought you might have an opinion, since he tried to machine-gun you.”

“That’s not a subject I’m flippant about.”

“Neither am I,” he said.

“Collins hunts like a cougar,” she said. “He’ll go to the water hole and wait for his prey.”

“Where’s the water hole?”

“Wherever he thinks the feds will show up,” Pam replied.

“Where would that be?”

“You already know where.”

“Tell me.”

“The Asian woman gave refuge to Noie Barnum. The feds are probably watching her. One way or another, Collins will find that out.”

“Want to take a ride?” Hackberry said.

She looked out the window at the flag popping on the silver pole in front of the building. In the north a line of rain mixed with dust was moving across the hills, but to the south the sky was blue, the early sun already hot and as yellow as egg yolk. “Why ask me? You’re the boss man, aren’t you?” she replied.

TWO MEN DRIVING a black SUV had parked their vehicle behind a knoll and set up a high-powered telescope with a camera attached to it on a flat spot that overlooked the valley where the Asian woman lived. They were both dressed in stonewashed jeans and alpine shoes with lug soles and short-sleeve shirts with many pockets. They were both tan and wore shades and had the body tone of men who swam or ran long distances or trained at martial arts or followed a military discipline in their personal lives. One of them opened a lunch box on a rock and removed a thermos of hot coffee and two ham sandwiches. Both men carried Glocks in black nylon holsters on their belts.

Ten minutes later, a rock bounced down from the knoll. The men turned around but saw nothing out of the ordinary. After they finished their sandwiches and poured themselves a second cup of coffee, they heard the pinging of a guitar string. They turned around and saw a solitary figure sitting on the bleached trunk of an uprooted tree, thirty yards up a wash, his face darkened by the brim of a panama hat stained with soot or grime, a guitar propped on one thigh. He picked at a treble string with his thumbnail while he twisted a tuning peg on the guitar’s head. “Howdy,” he said without looking up.

“Where the hell did you come from?” one of the men in shades said.

“Up yonder, past those boulders,” the seated man replied.