Feast Day of Fools (Hackberry Holland 3)

Jack stepped into the doorway, silhouetting against the hallway light, then began walking down the stairs, his eyes trying to adjust to the gloom. His left hand was on the stair rail, his right holding the Thompson at an upward angle. Then he saw the Asian woman and the man named Krill and the sheriff and his chief deputy. “Looks like y’all got shot up proper,” he said.

The sheriff had stood up but was bracing himself against a wood post, the heel of his hand pressed into his side. “Where’s Sholokoff?” he asked.

Jack didn’t answer. He crossed the cellar and scraped back the metal door to the outside stairwell and walked up the concrete steps into the rain and gazed at the yard and the barn and the pecan orchard and the cornfield, then at the roof that traversed the area under the attic window. He stepped back into the cellar, rainwater running off the brim of his hat.

“You planning on taking me out, Mr. Holland?” he said.

“Could be.”

“But you won’t.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“You won’t gun me unless I give you cause.”

“What brought you to that conclusion?” the sheriff said.

“Your father was a history professor and a congressman. You were born with the burden of gentility, Sheriff: You either obey the restraints that are imposed on a gentleman or you accept the role of a hypocrite. The great gift of being born white trash is that no matter what you do, it’s always a step up.”

“You’re referring to yourself, Mr. Collins?”

“I’d wager I have more education than anybody in this room, but I never spent a complete year in a schoolhouse. What do you think about that?”

“I don’t,” the sheriff replied.

Jack ignored the slight and glanced out the cellar window at the yard and the barn and the pecan orchard. Then he took a bottle of burgundy from a shattered crate and broke the neck off against the wall. The glass was black and thick and had a red wax seal on the label. He poured from the bottom of the broken bottle into his mouth, as though using a cup, not touching the sharp edges. “You want one?” he asked.

“I don’t drink,” the sheriff said.

“You ought to start. In my opinion, it’d be an improvement. Who popped the two guys by the stairs?”

“I did,” the Asian woman said. She was sitting on a wood chair, the Airweight .38 in her lap, strands of her hair hanging straight down in her face. “You have something to say about it?”

“You decide you’re not a pacifist anymore?”

“You murdered nine innocent girls, Mr. Collins,” she replied. “I don’t think you have the right to look down your nose at me or anybody else.”

“If you ask me, your true colors are out, Ms. Ling. You’re a self-hating feminist who tries to infect others with her poison. I’ve been entirely too generous in my estimation and treatment of your gender. The serpent didn’t make Adam eat the apple. Your progenitor did. You’re the seed of our undoing, and I won’t put up with any more of your insolence.”

“I warned you once before about addressing me in that fashion,” she said.

“Mr. Collins?” the sheriff said softly.

“Enough of you, Sheriff,” Jack said, his eyes burning into the woman’s face, his hand flexing on the pistol grip of the Thompson.

“Ease up on the batter,” the sheriff said.

“I said you stay out of this.”

“We all fought the good fight, didn’t we?” the sheriff said. “I appreciate the help you gave us. I appreciate your saving the life of my deputy R. C. Bevins. No one here should judge you, sir.”

“You should have stayed in politics.”

“I am in politics. I hold an elective office. How about it, partner?” the sheriff said. “A time comes when you have to lay down your sword and shield.”

Jack could feel the fingers of his right hand tightening on the pistol grip and the Thompson’s trigger. The rain was sliding down the cellar window and swirling through the door that opened onto the outside stairwell. Inside the steady

drumming of the rain and the coldness seeping into his back, he realized the mistake he had just made and the price he would pay for his anger and pride.