?What does his family know??
?That others ?may? have been involved in his death.?
?Let?s keep it that way. Eriksson is a frequenter of prostitutes. Maybe he?s still with the woman who was on the surveillance tape. If we can find the woman, we?ll probably find him, unless he knows he?s been ID?d in a homicide investigation.?
?Who?s the woman??
?The clerk said he didn?t know her. The surveillance camera only got the back of her head.?
?Where?d you get the photo of Eriksson??
?He worked as a contract security man in Iraq. He was suspected of firing arbitrarily into the automobiles of civilians. There was a video of his work on CNN. Cars were veering out of their lane and crashing into other cars. His company got him out of the country before he was charged.?
?I?ll have to share some of this with Junior?s wife.?
?Why??
?Because they have a right to know,? Hackberry said.
?What about the rights and safety of the citizenry??
?You know what the Catholic theological definition of a lie is? To deny others access to knowledge to which they?re entitled.?
?I think this place is an open-air mental asylum.?
?Can I have the photo of Eriksson? Or at least a copy of it??
?Maybe later.?
?Later??
Hackberry heard Pam?s footsteps behind him on the St. Augustine grass.
?Why don?t you haul your ass down the road?? she said to Clawson.
?Take it easy,? Hackberry said.
Clawson removed his glasses, polished them with a Kleenex, and put them back on, crinkling his nose. ?Can you tell me why you bear me such animosity?? he asked Pam.
?When your daughter and her fiancé were abducted and murdered, she was working as a night clerk at a convenience store,? Pam said. ?You didn?t know the risk exposure for a woman working nights at a convenience store? You weren?t making enough money to provide a better situation for her? Is everyone else supposed to pay the price for your guilt, Agent Clawson? If that?s the case, it?s a real drag.?
Clawson?s face had gone white. ?Don?t you dare talk about my daughter,? he said.
?Then you stop hiding behind her, you miserable fuck.?
?Sheriff, you get this crazy bitch out of my face.?
?No, you hold on a minute,? Hackberry replied.
But it was too late. Hackberry saw Pam Tibbs pull her blackjack from her pocket, letting the spring-mounted, leather-weighted end dip away from her wrist, tightening her fingers on the leather-braided wood handle, stepping toward Clawson all in one motion. Before Hackberry could knock her arm down, she whipped the blackjack across the side of Clawson?s head, snapping her wrist into the swing, slashing open his scalp, slinging a red stripe down his white shirt.
His glasses fell from his face, cracking on a flagstone. His eyes were wide with shock, out of focus, his mouth open in a great round O. He raised his forearm to ward off the second blow, but she caught him on the elbow, then behind the ear. His knees buckled, and he grabbed the gate to keep from going all the way down.
Hackberry locked his arms around Pam, pinning her hands at her sides, lifting her into the air, carrying her backward deeper into the yard. She fought with him, kicking the heels of her boots into his shins, pulling at his wrists to force him to unclasp his hands, butting her head into his face.
Clawson propped one hand against the fender of his car and held himself erect, struggling to get a handkerchief out of his pocket to stop the blood that ran in strings down his forehead and into his eyebrows. Hackberry carried Pam to the back of the house, her feet still off the ground, the smell of her hair and body heat rising into his face.
?You stop it, Pam. I?ll throw you in the horse tank. I swear to God I?ll do it,? he said.