?I?m not sure she?s home.?
?You know what obstruction of justice is?? Pam Tibbs said.
?Yeah, stuff they talk about on TV detective shows.?
?Explain this,? Pam said. She picked up a brownie from the plate and set it back down. ?It?s still hot. Tell your wife to come out here.?
Nick Dolan stared into space, squeezing his jaw with one hand, his eyes out of sync. ?I caused all this.?
?Caused what?? Pam said.
?Everything.?
?Where?s your wife, Mr. Dolan?? Pam asked.
?Drove away. Fed up. With the kids in the car.?
?They?re not coming back?? she asked.
?I don?t know. Vikki Gaddis came to my restaurant and applied for a job as a singer. I wish I?d hired her. I could have made a difference in those young people?s lives. I told all this to Esther. Now she thinks maybe I?m unfaithful.?
?Maybe you can still make a difference,? Hackberry said.
?I?m through talking with y?all. I wish I?d never left New Orleans. I wish I had helped the people rebuild in the Ninth Ward. I wish I?d done something good with my life.?
Pam looked at Hackberry, blowing her breath up into her face.
THAT NIGHT A storm that was more wind and dust and dry lightning than rain moved across Southwest Texas, and Hackberry decided not to fly back home until morning. He and Pam ate in a Mexican restaurant on the Riverwalk, a short distance from the Alamo. Their outdoor table was situated on flagstones and lit by gas lamps. A gondola loaded with mariachi musicians floated past them on the water, all of the musicians stooping as they went under one of the arched pedestrian bridges. The river was lined with banks of flowers and white stucco buildings that had Spanish grillwork on the balconies, and trees that had been planted in terraced fashion, creating the look of a wooded hillside in the middle of a city.
Pam had spoken little during the plane ride to San Antonio and even less since they had left Nick Dolan?s yard.
?You a little tired?? Hackberry said.
?No.?
?So what are you??
?Hungry. Wanting to get drunk, maybe. Or catch up with Jack Collins and do things to him that?ll make him afraid to sleep.?
?Guys like Collins don?t have nightmares.?
?I think you?ve got him figured wrong.?
?He?s a psychopath, Pam. What?s to figure??
?Why didn?t Collins shoot you when your revolver snapped empty??
?Who knows??
?Because he?s setting you up.?
?For what??
?To be his executioner.?
Hackberry had just raised his fork to his mouth. He paused under a second, his eyes going flat. He put the forkful in his mouth. He watched a gondola emerge from under a stone bridge, the musicians grinning woodenly, a tree trailing its flowers across their sombreros and brocaded suits. ?I wouldn?t invest a lot of time thinking about this guy?s complexities,? he said.
?They all want the same thing. They want to die, and they want their executioner to be worthy of them. They also want to leave behind as much guilt and fear and depression in others as they can. He aims to mess you up, Hack. That?s why he tried to take me out first. He wanted you to watch it. Then he wanted you to pop him.?