Sting

For all the reasons he’d cited, she realized the foolhardiness of trying to escape. If she managed to outrun him long enough to reach the main road, he could easily chase her down in the car before someone else came along. If she eluded him in the darkness of this swamp, without water, direction, or any means of protecting herself, she had little chance of surviving before she could find help or help could find her.

With haste and as little thought as possible, she did what was necessary. When she came out from behind the tree, he clasped her wrist and slipped another plastic cuff around it. “Please,” she whispered.

For several seconds, he stared at the ugly red marks the restraint had left on her skin, then looked into her eyes. “Tell me about the boyfriend.”

“Oh, for godsake!”

“He have a name?”

“I’m sure he does, but I don’t know it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Save the cute and sassy for somebody who’ll appreciate them. Doesn’t cut it with me. Now, I’ll ask you again, what’s his name?”

“I don’t know. I swear. If he told me, I don’t remember.”

“Why were you meeting him there tonight?”

“I wasn’t!” With defiance, she returned his doubtful stare, but she was the first to relent. She lowered her gaze and addressed one of the pearl snaps on his shirt, saying quietly, “I’ve told you the truth. He was a stranger who came over and offered to buy me a drink. I told him no thank you.”

“You said more than three words to him. What else did you two talk about?”

“Mostly about how I wish he would go away and leave me the hell alone.”

“You didn’t set up a meeting with him?”

“How many times do I have to say it?”

“Till I believe you.”

“I didn’t set up a meeting with him.”

Suddenly, he reached around her, planted his right hand on her bottom, and jerked her forward and up against him. Before she could react to that, he worked his left hand into the right rear pocket of her jeans and removed something from it. As suddenly as he’d hauled her against him, he pushed her away. He looked at the scrap of paper he had fished from her pocket, cursed, then dangled it inches from her nose.

“Mickey asked me if that guy was up to something. I told him no, that he was a drunk who only wanted to get in your pants. But I knew better. I saw him slip you this. Now,” he said softly, but with menace, “rethink telling me that he was a stranger, Jordie. Because lying to me could be hazardous to your health.”

Chapter 6

Joe Wiley asked Deputy Morrow to point out to him the young man who had hit on Jordie Bennett, followed her from the bar, and discovered Mickey Bolden’s body.

The detective nodded past the pool tables toward the far wall. Only a foot of space separated the ceiling from three blacked-out windows. Beneath them was a row of booths, only one of which was occupied. “We put him there all by his lonesome.”

Joe and Hick made their way over. Between two, lumpy red vinyl benches was a table scored with countless names and initials, as well as sentiments of love and hate. Some looked recently carved, others like they’d been there for decades.

The agents slid into the booth opposite a man in his early twenties. He had long, stringy hair. Except for it and his threadbare goatee, he bore a striking resemblance to the gray skull on the front of his faded black t-shirt.

He glowered at Hick with a redneck’s resentment toward a black man so obviously superior in every respect. He snorted contempt. “You the preacher, the groom, or the corpse?”

Hick, who was always smartly dressed, smiled pleasantly at the snide reference to his dark suit, white shirt, and necktie.

Joe asked, “What’s your name?”

He slid his surly gaze toward Joe. “Who wants to know?”

Joe just looked at him for several seconds, then reached for his ID wallet, flipped it open, and extended it across the greasy tabletop.

The young man’s reaction was immediate. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding. You’re feds? I didn’t do anything.”

“Doesn’t look that way from where I and Agent Hickam are sitting. You harassed a woman—”