“Benny, I think Thunder might have killed Kakaik.”
Fullmouth stared at Cork. “You’re shitting me. Why would he do that?”
“I think Kakaik was prepared to turn him over to the sheriff.”
Fullmouth thought it over. “Kakaik would’ve killed Thunder before he gave him over to the cops. Hell, he should have killed him to begin with. Would’ve made everybody happy. The Red Boyz, the cops, even that crazy old Reinhardt.”
“Is that the Red Boyz way?”
“That’s the way of the warrior, O’Connor. Old man like you, I don’t expect you’d understand that.”
“If I found Thunder and turned him over to you, what would you do with him?”
“You mean after I slit his throat?”
“Is that how all the Red Boyz feel?”
“We’re brothers. One heart, one mind.”
“Nice talking to you, Benny.”
THIRTY-FIVE
A nnie had prepared a good stroganoff, which she served with beets and a tossed salad. Jo volunteered to do the dishes. Cork and Stevie cleared the table, then went into the backyard for a little batting practice while there was still enough light. Stevie’s nose was taped, and Cork didn’t want to risk damaging it again-at least right away- so they used a Wiffle ball and a plastic bat. Trixie wasn’t a bad outfielder, chasing after whatever Stevie hit.
As the evening faded and night crept in, Cork called a halt and Stevie reluctantly went with him inside. His son headed upstairs to put on his pajamas while Cork tracked down Jo, who was in her office, going over papers at her desk.
“You mind doing the bedtime routine with Stevie?” he asked.
Jo took off her reading glasses and gave him a puzzled and slightly concerned look. “I thought you were going to stay here tonight.”
“I’ll be back. I just want to talk to Will Kingbird.”
“What about?”
“Alexander. I’m trying to get a feel for what his thinking about Lonnie Thunder might have been at the end.”
“So you can find Thunder, bring him in, and jail him?”
“I’m beginning to believe that even if I find him, I might not be able to jail him.”
“Why?”
“Will you take a rain check on that answer? Just until I get back?”
“All right.” She got up and came to where he stood in the doorway. She put her arms around him. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but please be careful, Cork.”
Lucinda laid Misty in her crib for the night, then sat on the living room sofa, bone tired and ragged with worry. No word from Will, and the dark, monstrous fear of what he might have done weighed on all her thinking. Her husband had killed before, as a very young man in Vietnam, and later as part of Division Recon, involved in Direct Action missions, especially in what he called prisoner recovery. He was not only an excellent sniper, he was trained in many ways to kill with quiet efficiency. He sometimes got calls in the night and was gone for days. When he returned, though he wouldn’t speak of where he’d been or what he’d done, it was as if he carried bodies on his back. Was it any wonder he was so closed? Who would want to talk of such things? Who would be proud of it? After he’d become an instructor at Lejeune, the night calls and sudden deployments stopped, but there were still times when he’d vanish and lay the blame on the corps when Lucinda knew it was not so.
The doorbell pulled her from her black thoughts and from the sofa. When she opened the front door, Cork O’Connor stood on the porch, smiling cordially.
“Evening, Luci. Is Will at home?”
“No, he’s not.”
“At the shop?”
“He is out of town.” She saw disappointment in his eyes. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I wanted to talk to him about Alexander.”
“You could talk to me.” She opened the screen door. “Would you like to come in?”
“Thank you.”
When he was inside, she asked, “May I get you something? Coffee maybe?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
She returned to the sofa; he sat in the maroon easy chair usually occupied by Will.
“What would you like to know?” she asked.
“I’m not exactly sure, Luci. I’m trying to find Lonnie Thunder.”
“The young man who gave the drugs to the Reinhardt girl.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I can help you.”
“I’m wondering about Alexander and his state of mind regarding Lonnie Thunder and the Red Boyz before he was killed.”
“His state of mind?” She laughed, though not with humor. “That’s like asking me what the coffee table is thinking. Alejandro almost never spoke to me about what was on his mind.”
“What about Rayette? Did she say anything that might have been of help?”
Lucinda thought of the wonderful talks with her daughter-in-law on those Sundays they rode together to church. The memory made her terribly sad.
“She said Alejandro was quieter lately, even more than usual. She thought he was worried.”
“About Buck Reinhardt?”
“I don’t know.” She thought again. “The last time I saw Alejandro alive he said something to me. He said he understood his father better now. The responsibility, he said, of a family was great. Me, I didn’t think that Rayette and Misty were difficult, so perhaps he wasn’t talking about them.”
“The Red Boyz?”
“Rayette told me that many of the Red Boyz looked to him as they might have a father. Now I will tell you something that is what I think but Alejandro never spoke to me about it, so it might be nothing. When he came back here, he was not the Alejandro I knew. He was like a clay pot, hardened in the fire. It was difficult to be with him. But he changed again after he married Rayette and especially after Misty was born. I think-and this is my own thinking-that he found what he’d always been looking for.”
“And that was?”
“Home. He found home.” Lucinda heard the side door open and the sound of someone in the kitchen. “Will?” she called eagerly.
“No, Mom. Just me.”
Ulysses walked into the living room. His friend Darrell Gallagher was with him, wearing the horrid black leather coat that fell below his knees, and the black hair so purposefully cut askew, and the black look on his face that made her cringe, not with fear but with the thought that here was a child who hadn’t been loved in a long time. She didn’t like Uly being so often in his company, but her son had no other friends. Perhaps this was true of Darrell, too.
“Hi, Uly,” Cork O’Connor said. To the other boy he said, “You’re Darrell, right? Skip Gallagher’s grandson?”
“Yeah,” Gallagher replied in a flat voice.
“I haven’t seen your grandfather in a while. How is he?”
“Old,” Gallagher said.
“Going to my room,” Uly said. He didn’t wait for his mother to reply.
Lucinda’s eyes followed where Gallagher had gone. “Do you know his family?” she asked Cork O’Connor.
“He doesn’t have much family to speak of. Lives with his grandfather. I know Skip from way back. He was a
