“Chiggers,” he explained. He handed the can to Alexa. “Spray yourself good. There’s also mosquitoes, ticks-”
“I’ve had chigger bites before.” Alexa accepted the can and sprayed herself liberally. “Nothing short of losing an arm in a machine could be worse than chigger bites.”
Bond and Kennedy opened gun cases and removed high-powered rifles with telescopic sights and slings.
“The signal is coming from five miles west of here,” Manseur said.
“There’s a labyrinth of bayous and canals and you can’t go anywhere back in there by straight lines. This is by far the closest road in any direction,” Bond added.
Alexa looked toward the ramshackle store. She spotted an emaciated and hump-shouldered young man, whose nose was so long and sharp that-coupled with the shoots of blond hair radiating out from his head-he appeared as much bird as human. He leaned against the corner of the building watching the detectives through narrowed eye slits. When he saw that Alexa was looking at him, he averted his gaze and slipped around the corner like a starving but fearful dog.
“How many boat launches are there around here?” she asked.
“Not many,” Bond offered. “One other within five miles.”
“You’re familiar with this place?” Alexa asked.
“I’ve fished some around here a few times. With a guide.”
“We should ask inside if they know Leland,” Alexa said. “This is likely where he buys fuel.”
Manseur reached into his pocket and took out the picture of Grace and Doc, which he showed to Bond and Kennedy. “This other one is Andy Tinsdale. He’s the guy that Casey West shot. Hasn’t showed up in any clinics or hospitals and he isn’t home. Hopefully, he’s still with Leland.”
Alexa accompanied Manseur into the store while Bond and Kennedy went to the boat to load their equipment and meet the pilot. There were people shopping inside. A couple of rough-looking fishermen in oily clothes were standing at the counter, and they moved back as Manseur and Alexa approached. The radio droned warnings. The shelves, made of unpainted lumber, were almost cleaned of canned foods. The square-headed man behind the counter was built on the order of a potbellied stove. The cap perched on his head was so grimy, it was impossible to read the logo. He blew his nose into a red and white bandanna and shoved it into his back pocket. Coils of black hair seemed to be growing from his shirt up his neck like wisteria vines, and covered his forearms and the backs of his hands like fur.
“I’m Allen Moody, the owner. Can I help you folks?” he asked, lighting a cigar that had probably been lit on several previous occasions.
Manseur flashed his badge. “You know this man?” he asked, showing a mug shot picture of Leland Ticholet.
Moody leaned forward to get a better look, taking a pair of reading glasses from the counter and putting them on. The fishermen strained to look, without moving in closer.
“’At’s Lelun,” Moody said. “He’s crazy as a rat in a milk pail.”
“Tickerlay’s his name,” a young fisherman said, nodding. “Some call him Tickle.”
“You wouldn’t want him to catch you calling him Tickle,” another fisherman added. “He ain’t got a sense of humor. He’s a lot like his daddy was in that respect. A sorrier sample of a man than that Jacklon never drew breath.”
“He sure shit never drew a sober one,” Moody said, chuckling.
The older fisherman nodded in agreement.
“’At’s a pure-dee fact,” Moody agreed. “His redbone second wife, Alice Fay, killed him.”
“Red Bone?” Alexa asked.
“That’s an Indian and nigger mix,” the younger fisherman translated.
The older fisherman elbowed his younger buddy, who frowned, realizing he’d made a social faux pas. “I certainly didn’t mean to insult you by that, miss,” he mumbled.
“You get on Lelun’s bad side and you can go missing. Like some done recently,” the older fisherman said.
“What do you mean?” Alexa asked.
“Game warden name of Parnell was asking about Lelun a few days back, ’cause he was thinking Lelun bought that new boat he’s been riding around in with alligator hide profits. Wanted to know where he stayed at,” Moody said. “Now they’re looking for Parnell and a lady warden that was with him yesterday. I wouldn’t be surprised if they never found a trace of them.”
“That Parnell’s a pure-dee bastard,” the older fisherman declared. “He probably checks his own licenses hoping he can write his own self a citation ticket.”
The fishermen and Moody laughed. The sound was that of a donkey fighting with seals.
Manseur showed them the picture of the young man standing with Dorothy Fugate. “What about this one?”
“The woman, or him?” Moody asked.
“Him. Have you seen him before? Maybe with Ticholet?”
“Never seen anybody with Lelun. Well, this one time a few days back a man was with him, but I didn’t get close enough for a look. Figured he was taking him fishing or something. You could ask Grub. He’s right nosy.”
“Grub?” Alexa asked.
“What’d Lee do this time?” one of the fishermen asked.
“He stole that boat,” the store owner announced. “I knew he don’t have that kind of money sitting around. That boat cost thirty thousand if it cost a nickel. He was driving a beat-to-shit aluminum fourteen flat-bottom with an old smoke-belching Johnson on it one day, the next he’s in that new one, riding around like the king of the bayous.”
“What did he say about the new boat?” Manseur asked.
“I asked him about it and he said it was payment for some jobs he was doing for a somebody, who he didn’t name. I figured he was fulla shit and stole it somewhere. Maybe knocked some poor bastard in the head for it. I wouldn’t want him taking a fancy to anything I had.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Late last night he come by and fueled up.”
“You think he done in them wardens?” the older fisherman asked.
“Was he alone?” Alexa asked.
“Have to ask Grub. He was around. He always is.”
“Where is this Grub?” Alexa asked.
“He’s the retard works outside,” the younger fisherman said. “Wormy-lookin’ kid.”
Alexa decided she could talk to this Grub later.
“Any of y’all know where Leland’s camp is?” Manseur asked.
The men fell silent, blinking at him like owls.
“Okay. We’ll find it.”
“You do and you might wish you hadn’t,” Allen Moody said, with certainty.
79
In the morning breeze, naked but for a pair of tattered cotton shorts, Leland Ticholet flipped the last of the nutria onto its back on the dock, lodged its spine between two thick planks. Opening its belly with his skinning knife, he scooped out the entrails with his gore-caked hand and tossed them off into the water for the crabs. He began to skin the four-pound animal expertly, using the wide blade with the precision of a scalpel. Few things felt as right to Leland as skinning swamp rats.
That morning before sunrise he had gone out to check his catfish lines. The gator hooks he’d baited the day before hadn’t attracted anything, but he knew they would when the meat turned. He’d checked his nutria traps and found four of them caught up. He’d popped the nutria between the eyes with his. 22 before removing their limp bodies from the traps. Once upon a time he had just clubbed them to death, but he’d been bitten by one and almost lost a finger to the snapping rascal. Bullets were cheap when you measured them against fingers.
