have a stroke at any moment. Any number of things could bring about his death.”
“We'd like to see him,” Winter said.
The doctor handed them masks, and they slipped them on and followed him toward Hank's cubicle. Except for a symphony of machines, the ICU unit was as quiet as a chapel. A frail man who looked like he should be in a hospital bed of his own was seated by the bed of an elderly woman. He nodded impassively to the three men as they passed.
The rooms were arranged around a nurse's station so the medical staff could sit there and see each of the patients. The rooms were without windows or front walls. In the unlikely event that privacy was necessary, a curtain could be pulled.
What Winter saw lying in the bed broke his heart. Hank's swollen face had no more surface depth than a pizza-the texture of his skin was like the inside of a grapefruit after the pulp had been eaten. A plastic tube entered the islandlike tip of his nose. An I.V. delivered clear liquid to a needle taped to the back of his hand while cords carried electric impulses of information up into the monitoring equipment. The trademark mustache, if it still existed, was covered by the tape that held a breathing tube in Hank's mouth. His legs were shrouded in clear plastic braces that inflated and deflated every few seconds to keep blood clots from forming.
“Hang in there, Hank,” Winter said softly. Beneath the calm words, anger boiled inside him. The taste of bile filled his mouth. Hank could die, and he was afraid of the hole that would leave in his life. When his own father had died, Winter had felt the sort of relief one gets at the end of a grueling weight-lifting session. James Massey had abandoned his family and had been living with a barfly in a flophouse in West Memphis, Arkansas, when he died of cirrhosis. Winter had only known Hank for seven years, but their relationship felt as if it had lasted a lifetime. Winter had transferred to Hank the affection his father had rejected, and Hank had treated him like the son he had lost.
He put his fingertips against Hank's shoulder. “Hank, you just get well. Nicky and I are going to take care of everything else. I promise you that.”
30
Assumption Parish, Louisiana
Each time the battered pickup truck hit a low spot, a great gout of brown water erupted into the air and a wave of slippery mud covered the windshield of the Blazer with the light bar on its roof. The wipers could only swipe a couple of times before the truck launched the next curtain of mud. Sheriff Toliver cursed, and pumped at the washer knob until the reservoir was empty of cleaning fluid. The road looked as though great herds of feral pigs had rooted in it. In places, it came within inches of the sharply sloped bayou bank.
The sheriff looked up in his rearview and saw that the other county car, a prowler, was staying far enough back not to be splashed by his vehicle. His wife, belted into the passenger seat, kept telling him to hang back, but he was too mad to pay her any mind, and he wasn't about to admit that he was driving like an “damn idiot.” Her sudden yelp brought his eyes back to the windshield, and upon seeing the red lights in front of him he slammed on the brakes, sending the Blazer sliding sideways. The sheriff barely missed slamming into the truck, which was no stranger to having its body smacked. The squad car trailing the sheriff stopped, and four deputies poured from its interior like hounds itching for something to chase after.
“You stay put,” the sheriff said to his wife. He put on his cap and stepped out. “It's muddy.”
She replied, “Make it fast, Buddy Lee.”
“Won't take long. Wrecker's on the way.”
“Yeah, right. I'm not kidding around, Buddy Lee.”
They had been on their way to breakfast when the call came in. Helene Toliver peered out at the bayou like it was something that could attack her. She was not a patient woman; every time they were doing something together Buddy Lee always had some emergency call, and she became a prisoner of time, sitting like a lump in the prowl car.
The driver of the battered truck and his passenger looked like the same person at two different ages and weights. Father and son lacked meaningful chins. Their suspicious eyes, long pointed noses, pronounced overbites, and sloping foreheads gave them the profiles of small unpleasant mammals. The son's hair had a curiously crusty appearance. Both wore matching outfits with the overalls folded up into cuffs and flannel shirts with rolled-up sleeves. The Herberts-pronounced “Ay-bears”-were commercial fishermen and trappers, but their hands and clothes looked like they belonged to men who stood in close proximity to burning tires while they overhauled diesel engines.
“Where?” Buddy Lee asked the Herberts, wondering which of the father's eyes was the good one.
The lanky sheriff rarely spoke when a gesture would suffice. His features were all sharp edges, the cheeks and edge of his nose trying to slice their way out, the bags under his eyes filled with something heavy.
“Ri-chonder,” the father drawled, starting to raise his hand.
“Yonder,” the son added. He jerked his hand up and aimed a finger out at the scummy water.
Standing among the knee-high weeds, the sheriff peered out at the wedge of metal breaking out through the algae. A cottonmouth as big around in the center as a quart jar glided along on the water's surface, unafraid of the men standing on the bank twenty feet away.
“Sa cah,” the older Herbert said.
“Black 'un,” the young man added in case his father wasn't believed.
“Appears somebody drove it off in the water,” the sheriff said to the deputies and the Herberts. “Insurance fraud.”
“Maybe he drove off and he's still in it?” a deputy suggested, almost hopefully.
The sheriff frowned, shook his head.
“Mine fi shoot dat snake?”
The sheriff turned to watch the older Herbert pluck a weathered shotgun from the cab of the Ford and break it to load in a single shell. “Okay, just don't shoot the damned car.”
There was a boom and the water moccasin, halved by the blast, sank out of sight.
By the time the diver and the tow truck arrived, Helene Toliver's breathing had fogged all the Blazer's windows. All Buddy Lee could see was the suggestion of his wife's yellow hair, which looked like cotton candy.
The diver hooked a cable to the submerged vehicle. The tow truck's gears ground as it dragged the water- filled Rover, on its left side, up the steep slope.
“It hit something pretty good,” a deputy said, pointing to the damaged front end. He cupped his hands trying to see through the opaque windows. “Charlie, I'll boost you up,” he told another deputy as he locked his hands to form a stirrup. “It looks to be all burnt up inside. Wait a minute. I can see something moving, but it's too dark to make it out. I need a flashlight.”
The sheriff went to his Blazer for his Mag-Lite.
“Just a few more minutes,” he mumbled. His wife had the look of a woman about to ask him to check the bottoms of his boots for what she was smelling.
Buddy Lee handed his Mag-Lite up to the deputy, who aimed the beam down into the Rover's interior.
“Sure was set on fire. It's a man in it, looks like a nigrah! His clothes was burnt right off his back.”
“Was a bulletin this morning about a dark blue Rover involved in a hit-and-run in New Orleans last night,” the sheriff said. “Said it would have front-end damage-a busted light and turn signal.”
“What you saw moving?” a deputy called up.
“Damn, Roy, it was in the bayou, what the hell you think it is?”
The young fisherman looked at his father, raised his hands up and mimicked claws pinching the air. “Trabs,” he said, smiling like the word made him hungry.
31
