“Who is this?”
“Oh, you know who it is. Bud. It's your old goddamned buddy Lamar Pye.”
Bud's head cleared, fast.
“Pye. What the hell are you—”
“Missing anything?”
“What?”
“Missing anything?”
Bud thought: My boys.
“Lamar, so help me Christ—”
“Sure must be lonely in that bed tonight.”
Bud looked: He could see Jen stirring under her blankets.
“I don't—”
“I hope you didn't call nobody yet, there. Bud.”
“I—”
“She's damned pretty, your old lady. A bit young for a old goat like you. Bet she gits you to working hard.”
“Lamar, what the—”
“Here, say something to your baby. Bring her over, sweetie.”
A faraway voice said, 'Git over here, you bitch,” and in the next second, another voice came on the line.
“Oh, Bud, oh God, they came in and got me, oh. Bud, I am so scared, Bud they've all got guns and he hit me, he hit me—” and then Holly was taken away.
“Who is it, Bud?” said Jen groggily.
“You hear that, trooper? We got your wife. Yes sir, got your goddamned wife. You take my baby cousin, and shoot him full of holes, I'm going to take your lady, for my pleasures.
Let me tell you how it's going to be, okay? You call anyone, you tell anyone, you mention this to anyone, by God, I will kill her and you know I will. First though I'll fuck her in every hole she got. Every one.”
“I swear—”
“Now, Bud, if you want this pretty gal back, you'd best come and do what I tell you. I want you to go to a pay phone. You got about a hour. It's at 124 and Shoulder Junction, outside of Geronimo.
Exxon station. I'm going to bounce you from pay phone to pay phone before I bring you in, just to make goddamned sure you don't have no SWAT boys with you. Got that?”
“Lamar—”
“You miss that goddamned call and I'll cut her throat and cut her nose off. Bud, and then come git you and the rest of your family at my leisure.”
“Don't hurt her, goddamn it,” Bud barked.
“Oh, and Bud?” Lamar asked in a voice rich in charm.
“You want her back? Tell you what. Bring some guns.”
He hung up.
Bud jumped out of bed, fought to clear his head. But, really, there was no decision to make, not one he could face anyway. If he called headquarters, he could play the game and sooner or later close with Lamar with a SWAT team, choppers, snipers, the works; the professionals would handle it as well as they could, but it wouldn't matter. One look at other boys at his private party with Bud and Lamar would cut her up without so much as a by-your- leave and take his goddamned chances with the lawmen. He didn't give a damn; he didn't fear his own death, he only wanted Bud's.
Bud pulled on jeans, boots, and a black shirt. He grabbed a sports coat, only to cover the guns he'd be wearing.
“Bud, what is going on?”
“I have to go.”
“Bud, you—” He faced his wife.
“I'm sorry. I have to go one last time. If you love me, you let me go. You trust me, you let me go.”
Then he raced downstairs, opened the gun safe. There they were. He pulled on his shoulder rig and the high hip holster and then busily threaded rounds into the magazines, all of them, jamming them up with hollow tips If his thumbs hurt, he didn't notice; it just seemed to take so goddamned long. He holstered the Beretta and the .45; the380 went behind his belt on his belly. Then he looked for a rifle, knowing only a fool fights with a pistol if he has the choice, but came up short until he remembered that .3030 lever gun outside, still under the seat in his truck. He closed the safe.
A shape loomed in the dark.
“Dad?”
It was Jeff.
“Jeff, I've got to go, fast.”
“Dad, what's—”
“Never you mind.”
“Dad—”
“Jeff, I love you. No matter what you hear or what they tell you or what happens, I love you. I love your mother and your brother more than anything. Now I have something to handle and I have to handle it. You stay here and take care of your mother. It'll be fine, I swear to you.”
“Dad—”
“Jeff, I have to go!”
“Dad… I love you.”
Bud grabbed his youngest son and gave him a bone squeezing hug. He felt the boy's ribs and beating heart under that sheathing of muscle.
“Go on, now,” he said, and dashed out.
Bud got to the truck, worried now, absurdly, that he was low on gas.
But he had gas. He gunned it, whirled out of the quiet neighborhood for Geronimo forty-five miles away. He had about fifty minutes.
But suddenly a thought came to him. Goddamnedest thing. From where he didn't know, but an idea just flashed into his head. He saw a gas station phone booth and stopped and ran to dial 411.
“You have a number for a C. D. Henderson, out on Thirty-eighth?”
It took a few seconds.
“That number isn't listed, sir.”
“Goddammit, this is a police emergency, I'm Oklahoma highway patrol sergeant Russell B. Pewtie, ID number R-twenty-four, and I want that number. Give it to me or give me your supervisor.”
Soon enough Bud had the number and called.
The phone seemed to ring and ring.
Then a groggy woman's voice answered, the old woman, and Bud asked for the lieutenant.
“Carl,” he heard her say, 'it's some old boy for you.”
Henderson's raspy voice came on.
“
“Lo?” he said.
“Lieutenant, it's Bud Pewtie.”
“Bud, my God!”
“You still have your keys, don't you? You can still get into that goddamned office?”
“I could break in if I had to. Now what—”
“Listen to me, you drunken old goat. You get your ass over there. You say you're a detective?
Well, this here's the night you're going to prove it.”
“What are you talking about? What's going on?”
“You never mind what's going on. I got something for you. The mystery person in Lamar's gang. Wore the mask all the time. Here's why. It's a goddamned girl. A young girl. Heard him call herweetie.” Heard her say, 'Get over here, bitch.” That's all. But… a young girl.
