just make out the dirty blue-and-yellow colors of the license plate: New Jersey.
'That's his kinda car, too,' Brown said softly, gesturing. 'A couple of years old. American make. I'll bet it doesn't have anything special to it at all. Nondescript. A blend-right-in kinda car. Just like he used to have.'
He turned toward Shaeffer. He put his hand on her shoulder, gripping it firmly. Cowart thought it was the first familiar gesture he'd seen the big detective make toward the young woman.
'There's only the two doors,' he said, continuing to keep his voice low, almost inaudible, but not the same way that a whisper disappears, hissing. His voice had a firmness to it. 'One in front, that's where I'll be. And the one in back, where you're going to be. Now, best as I can recollect, there's windows on the left side, there…' He pointed, sweeping his hand in the direction of the side of the house that butted up close to the surrounding woods. 'That's where the bedrooms are. Any windows on the right I'll be able to cover, either from inside, in the front living room, or the porch. So watch that back door, but keep in mind he might try to go out the window. Just be ready. Stay on your toes. Okay?'
'Okay,' she replied. She thought the word wavered coming out of her mouth.
'I want you to stay there, in position, until I call you. Okay? Call you by name. Keep quiet. Keep down. You're the safety valve.'
'Okay,' she said again.
'Ever done anything like this before?' Tanny Brown asked abruptly. Then he smiled. I suppose I should have asked that question some time earlier…'
She shook her head. 'Lots of arrests. Drunk drivers and two-bit burglars. And a rapist or two. Nobody like Ferguson.'
'There aren't many like Ferguson to practice on,' Cowart said under his breath.
'Don't worry,' Brown said, continuing to smile. 'He's a coward. Plenty brave with little girls and scared teenagers, but he ain't got it in him to handle folks like you and me…' Brown spoke this softly, reassuringly. Cowart wanted to blurt out Bruce Wilcox's name, but stopped himself. '… Keep that in mind. There ain't gonna be anything to this…'
He let his voice roll with its Southern inflection, giving a contradictory ease to what he was saying. '… Now, let's move before it gets lighter out and folks start waking up.'
Shaeffer nodded, took a step forward, and stopped. 'Dog?' she whispered hurriedly, nervously.
'None.' Brown paused. 'As soon as you get to the corner, there, then I'm heading toward the front. You keep working your way around the back. You'll know when I get to the door, 'cause I ain't gonna be quiet when I get there.'
Shaeffer closed her eyes for one second, took a deep breath, and forced bravado into her heart. She told herself, No mistakes this time. She looked at the small house and thought it a small place, with no room for errors. 'Let's do it,' she said. She stepped across the open space quickly, slightly crouched over, a half-jog that cut through the mist and wet air.
Cowart saw that she had her pistol in her hands and was holding it down but ready, as she maneuvered toward the corner of the house.
'You paying attention, Cowart?' Brown asked. His voice seemed to fill some hollow spot within the reporter. 'You getting all this?'
'I'm getting it,' he replied, clenching his teeth.
'Where's your notebook?'
Cowart held up his hand. He clutched a thin reporter's notebook and waved it about. Brown grinned. 'Glad to see you're armed and dangerous,' he said.
Cowart stared at him.
'It's a joke, Cowart. Relax.'
Cowart nodded. He watched the policeman as his eyes fixed on Shaeffer, who'd paused at the corner of the shack. Brown was smiling, but only barely. He straightened up and shook his shoulders once, like some large animal shaking sleep from its body. Cowart realized then that Brown was like some sort of warrior whose fears and apprehensions about the upcoming battle dropped away when the enemy hove into view. The policeman was not precisely happy, but he was at ease with whatever danger or uncertainty rested inside the shack, beyond the fragile morning light and curling gray mists. The reporter looked down at his own hands, as if they were a window to his own feelings. They looked pale but steady-He thought, Made it this far. See it through. 'Actually, he replied, 'that's not a bad joke at all. Given the circumstances.'
Both men smiled, but not at any real humor.
'All right,' said Tanny Brown. 'Wake-up call.'
He turned toward the shack and remembered the first time he'd driven up to the house searching for Ferguson. He hadn't understood the storm of prejudice and hatred he was unleashing with his arrival. All the feelings that Pachoula wanted to forget had come out when Robert Earl Ferguson had been taken downtown for questioning in the murder of little Joanie Shriver. He was determined not to live through that again.
Brown set off swiftly, pacing directly across the hard-packed dirt of the shack's front yard, not looking back once to see if Cowart was following him. The reporter took a single deep breath, wondered for a moment why the air seemed suddenly dry to his taste, realized it wasn't the air that was dry at all, and moved quickly to keep stride with the police lieutenant.
Brown paused at the foot of the steps to the front door. He turned to Cowart and hissed, 'If things go to hell fast, make sure you stay out of my line of fire.'
Cowart nodded quickly. He could feel excitement surging through his body, chasing the fears that reverberated within him.
'Here we go,' said the policeman.
He took the stairs two at a time, in a pair of great leaps. Cowart scrambled behind him. Their feet made a clattering noise against the whitewashed old wooden boards, which added creaks and complaints to the sudden sounds that pierced the morning silence. Brown gathered himself to the side of the door, just off-angle, motioning Cowart to the other side. He swung open a screen door and grasped the doorknob. He twisted it carefully, but it refused to move.
'Locked?' whispered Cowart.
'No. Just jammed, I think,' Brown replied.
He twisted the knob again. He shook his head at Cowart. Then he took his empty hand, balled it into a fist and slammed it three times hard against the blistered wooden frame, shaking the entire house with urgency.
'Ferguson! Police! Open up!'
Before the echoes of his booming voice died away, he'd grabbed the screen door frame and wrenched it aside. Then he stepped back and raised his foot, kicking savagely at the door. The frame cracked with a sound like a shot, and Cowart jumped involuntarily. Brown gathered himself a second time, aiming carefully, and kicked again.
The door buckled and opened partway.
'Police!' he cried again.
Then the huge detective threw his entire bulk, shoulder first, against the door like some crazed fullback smashing toward the goal with the game on the line.
The door gave way with a torn, splintering sound.
Tanny Brown pushed it viciously away and jumped into the front parlor, half-crouched, weapon raised and swinging from side to side. He yelled again, 'Police! Ferguson, come out!'
Cowart hesitated for a moment, then, swallowing hard, stepped in behind him, his thoughts jumbled, the noise from the assault on the door ringing in his ears. It was like stepping off a cliff's edge, he thought. It seemed as if wind was rushing by his ears, screaming velocity.
'Dammit!' Brown called out, as if starting another command, then he stopped short, his words sliced, as if by a razor.
Robert Earl Ferguson stepped out of a side room.
