Walt smiles, then pops open the top mother-of-pearl snap on his Western shirt and lifts what looks like a child?s toy from where it lies against his chest. Kelly and Carl lean forward. The derringer is smaller than a woman?s hand, with burled-wood grips and metal dulled by years of sweat.
?Two shots?? Carl asks.
Walt smiles. ?That'?s one more than you generally get, ain?t it??
?But I'm firing a .308 round.?
Walt pulls a pin from the gun and removes its cylinder, exposing the brass tails of five bullets. ?Two?s generally enough in the kind of situation where you use this thing, but you never know.?
Carl puts his hand out and touches the gun like a talisman, but Kelly says, ?I thought Texas Rangers carried Colt .45s.?
Walt chuckles. ?Pretty hard to hide my old Colt. I?'ve been patted down many a time without anybody finding this little lady. She?s loaded with .22 long-rifle rounds. They do the job just fine.?
While Carl studies the gun, Kelly looks at me. ?What?s your day look like??
?I'm scheduled to present a citizenship award on the bluff at the Ramada Inn at two p.m. There?s always a big crowd there on Sunday, watching the balloons. Barbecue, lots of city employees, kids.?
?It?s public knowledge that you?re doing this??
?Sure. Printed in the paper. Why??
?I may stop by to get a look at whoever?s covering you.?
?You going to give me one of those Star Treks??
Kelly laughs and passes me the one from his pocket. As I take it, he turns to Walt and says, ?How about you, Mr. Garrity? You want one??
The old ranger smiles. ?Where I'm going, they?d just take it off me. A gun they might not mind, but radios are a big no-no.?
?Just making sure.?
?Thanks, but I work alone. Kind of a habit.?
Kelly laughs suddenly, as though at Walt?s expense.
?What is it?? Garrity asks, a little edge in his voice.
?I?'ve been trying to remember something all night. Something my uncle used to say.?
?What?s that??
??One riot, one Ranger.? That'?s the motto, isn?t it??
Walt sighs like a man who?s heard this line a thousand times too many. ?That'?s the myth, not the reality.?
Kelly says, ?I understand,? and offers his hand.
Garrity takes it and shakes firmly. ?Good luck to you, soldier. And keep your eyes peeled for dogs.?
?I'?ll hear the dogs,? Kelly assures him.
?No, you won'?t. Dogfighters are like the dopers now. Once upon a time, they used guard dogs to warn you away and alert them to run. Now they sever the vocal cords so there?s no bark to warn you.?
A chill races across my skin.
?My God,? says my father.
?They?re on your throat before you even know they'?re there,? Walt says. ?A lot of cops have been hurt like that this past year. Some killed.?
?Thanks,? Kelly says. ?I?'ve heard of that before, but I?'ve never seen a dog it?s been done to.?
?I have,? I say softly. ?Jonathan Sands has one.?
Everyone turns to me.
?It?s white, and it?s
I think the breed is called a Bully Kutta.?
I?'ve rarely seen astonishment on Kelly?s face, but I see it now. ?That'?s a Pakistani breed,? he says. ?A war dog. It?s related to the Bully Ker. I?'ve seen those fight in Kabul. The tribesmen fight them against
Two dogs against a bear, and the dogs always win.?
?Who the hell are these people?? Dad asks.
Kelly pats my father on the shoulder. ?I don'?t think we?ll know that until we find out how Jonathan Sands spent the first part of his life.?
?Are we going to find out??
Kelly nods. ?The British government can stonewall Blackhawk all
they want, but I?'ve got personal friends in the SAS, vets who served in Northern Ireland. We?ll have the story before long.?
?By tonight?? Caitlin asks.
?Maybe. In any case, I think we should get out of here. It?s going to be a long day, and an even longer night. Everybody know what their job is??
After everyone nods, Kelly reaches into his gear bag and brings out two more walkie-talkies. One he gives to Danny McDavitt, the other to my father. Then he looks at Caitlin and me.
?You two are together for the duration, right??
She nods, and I see color in her cheeks.
?Glad to see it,? Kelly says with a smile.
?I am too,? says my father. ?Too bad it takes a goddamn crisis to bring them together.?
?Dr. Cage,? Kelly says, ?I?d appreciate it if you?d scope out some safe houses for us, on both sides of the river. Think you can do that??
?This time of year, I'm sure I can. Both of my partners? lake houses are empty.?
?Hey,? I say, pointing at Kelly. ?Caitlin and I are together until tonight. Then I'm with
?
CHAPTER
28
If it were any other year, this would be my favorite day of the Balloon Festival: the ?barge drop? event as seen from the Ramada Inn above the Mississippi River Bridge. The flashy trappings of the festival stand a mile away at Fort Rosalie. Here there is no grand stage, no headline act or spotlights, no carnival rides. But the Natchez Ramada Inn, a monument to bourgeois America, commands one of the most breathtaking views of the Mississippi River on the continent. Soon it will be leveled to make way for yet another casino hotel, but for locals it remains the beating heart of the Balloon Festival. A strong pilot presence gives it the buzz of a military command center from Friday until Sunday evening. You can smell the pork ribs being barbecued by the swimming pool even before you get out of your car. Every room with a river view has been rented for a year in advance, many by local organizations who use the event as an excuse for three days of uninterrupted partying.
The object of the ?barge drop? is for a balloon crew to drop a beanbag onto a white cross marked on the deck of a barge holding position in the Mississippi River. Many end up landing?sometimes crash-landing?on the grounds of the hotel itself, or in the neutral ground at the foot of the massive hill the hotel stands on. But the true center of the festivities is the long hill that falls precipitously
from the hotel pool toward Highway 84 and the river. Here hundreds of families gather on blankets and lawn chairs to watch their children slide hell-for-leather down the slope on flattened cardboard boxes, toward a concrete drainage ditch. Each sally is potentially life-threatening, and beyond the concrete lies a much longer slope covered with a thick mat of kudzu. I?'ve seen fathers in their forties make twenty or thirty trips up that hill dragging a scarred Maytag box behind them, with a toddler or two still clinging to it like princes on a magic carpet. It?s a miracle the hotel?s owners allow this ritual in our hyperlitigious age. That a dozen lawsuits don'?t arise from this activity every year says more about the crowd than anything else. They?re the kind of parents who, if their son broke his arm, would tell him it was his own damn fault for not stopping short of the concrete and to suck it up until they could get
