With one eye squinted and the other glued to the telescope, Cody was so enamored with his ability to dissect fraudulence and self-serving behavior in others that he didn’t notice the two dark Town Cars coming up the dirt track on the hardpan. The cars rumbled across Cody’s cattle guard and parked by his church house, their dust floating up in a cinnamon-colored cloud that broke apart on his deck. Seven men wearing either suits or expensive casual clothes and shades and jewelry and shined shoes or boots got out and walked up the wood stairs. Their faces had no expression. When they neared the top step, they looked at him with the nonchalance of people entering a public restroom.
One man in the middle of the group was obviously not cut out of the same cloth as the others. He removed his shades and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he extended his hand and smiled good-naturedly, with the authority of a man who was comfortable in any environment. “It’s Temple Dowling, Reverend. I’m pleased we could meet,” he said. “You have a fine place here. You’re not afraid to display the flag, either.”
The other men walked past Cody as though he were not there. “Where are they going?” he asked.
“Don’t worry. They’re professionals,” Temple Dowling said.
“They’re going into my house.”
“Concentrate on me, Reverend. We’re on the same side. This country is in danger. You agree with that, don’t you?”
“What’s that got to do with those guys creeping my house?”
“’Creeping’ your house?”
“Yeah, breaking into it. That’s what it’s called. Like burglary.”
“I could tell you I’m CIA. I could tell you I’m NSA. I could tell you I’m with the FBI.” Temple Dowling’s hair was silver and black, thick and freshly clipped, the part as straight as a taut piece of twine. His face wore the fixed expression of a happy cartoon, the skin pink and creamy, his lips too large for his mouth. He reached out and took Cody’s hand again, except this time he squeezed hard, his gaze locked on Cody’s. Cody felt a ribbon of pain slide up his wrist to his armpit. “What are you doing?” he said.
“Congratulating you. I love to fly the flag. I love the people who fly it, too.”
“But you’re with the government, aren’t-” Cody began, opening and closing his bruised hand, his words catching in his throat.
“No, I’m like you, a citizen soldier. We’re looking for a man by the name of Noie Barnum. He’s a misguided idealist who can do great harm to our country. A man such as yourself has many eyes and ears working for him. You can be of great assistance to us, Reverend.”
“I don’t have anybody working for me. What are you talking about?”
“You have a church house full of them.”
“People in my congregation got their own mind and go their own way.”
“We both know better than that. You put the right kind of fear in them, they’ll do whatever you say.”
“I don’t want any part in this. You get those guys out of my house,” Cody said.
“Reverend, let’s be frank. You’ve stumbled into a world of hurt. Would you rather deal with people of your own race and background or Mr. Krill?”
“How do you know about him?”
“We watched you talk with him. Mr. Krill is the man who wants to sell Noie Barnum to Al Qaeda. Would you like that to happen?”
“You were spying on me?”
“What does it matter? You’re working for us now.”
“No, sir, I work for the Lord.”
“You’re saying I don’t?”
The other men reemerged from Cody’s house. “It’s clean,” one of them said.
“Answer my question,” Temple Dowling said to Cody. “You’re telling me to my face I’m not on the side of our Lord?”
“No, sir, I didn’t say that. What’s he mean, it’s clean?”
“It means you’re not hiding the man we’re looking for. It means your computer doesn’t indicate you’re in touch with the wrong people. It means you just passed a big test. I’m going to give you a business card, Reverend, and I want you to call me when you find out where Mr. Barnum is. I also want you to keep me updated on what that Chinese woman is doing. That means I want to know about everything that happens down there on her property. You’re going to be my pipeline into Mr. Krill’s little group. Whatever he does, whatever he tells you, you’ll report it directly to me.”
“You’re going too fast,” Cody said.
“You’re doing all this out of your own volition. That’s because you’re a patriot. I know about that clinic bombing. You’re a man willing to take risks. That’s why I’m making you part of our team.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with that clinic business. No, sir.”
Temple Dowling set his hand on Cody’s shoulder. “We’re going to take care of you. There’ll be a chunk of cash in it for you, too. You’ve got my word. Give me a big hug.”
“What?”
“Just kidding. I had you going, didn’t I?”
Cody’s head was swimming, a smell like soiled cat litter rising from his armpits. “No, sir,” he said.
“No, sir, what?” Temple Dowling said.
“I’m not working for y’all. I’m not having any part of this.”
“I have two affidavits that say you bought the oven timer that detonated the bomb at the clinic. It blinded and disfigured a nurse. I have pictures of her if you’d like to see them. I have a videotape of you in the crowd across the street. You couldn’t stay away from your own handiwork, could you, sir? That’s what I mean when I say you’re a man who lives on the edge. You’re not a suck-up, kick-down kind of guy. You know how to rip ass, Reverend. That woman won’t be in the baby-killing business anymore, that’s for sure.” He glanced at his men and was no longer able to contain his laughter. All of the men had a merry expression in their eyes and were clearly enjoying themselves. “Reverend Daniels, you’re a special kind of shepherd,” Dowling said.
When his visitors had driven away, Cody could hear kettle drums pounding inside his head. He sat down on a wood bench, his spine bowed, his eyelids fluttering, his muscles as flaccid as if his bones had been surgically removed from his body. The only other time he had felt this level of despair was when two county-prison gunbulls had finished with him and lifted him off a sawhorse and dropped him on a workroom floor like a slab of sweaty beef. He wondered why people thought they had to die in order to go to hell.
CHAPTER FIVE
Late Sunday afternoon Pam Tibbs parked the department’s Jeep Cherokee at Hackberry’s front gate and walked up the flagstone steps to his gallery and knocked on the door. He answered in his sock feet, his reading glasses on his nose. “I called twice and you didn’t answer, so I thought I’d drive out,” she said.
“I was in the pasture,” he said.
“Maydeen got a report on an illegal dumping and another one on a break-in at a hunting camp. Both instances involved two guys. The dumping turned out not to be a dumping.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Last night a motorist saw two guys prowling in a creek bed and thought they were dumping trash. It turned out they were rifling the back of a camper. They stole some clothes and shoes and sleeping bags and a propane stove and a first-aid kit. This morning a guy with a long, pointy beard, wearing a tattered suit coat, was seen busting the lock on the back door of a hunting camp. He sounds like the same homeless guy who’s been getting into people’s garbage by Chapala Crossing. Except this time he had someone with him. They cleaned about forty pounds of venison out of the game locker. The witness said the guy in the tattered coat looked like he belted his trousers with a piece of clothesline. Sound familiar?”
“Jack Collins is dead,” Hackberry said.
“You’re convinced of that?”
“He either died of his wounds underground or was eaten by coyotes or cougars. He wasn’t a supernatural
