Lake Charles (18 page)

I bunched up my fist. “Can I beat out of Sizemore where he has taken Edna?”

Herzog scrunched his face. “Don’t bank on using brute force. He’s a vicious adversary.”

“If he freaks you so much, why did you volunteer?”

“What’s the adage? ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’ We’re up against it at your trial. I’m an officer of the court, and the legality of what you want to do is highly questionable.”

“Tough titty. It’s too late to abort.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Who’s in your hunting lodge?”

“We’re an eclectic association of professionals.”

“English, please.”

“Lawyers and doctors, for the most part.”

“How many tom turkeys have you bagged?”

“More of a hunting enthusiast, I shun the violence but savor the excitement of the chase.”

“Is your lodge in town?”

“We meet at the depot restaurant.” He lowered his voice to a sober murmur. “Pay no attention to Kuzawa. His advice is dangerous.”

“He’s always been solid by me. You can be the getaway driver.”

“No, I can keep up and do my part. That’s why you paid me.”

“I paid you to keep me out of jail.”

Twilit licks of crimson and purple inflamed the western sky beyond the bug-spattered windshield. Every so often, a vehicle droned by on the state road, one junker with a muffler dragging the asphalt and kicking up sparks. I glimpsed a red Cadillac whisk by, but it was too dim to make out the driver or passengers. Mr. Kuzawa slept on and I envied his ability to rest at a time like this. By marked contrast, my lawyer fidgeted.

“Herzog, you’re a raw nerve, man.”

“I don’t deny it, but you need me along,” he said.

* * *

“How risky is doing this?” asked Herzog.

I’d abandoned the silver maples, turned off the state road, and crawled in reverse down a bush road Mr. Kuzawa had noted earlier. The darkening hardwoods absorbed us, arranging the scene for our nocturnal raid on Castle Sizemore.

“Negligible if we stay sharp,” replied Mr. Kuzawa. “By striking due east through the woods, we hit Sizemore’s property line. Cross it and then hump over his fields. Be quiet. Don’t spook the horses. The high ground near the mansion affords us a vantage point.”

Herzog’s tongue scraped his lips. “Can you clarify our objective?”

“Make him give up where Edna is,” replied Mr. Kuzawa.

“I trust that includes no rough stuff,” said Herzog.

“It depends. If he brings heat, we respond in kind.” Mr. Kuzawa paused. “Just wait in the truck, Herzog. You’ll drag butt and slow us down.”

“I’m an outdoorsman,” he said. “Your pace won’t outstrip me.”

“We go in as a group,” I said, the final word. “To recap, I’m after Edna and the pot farms. I don’t want any fatal accidents.” My stare met Mr. Kuzawa’s fiery bulletpoints for eyes. My horror replayed the arrow piercing Cobb’s chest. “Killing has no place in this.”

“Agreed, so back off,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “Do you know if Sizemore is weapons savvy?”

“He brought up his poker games at Fort Hood,” I replied.

“Probably a rear echelon motherfucker,” said Mr. Kuzawa, rich on the scorn.

I let off the gas pedal and notched us in behind a big tree trunk. The humus on the forest floor raised the earthy odor of decaying leaves. My primed 12-gauge fell at my shoulder. The .44 went in my waistband. “Sizemore is no dummy. Our best chance is to catch him off-guard.”

Mr. Kuzawa nodded. “If we hit a shit storm, fire at will, and fade back to the woods. We rendezvous here. Don’t get lost. Go in a straight line until you hit the bush road.”

“Do I go armed?” asked Herzog.

“No way, lawyer. Friendly fire won’t shoot up my ass. Stay in back with your head down.”

Guided by a faint, red star—Venus, I hoped—there in the sparkly night sky, we rambled between the dark trunks to the hardwoods. The night bugs played a discordant note like jazz fusion. Encountering no undergrowth or brambles, we reached the property line sooner than expected. The knolls separated us from our target thought asleep in his fortress. Mr. Kuzawa’s bolt cutters snipped apart the four strands of barbed wire. Herzog curling back the strands pricked his finger.

“Where are your gloves?” asked Mr. Kuzawa.

“I lost them somewhere after the truck,” replied Herzog.

Mr. Kuzawa gave a damn-lawyer-could-fuck-up-a-wet-dream headshake. Toting my 12-gauge at port arms, I trotted a few paces behind them. The distant silhouettes were the horses. The tang of wood smoke I smelled touched a distinct memory of Ashleigh’s pledge sworn in the van of how one day we’d dance and sing on her clouds. The rise and tumble to these grassy knolls in the starlight assumed the physical aspects of a cloudbank. Consulting her tarot cards, she’d predicted it right. Now with each bounding stride, I aimed my raving outburst at her.

Yo, Ashleigh, I’m dancing on your clouds and belting out our song. It’s a bloody fight song. Can you hear it? Can you carol its lyrics with me?

I waited, but I got no response from her.

Ah hey, have another toot off the joint rolled from your father’s pot gardens at Lake Charles. Sing on your clouds how he shoved me to the precipice of hell, and how tonight I’m shoving back, baby. I’m shoving back with all my might.

You hear me, Ashleigh? Huh? Can you? Speak up, girl. Don’t be shy. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be aloof. I ride low in the saddle like Jesse and Frank James, the badass brothers who roved these same cursed ridges. Just call me a nightrider, a bushwhacker, and a desperado hell-bent to plug you. Your daddy’s barbed wire fences, blowhard threats, and palm sap couldn’t keep me at bay. Talk to me, Ashleigh baby. Speak up. I’m all ears for you.

For the first time since her death, she’d no pearls to share with me. Her standoffishness didn’t amaze me. She was no real spider woman, just a bad dream. We didn’t alarm Sizemore’s horses or goon squad. As we crested the last knoll, the mansion’s glittery windows vaulted into our eyes. Sweaty and breathless, we knelt at the near slope so our profiles didn’t imprint the starlit sky. The half-dozen or more lit windows arrayed below confused us. My fears banded the muscles in my lower back.

“There are too many rooms,” said Herzog.

“Just creep in closer,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “Keep your voice low, too.”

Jets of adrenaline ripped me. I billowed out my chest to snatch in breaths and rein in my flighty heartbeats. I led us scuttling downhill when the rifle fire spattered out. My eyes trained on the nearest bright window saw the orange-yellow spurts to the muzzle flash. Hot rounds stitched the turf inches from me. We lunged flat and hugged the turf where I damn near soiled my pants. Elbows digging, Mr. Kuzawa snaked up to lay even with me, his eyes a pair of live briquettes.

“Ambush,” I said.

“But just the one shooter.”

“I thought he was asleep. How did he see us this fast?”

“Night vision scope maybe.”

“Sounds ugly. Do we pull out?”

“Hell no. Sneak into our range and bring smoke.”

A new volley erupted before the lights in the mansion, window by window, fell dark to remove targets for our return fire. My eyes strained to orient us. The lines, corners, and forms gave the shape to the sheds, barns, and mansion, a forbidding bulk within a hardball toss from us. The gunfire slacked off.

Twisting to look behind us, Mr. Kuzawa waved a hand. “Herzog, you’re straggling. Catch up.”

“Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

“First you get with us.”

With reluctance, Herzog joined us, and we crabbed to the nearest elevation. From this crow’s nest, I saw the orange-yellow tongues of fire pulsate from the high window. The rounds tossed the divots at our cowing faces. We’d two choices: charge in or pull back. Mr. Kuzawa decided, and I sprang up after him. We moved in a zigzag dash toward the porch. Herzog stumbled along somewhere in our path.

I threw up the covering fire, racking my 12-gauge pump eight times. My volleys of lead shot thrashed our attacker off us. Unhurt, we met at the porch. The 12-gauge’s recoils left my shoulder twinging. Mr. Kuzawa bapped out the glass pane to the French doors while I reloaded, thumbing in the 00-buckshot shells from my pockets and handling the hot steel barrel. He grappled through the jagged hole in the glass and undid the latch.

“We’re in,” I said.

“Herzog, stay at the window. At any cop wig-wag lights, you sing out,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “We scramble for the pines and link up at Brendan’s truck.”

Herzog bobbed his head. “Sure, sure. Go on.”

After locating the wall switches, I toggled on the light sconces as we hurried forward. The furnishings—Persian rugs, loveseat, and baby grand piano—had a regal but artificial flare. Edna didn’t turn up. Neither did Sizemore. My fight blood crackled. I realized the stairs were our fastest way to get at the murderous sniper.

I touched Mr. Kuzawa’s forearm. “He wants to guard his escape route.”

“Take the stairs. Cut off the bastard at the balls.”

Footfall thumped overhead. Hustling, we edged through an archway and found a steel circular staircase. Mr. Kuzawa tilted his 12-gauge: we climbed. I went first, my 00-buckshot load of death chambered. My pulse roared behind my ears. Mr. Kuzawa trailed me by two steps. Our ascent went slow, and no more sounds came. Did Sizemore wait topside to take off my head? Good sense said lay off until sunup still too many hours away.

But my adrenaline was the go juice having the last say. I used an instinctual crouch on the upstairs floor. I froze, my eyes and ears attuned. The lunar glow from the skylight improved visibility. Mr. Kuzawa emerged at my shoulder.

“No ambush up here,” I said.

“Luck favors the ballsy.”

We stood, I sensed, in a spacious room. Then ahead of us, I caught a snatch of Sizemore with his Van Dyke beard as he darted through a bright doorway. His thumping tread sent us chasing him to the main stairs we’d missed. We hit the first floor running. His flight shot through the high-ceiling dining room. At a glance, I saw the exterior door flung wide, and I looked out into the dark. He’d streaked over the yard to save his ass. His hillside mansion wasn’t so impregnable.

“We scared him off,” I said, back in the dining room.

“His goon squad off peddling his dope can’t protect him,” said Mr. Kuzawa.

“Further pursuit?” I asked.

“Not with him packing a night vision scope on a rifle in the woods.” Mr. Kuzawa jerked his head. “Instead we’ll go case his set up.”

“Find Edna” was my simple directive.