think is just a chamois cloth is actually a soft swatch of leather with the letters USN needled into it with dark blue ink. Above these letters are an anchor and a rope. About five inches long, and brown as stained walnut, the skin has rolled a little at the edges. Fighting the urge to gag, I lift the thing from the bottom of the footlocker. The obscene trophy is soft and buttery, like the finest grain leather. It is leather, I remind myself. Tanned to perfection by someone with a deep knowledge of such things.
“Son of a bitch,” Walt intones.
I try to speak, but my throat has sealed shut. The ragged edges of the thing in my hand make it plain that it was cut from Jimmy Revels’s arm. I only hope he was dead when it happened.
“This is my ticket back into the sheriff’s office,” I finally whisper. “To talk to Snake Knox.”
“Is that where we’re going?”
After hastily repacking the footlocker, I fasten it shut, then look up at the old Ranger. “No. Not yet. Kaiser won’t let us do what we’d need to do to Snake.”
Walt nods gravely. “Where then?”
“It’s time to talk to Forrest Knox.”
His eyes narrow. “You gonna call him on that cell phone Dennis gave you? Try to cut a deal with him?”
“There’s no deal to be had. We’re going to find out where Dad is, no matter what that takes.”
An unspoken question rises in Walt’s eyes. I lay the tattoo in his callused hand, then get to my feet and check my pistol. The old Ranger looks down at the tanned skin for several seconds without speaking, feeling it between his fingers. Then he brings it closer to his face so that his aging eyes can focus on the inked letters.
“Jesus wept,” he says finally. “I had a brother who served in the navy. No matter what happens at Knox’s place, I’m gonna kill the motherfucker who done this.”
CHAPTER 59
THE BOUCHARD LAKE house sits on the side of Lake Concordia farthest from the Mississippi River. A modernist, metal-skinned anomaly, it stands out among the older ranch houses and contemporary McMansions. At my request, Walker Dennis waited for us four miles up the road in the parking lot of a small grocery store that serves the lake residents. There I parked my Audi and climbed into Drew’s truck, while Walker followed us in his marked Tahoe.
During the drive here, Walt told me two things I could scarcely believe: first, that he’d planted the derringer that killed Trooper Deke Dunn inside Forrest Knox’s Baton Rouge home; and second, that while exploring Forrest’s computer, he’d discovered a video of a state police SWAT unit murdering what appeared to be black drug dealers during Hurricane Katrina. Walt rather unwisely turned this video over to Colonel Griffith Mackiever, but so far as he knows, the derringer still remains in Knox’s house. The implications of this information are too explosive for me to predict, yet I will be facing Forrest himself in less than five minutes.
When we reach the driveway of the Bouchard house, Walker Dennis pulls in after me and blocks the drive with his Tahoe, then climbs out with an AR-15 mounting an ACOG sight on its top rail.
“What’s the fire signal?” he asks.
“If I raise my right forefinger, blow him away.”
“Forrest first?”
“Whoever’s the most immediate threat.”
Dennis nods, then walks behind the Tahoe and rests his rifle on the hood, making a bench rest of his vehicle.
Walt drives slowly up the driveway: thirty meters, forty . . . I lay my hand on his arm and wait for him to turn to me. When he does, I say, “Tell me one thing, Walt. Did Dad kill Viola? I don’t care either way at this point. I just need to know.”
The old Ranger’s eyes don’t waver. “I honestly don’t know. I just came to help the man, because he’s my friend.”
I actually believe this. Walt and my father are from a different era, almost a different nation. The code by which they live probably precluded Walt from even asking the question.
“What if they just open up on us from the house?” he asks.
“They won’t. If they’re watching, they’ll have seen Walker’s bubble lights already.”
Walt doesn’t look reassured. “You sure you don’t want to try to call Knox on that cell phone?”
“Nope. I’ve got other plans for that phone.”
The brakes squeak as Walt rolls to a stop twenty meters from the house. I can just see the corner of