it, had to let go of the little boy. If she didn't, what lay ahead for her would almost certainly involve nightmarish mental disintegration, a psychiatric hospitalization, the loss of her job.
A bag lady stared back at her from her own reflection in the scratched airplane window. Mad, ruined, incoherent. That terror was always there. Would always be there.
“No way!” she resolved fiercely. She'd get home, check in with the shrink at the clinic, get a couple of sedatives, go home and sleep.
A call to Bill Denny's unit at the SDPD would put the cops on the trail of the Rowe connection, if there really was one. If she wasn't imagining the whole thing.
Bo bit the knuckle of an index finger and felt the plane's wheels scrape tarmac. Home. But, a thundering unease told her, not home free.
17 - Chivas, Messy
In Houston the bartender at Oak Arbor called the cab to remove Mac Rowe from the club's paneled premises earlier than usual. The tennis crowd wouldn't begin drifting in until around 3:30, and it was always necessary to shovel Mac into a cab before he outraged the club's matrons by urinating into one of their Gucci bags again. Mac looked bad today. Not just wild-eyed and dirty, but sick. Really sick. Bruised and yellowish around the eyes and under the fingernails. The barkeep had seen it before. In that line of work you saw what the amber liquids lined up behind the bar could do. A slow poison. In spite of himself he felt sorry for Mac Rowe.
Mac felt a similar pity when he got home. He'd managed to stagger from the cab into the house only to find Tia gone and that idiot of a new maid sniveling something about being sick. The pain in his gut was like a rivet gun, hot as hell.
“Gimme my pills, damn you!” he roared at the stupid creature. But she just trembled and snuffled.
“Ah cain't unnerstan' ya, Mistah Rowe! What you want?”
Deely would have known. Would have been standing at the door with the pills. Mac stumbled at the edge of the hall rug and fell against the table. Who in hell had put a spittoon full of flowers in his hall? He threw the brass container against the door in a shower of leaded-glass splinters.
“Mistah Rowe . . . “ the girl sniveled.
Where was Deely? He had to find Deely. She'd give him the pills. The pain would stop. Probably up in the attic with the family secret, his idiot grandson.
“ Deely . . . ?” he screamed and grabbed in both hands the curving banister he'd slid down as a child. She'd be up there. She was always up there.
“Deely ain't here no mo'...” the whine intruded. “And I got to leave now, go to the doctor. . .”
“Get out!” Mac Rowe bellowed hoarsely. He wanted to pull out a stair rail and beat the girl into silence, but the rails wouldn't break loose. Behind him a last shard of leaded glass fell and shattered as the door closed. The creature was gone. Now where was Deely?
On all fours Mac made it to the first landing of the curved staircase his mother had descended for her wedding in imported peau de soie and lace mitts. She'd carried a white parasol. Mac could see the picture in his mind as his bowels writhed and then exploded. The pain was white-hot, ramming his guts out, climbing his throat. He fell with his face wedged between two banisters, and couldn't move. From his mouth and nose something warm gurgled and dripped in thin, red strings down a wall of faded photographs.
The last word Mac Rowe would pronounce was “fuck,” but nobody heard.
MacLaren Rowe was dead.
18 - Message from Houston
Deely saw the pirogue cutting through bayou mist before she could see who was in it. Her hand tightened on the 12-gauge shotgun resting across her lap. Both barrels were loaded, and she'd known how to shoot since she'd weighed enough to stay on her feet with the recoil. It was probably Raveneau in the hollow-log boat he'd bought from a Cajun. If not, an intruder would find access to the shack on its stilts above
A bag lady stared back at her from her own reflection in the scratched airplane window. Mad, ruined, incoherent. That terror was always there. Would always be there.
“No way!” she resolved fiercely. She'd get home, check in with the shrink at the clinic, get a couple of sedatives, go home and sleep.
A call to Bill Denny's unit at the SDPD would put the cops on the trail of the Rowe connection, if there really was one. If she wasn't imagining the whole thing.
Bo bit the knuckle of an index finger and felt the plane's wheels scrape tarmac. Home. But, a thundering unease told her, not home free.
17 - Chivas, Messy
In Houston the bartender at Oak Arbor called the cab to remove Mac Rowe from the club's paneled premises earlier than usual. The tennis crowd wouldn't begin drifting in until around 3:30, and it was always necessary to shovel Mac into a cab before he outraged the club's matrons by urinating into one of their Gucci bags again. Mac looked bad today. Not just wild-eyed and dirty, but sick. Really sick. Bruised and yellowish around the eyes and under the fingernails. The barkeep had seen it before. In that line of work you saw what the amber liquids lined up behind the bar could do. A slow poison. In spite of himself he felt sorry for Mac Rowe.
Mac felt a similar pity when he got home. He'd managed to stagger from the cab into the house only to find Tia gone and that idiot of a new maid sniveling something about being sick. The pain in his gut was like a rivet gun, hot as hell.
“Gimme my pills, damn you!” he roared at the stupid creature. But she just trembled and snuffled.
“Ah cain't unnerstan' ya, Mistah Rowe! What you want?”
Deely would have known. Would have been standing at the door with the pills. Mac stumbled at the edge of the hall rug and fell against the table. Who in hell had put a spittoon full of flowers in his hall? He threw the brass container against the door in a shower of leaded-glass splinters.
“Mistah Rowe . . . “ the girl sniveled.
Where was Deely? He had to find Deely. She'd give him the pills. The pain would stop. Probably up in the attic with the family secret, his idiot grandson.
“ Deely . . . ?” he screamed and grabbed in both hands the curving banister he'd slid down as a child. She'd be up there. She was always up there.
“Deely ain't here no mo'...” the whine intruded. “And I got to leave now, go to the doctor. . .”
“Get out!” Mac Rowe bellowed hoarsely. He wanted to pull out a stair rail and beat the girl into silence, but the rails wouldn't break loose. Behind him a last shard of leaded glass fell and shattered as the door closed. The creature was gone. Now where was Deely?
On all fours Mac made it to the first landing of the curved staircase his mother had descended for her wedding in imported peau de soie and lace mitts. She'd carried a white parasol. Mac could see the picture in his mind as his bowels writhed and then exploded. The pain was white-hot, ramming his guts out, climbing his throat. He fell with his face wedged between two banisters, and couldn't move. From his mouth and nose something warm gurgled and dripped in thin, red strings down a wall of faded photographs.
The last word Mac Rowe would pronounce was “fuck,” but nobody heard.
MacLaren Rowe was dead.
18 - Message from Houston
Deely saw the pirogue cutting through bayou mist before she could see who was in it. Her hand tightened on the 12-gauge shotgun resting across her lap. Both barrels were loaded, and she'd known how to shoot since she'd weighed enough to stay on her feet with the recoil. It was probably Raveneau in the hollow-log boat he'd bought from a Cajun. If not, an intruder would find access to the shack on its stilts above
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