Someone Bad and Something Blue (19 page)

“I can't make it quick if I'm in pain.”

“You haven't felt pain, yet. Now tell me what I need to know.”

He lifted his head. His wild eyes were filled with confusion. “You want my help?”

I looked at Sanchez, then back to Uncle Pete. “Yes, sir.”

He laughed. His voice was dry and liquored up. “I thought you were coming here to drag me to jail. Bringing that hot Federal up in here like that. You almost gave this old fool a heart attack. Your aunt told you I'm on them blue pills now? Gotta keep her happy.”

I slapped him upside his head. “You disgust me. You know that?”

“Not disgusted enough for you to not show your face here.” He chuckled. “Your mammy's too good to take the four-hour drive from Atlanta to come see me, but she will see me one way or another.”

“Uncle Pete, I'm not playing.” I lowered my head and sighed. “I'm trying not to gut somebody who deserves a bullet in the head.”

“Well, I know how that feels.” He limped toward his leather recliner and plopped onto it. “What do you need from me?”

“I'm heading down toward the coast to bring in a fellow, but I'm going with the marshals and I don't want to stick out like a sore thumb.”

“That's easy. Don't go.”

“Not gonna happen. I meant, I don't want any of us to stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Then lose the Trailblazers. You need some mud-bogging trucks.” I'm pretty sure Maxim patted himself on the back in the van after overhearing that.

“Where can we get some of those down here?” I asked.

“I know a fellow, but I won't tell you in front of her.” He tilted his head at Sanchez. “When you plan on leaving?”

“Tonight, if possible.”

“The Federals got you doing their work for them now?” He sneered, then spit into a rusty coffee can. By the stench of the room I assumed he was chewing tobacco. I did everything I could to keep from tossing my cookies.

“It's not like that,” I said.

“Yeah, it is.” He leaned back in his recliner until his footstool flung out. It clanked when he dropped his dirty boots onto it. “And they send a hot tamale with you because she favors them migrant workers in the cotton fields down there. Both of y'all are stupid.”

I hit him so hard in the jaw I hoped I squeezed the last drip of tobacco juice out his mouth. Then I grabbed him up, opened the marijuana growing closet, and dunked his face into the soil. “You don't want to mess with me tonight, old man. I will burn this house up and take Aunt Mary to Mama's. Kill you, and Sanchez wouldn't open her mouth about it.”

“Why you gotta be so mean, Angel?!” He screamed, then coughed. I'm sure the dirt was choking him.

I yanked him out of there and slung him against the maps. “I need you to get me some mud-bogging trucks, have them waiting for me in Howell 'fore day in the morning, or it'll be ‘Night Night, Uncle Pete.' You got me?”
Now I sound like Tiger and Uncle Pete.

He bobbed his head. “That's all?”

“Tell me, how can someone live in the state without an identity? How can they hide, travel, and no one knows a thing? Better yet, how can someone just disappear without leaving the state?”

“There are illegal aliens, bail jumpers, child support stiffs, honest folk who think taxes are criminal, who live among us every day without needing an ID, but to disappear. . . .” He rubbed his chin. “To disappear means never having to show your face again, living in forests, deserts, places where the popo won't tread because the county doesn't pay them enough.”

“What about swamps? You think someone could hide out in a swamp?”

“Filled with gators, moccasins, wild hogs, and skeeters with stingers so long it'll pierce you through and through?” His yellow eyes widened. “Yep. You could live there.”

Uncle Pete had a knack for making everything that came out of his mouth the most interesting thing imaginable. I used to love listening to him all day when I was a child. But then I learned the truth about him and Aunt Mary. I now swallowed a twinge of bitterness down my throat when I caught myself lingering on his words.

“Outside of the Okefenokee, where else could he hide?” I asked.

“The only swamp large enough to hide and live in for long periods of time is Okefenokee.”

“Which part?” I asked. “It's a lot to cover.”

“Not too far from Folkston. But if a man really wants to disappear, all he has to do is live with a hardworking, churchgoing woman. She'll hide him good fashion, so the other ladies won't snatch him up.”

“I bet she would.” He nauseated me. “If I were to go to Folkston, where could I get a track phone, some bait, and a bloodhound without standing out?”

“Are you asking me about where the crackers shop?”

Okefenokee crackers—or swamp people—was what we used to call them before we stopped believing in urban legends and knew better. They lived around the edge of the swamp. They had their own culture and way of doing things. Rosary's father's family was a part of that culture. They didn't like paying taxes, because the government didn't benefit their lives, so the way they shopped was also different.

“There's a house off State Road 40 in Kingsland where you can get what you need. I'll write the woman's name and number down. She only takes cash, so you better get your cash before you get down there. The banks down there aren't as sophisticated as they are here. May not have an ATM.”

“There's an ATM everywhere.” Sanchez smirked.

“She don't know what she talking 'bout. That one gon' get you kilt, Angie.”

“Thanks, Uncle Pete, and have Aunt Mary call me when she gets home.”

“Why?”

“I need her to talk me out of hauling your butt into jail for turning Granny's house into a ganja farm.”

Sanchez coughed. “Angel, we have to go.”

I turned to Uncle Pete. “Where's Aunt Mary?”

“She ain't dead, Angie. She just done gave up on me.”

I chuckled. “Have her call me. I won't believe it until I hear it from her mouth, and if you don't have what I asked for in the morning, you may need to disappear right along with her.”

When I hopped back into the marshal's black Navigator with Sanchez, Maxim called. I answered but only heard cackling on the other end of the phone.

“What's so funny?” I asked.

“Angel Crawford, you are indeed a chameleon. Who knew you, a sophisticated journalist turned bail recovery agent turned private dickette, was a good ole country girl?” He continued laughing.

I hung up the phone and drove off, leaving them where they parked. I hoped it would take them an extra hour to find their way back to the main drag.

 

 

 

It was too late for me to call Ava or Mom after we checked into a hotel for the night. However, there was someone I knew would be up waiting for my call. Justus.

He picked up on the first ring.

“I was calling because I needed to hear a familiar voice to help me go to sleep.”

 

I
had prided myself on being a GRITS—“girl raised in the south”—but I hadn't reveled in the South until now. Deep, twisty gray moss dangled from oak trees like canopies and nets. I wanted to climb onto them and hang there for a while or swing. I wanted to hide in a gigantic hole at the base of an old towering oak tree that we passed a mile back up the road. There was something lazy and sexy about this place. It made me think of Justus and that wedding dress I'd found at Filene's Basement.

We pulled into a gas station that from the outside looked just as modern as anything in Atlanta, but once inside the people and the dusty pork and bean cans that lined the shelves soon made me realize that I had stepped into a new dimension that deserved my undivided attention—at least until I found Rosary or The Knocker, hopefully Rosary, alive, first.

Maxim stepped outside, rounded the corner of our grimy Ford pickup, thanks to Uncle Pete, and let me out. Ty, Sanchez, and our other teammate, affectionately known as “Jack Daniels Johnson, the ATF guy,” pulled up beside us. If I hadn't been standing next to Maxim we would've stuck out like a sore thumb. He was dressed like the next Marlboro Man and I was still dressed like Bridesmaids Gone Wild, more like pink and yellow clumsy roller derby/cheerleaders.

I waved them over. “Look, we need gas and I need to ask someone to direct us to a decent truck stop or shopping center. I have to get out of these clothes.”

“Yeah, we don't want to bring any unwanted attention to ourselves.” Ty snickered.

“Sanchez, you don't have any clothes Angel could wear?” Maxim asked. “She looks like a retired high school cheerleader who relives her glory days every Friday night at her son's middle-school basketball game.”

I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow. “If you're not the pot calling the kettle outdated, you throwback Maverick.”

Everyone giggled for a few minutes. It felt good to take the pressure off our assignment.

“Let's get inside before someone hurts my feelings,” I said to Maxim. “Maybe they can direct me to a place to pick up some clothes.”

He handed me some cash. “It's my fault that I didn't take you home. Things were moving so fast I didn't stop to think that you still had on your getup from The Running of the Brides.”

I handed him his cash back and smiled. “Thanks, but I'd rather invoice you instead.”

“Good Lord, woman. If I see a pair of hundred-dollar jeans on your receipt I'm hauling you in for a white-collar crime that'll stick.” He laughed.

I turned back and looked down at his designer duds and smirked. “Pot calling kettle . . .”

 

 

 

Since we arrived early, Sanchez went with me to Folkston's Dollar General to help me find something to wear until we got to St. Marys. This big box retailer had become the local general store for many rural towns like Folkston. There was so much cool stuff in here I could shop for hours.

Before we headed to the checkout line with my buggy filled with jeans, v-neck tees, and enough toiletries to open a spa, Sanchez stopped me.

“What's going on with you and Marshal West?” she asked.

“Honey, I have a boyfriend.” I waved her off.

“Oh . . .” She perked up. “I was concerned there for a minute.”

“Wait.” I looked at her. “Don't tell me you have a crush on him, too. Girl, he's a ladies' man, can't you tell?”

“I know.” She smiled. “But he's different with you, so be careful.”

I giggled nervously. “How differently, exactly?”

“We're not camping out with them when we get closer to where Biloxi is reported to be. West has express orders to keep you protected at some bed-and-breakfast on the other side of town. That's my job, to protect you.”

I frowned. “Are you kidding me?”

She shook her head. “No, I'm not. Honestly, I thought you knew about this until I saw you with your uncle last night. I realized you were tough enough to hang, but as I watched West with you this morning . . .”

Sanchez was still talking, but I didn't hear another word she said. My blood boiled. I was embarrassed. What was I doing here, if I wasn't bringing Rosary home?

I walked away from my buggy and stormed out. I heard Sanchez shouting after me.

I turned around and shouted back at her. “Are you coming or what?”

By the time we returned to where the guys were I was a brand-new shade of pissed. I slammed the truck door and marched toward where Maxim stood.

He looked at me and frowned. “You too good for Dollar General?”

I grabbed his arms and dragged him away from Ty and the boys. I heard snickers, but didn't care. I was embarrassed enough.

Maxim caught my arm, lifted me a little. “This isn't the time for your theatrics, Angel.”

“What do you mean by having me perch in some B&B while you guys go get the bad guy?” I hissed.

His eyes lit up. He looked over at the crowd and pushed his Stetson farther past his brow. “Come with me.”

He walked to the backside of the gas station where the restrooms were. Worst place in the world, in my opinion.

“Look, I know you get off talking to Big Tiger and your boyfriend any kind of way, but this ain't that kind of show. Whatever decisions I make you have to deal with it.”

“But it's stupid. Why did you drag me here, if I'm not going to be with you guys?” I shouted.

He grabbed me by the arms. “Hush.”

I looked down at his hands. “Let go of me.”

He sighed. “If Rosary didn't tell whoever contracted The Knocker about Sean's plans, then someone in my crew did.”

I gasped. “I never thought of that.”

“Exactly . . .” He pulled me closer toward him. “Sean's death is on my hands. I can't let Rosary, Lucia, and you be on them, as well.”

“So having Sanchez baby-sit me will do what exactly?”

“For one, if he shows up where you are, then I know it's Sanchez. If he eludes us in the park, then . . .”

“You can't think it's sweet Ty?”

“I hope it's not either one of them.” He let go of me and took off his hat. “But you seem to think that your friend wouldn't dime you out and I think that my friends wouldn't dime me out.”

“So we're in a pickle,” I said.

“No, you and I are at odds.” He dusted his pants with his hat. “The fair thing to do is to test your theory. If I'm right, then Rosary becomes a wanted woman. If you're wrong, then Rosary still becomes a wanted woman, but this time the U. S. Marshal's Department will do our best to save her. Fair enough?”

“Fine.” I nodded. “And how will the crew not suspect that something is going on between us, because I had to convince Sanchez that you and I aren't hitting the sheets every time we're away from the crew.”

“I'll think of something to give off the vibe that I don't like you. Now get away from me. You smell like cotton candy.”

“It's my body cream.” I swooped away from him. “I didn't know you hated cotton candy.”

“I don't. I'm infatuated with it.” He put his hat back on and walked away. “Go get some clothes on. Will you?”