Carnal Innocence

“I kilt ’em all, but there ain’t no jail can hold me.”
    “I’ll bet. We got ourselves a dangerous criminal here, Barb.”
    “Don’t I know it. I come down this morning, and he’d done turned up the heater on the aquarium and fried every living guppy in there. I got a psychopathic fish-murderer on my hands.” She dug into the bag of cheese balls on the desk and munched. “So what can I do for you, Tuck?”
    “Looking for Burke.”
    “He deputized a few of the boys, then he and Carl took them out to look for Austin Hatinger. County sheriff come down, too, in his ’copter. We got ourselves a regular manhunt. Wasn’t so much him taking a few shots at you and blowing out that Caroline Waverly’s windows,” Barb said complacently. “But he dented that county deputy’s head pretty good, and embarrassed the shit out of the other one. Now Austin’s an escaped felon. He’s in big trouble.”
    “The FBI?”
    “Oh, Special Agent Suit-and-Tie? Well, he’s leaving this business pretty much up to the local boys. Went out with them for form’s sake, but he was more interested in his interviews.” She took another handful of cheese balls. “I happened to see one of them lists he makes. Looked like he wanted to talk to Vernon Hatinger, Toby March, Darleen Talbot, and Nancy Koons.” Barb licked salt off her fingers. “You, too, Tuck.”
    “Yeah, I figured he’d get around to me again. Can you call Burke up on that thing?” He pointed to her radio. “Find out where he is and if he’s got a minute for me?”
    “Sure can. They took walkie-talkies.” Obligingly, Barb wiped her orange-smeared fingers, fiddled with some dials, cleared her throat, then clicked on her mike. “This is base calling unit one. Base calling unit one. Over.” She put her hand over the mike and grinned at Tuck. “That Jed Larsson said how we should use code names like Silver Fox and Big Bear. Ain’t he a one?” With a shake of her head she leaned down to the mike again. “Base calling unit one. Burke honey, Y’all out there?”
    “Unit one, base. Sorry, Barb, had my hands full. Over.”
    “I got Tucker here in the office, Burke, says he needs to talk to you.”
    “Well, put him on, then.”
    Tucker bent down to the mike. “Burke, I got something I need to run by you. Can I come on out?”
    There was a sharp whine of feedback, a protesting oath, and a scratching of static. “I’m pretty tied up right now, Tuck, but you can ride on down to where Dog Street Road runs off into Lone Tree. We got a roadblock set up there. Over.”
    “I’ll be right along.” He looked doubtfully at the mike. “Ah, over and out.”
    Barb grinned at him. “If I was you, I’d keep a shotgun across my lap. Austin got himself two Police Specials this morning.”
    “Yeah, thanks, Barb.”
    As Tucker walked out, Mark rattled his cage and shouted gleefully: “I kilt ’em. I kilt ’em all!”
    Tucker shuddered. He wasn’t thinking about fish.
    He spotted two ’copters circling on his way out of town. A trio of men spread out like a long V over old Stokey’s field. Another group was making a sweep of Charlie O’Hara’s catfish farm. Every one of them was armed.
    It reminded Tucker miserably of the search for Francie. Before he could prevent it, her dead, white face floated into his mind. On an oath he fumbled for a cassette. It was with relief that he realized he hadn’t punched in Tammy Wynette or Loretta Lynn—two of Josie’s favorites—but Roy Orbison.
    The plaintive, silvery notes of “Crying” calmed him. They weren’t out looking for a body, he assured himself. They were just hunting up an idiot. An idiot with a pair of .38s.
    On the long straight road he could see the barricade five miles before he came to it. It occurred to him that ifAustin came tooling down this way in Birdie’s Buick, he’d have the same advantage. The wooden blockades were painted bright orange and glowed in the quieting sunlight. Behind them, two county cruisers sat nose to nose like two big black-and-white dogs sniffing each other.
    Ranged along the shoulder of the road were Jed Larsson’s shiny new Dodge pick-up—between the store and the catfish, Jed was doing real well—Sonny Talbot’s truck with its big round lights hooked to the roof like a pair of yellow eyes, Burke’s cruiser, and Lou Hopkins’s Chevy van.
    Lou’s van was dusty as an old hound. Someone had scrawled WASH ME! through the grime on the rear window.
    As Tucker slowed,