The Thanatos Syndrome

directions, toward the tower and toward the intake, by the faint yellowing. See?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou see the hatch?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI judge the pump is waterproofed against high water, which can get up to six feet here.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œI don’t see any nipples or caps like over at the intake.”
    â€œNipples? Caps?”
    â€œYou didn’t notice it?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t, Vergil.”
    â€œNext to the intake. A three-inch fiberglass nipple stubbed off and capped. Not something you would notice unless you were looking for it.”
    â€œYou mean there was a pipe sticking out of the ground?”
    â€œYes. Probably with a valve just below ground, coming off a T. As if they might be taking samples from whatever is in the pipe.”
    â€œShit, let’s go,” says the uncle.
    â€œRight,” I say, following them down the trail, thinking of nothing in particular. “Right.”
    â€œWe got time to catch a mess of sac au lait before dinner,” says the uncle.
    â€œNo, we haven’t,” says Vergil, pulling up short.
    Blocking the jeep trail are two men. I recognize the red fishing caps.
    But they’re not fishermen. They’re police, uniformed in brown, green-yoked shirts. Each carries a holstered revolver. I recognize the six-pointed star of the shoulder patch. They’re parish police, sheriff’s deputies. One is youngish, slim and crewcut. The other is even younger, but bolder and fatter. Both are wooden-faced. I am relieved. What did I expect, some secret nuclear police?
    â€œYou fellows looking for us?” I say, smiling.
    They nod, not smiling. The younger, husky one has his hand on the holster strap.
    â€œCould we see some identification, please,” says the older, wirier one.
    Vergil and I reach for our wallets, hand them over.
    â€œShit, I didn’t bring anything but my fishing license. We were going fishing. Will this do?”
    The older one looks at it, doesn’t take it. “What were you doing here?”
    â€œI wanted to show them the best place in the parish for woodcock,” says the uncle. “But we ain’t hunting! Y’all from Wildlife and Fisheries? The doctor here is a birdwatcher.”
    â€œYou gentlemen better come with us,” says the older cop.
    â€œWhat for?” asks the uncle.
    â€œWhat’s the charge, Officer?” I ask.
    â€œA fellow escaped from Angola last night,” says young and stocky .
    â€œDo you think it’s one of us?” asks the indignant uncle.
    â€œThese two fellows have identification,” says old and wiry.
    â€œJesus Christ, are you fellows telling me you think I escaped from Angola?” asks the uncle. “Wait a minute. Y’all from the sheriff’s office in Clinton, ain’t you? Wait a minute. Don’t I know you?” he says to the younger. “Ain’t you Artois Hebert’s boy?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œThen you know me. Everybody knows me. Hugh Bob Lipscomb. Ask Sheriff Sharp. I been knowing Cooter Sharp.” The uncle holds out his hand.
    But the older deputy says only, “Let’s go,” and leads the way. The younger falls in behind us.
    â€œThere’s something funny about this,” says the uncle to me. “Those guys are from the sheriff’s office.”
    â€œI know. Shut up.”
    â€œThey’re not NRC guards or federals! They didn’t even mention trespassing!”
    â€œI know. Shut up.”
    The lead deputy kicks up a woodcock. It squeals and goes caroming off in its nutty corkscrew flight, eyes in the back of its head. Once, the uncle told me why woodcock have eyes in the back of the head: “So they can stick that long beak, head and all, all the way down in the wet ground—and still see you.”
    â€œLet’s go to Clinton,” says the older deputy.

8. BOB COMEAUX SPRINGS US from jail almost before we’re booked. Who called him? Nobody, he explains, a routine telex which flags him down whenever one of his federal parolees runs afoul of the law. Aren’t you glad I’m your parole officer? he asks amiably, shaking hands all around and even giving me a medical-fraternal hug.
    Clinton has a new jail, or rather a carefully restored old jail done up in columns and shutters to match the colonial courthouse and the neat little shotgun cottage-offices of lawyers’ row. The jail is