The Inside Ring Page 21

The bartender ignited a cigarette and took a sip of his bourbon. “Anyway, the sheriff gets the reverend to take Morgan in and he makes the boy go to school to see if they can teach him to read and write. I understand he went for a while but then they sent him upstate, to a reform school. He was botherin’ the girls.”

  “Bothering them how?” DeMarco asked.

  The bartender shrugged. “Don’t know. I was working over in Florida about that time so I wasn’t here when it happened. But he musta done something more than pull their pigtails.”

  DeMarco could see Morgan, hiding behind the rhododendron, spying on the girl on Taylor’s porch.

  “What happened after that?” DeMarco asked.

  “Oh, when he gets out of jail, he’s full grown and he’s got that lightnin’ scar on his face. And he’d been lifting them dumbbells in jail too, cuz he came back harder than an ol’-time blacksmith.”

  “What’s he do around here?”

  The bartender finished his drink in one swallow. “Hey, thanks for the drink, podna,” he said, “but I’d better go see if your dinner’s ready.”

  DeMarco’s cell phone rang while he was eating. It was his pal at the IRS and he had Hattie McCormack’s address. DeMarco got directions from the bartender then called the motel one last time to see if Emma had returned. She hadn’t.

  DEMARCO WAS JUST a block from the restaurant, driving in the direction of Hattie McCormack’s farm, when he checked his rearview mirror and saw a red pickup truck tailgating him. The pickup passed, swerved in front of him, and stopped abruptly. DeMarco had to slam on his brakes to avoid a collision; he stopped with his front bumper just touching the rear bumper of the pickup.

  The driver’s-side door of the pickup opened. It was Morgan.

  Morgan walked slowly toward DeMarco’s car, his dark face unreadable. DeMarco opened the door to get out of his car but before he could completely exit the Mustang, Morgan lunged forward, grabbed a handful of his shirt, and pulled him from the vehicle. Morgan then spun him around, grabbed his left wrist, and forced DeMarco’s left arm up behind his back so that his hand was between his shoulder blades. The pain in DeMarco’s left shoulder was instantaneous and excruciating, and Morgan had executed the move so quickly that DeMarco had had no time to react.

  With his arm pinned behind his back, Morgan marched DeMarco over to the passenger-side window of the pickup. Taylor was seated in the pickup; the window was rolled down. He was dressed as he had been earlier in the day, in a plaid work shirt and jeans, except now a red baseball cap sat atop his head. His gaunt, old-time prophet’s face was livid with anger.

  Morgan released DeMarco when they were next to the pickup but DeMarco was furious and he spun around to confront Morgan. Before he could complete the spin, Morgan simply slammed him in the back with his palm, driving him up against the truck. My God, but the man was quick.

  “What’s your damn game, mister?” Taylor said

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” DeMarco said.

  Morgan took his hand off DeMarco’s back allowing him to step away from the truck. Now he was standing slightly behind DeMarco, on his right-hand side. His breathing was normal, his face was expressionless. He was as relaxed as a man waiting for a bus.

  “I called Washington, you jackass,” Taylor said. “You’re not a writer. You’re a damn lawyer up there and you work for Congress. Now I want to know what the hell you’re doing here and why you’re asking questions about me.”

  Who had he talked to, DeMarco wondered? Donnelly? Maddox? Billy’s wife? It had to be Donnelly. But how much had Donnelly told him?

  “What I’m doing here is confidential, Taylor. Now—”

  “Goddamnit, don’t you dare play games with me!” Taylor screamed. “Morgan, make this idiot understand I’m serious.”

  Morgan grabbed DeMarco’s right shoulder, spun him partially around, and hit him in the solar plexus. The blow was so hard that it felt as if his belly had been driven into his backbone. DeMarco doubled over, clutched his gut, and tried to keep from puking while simultaneously trying to get his lungs to readmit air.

  “You havin’ a problem here, Mr. Taylor?” DeMarco heard a voice say. “This fella hit your truck?”

  DeMarco looked up. Thank God. To his relief he saw a Charlton County sheriff’s cruiser and a young deputy standing near the hood of Taylor’s pickup. The deputy could see the condition DeMarco was in: bent over, holding his stomach, his face contorted with pain.

  Taylor hadn’t seen the deputy drive up. Now he glanced over at him in irritation and said, “No, he didn’t hit anything. Take off, Gary. This is private.”

  The deputy hesitated. He looked at DeMarco and said, “If you say so, Mr. Taylor. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

  Jesus Christ, thought DeMarco. What’s wrong with these people?

  “It is. Now take off,” Taylor said.

  The deputy gave DeMarco another guilty glance and drove away.

  DeMarco was still hunched over from Morgan’s blow. He thought of coming up out of his crouch, spinning, and hitting Morgan in the balls. As if Morgan could read his mind—or the subtle change in DeMarco’s position—he stepped back a pace. He was ready for DeMarco, balanced lightly on his feet, palms turned slightly forward. DeMarco knew he’d never get to Morgan in time—so he decided to threaten Taylor instead.

  “Taylor,” he said, his breathing labored, “if this son of a bitch hits me one more time he better kill me because I’ll get federal marshals down here and have you both arrested.”

  Taylor’s response was an arrogant smile. “That’ll be the damn day,” he said, then he looked over DeMarco’s shoulder and nodded to Morgan.

  Morgan’s right hand whipped out and encircled DeMarco’s neck from behind and his fingers dug into DeMarco’s throat. DeMarco tried to pull free but Morgan just jerked on his neck, with one hand, upsetting his balance. DeMarco reached up with both hands to break Morgan’s grip on his throat which gave Morgan the chance to grab his left wrist and he again pinned DeMarco’s left arm behind his back. With only his right hand, DeMarco was unable to pry Morgan’s fingers loose from his throat; Morgan’s fingers were talons embedded into his skin.

  Morgan increased the pressure on DeMarco’s throat and the upward pressure on his left arm until he stopped struggling.

  “Now I’m gonna find out what you’re doing down here,” Taylor said. “And if I have to have Morgan rip your arm out of the socket, by God, I will.”

  Morgan released the pressure on his throat slightly so DeMarco could speak—and breathe.

  “Taylor, I’m not talking to you until this bastard lets go of me,” DeMarco said, his voice strained, the pain in his shoulder joint almost unbearable. He didn’t know what he was going to say if Morgan released him, but he needed to get out of this arm hold to have a chance to defend himself.

  Taylor looked into DeMarco’s eyes: he could see pain and anger, but not the fear he was looking for. “I can see I’m just not gettin’ through to you, boy. Morgan, just bust his goddamn arm.”

  Fuck! DeMarco tried again to pry Morgan’s fingers from his throat and to twist free of his grip, but it was impossible. Morgan was just too strong and he could feel the soft things in his shoulder—the muscles and tendons and ligaments—start to yield and pull away from the bone.

  “Max, did you have an accident? Can I help?”

  Morgan reduced the pressure on DeMarco’s arm and throat but continued to restrain him. DeMarco looked over to see a middle-aged woman in a Cadillac. She was speaking to Taylor while staring at DeMarco, a concerned look on her plump face.

  “Goddamnit,” muttered Taylor, “this town’s gettin’ more crowded than Atlanta.” To the woman he said, “Thank you, Ellen, but everything’s fine here. You just go on about your business.”

  “Call the state po—” DeMarco said. Morgan’s fingers dug in again; it felt as if his trachea was being crushed.

  The woman looked nervously over at Taylor. “Are
you sure everything’s okay, Max? If I can help, you know I’ll be glad to.”

  Taylor’s patience snapped. “Goddamnit, Ellen! I said everything’s all right. Now get the hell out of here!”

  The woman flushed red with embarrassment. “Sorry, Max, sorry,” she muttered and drove away so fast she burned rubber.

  Taylor looked over at DeMarco then turned his head and looked up the street. There was another car coming in their direction.

  “Shit,” Taylor muttered. “Come on, Morgan,” he said, “get in the truck.”

  Morgan’s grip immediately relaxed and DeMarco collapsed to his knees. As Morgan passed him he looked down at DeMarco. He said nothing and his face was expressionless, but DeMarco could read in the Indian’s eyes his amusement at DeMarco’s condition and his contempt for his weakness.

  From the pickup window, Taylor pointed a finger down at DeMarco and his lips parted to speak, but then his hand dropped and he grunted to Morgan, “Take off.”

  As the red pickup drove away, DeMarco rose slowly and unsteadily to his feet, his breathing still labored from the damage caused by Morgan’s fingers to his throat. He grimaced as he gently rotated his left arm. It was painful but fortunately his shoulder wasn’t dislocated. Not by much, it wasn’t.

  He was lucky Morgan hadn’t killed him as the good citizens of Folkston went about their business.

  IT TOOK DEMARCO more than an hour to find Hattie McCormack’s farm and by the time he did it was dark. Partly it took so long because many of the roads weren’t marked and he had to backtrack several times to pick up landmarks the bartender had given him for directions. The other reason the trip took a while was that he was being extremely careful to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

  He came at last to a dented mailbox that had “H. McCormack” hand painted in uneven letters on the side. He drove up the single-lane dirt road and saw Emma’s rental car parked in front of a small cabin.

  DeMarco parked his Mustang near Emma’s car and walked up and knocked on the cabin door. There were no lights on inside and no one answered his knock. He walked around and looked in all the windows, and quickly concluded the place was empty.

  Emma must have gone someplace with Hattie. She said the first time she saw Hattie, Hattie was ripping a traffic ticket off the windshield of her pickup. There was no pickup near the house or a garage where one could be stored.

  DeMarco looked at his watch: nine thirty p.m. He sat in his car until his back started to ache. He left the car to sit in one of the two rocking chairs on Hattie’s porch but a few minutes later retreated back to the car when the mosquitoes began to make a banquet of him. He rolled up the car windows to keep the mosquitoes out but couldn’t turn on the air-conditioning because he was low on gas. Within minutes the car became a sauna with bucket seats and DeMarco’s back started to cramp up again. Jesus, but he was sick of this damn place.

  His shoulder was also throbbing. He was shamed by how easily Morgan had manhandled him, though logic told him he had no reason to be. Morgan was just quicker and stronger than him—and less human. But he was still ashamed. Joe DeMarco, a tough kid raised on the mean streets of New York, the son of Gino DeMarco, and he’d been slapped around like a ninety-pound weakling.

  Which also led to the realization that there was no way that Morgan would have knocked his father around like that. Gino DeMarco would have put the barrel of his gun between Morgan’s black eyes the minute the man approached him—and he’d have killed him the instant he sensed a threat.

  Enough of this. He wasn’t his old man. He didn’t want to be and he wasn’t going to be. But he had to wonder: What would he have done if he had been armed?

  At ten p.m. he said to hell with it. He didn’t have any idea when Emma would get back and it made no sense to sit in his car all night waiting for her. He would return to the motel, sleep a few hours, then get up at dawn and drive back out here. If Emma still hadn’t shown up he’d contact the state police and get them to put out an APB on Hattie’s truck. He wasn’t going to bother calling the Charlton County authorities; it was obvious from what he had seen earlier that they would be no help if Taylor was involved in Emma’s disappearance.

  But there was someone who could help. DeMarco punched numbers into his cell phone.

  “Mary Pat, it’s Joe DeMarco. Is he there?”

  “Joey! It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you?”

  DeMarco absolutely loved Mahoney’s wife. If there was a kinder, more decent person on the face of this cruel planet, he didn’t know who it could be. And she qualified for sainthood being married to Mahoney.

  “I’m fine, Mary Pat. But I need to talk to him. It’s impor—”

  “Did you call that pretty young lady whose number I gave you, Joe? Bridgett, over at Senator Remmick’s office?”

  “Uh, I tried, Mary Pat. We didn’t connect.”

  “You’re a terrible liar, Joseph. You’d think you’d be better considering who you work for. Wait a minute. I’ll get him.”

  “It’s about time you called,” Mahoney grumbled. “What’s going on?”

  “Emma’s missing and a thug who works for Taylor beat the shit out of me.”

  “You hurt bad?”

  “Just my pride.”

  “Pride heals.”

  Not really, DeMarco thought.

  “So what’s happening?” Mahoney said, DeMarco’s bruises already forgotten.

  DeMarco told him.

  “So other than findin’ out that Taylor’s some small-town big shot, which you pretty much knew before you went down there, you don’t have squat connecting him to the assassination attempt or Donnelly or anything else.”

  “I found out he’s paranoid and goddamn dangerous. And I’m pretty sure he knows Donnelly. He called D.C. today to find out about me and it had to be Donnelly he talked to.”

  “Yeah, but why would Donnelly help him? And what’s Taylor’s motive for tryin’ to kill the President?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Shit, Joe, you gotta do better than this.”

  “Right now I have to find Emma.”

  “Emma can take care of herself. I’ll bet you Taylor’s guy couldn’t beat her up.”

  Now that hurt.

  “She’s still missing and if Taylor’s involved, I’m not going to get any help from the locals finding her. I may need you to call someone down here, the governor or the attorney general.”

  Mahoney didn’t respond.

  “And one other thing,” DeMarco said. “If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, you definitely better call someone.”

  “Ah, you’ll be all right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Mahoney. What a peach.

  DEMARCO APPROACHED HIS motel room door with a feeling of relief and immediately had the unflattering self-image of a field mouse returning to its burrow after venturing out into the dark, owl-infested night. Home, sweet, home it wasn’t but compared to Hattie McCormack’s pitch-black, mosquito-infested tobacco patch, the Days Inn was paradise.

  He opened the door, reaching for the light switch as the door was still swinging open. He remembered his finger touching the switch, thought he remembered flipping it up, but in less time than it took for electricity to become light the world disappeared in a flash of pain.

  36

  DeMarco didn’t know where he was and for some reason his eyes wouldn’t open so he could find out. He knew he was lying on his back on something hard, and the hard thing was moving and the motion was making him ill. He shook his head to clear away the cobwebs. That was a mistake. The back of his head began to throb. With his eyes still shut he reached back and touched the spot from which the pain emanated and felt a soft lump.

  A voice said, “Can’t hurt too much, bucko. I sapped you damn near perfect—didn’t even break the skin.” Adrenaline surged through DeMarco like an electric current and his eyes popped open in alarm. Dale Estep was smiling at him.

  Estep was dressed in army camouflage fatigu
es and wore a shapeless hat that was also a mottled, camouflage green. His arms were moving oddly. Finally, DeMarco’s brain engaged. Estep was paddling a canoe and the hard surface he was lying on was the bottom of the canoe. DeMarco’s head was resting on the bow seat.

  DeMarco started to sit up but Estep took the oar and poked him in the center of the chest. At that moment, DeMarco noticed the holstered pistol on Estep’s right hip and a long hunting knife in a scabbard on his right calf. “Relax, bucko,” Estep said. “I don’t want you rockin’ the boat.”

  DeMarco checked the luminous hands of his wristwatch: it was one a.m. He’d been unconscious for more than an hour. He looked over the gunwale of the canoe at his surroundings: it was a moonless night but he could make out the silhouettes of a few cypress trees and hazy curtains of Spanish moss hanging from the lower branches. They were in the damn swamp!

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Estep?” DeMarco asked. He may have been scared but he was also angry. He was damn tired of getting pushed around by these hicks.

  “So you do know me,” Estep said.

  Fucked up again, DeMarco thought. He tried a different question. “Where are we going?”

  “Due west, bucko, right into the middle of my favorite swamp.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I like the Okefen at night. Night’s when things kill each other. Strong things kill weak things; fast things kill slow things. You hear things screamin’ all the time out here at night. One more screamin’ thing won’t make any difference.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” DeMarco said, fearing he already knew the answer.

  “Uncle Max asked me to have a little talk with you, bucko. Said he wanted me to find out what you were up to. Thought I’d take you someplace where we could chew the fat and not be disturbed. Uncle Max said when he talked to you earlier, all sorts of people kept droppin’ by. No chance of that where we’re going.”

  Why did Estep keep calling Taylor “Uncle Max”? Billy had called him Uncle Max too. So had Honey, the young girl he had seen at Taylor’s place.