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your head out of your asses to figure out who did it. You're fucking copping
out shit, I never even knew what that meant until now! You want to justify
your chicken-shit attitude and your lame-ass failure, tell it to the mirror!
Me, I'm not buying it."
With that he got up violently, knocking the chair to the floor as he did so.
He stormed from the office and out into the street as quickly as he could,
taking with him the mental image of
Mosely's red face staring up at him with surprise and anger, yes, and a secret
guilt.
About the third time another driver screamed obscenities at him, Gabriel
realized that he was about to kill himself and probably take one or two others
with him. He slowed down the bike, pulled over to the curb, and parked under a
shady tree, letting the bike idle. He took a couple of deep breaths.
He couldn't remember ever being this angry before. He wasn't the "storming out
of the room"
type, not the violent type, yet he'd been ready to rip someone's head off and
still felt the urge curled in his hands like a pup.
What difference does it make? The police weren't exactly helping you anyway.
But it ticked him off. Was he the only one in this town with eyes? The police
had been hood-
winked, or they allowed themselves to be. Even
Mosely.
Not Voodoo, no, huh-uh. Oh, and by the way, we'll just let these nutty
pranksters get off scot-free. What
the hey. They keep the Italian Mafia out.
That was like saying "Let's keep the lion in the house, dear. It'll take care
of the mice." As far as
Gabriel knew, the Italians weren't in the habit of turning young men into a
mass of liquefied flesh from across town or carving out hearts in semi-
public places without worry of being seen.
No. Truth was, the police were scared. He'd seen it in Mosely's eyes. His own
fear, yes, but more important was that guilt. Guilt for the back-
shuffling of the entire force.
Look at it this way, Gabe ol' pal. If the N.O.P.D. is dropping it, if they're
scared, what the hell are you doing keeping your skinny li'l ass in it?
"Gonna die young anyway," he muttered to himself. And the sound of those words
spoken in the afternoon light on the ordinary city street, bike in idle, black
leather booted heels spread on either side of the motorcycle and planted on
the hot Louisiana asphalt, created a wash of dis-
placement. He was suddenly looking down at himself from a third eye in the
sky. The picture he saw was so goddamn perfect, so fucking chivalrous, so
monumentally James Dean that his anger evaporated instantly and the writer in
him broke into applause.
Fuck it. This is better than one of my goddamn novels.
Do it alone then, you cheeky bastard. Do it alone.
He watched himself like that, grinning, all the way home.
Grace looked pale when he entered. He went to the coffee machine, still in the
midst of an exag-
gerated swagger.
Grace watched him. "Seen the afternoon paper?"
she asked, chewing her lip.
"Nope."
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"Police have closed the case," she said bitterly.
"Yup," he replied. He started humming and boosted himself up onto the coffee
table to sit, legs swinging free. He watched his boots curiously.
She looked disappointed that her bomb-
shell hadn't landed as planned. "That doesn't bother you?"
"Grace, ya gotta learn to lighten up, go with the flow," he lectured,
demonstrating with fluidly waving hands.
She stared at him in disbelief, then a shadow crossed her face. It was obvious
to Gabriel that it had Malia's name on it. She thought he was just too
dumbstruck to care about anything. He didn't bother to correct her.
"Fine," she said flatly. "I assume we're done with the research, then."
"Wrong. I was going to ask you if you'd check out something tonight. Rada
drums."
"Rada drums?"
"Yeah. What are they. Where they come from.
In particular, see if you can find anything about drum codes. You know, like
smoke signals, only louder."
He cracked himself up, nearly falling off the table. Grace observed him with
the patience reserved for the insane.
"Okeydokey," she said. "So you're still on the case even though the police
aren't?"
"Gracie, old gal, you and me . . . we don't need those losers anyway," he said
in mock seriousness.
Grace pursed her lips and said nothing. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]