Native Tongue Part 39

"That's outlandish," Molly said. "Who is this federal witness?"

"I imagine you already know." Hawkins jotted something in the notebook. "The man who made the phone call, we believe, was Buddy Michael Schwartz. I showed you his photograph the last time we visited. You said he looked familiar."

"I vaguely remember."

"He has other names," Hawkins said. "As I told you before, Schwartz is wanted in connection with the animal theft from the Amazing Kingdom."

"Wanted?"

"For questioning," the agent said. "Anyway, we believe the events are connected."

The ominous wiretap conversation had elevated the vole investigation from zero-priority to high-priority. Billy Hawkins had been yanked off a bank-robbery case and ordered to find out why anyone would be setting up Francis X. Kingsbury, aka Frankie King. The Justice Department had pretty much forgotten about Frankie The Ferret until the phone call to Sal Delicato. The renewed interest in Washington was not a concern for Frankie's well-being so much as fear of a potential publicity nightmare; the murder of a protected government informant would not enhance the reputation of the Witness Relocation Program. It could, in fact, have a profoundly discouraging effect on other snitches. Agent Hawkins was told to track down Buddy Michael Schwartz and then call for backup.

Molly McNamara said, "You think this man might have broken into my house to use the phone!"

"Not exactly," Hawkins said.

She peered at him skeptically. "How do you know it was he on the line? Did you use one of those voice-a.n.a.lyzing machines?"

The FBI man chuckled. "No, we didn't need a machine. The caller identified himself."

"By name?" The blockhead! Molly thought.

"No, not by name. He told Mr. Delicato that he was an acquaintance of Gino Ricci's brother. It just so happens that Buddy Michael Schwartz served time with Mario Ricci at the Lake Butler Correctional Inst.i.tute."

Molly McNamara said, "Could be a coincidence."

"They shared a cell. Buddy and Gino's brother."

"But stilla""

"Would you have a problem," the agent said, "if I asked you to come downtown and take a polygraph examination?"

Molly stopped rocking and fixed him with an indignant glare. "Are you saying you don't believe me?"

"Call it a hunch."

"Agent Hawkins, I'm offended."

"And I'm tired of this baloney." He closed the notebook and capped the pen. "Where is he?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Hawkins stood up, pocketed his notebook, straightened his tie. "Let's go for a ride," he said. "Come on."

"No!"

"Don't make it worse for yourself."

"You're not paying attention," Molly said. "I thought G-men were trained to be observant."

Billy Hawkins laughed. "G-men? I haven't heard that one in a longa""

It was then he noticed the pistol. The old lady held it impa.s.sively, with both hands. She was pointing it directly at his crotch.

"This is amazing," said the agent. "The stuff of legends." Wait till the tough guys at Quantico hear about it.

Molly asked Billy Hawkins to raise his hands.

"No, ma'am."

"And why not?"

"Because you're going to give me the gun now."

"No," said Molly, I'm going to shoot you."

"Lady, gimme the G.o.dd.a.m.n gun!"

Calmly she shot him in the thigh, two and one-quarter inches below the left hip. The FBI man went down with a howl, clawing at the burning hole in his pants.

"I told you to watch your language," Molly said.

The pop of the pistol brought Danny Pogue and Buddy Schwartz scrambling down the stairs. From a living-room window they cautiously surveyed the scene on the porch: Molly rocking placidly, a man in a gray suit thrashing on the floor.

Danny Pogue cried, "She done it again!"

"Christ on a bike," said Bud Schwartz, "it's that d.i.c.k from the FBI."

The burglars cracked the door and peeked out. Molly a.s.sured them the situation was under control.

"Flesh wound," she reported. "Keep an eye on this fellow while I get some ice and bandages." She confiscated Billy Hawkins's Smith 8c Wesson and gave it to Bud Schwartz, who took it squeamishly, like a dog t.u.r.d, in his hands.

"It works best when you aim it," Molly chided.

Danny Pogue reached for the barrel. "I'll do it!"

"Like h.e.l.l," said Bud Schwartz, spinning away. He sat in the rocker and braced the pistol on his knee. The air smelled pungently of gunpowder; it brought back the memory of Monkey Mountain and the trigger-happy baboon.

Watching the gray-suited man squirm in pain, Bud Schwartz fought the urge to get up and run. What was the old bat thinking this time? Nothing good could come of shooting an FBI man. Surely she understood the consequences.

Danny Pogue opened the front door for Molly, who disappeared into the house with a pleasant wave. Danny Pogue sat down, straddling an iron patio chair. "Take it easy," he told the agent. "You ain't hurt so bad."

Billy Hawkins grunted up at him: "What's your name?"

"Marcus Welby," Bud Schwartz cut in. "Don't he look like a doctor?"

"I know who you are," the agent said. It felt as if a giant wasp were boring into his thigh. Billy Hawkins unbuckled his trousers and grimaced at the sight of his Jockey shorts soaked crimson.

"You a.s.sholes are going to jail," he said, pinching the pale flesh around the bullet wound.

"We're just burglars," said Danny Pogue.

"Not anymore." Hawkins attempted to rise to his feet, but Bud Schwartz wiggled the gun and told him to stay where he was. The agent's forehead was sprinkled with sweat, and his lips were gray. "Hey, Bud," he said, "I've seen your jacket, and this isn't your style. a.s.sault on a federal officer, man, you're looking at Atlanta."

Bud Schwartz was deeply depressed to hear the FBI man call him by name. "You don't know s.h.i.t about me," he snapped.

"Suppose you tell me what the h.e.l.l's going on out here. What's your beef with Frankie King?"

Bud Schwartz said, "I don't know who you're talkin" about."

Miraculously, Danny Pogue caught on before saying something disastrous. He flashed a checkerboard grin and said, "Yeah, who's Frankie King? We never heard a no Frankie King."

"Bulls.h.i.t," Agent Billy Hawkins growled. "Go ahead and play it stupid. You're all going to prison, anyhow. You and that crazy old lady?"

"If it makes you feel any better," said Danny Pogue, "she shot us, too."

The campsite was...gone.

"I'm not surprised," Joe Winder said. He took Carrie's hand and kept walking. A light rain was falling, and the woods smelled cool.

Carrie asked, "What do we do if he's really gone?"

"I don't know."

Ten minutes later she asked if they were lost.

"I got turned around," Winder admitted. "It can't be too far."

"Joe, where are we going?"

The rain came down harder, and the sky blackened. From the west came a roll of thunder that shook the leaves. The birds fell silent; then the wind began to race across the island, and Joe Winder could taste the storm. He dropped Carrie's hand and started to jog, slapping out a trail with his arms. He called over his shoulder, urging Carrie to keep up.

It took fifteen more minutes to find the junkyard where the ancient Plymouth station wagon sat on rusty b.u.mpers. The yellow beach umbrellaa"still stuck in the dashboarda"fluttered furiously in the gale.

Joe Winder pulled Carrie inside the car, and hugged her so tightly she let out a cry. "My arms are tingling," she said. "The little hairs on my arms."

He covered her ears. "Hold on, it's lightning."

It struck with a white flash and a deafening rip. Twenty yards away, a dead mahogany tree split up the middle and dropped a huge leafless branch. "G.o.d," Carrie whispered. "That was close."

Raindrops hammered on the roof. Joe Winder turned around in the seat and looked in the back of the car. "They're gone," he said.

"What, Joe?"

"The books. This is where he kept all his books."

She turned to see. Except for several dead roaches and a yellowed copy of the New Republic, the station wagon had been cleaned out.

Winder was vexed. "I don't know how he did it. You should've seena"there were hundreds in here. Steinbeck, Hemingway. Jesus, Carrie, he had Garcia Marquez in Spanish. First editions! Some of the greatest books ever written."

"Then he's actually gone."

"It would appear to be so."

"Think we should call somebody?"

"What?"

"Somebody up in New York," Carrie said, "at the prison. I mean, just in case."

"Let me think about this."

"I can't believe he'd try it."

The thunderstorm moved quickly over the island and out to sea. Soon the lightning stopped and the downpour softened to a drizzle. Carrie said, "The breeze felt nice, didn't it?"

Joe Winder wasn't listening. He was trying to decide if they should keep looking or not. Without Skink, new choices lay ahead: bold and serious decisions. Winder suddenly felt responsible for the entire operation.

Carrie turned to kiss him and her knee hit the glove compartment, which popped open. Curiously she poked through the contentsa"a flashtight, a tire gauge, three D-sized batteries and what appeared to be the dried tail of a squirrel.

And one brown envelope with Joe Winder's name printed in small block letters.

He tore it open. Reading the note, he broke into a broad smile. "Short and to the point," he said.

Carrie read it: Dear Joe, You make one h.e.l.l of an oracle.

Don't worry about me, just keep up the fight.

We all shine on!

Carrie folded the note and returned it to the envelope. "I a.s.sume this means something."

"Like the moon and the stars and the sun," Joe Winder said. He felt truly inspired.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

The Amazing Kingdom of Thrills reopened with only a minimal drop in attendance, thanks to a three-for-one ticket promotion that included a free ride on d.i.c.kie the Dolphin, whose amorous behavior was now inhibited by four trainers armed with electric stun guns. Francis X. Kingsbury was delighted by the crowds, and emboldened by the fact that many customers actually complained about the absence of wild snakes. Kingsbury regarded it as proof that closing the Amazing Kingdom had been unnecessary, a costly overestimation of the average tourist's brainpower. Obviously the yahoos were more curious than afraid of lethal reptiles. A thrill is a thrill, Kingsbury said.

The two persons forced to sit through this speech were Pedro Luz and Special Agent Ron Donner of the U.S. Marshal Service. Agent Donner had come to notify Francis X. Kingsbury of a possible threat against his life.

"Ho! From who?"