"Let's go up to the boat," I said, "and have lunch with Hester." My unstated plan worked, as Art excused himself by saying that he wanted to talk with Fred's attorney about an interview with Fred. Fat chance. But a distraction for him. All well and good.

We went in my car, and on the way, I handed the photos that Shamrock had taken over to Lamar and George.

"Check out the dude in the rear. I never saw the man, but I'm told that might be Gabriel."

Lamar just shrugged. He'd never actually seen Gabriel, either.

George had seen at least a photo. He was pretty quiet as he looked at the photo. Then he put it down and leaned up into the front seat between Lamar and myself. "I believe it's him," he said. "When was this taken?"

I told him, and he got on his cell phone. We could hear him talking softly in the backseat, but couldn't quite make out what he was saying. I knew it had to be Volont, though. Just by the tone of George's voice.

As we drove down the bluff-side road into town, you could see the General Beauregard General Beauregard tied up at her own dock, all white and glittery in the sun. The tied up at her own dock, all white and glittery in the sun. The Beau Beau, as they called her locally, was a Mississippi River boat, a false side-wheeler, with the tall, almost delicate smokestacks that Mark Twain would have seen every day on the river. She was a false side-wheeler because she was really driven by a screw at the stern, with two bow thrusters for maneuvering. The big paddle wheels were for show. The main deck was about three feet off the water, with the top of the stacks clearing at about seventy-five feet. She was especially pretty from a distance. As you got closer, the red neon tubing on the side-wheels got a little much. She'd been glitzed up for the gaming trade.

She was moored alongside her own pier, which also supported a large restaurant and entertainment pavilion, with offices on the third and fourth floors.

We three walked down the dock, and I was, as usual, amazed at the number of people on and around the boat. She was about two hundred and fifty feet long, and three decks were full of gaming machines, tables, and bars. They told me that she could carry nine hundred gamblers, and I had no reason to doubt them. Thing was, it was always crawling with patrons. Not nine hundred every time, of course, but she averaged about four hundred and fifty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

She featured three decks of gambling, from about five hundred slot machines to blackjack tables, poker, dice ... well, just about everything, I guess. Glittery, glitzy interior, complete with chandeliers, a gift shop, and a day-care center for children of gamblers, all surrounded by double-pane gla.s.s, attended by about ten crewmen and fifty dealers and a.s.sorted casino personnel. They said that if she ever sank, the hardest rescuing would be prying the hands of the sixty-five-year-old ladies from the handles of the slot machines.

The best thing about her was that she provided about three hundred jobs for our area. Not too bad. She was, in fact, the largest single employer in Nation County.

We entered the pavilion, and went directly to the third floor. Iowa DCI maintained an office for the gaming officers up there. One "real" DCI agent, and two "gamers" per shift. Most of what they did was check the electronic gaming machines, and make sure they paid off at the right odds. We could hear Hester as we got close to their office.

"... and the reports on the applicants for dealer will be on this desk no later than ten A.M. Understood?"

DCI had to do background checks on every boat employee. Including deckhands.

Lamar knocked on the door. It opened rather rapidly, revealing Hester and two young gamers. "Hi," he said. "Is this where we can apply for a job ...?"

Hester was glad to see us, and surprised we had George in tow. She also was ready to eat, and took us down to the pavilion buffet. G.o.d. About a hundred yards of great food, all hot and steaming, from ham to potatoes to soup, to scrambled eggs and sausage, to glazed chicken ... I was in heaven. I only took the low-fat offerings, of course.

"I see," said George, "you found the low-fat fried shrimp."

"But I took rice. If I take the rice ..."

"Oh, look, Carl. Fat-free chocolate eclairs ..." Hester even pointed them out.

Lamar suggested the four-inch-thick Iowa chop. "Low-fat gravy, isn't it?"

Dine smart. That's me.

I had a Diet c.o.ke. To prove I was serious.

As we sat down, I gestured about me with my fork. "Must be nice ... I mean, so this is where they send you when they're mad at you ... I mean, when Lamar gets mad at me, I end up standing out in the rain, up to my ankles in hog manure."

We showed her the photos. She looked at George, quizzically. "You've seen him?"

"No. But I've seen photographs. This looks like the same man, but ... but ... yes, I think it's him."

"So," asked Hester, "what are you guys going to do about it?"

"I've been told to wait," said George. "At least until we can fix his location in real time."

"How are you going to do that?" I really wanted to know.

"Beats me."

Lamar took a deep breath. "I know better than to go rushing in there ... maybe better than any of you. But I don't want this son of a b.i.t.c.h walking away again." He glared at us. "Not again." He spoke to George. "You got any guarantee that he won't just walk away?"

George pursed his lips. "No, Lamar. He won't walk away this time."

I wished I knew how he could be so certain about that. Judging from the look on her face, so did Hester.

Nineteen.

Friday, January 16, 1998, 1354 When we got back to the office, I'd fully expected to see Volont. Lamar picked up his messages. "Our friend Volont is out tailing Linda Grossman," he said. "Thinks she'll lead him to our boy."

"You're kidding ... he really doesn't know where Gabriel is, does he?"

"Doesn't look like it. I hope he's really good at following somebody in the open country ..."

We'd found that the urban folks were pretty funny when it came to tailing people in rural areas. They were used to congested traffic. Out here, when you and your quarry were the only two vehicles on the road, it was a bit tougher to remain inconspicuous. When you were in our hilly country, to boot, you had to be within 200 yards of your subject or you lost sight of them. With myriad intersections, farm lanes, and field entrances, if you lost 'em for more than a few seconds, you could lose them completely. The best way was to have a good estimate of their destination, and get to a spot where you could see some of the roadway from a distance. Spot-check. Actually, following was out of the question, unless you knew for certain where they were headed. If you knew that, there was no real point in following them at all. Just go where they were headed, and wait.

"You want to guess what else?" asked Lamar.

"What else?"

"He's got Art with him."

"You've got to be kidding me ... he's briefed Art?"

"Yep. I guess he feels that with Art with DCI now, he don't need us to help him get around the county."

"Great. Just f.u.c.kin' great. Art ain't ready for this." I just shook my head. "Christ." Saying "Christ" brought the image of Art following Volont to the gates of h.e.l.l. "Volont just got a disciple," I said. "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and Art."

Lamar chuckled. "That's funny."

"You think he's really gonna hit five banks at the same time?" I looked at the map of the county on the wall behind him. "Doesn't make sense to me."

It really didn't. With the wormy roads, the small banks, the smaller take ... it was folly to try that. With a "team" he'd put together from locals, it was worse than that. Three of the banks had large vaults with time locks. Unless you were pretty good at cracking safes, you'd have to hit the bank during business hours if you wanted to get anything to speak of. Even then ... $10,000.00 wasn't much, for the effort, the risk, even the equipment.

"Cletus escaped yet?"

"What?" I'd caught him thinking about something else.

"Cletus ain't busy, is he?" I laughed.

He wasn't, but his attorney had spent the night at the local motel, and had already convinced the judge that Cletus needed a bond reduction hearing. Lamar was to have Cletus in court in about fifteen minutes.

"I'd sure like to talk to Cletus about those little 'training sessions' Gabriel's been giving." I looked out the window. I couldn't talk to Cletus, naturally, without his attorney being present. No real problem. It gave me time for a long coffee break.

I grabbed a cup, and stood at the window overlooking the parking lot and the town below. The sky was bright blue, and it looked almost like spring. It was still below freezing, but relief was on the way. In a few days, we'd be back in the deep freeze. All the warm interlude would have accomplished was to make the gravel roads a little harder to drive, with the mud tracks becoming hard as iron when they refroze. But it was nice, anyway.

Lamar and Cletus came down the hall from the cell block, Cletus in his orange coverall and handcuffed in front. Lamar was limping a little more than usual. Changes in the weather really did affect his leg.

I went out to my car, unlocked it, and started the engine. We'd transport Cletus in my car, and I wanted it warmed up. I left the engine running, and came back in to grab my vest. I met Lamar and Cletus at the door. "I'll be right with you," I said, walking into the secretaries' office to get my vest off the hangers.

I got it, and as I turned, I saw them descending the wooden steps toward the parking lot. Lamar in the middle of the steps, Cletus on the right, near the rail. That way, handcuffed as he was, Cletus was supported on both sides if he started to slip. Suddenly, Lamar froze, and Cletus turned to his left, and just about knocked Lamar over as he stumbled into him. Then I saw one of the wooden posts supporting the porch roof just split in half. No noise. Just splintered and split. It was like slow motion.

Lamar hollered, "Carl!" and tried to grab Cletus and haul him back up the stairs. Cletus, with his balance already thrown off, wasn't able to use his hands well enough to grab the railing, lost his footing, and started to tumble down the steps. Lamar reached down for him, and the porch floor behind him erupted in splinters.

Bullets. Those were bullets. I tried to get my coffee cup on the counter as I hurried by, missed, and drenched the carpet. Judy yelped, totally unaware of what was happening outside.

I flew out the front door, just in time to see Lamar and Cletus falling in a heap at the foot of the steps. I started toward them and the pillar next to me made a thump thump-cracking sound, like it had been struck with a large hammer, and splinters smacked into my left cheek and shoulder. I ducked, and saw the sidewalk ahead of Lamar start to puff in several places as rounds struck it. I jumped down the steps, slipped, wrenched my d.a.m.n back again, and almost fell on Lamar. I grabbed Cletus just as Lamar got back on his feet.

"Behind the cars," he gasped, and we started dragging Cletus through the wet slush toward the line of parked cars out in the lot. I thought Cletus had been hit, and fleetingly wondered if he'd die on us.

Just as we got to the first car, there was a thunking sound, as if you'd hit it with a golf ball. Several golf b.a.l.l.s. Dust flew from under the fenders, and one of the tires went flat with a bang bang.

We kept dragging Cletus, to the second car, and then the third. We heaved him up to the front of the fourth, and collapsed behind him.

I grabbed my walkie-talkie. "Comm, ten-thirty-three, ten-thirty-three, shots fired, parking lot!"

One of the newer dispatchers was on duty, I think her name was Grace. "Ten-nine?" 10-9 means for you to repeat your traffic.

"This is Three, this is ten-thirty-three, somebody is shooting at us in the parking lot!" I gasped for breath. "Get a.s.sistance!"

The golf b.a.l.l.s started up again, working toward us. Plunk, plunk, bang, plunk Plunk, plunk, bang, plunk. A tire.

"Where is that f.u.c.ker?"

"Can't tell..." I couldn't, either. Nor was I about to stick my head up and look. I could hear the dispatcher say something on the order of "Three ... thirty-three ... uh ... courthouse ... I think ..."

Of course. We couldn't hear the gunshots, and neither could she. She was a.s.suming that we were at the courthouse. That's where she knew Lamar had been headed.

I brought my walkie-talkie back up. "We're here at the jail. Shots fired. Get an ambulance!"

"You hit?" Lamar sounded terribly concerned.

"No. You?"

"No. Who the f.u.c.k is the ambulance for?"

"Him," I said, indicating the orange heap that was Cletus.

"s.h.i.t," said Lamar, "he ain't hurt, he's just scared."

We didn't hear any more plunking sounds. The shooting had stopped. The question was: Had the shooter given up?

I cold hear dispatch again, this time Sally's voice. My confidence increased. Cautiously, I raised my head over the fender of the closest car. Nothing. I ducked. Nothing.

"See anything?"

"Nope." I was acutely conscious of the icy water and mud soaking into my shirt and pants. "Let me look again." This time, I drew my gun.

Up, peek, down. Like playing a child's game. I put my left hand on the fender and splayed my fingers out as far as I could. Reference points. I popped my head up, and looked over the top of my thumb, concentrating for about a second only on that sector. Down. Up, with the index finger as my reference. Down.

"Anything?"

"I can't see s.h.i.t," I said, "but I don't know where to look."

Cletus started to make retching sounds.

"Not again ..." said Lamar.

I bobbed my head up, referring to my little finger.

Nothing. Down again. Cletus was still making the noise. "You suppose it could be the jail food?"

"They say," said Cletus, spitting, "I got a nervous stomach."

"No s.h.i.t?"

I could hear a siren start up downtown. Couldn't be the ambulance yet. Cop car.

I saw a dark blue Ford slowly pull into the lot. Well, originally dark blue. This one was spattered with light tan mud, white road salt, and grungy as h.e.l.l. Volont. Car might as well have had FBI plates. Although it was so covered with mud you wouldn't have been able to read them. They monitored a completely different set of frequencies, and obviously were unaware of our problem.

"Looks like the Spook's back," I said. As the Ford turned into the parking slots, I saw it had a large dent in the right rear quarter. "Dinged up, too."

We watched Volont and Art get out of the car, and look at the dent. Both were in suits, with the same light tan mud speckled halfway to the knees.

I got into a crouch, gun still in my right hand. "Get down!"

They both looked at me, startled. Volont comprehended first. Me. The gun. The holes in the nice cars. He nearly vaulted the car closest to him, drawing his gun at the same time.

"Come on!" he yelled at Art.

Art stood still for a split second, just long enough for another golf ball sound to make him turn his head. I dropped, just as Art dove between two cars.

Volont duckwalked toward us. "Where is he?"

"Can't tell ... I don't know where to look ... rifle, I think ..." Giving a hint that the shooter could be a long way off.