I could hear the smile back in his voice when he said, “Yes, you are. And what do you think about the crime?”
“No werewolf stink. No one dead.” I shrugged and punched the screen. “You’re on speakerphone. Local LEOs are gone. Press is still out front. Clara is cleaning up human blood.” I meandered as I talked and placed my finger over one of many holes in the front door, measuring. “There’s evidence of a shotgun being fired into the door.” I sniffed the hole and smelled fresh gunpowder and fresh wood. An interesting combo. “Shot came from inside; door was open at the time. Blood on the wall and floor inside. Crime scene tape, but no CSI around, which tells me there was a crime but it was unimportant, or the cops were too lazy to work it up, which doesn’t sound like your cousin, the sheriff.” I looked at Harold. “What happened?”
Harold said, “Let’s back up. The real crime took place up Highway 56. An inmate escaped Angola two days ago. John-Roy Wayne’s family was in Alexandria and that’s where everyone figured he was heading. Instead he came here. From what the po-lice said, he had no reason to be in Chauvin, so the sheriff’s department wasn’t expecting any kind of trouble. Last night he took two young mothers hostage.”
I had heard about the prison break two days before, and about the massive manhunt that had followed. Angola State Prison was up near the top of the instep of the boot-shaped state, near the Mississippi border. The hellhole was for the hard-timers, the most violent prisoners in the state. Alexandria, Louisiana, was in the middle of the state, almost due north of Chauvin. Chauvin was the wrong corner of a triangle. I was doing lots of geometry today, but I was still confused and let that show on my face.
Harold walked to the sitting area and turned off the muted TV. He flopped on the couch and put his feet on the shabby-chic coffee table, with a small groan of relief. He looked exhausted, dark rings under his eyes. I hadn’t known about the kidnapping, which had probably happened just prior to me leaving New Orleans. But even if I’d known about it, I wouldn’t have put those events together with Chauvin and Harold and Clara. “They came here,” Harold said.
“We were checking in two fishermen,” Clara said, standing, holding one hand out to the side, indicating that I should join Harold in the sitting area. She moved to the sink, where she washed her hands, saying, “John-Roy Wayne busted in the door.”
“I was in back”—Harold thumbed at a doorless opening in the shadows of a hallway—“getting extra pillows and blankets. I heard Clara scream. Not a scream,” he corrected. “More a startled, scared yelp.”
“The man had a gun. He wanted money,” Clara said. I could hear the underlying fear in her voice, and smell the fear-stink from her pores. She had been terrified. Still was, though her hands, drying on a towel, were steady and sure. “And he wanted to know where you were.”
“Me?” I had never even heard of John-Roy Wayne.
“Yeah, you,” Harold said. “He said, ‘Where’s the Cherokee bitch?’” He looked at his wife. “Sorry for the profanity, honey. Anyways, I grabbed my gun and came out here. Moved so fast that I hit the doorway.” Harold held up his right arm to reveal a bandage on the back, just below the elbow. “That’s my blood all over. Took us a while to get it to stop bleeding. The doc at the emergency room said I hit a small artery. At the time, I didn’t even notice. Anyways, Clara, she’s a smart one. She hit the deck when I came charging out. Everyone hit the floor, and I fired at John-Roy. He ran. My rounds hit the door, but I think I missed John-Roy. Anyways, he took off with wheels screeching.”
“In a stolen car.” Clara brought me a glass of iced tea with a wedge of lemon and indicated I should take a seat on the love seat, across from Harold, in the tiny sitting area, and I centered the cell on the table between us. It was all very domestic, considering the circumstances. I took the tea, sat, and sipped. Clara said, “The sheriff thinks he probably stole an airboat off the wharf a mile or so north. One’s been reported missing and the stolen car was found there.”
Over the cell, Rick said, “CSI is on-site. There’s evidence the women were in the car.”
I didn’t want to ask what kind of evidence. I had a bad feeling about what they were going through. A real bad feeling.
“Anyways,” Harold said, which he said a lot, “the fishermen bailed. Haven’t seen them since. But their room is ready anytime they want to come back. Extra pillows and blankets waiting.” From the satisfied way he smiled, I assumed that the men had already paid for the room. Whether they used it or not was up to them.