Thick as Thieves

by Sandra Brown

  Rusty unwound the line from around a sapling that he’d used to tie down the canoe, although there was little danger of it drifting. The current here was sluggish at best.

  The canoe rocked when he stepped into it, but he maintained his balance. On his knees, he began paddling toward where Foster stood, still aiming the flashlight directly at him.

  Speaking only loud enough to make himself heard, Rusty told him to turn it off. “You’ll signal to somebody that we’re here.”

  “Nobody’s around.”

  “Kill the light, will ya?”

  Foster switched it off. Rusty paddled as soundlessly as possible, making shallow dips into the water. As he drew closer, Foster said in a whisper, “Can you see where you’re going?”

  “My eyes have adjusted. Catch this line.”

  He was about to pitch it when Foster said, “Hold on. Where’s the money?”

  “Right here.”

  Rusty pointed down to the bag in the hull. He grinned up at Foster. “Look familiar?”

  “Open it.”

  “Waste of time, but if you insist.”

  Rusty heaved a sigh as though he were being unnecessarily inconvenienced, but he was playacting. He had counted on Foster being bright enough to ask to see it before committing himself wholeheartedly to this linkup. Leaning far enough forward to reach the bag, he unzipped it and held it open.

  Foster flipped the flashlight back on and aimed it into the bag.

  “Satisfied?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “Then turn off that goddamn light.”

  Foster fumbled in his effort to click it off, almost dropping it.

  Rusty couldn’t resist taunting him. “How come you’re so nervous? Are you afraid of the dark?”

  “This place looks different in daylight. I’ve never been out here at night.”

  “Well, we’ll have to remedy that.” Now that he’d reestablished that they were accomplices and had regained Foster’s shrinking trust, he needed to reel him in. “This is a great spot to have all kinds of fun.”

  “Like what?”

  “If I confide, you won’t tattletell, will you?”

  “No.”

  “Me and my buddies come here and get stoned out of our minds.”

  “Oh.”

  “Next time, you’ll have to join us.” He hitched his head. “Those picnic tables? Great for making out on, if you remember to bring a quilt. But even if you don’t. This girl Crystal?” Rusty smacked his lips. “Too many times to count, my friend.”

  “Crystal?”

  At Foster’s surprised tone, Rusty’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, Crystal. Why?”

  “It’s just that I overheard some of the women in the office talking about a Crystal. One’s son has a crush on her, but she said she told him that he had just as well stop pining. He doesn’t stand a chance with her because of Ledge Burnet.”

  Rusty ground his teeth. “Him and Crystal are over. She’s with me now. Anyhow, enough of that. We’d better get moving. Watch your step as you get in.”

  “Get in? In the canoe?”

  “I found a perfect spot to hide the bag.” He thumbed over his shoulder. “Trees are so close together over there, you feel like Daniel Fucking Boone. You should’ve worn different shoes.”

  “Is there a road leading to it?”

  “Sure. We’re on it. It’s what we locals call a boat road.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that. What about a regular road?”

  “It’s a wilderness, Foster. A fucking swamp. That’s what makes it an ideal hiding place.”

  Foster took an anxious look around. “Trees are dense on this side, too. And it has access to the road. Why not hide it over here? Temporarily, at least. It would be easier to get to in case we have to move it again.”

  “Also easier for somebody to find. Accidentally. Like I said, people come here to use the picnic tables. All we need is for some potheads to find this bag of cash and make off with it. Or a do-gooder who would hand it over to the law.”

  “I’ve never seen anybody else around. Not once in all the times we’ve met out here.”

  The accountant had acquired some courage, plus developed a stubborn streak, and both were beginning to grate. Had he taken a damn tonic or something? Rusty let his irritation show. He stood up, standing with legs straddling the bench so as not to tip the canoe. “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing. I just think we need to think this through a little bit more.”

  “I’ve thought it through.”

  Foster flipped the flashlight back on and slid the beam along the side of the canoe from bow to stern. “Where’d you get the canoe?”

  “That old tin shed at the boat dock down the road? Sheriff’s office uses it to stow boats they’ve impounded for one reason or another. Usually because somebody was operating a craft while intoxicated.

  “Anyway, whoever the offender was who owned this canoe never reclaimed it, so my daddy gave me permission to take it out whenever I want.” He was still holding the paddle and motioned with it for Foster to get in. “I know what I’m doing. Don’t be scared. Climb into the bow there.”

  Foster didn’t move. He just stood there, then blurted, “I called Mr. Maxwell and told him everything.”

  Rusty’s blood surged from normal temperature to an instant boil. “Come again?”

  “You heard me. I don’t need to repeat it. Mr. Maxwell knows you intend to set him up as our scapegoat.”

  Rusty didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to think about it, just reacted with a burst of uncontrollable rage. He cut a horizontal arc with the paddle. Had it been a blade, it would have decapitated Foster. As it was, it struck him in the neck with such force, Rusty was sure it had crushed his windpipe. He dropped the flashlight, grabbed his throat with both hands, and attempted to make a sound. What issued from him was painful to hear.

  Rusty watched calmly as Foster staggered forward a few steps before toppling facedown into the murky water amid an intricate, knobby sculpture of cypress knees, then lay still. Perfectly still.

  The flashlight had landed in a few inches of water. It was still on, creating an unnatural underwater glow that was downright eerie. It even spooked Rusty a little, but he didn’t retrieve the flashlight. Better to leave it.

  It had been his plan all along to kill Brian Foster. No way in hell would he have lived through the night. However, Rusty hadn’t planned to do it here, where his body could be so easily discovered by someone on an Easter outing.

  Upon reflection, though, this unexpected turn of events wasn’t all that unfortunate. In fact, it was better than what he had originally planned to do, which was to canoe to one of the deepest parts of the lake, whack Foster in the head with the paddle, and dump him.

  He realized now the flaws in that plan. Once the body gassed up and resurfaced, a medical examiner would have determined that it had been a homicide. Of course nobody would ever suspect the sheriff’s son of committing murder, but it would have created a hubbub that Rusty would rather do without.

  This way, it would appear to have been a fatal accident. That would be an easy sell. Foster was new to the area. He was from up north someplace, had never experienced swampy terrain. He’d stupidly left his car on the road and walked—in wingtip shoes, for crissake—into the forest at night, completely unaware of the hazards it and the wetlands represented. The dumb schmuck had stumbled, crushed his windpipe when he fell, knocked himself unconscious, and drowned, his flashlight still on.

  No relocating or disposing of his body was necessary. Leaving him where he’d died was much more efficient and less strenuous. He could simply paddle away. Which also saved time. Because now he had the additional complication of Joe Maxwell to deal with.

  Addressing Foster’s still form, he said, “Fuck you for that.”

  He used the paddle against a tree root to push the canoe away from the copse, then executed a one-eighty and headed for the dock with the shed where he would return the
canoe.

  He’d barely registered the splashing sound before Foster surged up out of the water and clouted him in the side of his head with a length of a fallen tree branch. It struck him in his jawbone, just in front of his ear. It stunned him. It also hurt like fucking hell.

  Instinctively, he bellowed in pain and reached out for the jagged limb before Foster could wield it again. But Rusty missed, succeeding only in scraping the palms of his hands on the rough bark.

  Foster, teeth bared and clenched, took another swipe with the natural club and caught Rusty just beneath his rib cage. Yowling, he bent double in an instinctual effort to protect the soft tissue from further assault. Taking advantage of Rusty’s position, Foster grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him out of the canoe and into the water.

  Rusty tried to catch hold of the side of the rocking canoe, but Foster kicked it out of his reach and sent it gliding across the surface, then relaunched his attack on Rusty.

  They thrashed and splashed, kicked and clawed, each trying to gain solid footing amid the network of gnarled roots both above the surface and below. The soles of Rusty’s boots couldn’t gain traction on the slimy lake bottom, and he fell hard, landing in a sculpted formation of cypress knees. A lightning bolt of pain sizzled up his left arm, went through his chest, and straight up into his brain. When it struck, he screamed.

  But when Foster came at him from behind, he fought with a vengeance to stand, despite the agony and uselessness of his left arm. His right arm was working, though, and he jabbed his elbow backward into Foster’s injured throat.

  He felt the man’s knees buckle and turned to see Foster crumpling. Foster tried but failed to stay on his feet. He stumbled backward, his arms flailing, as he fell into the water, face up. He went under.

  Rusty stayed where he was, his breath rushing in and out, causing bursts of pain that had him blinking back tears.

  Foster wasn’t done yet. He made an effort to rise.

  “Die, you motherfucker!” Rusty shouted.

  Foster continued his struggle to pull himself out of the water.

  And then, out of the corner of Rusty’s eye, he saw motion.

  Two dark forms moved with silent and lethal intent just below the surface, only their reptilian eyes catching the glow of the flashlight. They glided with deadly purpose toward the man flailing his arms in a vain attempt to save himself from drowning. Poor bastard was already dead and didn’t even know it.

  Rusty watched in petrified awe.

  One of the gators lunged up out of the water, clamped Foster in his jagged maw, and dragged him under. He simply vanished. There was nothing to signify that he’d ever been there except for the swells that disturbed the surface, testaments to Foster’s final struggle for survival.

  Rusty stood there panting noisily until mere ripples remained on the surface. He had the presence of mind not to clamber onto the shore where he could leave footprints. He would have to stay in the water and hope to God the gators competing for Foster would be kept busy until he could get to his canoe.

  He remembered the direction in which it had been sent drifting. He set out after it, plowing through knee-deep water. Every shadow on the surface of it looked like an alligator or poisonous snake, every shadow on shore a black panther sensing weakened pray.

  He waded for what seemed like miles before he spotted the canoe. It was caught up in some aquatic vegetation. It was still a fair distance away. He feared going into shock before reaching it.

  Cradling his throbbing left arm against his middle, which pulsed in pain, he slogged through the shallows, every step impeded by his heavy boots, his sodden clothes, and mostly by his increasing anxiety over what he was going to do about his injuries.

  And about Maxwell.

  At this moment, Joe could be drunk and quivering in fear that Rusty was contriving to have him implicated and arrested. Or, just as possible, he could have called the law already and was trying to negotiate his own deal.

  But, not being a complete and utter fool, Joe wouldn’t report this to the SO, which was Mervin’s domain. No, he would notify another department of law enforcement. The Texas Rangers. FBI.

  The thought caused Rusty to snivel worse than Foster.

  A more rational section of his brain, however, insisted that a sot like Maxwell wouldn’t do that. Before spilling his guts to any branch of law, he would want a guarantee of immunity, and none was going to grant that without hearing what Joe had to tell. He couldn’t say a thing without risking that the sky would fall on his daughters, Lisa and the younger one. Destroy their futures? No, that would be too big a gamble for poor ol’ Joe. He would never take it.

  Rusty wanted to believe that.

  Fear still niggled at him, though. It frightened him to think that tough cops, who went by the book and weren’t impressed with the last name of Dyle, were on to him already.

  One thing was for damn certain: He couldn’t be caught with the money. Hiding it was priority numero uno. After the bag of cash was secured, he could deny any accusations thrown at him. His daddy would vouch for anything he said.

  But just in case the unlikely happened, and he did fall under suspicion, and his old man turned contrary, Rusty also should establish an alibi. For the burglary. For Foster.

  He hadn’t actually killed the dipshit, but that could be a tricky technicality if he was ever accused of having done so. Best to establish a solid alibi for the entire night and avoid the whole mess.

  By the time he reached the canoe, he had formulated a new plan. It involved Crystal, and it was brilliant for so many reasons, all of them self-serving. Eager to implement the plan, he covered the remaining distance to the canoe with a gush of renewed energy.

  Getting into the damn thing with only one functioning arm was going to be a challenge, and he wasn’t sure how to go about it. He was relieved to see that the paddle hadn’t fallen out when Foster had tipped the canoe and pulled him into the water.

  The paddle was lying in the hull.

  All by its lonesome.

  The money bag was gone.

  Chapter 33

  Ledge backed his pickup off Hawkins’s property and out onto the road.

  Dwayne hadn’t moved. He still lay spread-eagled in the dirt under the glare of the floodlights.

  As Arden got her last look at him, she said, “You won’t really shoot him, will you?”

  “I won’t have to.” He turned to her to make his point. “It’s enough that he believes I will.”

  They’d gone only a short distance before Ledge placed a call to Don, who answered immediately. “Tell me you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Hawkins?”

  “Sniffling, but unhurt and grateful to be alive. But listen, the lowlife has dozens of dogs penned up out here. The conditions are criminal. I expect him to clear out tonight and, more than likely, abandon them. It would be dangerous to release them. Do you know anybody who’s actively involved with the Humane Society or ASPCA?”

  “Several people.”

  “Report it. Hawkins will probably be long gone by the time officials get out here, but those animals need rescuing.”

  “On it.”

  “Thanks, Don. Later.”

  “Hold it. Where are you? What are you doing?”

  “Going home.”

  “Watch your back. Hawkins has brothers, don’t forget.”

  “He won’t breathe a word of this.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh, yeah. I put a good scare into him.”

  He clicked off.

  The drizzle that had begun to speckle the windshield as they left Hawkins’s place had become a moderate rain. Lost in thought, Ledge hadn’t even noticed until Arden suggested he turn on the wipers.

  “What are you thinking about, Ledge?”

  “Rusty and what I’m going to do about him.”

  “I’ve been wondering the same. His surveillance of me is creepy, but it’s not illegal. If he was made to an
swer for it, he would harken back to my father, and I don’t want that can of worms reopened.”

  “Unavoidable, Arden.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right.” She sighed. “Any questions raised about Brian Foster’s death will lead straight to Joe Maxwell.”

  “You can count on Rusty to exploit that.”

  “So we do nothing?”

  “I’m thinking of taking it directly to the attorney general’s office.” He sensed the look of surprise she gave him, but he kept his eyes forward. “Rusty has got to be put out of commission, and it won’t happen on a local level.”

  “That’s a big step, though. What about starting with another agency, outside the county?”

  “Troopers, Texas Rangers? I’ve thought of that, of course. But they have their own cold cases. Foster’s death wasn’t officially deemed a murder. It wouldn’t have priority. By the time somebody got around to looking into it, Rusty would have covered his tracks. I can’t sit around and give him a chance to do that.”

  He looked over at her, adding, “He must be feeling pressure, because he amped things up tonight. That wasn’t mischief, it was attempted murder. The time for fiddling around is passed.”

  “My moving back really stirred things up, didn’t it?”

  “I think you were the match that lit his fuse.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Hell, don’t be. I’m not. For years, my fight with him has needed to come to a head. I’m glad it has.”

  He came to a crossroads, braked, and looked over at her. “I’m not taking you to your house. You shouldn’t be out there alone. So back to Crystal’s for the night?”

  “Do you still have that bottle of whiskey?”

  He was at a crossroads in the figurative sense, too. Being alone with her in a place with multiple horizontal surfaces, he didn’t think he could resist the temptation to have her.

  But his conscience wouldn’t allow him to touch her again until he told her that he was a thief as well as a liar.

  “One drink.” He made a left turn onto the road that would lead to his house. A whiskey might make his confession go down a little smoother, but he seriously doubted it.