Сандра Браун - Thick as Thieves

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 answer 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.”