pzb.drawingblood-第48部分

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t　do　we　do？〃
　　〃Relax；　sweetheart。〃　Dougal　handed　her　the　joint；　an　enormous；　tightly　rolled　bomber。　〃First　we　smoke　a　spleef。　Then　we　t'ink　better；　an'　we　plan。〃
　　〃Speak　for　yourself。　You　must　have　been　smoking　this　stuff　since　you　were　born。〃
　　〃I　was　smokin'　it　in　my　momma's　womb；〃　Dougal　assured　her。　〃But　don'　worry。　This　is　smart　ganja。　Relaxes　you　an'　clears　your　head。〃
　　Eddy　regarded　the　huge　bomber　glumly。　Dougal　struck　a　match；　offered　her　the　flame　cupped　between　his　pinkbrown　palms。　Oh；　what　the　hell；　she　decided；　and　let　him　light　it　for　her。
　　The　taste　was　sticky　and　sweet；　almost　cloying。　But　as　it　swirled　through　her　lungs　and　out　into　her　bloodstream；　she　thought　she　could　feel　some　of　the　shadows　lifting。　By　the　time　she'd　had　two　hits；　she　actually　believed　she　might　see　Zach　again；　might　even　be　able　to　save　him。　Another　drag　and　she'd　probably　be　imagining　them　as　an　old　married　couple。　She　handed　the　joint　back　to　Dougal。　〃What　is　this　stuff？〃
　　〃Fresh　Jamaican。〃　Dougal　wrapped　his　hand　around　the　joint；　brought　it　to　his　lips；　and　produced　an　enormous　cloud　of　smoke。　She　noticed　that　he　didn't　automatically　pass　the　joint　back　as　Americans　did；　but　let　it　dangle　casually　between　his　first　two　fingers　until　he　was　ready　to　hit　it　again。　When　you　grew　up　in　Jamaica；　Eddy　guessed；　you　always　knew　where　your　next　joint　was　ing　from。
　　The　afternoon　light　was　very　clear；　sifting　through　the　canopy　of　leaves　and　the　cracks　in　the　wood；　filling　the　treehouse　with　green　and　gold。　Eddy　leaned　back　against　the　wall；　beginning　to　relax。　〃Where　do　you　get　fresh　Jamaican　around　here？〃
　　〃Got　a　frien'　who　flies　to　Jamaica　two　times　a　month　or　so。　He　lan'　at　a　little　strip　up　in　de　hills　near　Negril　on　de　western　coast；　pick　it　up　an'　fly　back　to　his　place　in　de　swamp；　then　somebody　else　pick　it　up　an'　bring　it　to　New　Orleans。　No　problem。〃
　　〃He　has　an　airstrip　in　the　swamp？〃
　　〃Ya　mon。　Jus'　a　little　shack　an'　a　place　to　lan'　his　plane。〃
　　Eddy's　heart　was　pounding。　〃Do　you　think　he　might　be　making　a　trip　soon？〃
　　〃I　fink　he　could　be　convinced；〃　said　Dougal　gravely。　〃I　don'　b'lieve　he　would　fly　to　North　Carolina。　He　don'　like　to　fly　over　U。S。　airspace。　But　if　we　get　Zachary　down　to　de　swamp；　I　fink　my　frien'　would　take　him。〃
　　〃I'll　drive　to　Missing　Mile。　I'll　shoot　coffee　into　my　veins　and　drive　all　night　if　I　have　to。　I'm　not　letting　them　get　him。〃
　　〃You　wan'　drive　my　car？　You　wan'　me　to　go　with　you？〃
　　〃I　guess　so。　We　can't　bring　Zach　back　through　New　Orleans。　We'll　have　to　go　around　it　and　straight　down　into　the　swamp。　Do　you　think　your　friend…〃
　　〃My　frien'　will　be　there；〃　Dougal　soothed。　〃Don'　worry。　We　call　him　once　we　get　on　the　road。〃
　　He　was　smiling　at　her；　his　teeth　crooked　but　very　white　in　his　dark　face；　his　eyes　the　color　of　warm　chocolate。　She　couldn't　help　smiling　back。
　　〃See；〃　said　Dougal。　〃I　tol'　you　we　plan　better　with　our　heads　cleared　out。　De　smart　ganja　works　ever'　time。〃
　　
　　Agent　Cover　maneuvered　his　white　Chevy　van　through　the　carbon　monoxide　snarl　of　downtown　New　Orleans。　A　fruitless　visit　to　the　French　Quarter　had　left　him　staring　at　a　lot　of　dead　ends。　Edwina　Sung's　toothbrush　was　missing　from　her　bathroom；　and　it　turned　out　she　had　withdrawn　seven　thousand　dollars　from　her　bank　account　yesterday　afternoon；　several　hours　after　the　raid。　Possibly　she　was　shacked　up　somewhere；　consoling　herself　over　the　loss　of　her　favorite　wanted　criminal。　But　Cover　suspected　his　exotic　little　bird　had　flown　the　coop。
　　A　short　electronic　purr　came　from　the　region　of　his　armpit。　His　cellular　phone。　He　wrested　it　out　of　his　sweaty　jacket　and　thumbed　the　talk　button。　〃Cover。〃
　　〃Afternoon；　Agent。　This　is　Payne　from　the　DMV。〃
　　〃Yeah？〃　Cover　perked　up　a　little。　A　call　from　the　Department　of　Motor　Vehicles　could　mean　good　news。
　　Sure　enough；　Payne　went　on；　〃We　got　a　trace　on　that　name　you　gave　us。　Zachary　Bosco…〃
　　〃Bosch。〃
　　〃Well；　it　took　us　a　while　to　trace　'cause　somebody　had　changed　it　in　the　puter。　But　we　got　a　registration　for　him。　Plate　reads　LLBTR…5。　It's　a　1965　Chevy　pickup；　color　red；　down　in　Terrebonne　Parish…〃
　　〃Terrebonne？　You　mean　down　by　Houma？〃
　　〃Yep；　Houma　it　is。〃
　　〃Shit。〃
　　〃You　gotta　go　down　there；　Agent？　Better　be　careful。　Some　a'　them　Cajuns　don't　like　cops　much。　Kinda　got　their　own　laws　an'　idears　about　things　an'　all。　Hot　as　hell　an'　swampy　as　an　open　grave　too。　Listen；　you　need　anything　else　today？〃
　　〃No。　Thanks；　Payne。〃
　　Cover　terminated　the　call；　tugged　the　knot　of　his　tie　loose；　and　sat　in　stalled　traffic　with　the　air…conditioning　vents　aimed　straight　at　his　face。　He　knew　Bosch　must　have　gotten　into　the　DMV　puter　and　messed　with　the　plates。　Bosco。　Cute。　He　probably　could　have　deleted　his　registration　altogether；　but　that　might　have　set　off　alarms　in　the　puter；　and　it　was　more　his　style　to　create　as　much　confusion　with　as　few　keystrokes　as　possible。
　　A　red　1965　Chevy　pickup　。。。　it　was　all　wrong。　Stefan　〃Phoetus〃　Duplessis　knew　approximately　as　much　about　automobiles　as　he　did　about　girls；　but　he　swore　up　and　down　that　he　remembered　Bosch　driving　a　black　Mustang。
　　Duplessis　had　been　of　little　help　so　far。　He　had　found　articles　in　the　Times…Picayune　implying　Bosch　could　be　found　in；　variously；　Cancun；　Mexico；　Bangor；　Maine；　and　Port…au…Prince；　Haiti。　The　newspaper；　of　course；　insisted　no　hacker　could　ever　violate　the　sanctity　of　their　system　and　every　word　they　printed　was　one　hundred　percent　genuine。　And　it　turned　out　they　did　have　a　staff　writer　named　Joseph　Boudreaux；　the　byline　on　the　goddessin…a…bowl…of…gumbo　story。　Cover　had　an　agent　tracking　down　the　reporter　to　find　out　if　he'd　actually　written　the　story。　But　there　was　little　doubt　that　Bosch　could　have　cracked　the　paper's　pathetic　security。
　　Privately；　Cover　thought　the　hacker　had　grabbed　his　cache　of　ready　money　and　left　the　country；　in　which　case　they　were　most　likely　fucked。　Duplessis　said　Bosch　was　part　Cajun；　it　was　just　possible　that　he　had　relatives　in　Houma　and　was　lying　low　in　some　fish　camp。　But　Cover　thought　he　was　too　smart　to　have　stayed　in　Louisiana。　And　from　other　things　Duplessis　had　said　about　the　Bosch　family；　Cover　doubted　the　kid　would　want　to　stay　with　any　of　his　relatives。
　　He　called　in　an　all…points　bulletin　on　the　pickup；　though　he　hoped　the　damn　thing　was　rusting　in　a　junkyard　somewhere　and　wouldn't　be　found。　He　knew　it　couldn't　have　anything　to　do　with　Bosch。
　　But　by　the　time　he　made　it　back　to　the　office；　the　pickup　had　already　been　sighted　in　Houma；　which　was　only　an　hour's　drive　from　New　Orleans。　Cover　could　think　of　no　excuse　that　would　keep　him　from　checking　it　out。
　　〃Any　word　on　that　hacker？〃　Frank　Norton　called　as　Cover　strode　past　his　door。
　　〃Maybe。〃
　　〃You　know；　Ab；　if　you　get　outsmarted　by　a　nineteen…year…old；　you're　really　gonna　have　egg　on　your　face。〃
　　〃Fuck　you；　Spider。〃
　　The　old　agent　let　out　an　annoyingly　hearty　belly　laugh　that　followed　Cover　all　the　way　down　the　hall。
　　
　　The　highway　between　New　Orleans　and　Houma　was　precariously　close　to　flooding；　as　it　was　much　of　the　year。　Cover's　tires　had　thrown　off　a　thin　steady　spray　of　water　for　the　last　forty　miles　or　so。　There　were　cranes　in　the　breakdown　lane；　big　white　birds　standing　on　one　leg　watching　his　van　slush　by；　or　catching　frogs　in　the　reeds　and　cattails　that　grew　right　up　onto　the　blacktop。　Huge　gnarled　trees　hung　low　over　the　road；　draped　in　Spanish　moss。　God；　he　hated　the　look　of　Spanish　moss。
　　The　local　cop　in　Houma　said　the　truck　was　parked　in　somebody's　front　yard　and　looked　like　it　hadn't　moved　in　a　while。　Cover　navigated　the　joyless　streets　of　downtown　Houma；　got　lost　several　times；　finally　pulled　up　in　front　of　the　house。　The　yard　was　dotted　here　and　there　with　scraggly　chickens。　He　disliked　chickens；　his　grandmother　had　kept　a　henhouse；　and　even　as　a　little　boy　the　chalky　smell　of　their　shit；　their　scaly　feet；　and　the　weird；　wobbly　red　flesh　of　their　bs　had　filled　him　with　revulsion。
　　The　pickup　was　a　sorry　sight；　sitting　on　three　flat　tires　and　a　cement　block；　with　an　ancient　paint　job　that　might　have　once　been　red　beneath　the　chicken　shit。　But　there　was　the　license　plate；　clear　as　anything：　LLBTR…5。　The　cop　was　leaning　against　his　cruiser　taking　a　steady　torrent　of　abuse　from　a　big　black…haired；　red…faced　man　with　a　flair　for　dramatic　gestures。　Relief　spread　across　the　cop's　ratty　little　face　as　Cover　pulled　up。
　　〃Mister　Big　Damn　G…man！〃　hollered　the　Cajun。　Cover　cringed。　He　hated　being　called　a　G…man。　〃Mister　G…man；　maybe　you　can　tell　me　for　why　this　stupid　cop　wants　to　plague　me　all　damn　day；　hein？　I'm　just　stirrin'　up　a　pot　a'　gumbo；　me；　an'　he　e　knockin'　an'　ask　so　many　questions　I　done　scorched　my　roux！〃
　　〃Uh；　Agent　Cover；　this　is　Mr。　Robicheaux；〃　the　cop　broke　in。　〃He　says　the　truck　hasn't　been　driven　for　about　five　years…〃
　　〃Damn　right　it　ain't！　My　wife　she　made　me　put　on　that　damn；　what…you…call…him；　vanity　plate。　Was　a　damn　voodoo　curse；　says　me。　S'posed　to　stand　for　'Laissez　Les　Bans　Temps　Rouler；'　an'　it　ain't　rolled　since。　Now　the　chickens　roost　in　there。〃
　　Agent　Cover　opened　the　truck's　passenger　door。　There　were　three　frizzly　chickens　on　the　front　seat；　several　more　nesting　in　straw　on　the　floorboards。　They　cocked　their　reptilian　eyes　at　him　and　gobbled　frantically。
　　As　if　to　cap　off　the　sheer　perfection　of　his　day；　a　single　egg　rolled　off　the　seat　and　landed　square　on　the　tip　of　his　left　tassel　loafer。　Cover　stared　down　at　the　golden　yolk　and　milky　albumen　oozing　over　the　carefully　polished　leather。
　　Somebody　hates　me；　he　thought。　He　wished　he　never　had　to　set　foot　in　the　sweltering　mud　of　Louisiana　again。　He　wished　he　never　had　to　interrogate　another　snotty　punk　who　knew　a　thousand　times　more　about　puters　than　he　ever　would　or　wanted　to。　He　wished　he　had　the　coveted　White　House　detail。
　　But　none　of　that　mattered。　What　was　the　first　thing　they　had　drummed　into　him　at　Glynco？
　　Absalom　Cover　was　a　Secret　Service　agent。　And　Secret　Service　agents　were　granite　agents。
　　
　　　
　　　Chapter　Eighteen
　　
　　Trevor　sat　in　the　diner　punishing　a　bottomless　cup　of　coffee；　sketching　and　writing　in　an　old　spiral　notebook　he'd　found　in　the