The Summer House(83)

She keeps her smile frozen in place as the photographer for the Sullivan County Times, a young pimply boy who’s taking himself way too seriously, maneuvers the young boys back and forth, making sure their handmade cardboard signs are held up at the correct angle. KIDS FOR CONOVER they say, and there are also a few of her own, REELECT SHERIFF WILLIAMS, in the mix.

As her cell phone continues to vibrate, Williams wants to shout to the photographer in this Baptist church hall in Sanders, a small town at the western end of the county, Move your skinny ass!

But that would earn the wrath of all assembled here, she’s sure.

For God’s wrath, well, he hadn’t sent a lightning bolt yet to scorch her butt, so either he’s ignoring her or he doesn’t exist.

Finally, the young boy in a T-shirt and long shorts that go below his knees lifts his camera to his face, and after a quick series of click-click-click, he says, “Now, y’all stay in place so I can get your names straight, okay?”

The kids seem excited that their photo will end up in the paper, and Williams squeezes the shoulder of an older woman volunteer and says, “Do you mind? I have to take a phone call.”

The woman smiles and points. “If you need some privacy, the food bank pantry is right over there, Sheriff.”

Williams nods in thanks, walks quickly over to the small room with shelves stacked with canned foods and boxes of macaroni and cheese, and answers her burner.

Congressman Mason Conover says, “My latest polling shows we’re going to win by at least ten points next Tuesday. Tell me you’ve got everything under control.”

Williams says, “I’ve got everything under control.”

“Good,” he says, his voice suddenly sounding cheerful, a tone she’s not heard in months. “That being the case, Emma, you can start packing your bags in the morning.”

He disconnects the call, and Williams needs to lean against the nearby concrete wall for relief.

So close, so very, very close.

She jumps as her burner phone rings again.

“Yes?”

“You know who this is,” comes another familiar male voice.

“I do,” she says. “How did it go?”

“We did what you asked us to do, but there’s…”

Her sense of relief flashes away, like a sliver of ice dropped on the sidewalk in the middle of August. “What happened? What went wrong?”

“Ah…Sheriff, like I said, we did what you asked us to, but there was more…shooting. Seems like DD was talking to this woman, and she was armed, and she shot back. My poor nephew Ricky, he got himself killed.”

Williams says something extraordinarily foul and obscene about the man’s nephew Ricky and then says, “Go on. What else.”

“Well, his cousin Bo, he fired back, and he shot that woman in the head. Near enough killed her. And later I found out…Damn it, Sheriff, that woman is some sort of agent or investigator with the Army.”

Williams feels like the concrete-block wall she’s leaning against is now pushing back at her, threatening to collapse and bury her at this very moment.

Her mouth suddenly dry, Williams says, “How long was DD with her?”

“I don’t know,” the man says. “It’s just that DD and her were sittin’ in a booth when Ricky and Bo went in.”

“But she’s alive.”

“Barely, I guess,” he says. “Took a round to the head. I tell you, Bo must have been some angry and spooked to miss like that, not take the top of her head off.”

She stands up from the wall. “Then Bo will have a chance to make it right.”

“What’s that, Sheriff?”

Williams closes her eyes, concentrates. “The shooting took place outside Savannah. Gunshot wound to the head. Nearest trauma unit is…Memorial Health University Medical Center, in Savannah. Tell Bo to get over there and finish the job. I can’t have any loose ends out there, especially if that bitch wakes up.”

“Sheriff…”

“And another thing,” she says. “Your idiot brother. Tell him to be home tonight and all through the morning. I need to talk to him about a job. Got it?”

A pause from the other end of the line.

“I said, got it?”

The man’s voice changes to a pleading tone. “Sheriff, I don’t know if Bo is up to it. I mean, he’s good at tuning folks up if they do you wrong, making a truck delivery down to Mobile, or lifting whatever car you might need, but getting into a hospital and—”

She takes a step. “You listen to me, you squirmy little peckerwood bastard! Those two nephews of yours, I sent them on a job, because you told me they could do it and do it well! And they screwed it up! Now that Bo of yours is going to get over to Savannah as quick as he can, and he’s gonna end it! You understand me? I said, do you understand me?”

The voice is meek. “Yes, ma’am.”

She won’t let it go. “Well, just to make it clear, you slimy little toad, I want that woman gone. Got it? I want her out of the picture this afternoon, and I want confirmation. And it better be a firm and complete confirmation or I’ll send you in next time to saw off her goddamn head and give it to me as a trophy! Do you get it now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the man replies again, sounding like he’s six years old and he just peed in the bed.