Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(35)

“I hate rats,” Roby muttered.

“Then why don’t you clean up this damned mess?” the sheriff said. “All it’d take is some kerosene and a lighter.”

“Because then I wouldn’t be able to come out here and kill the little bastards. I said I hate rats. I didn’t say I don’t like killing them.”

“So what’re we gonna do about this Darren Street?” the sheriff said.

“I don’t like it,” Roby said. “Him just showing up out of nowhere like this. You think he might be a plant?”

“A plant? You mean some kind of informant?”

“Yeah, you think the NSA or the CIA might have sent him down here?”

“To do what?”

“Spy on us, you dumbass!” Roby yelled. “Take us out. Maybe send us off to one of those supermax federal pens I’ve heard about that’s underground and you don’t ever see any light or hear any kind of noise.”

The sheriff had noticed Roby getting stranger over the past year. Conspiracy theories such as the one he was spouting were becoming more common. He’d also noticed that Roby never seemed to sleep or eat. He drank whiskey like a town drunk, but the sheriff didn’t remember the last time he’d seen Roby eat a sandwich.

“Nobody sent him here to spy on us,” Tree said. “Relax. He just hates Morris.”

“You said you talked to him?”

“Yeah. I broke into his apartment and surprised him.”

“Talk about money?”

“It didn’t come up. I didn’t get the sense he was interested.”

“Well, then, we just keep making our money. Hell, maybe he won’t even want a cut.”

“I just don’t know,” Tree said. “I mean, it isn’t like he’s spick-and-span Mr. Clean or anything. He’s supposedly killed five men, and he had this look in his eyes when I talked to him. Like he wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody. Like he didn’t give a shit.”

“He ain’t killed no five men,” Roby said. “He’d be in prison or dead.”

“He’s been in prison, but they sent him up for a murder he didn’t commit, and he got out of it after a couple of years. There are a lot of stories about him. He’s supposed to be a tough man. He makes me nervous.”

Roby picked off another rat as the assault rifle cracked. He lowered the weapon to his side, turned to the sheriff, and said, “If he bothers you so much, if you really think he’s going to cause us problems, then take care of him.”

“Take care of him how?”

“Figure something out. Make him have an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Dammit, Tree, do I have to figure everything out for you? You’re the damned sheriff of Knox County. You got as much power as God Almighty. You got deputies that’ll do anything you ask them to do without batting an eye or asking a question. If you think he’s going to be a problem, fuck him up. Kill him.”

The sheriff hated it when Roby spoke to him about killing people as though it were nothing. He couldn’t imagine taking a life, and he was afraid of and didn’t understand people who thought nothing of it. Roby was one of those people, and the more the sheriff was around him—especially within the last year—the more he feared him. Roby had always been an angry man, but his anger had escalated.

“Killing people isn’t really my style, Roby. You know that.”

“I ain’t killing him for you, not unless he gets into my business. Wait a minute. I take that back. I might kill him just for sport.”

“Don’t kill him, Roby. He hasn’t done anything to you. Let’s just see how it goes.”

“See how it goes. Like it did with that marine. I got stuck getting rid of him. You should’ve taken care of that.”

“You gonna start that up again? It happened at your place during one of your events. It was your responsibility. I’m dealing with the fallout, and believe me, there’s plenty of it. His granddaddy and his daddy have been wearing me out.”

“What have you told them?”

Roby turned to face the sheriff, and his eyes were like lasers, flashing heat and anger.

“Same old same old. We’re investigating. We’re on it. We’re doing everything we can, but we don’t have any leads. From what I understand, the marine had gone pretty psycho lately. I’m trying to convince them that he’s walking the Appalachian Trail or headed for the Grand Canyon or something. I keep telling them he’ll pop up soon.”

“He won’t,” Roby said. “He ain’t never gonna pop up. As a matter of fact, he’s in a barrel six feet under that garbage pile right there. Put him there myself with a front-end-loader attachment to my tractor.”

“I wish you hadn’t told me that,” Tree said. “I didn’t want to know what you did with him.”

Roby walked over to the bed of the truck, removed the clip from the rifle, cleared the round from the chamber, and laid the rifle in a case.

“I gotta go, Tree,” he said. “There’s a fight up in Hawkins County I want to see.”

“Bare-knuckle?”

Roby nodded. “I ain’t promoting, but I have a pretty good idea of who’s gonna win. I know the boy that runs the fights up there real well. One of the fighters is going to put on a good show and then take a dive. I’ll take home enough money to make it worth the trip.”