Thick as Thieves(80)
“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.