Page 97 of Lord Have Mercy Part Four: Big Son

And then Fallon knew, because a hand gripped his shoulder – Boyle! but, no – and spun him around. It was Lloyd, all up in his face, breath sour, piggy eyes narrowed. “Where the hell’s the money?”

Fallon dug an envelope out of his back pocket and handed it over; took three big steps back once Lloyd released his shoulder in order to take it. “That’s half,” he reminded, “like we talked about. You get the second half when the job’s done.”

Lloyd grunted in the affirmative and wandered back to his men, counting humidity-crumpled bills.

Fallon dragged a hand through his hair, took a shaky breath, and turned back around.

Remy was still staring at him, and Fallon had a sudden, intense, terrifying mental image of those same eyes on Remy’s father…and what the giant of a man would do to Fallon if he caught hold of him.

He’d forgotten about the phone still clamped to his ear until Duet said, “Do you really have anything to lose?”

He swallowed, throat dry. “No. I guess not.”

Twenty-Five

It was Colin who offered the caution: “If he hears or sees you coming, he’ll shoot you first chance he gets, and you’re a big target, bro.”

And it was Devin who said: “So secure him first. Send someone he won’t see or hear coming.”

Tenny leaped at the chance, and then Gray offered. But Devin shook his head and said, “You’re not swamp creatures, boys.”

“Neither are you.”

“No, but I’ve got a few decades of sneaking experience on you.”

And it was settled.

~*~

Harlan wasn’t panicking. He could acknowledge that relying on Regina Carroll had been a huge mistake. Not a devastating one. Not the sort of mistake that idiot Fallon had made trying to hook up with a boy in a bar who turned out to be a goddamn Lean Dog, but, still. A mistake.

One he still, standing in the center of the rundown remnants of the old Lécuyer kitchen, couldn’t believe he of all people made.

You know why you made it, a voice whispered in the back of his head.You know damn well why.

He wasn’tlonely– except that hewas, but he hated calling it that.

It was lonely work, having a singular purpose, a North Star, a driving cause to which you adhered daily, yearly,religiously. Lonely to do that, and for no one else to understand or to share your fervor.

Hames had allowed him to interview and hand-select his strike team, two years ago, and he’d made Fallon his 2inC because a little birdie had told him that Fallon had a predilection for underage boys, especially of the sort he had to pay for. He hadn’t expected Fallon to share his pursuit of Felix, but he’d hoped the man would understand dedication. Pursuit. Thechase. He’d done things that would land him in prison a dozen times over, but he wasn’t evenpassionateabout them.

Pathetic.

Perhaps, in hindsight, entrusting – no,using– him had been a mistake as well.

But Harlan wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t. He wasn’t, he wasn’t, he wasn’t, hewasn’t.

“What if he doesn’t show?”

Harlan realized he’d become lost in thought. Too lost in thought.

“What?” he snapped.

Of the ex-cons and hired men he’d recruited, he’d brought Baker along with him on this particular errand because he was the quietest and canniest, the most capable. He wouldn’t waste a lot of time asking stupid questions – this latest one notwithstanding – and he didn’t appear to be out for any sort of personal glory, only to do as he was told and earn his money. A spare, ropy man covered in tattoos, with a military haircut and a no-nonsense face scarred from a knife fight, he wasn’t as big as Harlan, but alongside his comrades – whose names Harlan didn’t know or care to know – and Harlan, they turned the small room even tighter than Harlan remembered.

It was funny how memory worked that way: he’d been scrawnier, then, and frightened, more than a little in awe of the chance to enter Felix’s inner sanctum. The kitchen had beensmall, and shabby, yes, but it had been filled with the smell of frying fish, and the drone of standing fans, and Remy the elder’s broad, lake-bottom voice. There had been coupons pinned to the fridge with novelty magnets, and boxes of cereal out on the counter. Knitted potholders hanging on pegs by the oven door, and a row of potted herbs on the windowsill.

But that had been a long time ago, and now, the kitchen, the entire shotgun shack, belonged to the swamp. The linoleum floors had buckled, and peeled, as had the paint on the cabinet faces. A tree branch had fallen in a storm and shattered a window, its withered end still resting against the sill; the pots of herbs had spilled into the sink, where the crockery had shattered, and the dirt and plant life had long since turned to a sort of open-air terrarium. Harlan was pretty sure something was living there.

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