healthy enough. Tender green and low to the ground, it covered the rolling hills in neat rows.
He reached the turn-off to his destination long before the sun got hot and the fish got lazy. The dirt road stretched straight as a scar through the new-green fields. Thick red dust plumed behind the cruiser, announcing Steve’s arrival as effectively as any security system. Sure enough, when he pulled up his host was waiting in the shade of the porch that wrapped around the house at the end of the dirt track.
The house was relatively new, put up a few years before the present occupant bought it, when peanut prices had rocketed and the communities in North Walton County had enjoyed a building boom. But it was the string of catfish ponds behind the columned, red-brick residence that gave the property its real value in Steve’s mind. Climbing out of the cruiser, he greeted heavy-set figure in the shade of the porch.
“Hey, sheriff.”
“Hey, yourself, sheriff.”
“Sure wish I could retire and become one of the idle rich.”
Cliff Boudreaux’s heavy jowls folded into a grin. “You day will come. Or it would if you weren’t such a lazy sonuvabitch. You’ve been camping out a houseboat for ‘near on seven years now. When the hell you going to move into something a little bigger and a little dryer?”
“One of these days.”
“Don’t know ‘bout you, boy.” Shaking his head, Steve’s predecessor gathered the rods propped beside the porch in a meaty fist. “I figured once you took over the county, you’d put down a few roots.”
“I have. They’re just anchored in silt instead of clay.”
“Next good-sized storm’s going to blow that boat of yours halfway to Alabama.”
“The last one did enough damage,” Steve commented as he hefted a bait bucket and glass jug. Ice chinked in the jug, sloshing the sun-brewed tea Boudreaux swilled by the gallon. “Not just to my boat,” he added. “We lost that two-hundred year old oak in the courthouse square…not to mention the Reverend McConnell.”
Nodding, the older man led the way around the house to the path that cut through a stand of spindly pines to a flat, green pond.
“Too bad ‘bout Delbert. Once he grew out of his wild ways and found the Lord, he did some real good for folks ‘round here.”
Steve stowed the bait bucket and jug and waited while the man who had served as sheriff of Walton County for thirty-six years settled his bulk on the rowboat’s transom seat. Untying the line that anchored the skiff to the small wooden dock, Steve pushed off with one foot and manned the oars. The sun warmed his shoulders as he dropped the blades into the still water. The pond looked more brown than green now that they were on it. Gnats and dog flies swarmed just above its surface, dodging respectfully around the occasional iridescent dragonfly.
“Funny thing about McConnell,” Steve said casually. “You’d think a man who sailed as much as he did would wear rubber-soled deck shoes when he took out his boat.”
“You’d think so,” Boudreaux agreed, scratching the belly that threatened the buttons on his green plaid shirt. He’d always been big man and had carried his bulk with complete indifference for as long as Steve had known him. “Heard the hole in Delbert’s skull matched up exactly with the metal cleat on the aft port gunwale.”
Steve didn’t even bother to ask how he’d learned the specific details of the ME’s report. Boudreaux was still a force to be reckoned with in the local communities.
“Looks like his feet might have gone out from under him and he took a dive.”
“Looks like,” Steve agreed.
“Is that what you came up here to talk about?” Boudreaux asked, slanting him a curious look.
“I came up here to fish.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And to ask about an incident that occurred at the Blue Crab years back,” Steve admitted, grinning.
“There was always something going on in that shithole. You’ll have to be more
He reached the turn-off to his destination long before the sun got hot and the fish got lazy. The dirt road stretched straight as a scar through the new-green fields. Thick red dust plumed behind the cruiser, announcing Steve’s arrival as effectively as any security system. Sure enough, when he pulled up his host was waiting in the shade of the porch that wrapped around the house at the end of the dirt track.
The house was relatively new, put up a few years before the present occupant bought it, when peanut prices had rocketed and the communities in North Walton County had enjoyed a building boom. But it was the string of catfish ponds behind the columned, red-brick residence that gave the property its real value in Steve’s mind. Climbing out of the cruiser, he greeted heavy-set figure in the shade of the porch.
“Hey, sheriff.”
“Hey, yourself, sheriff.”
“Sure wish I could retire and become one of the idle rich.”
Cliff Boudreaux’s heavy jowls folded into a grin. “You day will come. Or it would if you weren’t such a lazy sonuvabitch. You’ve been camping out a houseboat for ‘near on seven years now. When the hell you going to move into something a little bigger and a little dryer?”
“One of these days.”
“Don’t know ‘bout you, boy.” Shaking his head, Steve’s predecessor gathered the rods propped beside the porch in a meaty fist. “I figured once you took over the county, you’d put down a few roots.”
“I have. They’re just anchored in silt instead of clay.”
“Next good-sized storm’s going to blow that boat of yours halfway to Alabama.”
“The last one did enough damage,” Steve commented as he hefted a bait bucket and glass jug. Ice chinked in the jug, sloshing the sun-brewed tea Boudreaux swilled by the gallon. “Not just to my boat,” he added. “We lost that two-hundred year old oak in the courthouse square…not to mention the Reverend McConnell.”
Nodding, the older man led the way around the house to the path that cut through a stand of spindly pines to a flat, green pond.
“Too bad ‘bout Delbert. Once he grew out of his wild ways and found the Lord, he did some real good for folks ‘round here.”
Steve stowed the bait bucket and jug and waited while the man who had served as sheriff of Walton County for thirty-six years settled his bulk on the rowboat’s transom seat. Untying the line that anchored the skiff to the small wooden dock, Steve pushed off with one foot and manned the oars. The sun warmed his shoulders as he dropped the blades into the still water. The pond looked more brown than green now that they were on it. Gnats and dog flies swarmed just above its surface, dodging respectfully around the occasional iridescent dragonfly.
“Funny thing about McConnell,” Steve said casually. “You’d think a man who sailed as much as he did would wear rubber-soled deck shoes when he took out his boat.”
“You’d think so,” Boudreaux agreed, scratching the belly that threatened the buttons on his green plaid shirt. He’d always been big man and had carried his bulk with complete indifference for as long as Steve had known him. “Heard the hole in Delbert’s skull matched up exactly with the metal cleat on the aft port gunwale.”
Steve didn’t even bother to ask how he’d learned the specific details of the ME’s report. Boudreaux was still a force to be reckoned with in the local communities.
“Looks like his feet might have gone out from under him and he took a dive.”
“Looks like,” Steve agreed.
“Is that what you came up here to talk about?” Boudreaux asked, slanting him a curious look.
“I came up here to fish.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And to ask about an incident that occurred at the Blue Crab years back,” Steve admitted, grinning.
“There was always something going on in that shithole. You’ll have to be more
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