The Marauders by Tom Cooper Page B

had taken the arm. At first they considered keeping the arm as leverage, possibly returning it if Lindquist forswore searching further in the Barataria. But then that nosy prick from the oil company saw the prosthetic. The look on his face when he returned from the bathroom to the den, no doubt about it. And a few hours later when Lindquist showed up demanding his arm and making threats about Villanova, they knew what had to be done. That night when they boated into the Barataria, Victor tossed the prosthetic into the bay where no one would ever find it.
    Next morning there was a knock on the door and Reginald looked out the peephole and saw Sheriff Villanova standing on the porch with his hat in his hands, his gourd-shaped face flushed from the heat.
    “Got a minute?” he asked when Reginald answered the door. Reginald knew from the grave steadiness of his eyes that he’d come about Lindquist. Reginald always suspected that Villanova knew exactly what he and his brother were up to in the Barataria, just as he suspected Villanova didn’t much care as long as it wasn’t meth or gun-related. As long as it didn’t get him into any trouble. Surprising, how a few thousand dollars dropped in the proverbial coffer could loosen a man’s mores. Especially if the man had a nasty video poker habit and a mistress in New Orleans.
    Reginald led the sheriff inside to the dining room table, where Victor was playing a game on his cell phone. “Heya, Sheriff,” he said, putting down his cell phone and standing. He shook Villanova’s hand and sat back with his arms folded across his chest.
    “Coffee?” Reginald said.
    Villanova shook his head and sat, leaned back with his hat balanced on his knee and his legs in chocolate ostrich-skinned boots crossed. With his thumb and forefinger he stroked his pencil mustache. “You two know I been okay to you.”
    “Sure,” said Reginald, sitting.
    “And you been okay to me.”
    “Hope.”
    “So, let’s have right out with this.”
    The twin brothers waited.
    “Lindquist,” Villanova said.
    “Yeah?” said Reginald.
    “Know him?”
    “Sure,” Victor said.
    “Somebody’s messing with him,” Villanova said.
    “Us, you think?” said Reginald.
    Villanova hesitated a judicious beat, peered about. Through the pristine windows was the shimmering jade of morning, the stout pines and oaks. The house was barren and tidy, African violets on the shelves and sills.
    “No, I don’t,” Villanova said, “but he thinks.”
    “Guy’s a basket case,” Victor said.
    “You know who he is,” Villanova said.
    “Yeah,” Victor said. “One-armed asshole. With the metal detector.”
    “You guys steal his arm?” Villanova asked.
    Victor brayed laughter.
    “I don’t even know what to say,” Reginald said.
    Villanova looked down at the table with his eyebrows raised. “It’s crazy, I know. But he thinks you two had something to do with it.”
    “Guy’s a pill head,” Victor said.
    “How you know that?” Villanova asked.
    “Everybody knows,” said Victor.
    “Stole his arm?” Reginald said incredulously.
    “Yeah,” Victor said. “Why’d we want to mess with a cripple?”
    “Maybe he was metal detecting in the wrong place.”
    “That’s what he does,” Victor said. “Digs holes in all the wrong places.”
    Villanova mulled this over.
    “He’s pissed off lots of people with that metal detector,” Reginald said. “Especially after the storm.”
    Villanova shunted his eyes back and forth between the brothers. “Maybe you’re right,” he allowed, “but I doubt they’d steal the guy’s arm.”
    “We didn’t either,” Reginald said.
    “Figured as much,” Villanova said, and stood. One-handed, he jammed his hat down on his head. “Favor, though? Best don’t even look at him the wrong way. Guy’s a little unhinged.”

LINDQUIST
    Shrimping with one arm was harder than Lindquist recalled.
    When Dixon didn’t show up that afternoon Lindquist sailed alone on