Pedro Luz did not look like a cheery bundle of good tidings. The wheelchair was one clue. The missing foot was another.
Kingsbury sighed. “Christ, now what?” He saw a whopper of a worker’s comp claim coming down the pike.
“An accident,” Pedro Luz said, wheeling to a stop in front of Kingsbury’s desk. “Hey, it’s not so bad.”
Chelsea noticed that the security man’s face was swollen and mottled like a rotten melon, and that his massive arms had exploded in fresh acne sores.
Kingsbury drummed on a marble paperweight. “So? Let’s hear it.”
Pedro Luz said, “I shot the bastard.”
“Yeah?”
“You better believe it.”
Charles Chelsea deftly excused himself, talk of felonies made him uncomfortable. He closed the door softly and nearly sprinted down the hall. He was thinking: Thank God it’s finally over. No more dueling flacks.
Kingsbury grilled Pedro Luz on the details of the Joe Winder murder, but the security man edited selectively.
“He was in the shower. I fired eleven times, so I know damn well I hit him. Besides, I heard the shouts.”
Kingsbury asked, “How do you know he’s dead?”
“There was lots of blood,” said Pedro Luz. “And like I told you, I fired almost a dozen goddamn rounds. Later I set the place on fire.”
“Yeah?” Kingsbury had seen footage of a trailer blaze on Channel 4; there had been no mention of bodies.
Pedro Luz said, “It went up like a damn torch. One of them cheap mobile homes.”
“You’re sure the bastard was inside?”
“Far as I know. And the bitch, too.”
Francis Kingsbury said, “Which bitch? You’re losing me here.”
“The dumb bitch he was staying with. The one who ran me over.”
Pedro Luz gestured at the bandaged stump on the end of his leg. “That’s what she did to me.”
The puffy slits made it difficult to read the expression in Pedro Luz’s eyes. Kingsbury said, “She hit you with a car?”
“More than that, she ran me down. Parked right on top of me.”
“On your foot? Jesus Christ.” Kingsbury winced sympathetically.
Pedro Luz said: “Good thing I’m in shape.” Self-consciously he folded his bulging arms and spread his hands in a way that covered the pimples.
Kingsbury said, “So what happened?”
“What do you mean? I told you what happened.”
“No, I mean with the car on your foot. How’d you get free?”
“Oh, I chewed it off,” said Pedro Luz, “right below the ankle.”
Kingsbury stared at the stump. He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Animals do it all the time,” Pedro Luz explained, “when they get caught in traps.”
Francis Kingsbury nodded unconsciously. His eyes roamed the office, searching for a convenient place to throw up.
“The hard part wasn’t the pain. The hard part was the reach.” Pedro Luz bent down to demonstrate.
“Oh Lord,” Kingsbury muttered.
“Like I said, it’s a good thing I’m in shape.”
At the campsite, Joe Winder told Molly McNamara it was nice to see her again. Molly congratulated Joe for blowing up Kingsbury’s bulldozers. Skink thanked Molly for the bottle of Jack Daniels, and briefly related how it had been utilized. Carrie Lanier was introduced to the burglars, whom she instantly recognized as the scruffy vole robbers. Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue were stunned to learn that Robbie Raccoon was a woman, and apologized for knocking Carrie down during the heist.
The heat was throbbing and the hammock steamed. No breeze stirred off the water. A high brown haze of African dust muted the hues of the broad summer sky. Skink handed out cold sodas and tended the fire; he wore cutoff jeans, the panther collar and a thick white vest of tape and bandages.
“You were lucky,” Molly told him. “Guy was aiming high,” Skink said. “He assumed I’d be standing up.”
As most people do in the shower, thought Joe Winder. “He also assumed that you were me,” he said.
“Maybe so.” Skink smeared a stick of EDTIAR bug repellent on both arms. Then he sat down under a buttonwood tree to count the mosquitoes biting his legs.
Carrie Lanier told the others about the breakneck ride to the veterinarian. “Dr. Rafferty did a great job. We’re lucky he knew somebody over at the Red Cross.”