Page 53 of Backtrack

“I guess he could have.” Duvall’s bloody nose had staunched to a trickle, but he still sounded like he had a bad cold. “But it’s unlikely. The cops never said a word.”

“Vince wouldn’t have turned on us,” Pink said. “He stopped there on the highway just so I could get away.”

Moffit gave a concerned nod. “I was sorry to hear they’d killed him.”

“Yeah,” Pink said. “Anyway, the cops went over everything with a fine-tooth comb. They would have found the diamonds if Vince had them.”

“And our law enforcement brethren are all so honest,” Moffit scoffed. “A sack of diamonds can bend a man’s morals quicker than a pretty woman. I never met a cop who didn’t have a pile of bills he needed to pay.”

Moffit switched the Browning Hi-Power to his left hand and kicked off his elephant hide boots to step out of the coveralls. His tight white T-shirt made him more G.I. Joe than Ken doll. Free of the overalls, he holstered the Browning and put his boots back on.

“I watched from the other side of the highway, you know. When that fireplug deputy sheriff murdered Vince Millner. Nothing short of sensational.”

Pink stood up straighter at that. “You saw it?”

“I did indeed,” Moffit said. “I watched that asshole gun down your friend and then lean over his body all calm and cool to search his pockets. He was definitely looking for something. I expect he’s the one who’s been calling my office wanting to talk to me.”

“Cutter,” Pink whispered.

“That’s right,” Moffit said. “D Wayne Cutter. He’s an investigator for the Sheriff’s Department.” He glanced at Duvall. “Go on and grab your pistol. Since you’re here, you two can help me give Mr. Dietrich a ride out to the other side of the lake.”

“Awfully close to your house,” Duvall said.

“We’ll grab a bite to eat first,” Moffit said. “Let it get a little later and then stick to the back roads. Nobody goes over there. There are so many corpses at the bottom of the lake, I imagine he’ll land on top of someone else’s bones.”

“If no one goes over there, how could there be so many corpses?” Pink asked earnestly, like there might actually be an answer to the question.

“Another fair point. But who’s to say those bodies were put there by someone else?” Moffit gave a tired sigh, ready to change the subject. “At any rate, Mr. Pink, if you’d be so kind as to pull that plastic off the wall behind you.”

Ricky Lee turned and gave the sheeting a yank, half expecting to see more burritoed bodies. Instead, the barn’s interior wall turned out to be lined with railroad ties stacked two deep from the concrete floor eight feet high. Four life-size silhouette targets were stapled along the wall.

Duvall had just stooped down on unsteady legs to pick up his gun when Moffit drew his Browning Hi-Power and sent three rounds into each of the four targets. The supersonic crack of twelve nine-millimeter rounds in the enclosed barn was painfully deafening—andso incredibly fast, the shots sounded as if they’d come from a machine gun.

Duvall cowered at the blast, hands pressed against his ears.

Pink squinted, mesmerized by the perfectly replicated pattern on each target, two to the center of the chest, one to the head—at the bridge of the imaginary nose. Fastandaccurate.

Moffit saw him looking and smiled proudly. “My mercenary friend calls this the Mozambique drill.Two to the chest, one to the head, just keep shootin’ until they’re …You can guess the rest of it.”

“Mozambique?”

“A country in Africa,” Moffit said. “There’s a story behind it. I’ll tell it to you over dinner.”

Duvall eyed Moffit suspiciously. “How about a little heads-up before you start blasting next time?”

“Next time will be different,” Moffit said. “Next time, we’ll be shooting at whoever has the diamonds.”

Pink looked benignly from the man to his targets, then back to the man. One thing was sure: If Gerald Moffit ever decided to shoot at them, they damn sure wouldn’t see it coming.

CHAPTER 18

Lucy’s beloved stray dogs were sprawled on the porch when Cutter got home, blocking his path to the door. The red cur lay on its back, gaunt and ribby, golden copper under the glow of the amber porch bulb. The yellow dog raised a bullish head at the sound of Cutter’s footfalls, then fell back against the porch with an oh-it’s-just-you sigh.

Cutter slipped out of his boots and carried them inside. He’d left them on the porch before his wife started feeding the strays. He didn’t mind shaking out the occasional scorpion or wolf spider, but he’d be damned if he was going to give these curs a couple of two-hundred-dollar Tony Lama chew toys.

With no workable leads for the evening, he’d sent Johnson on his way and stopped by Randy and Shaun Erickson’s place to replace the shoes on one of their geldings. It was relatively easy work, as far as shoeing went. The horse was well-behaved, and their Great Pyrenees dogs kept him company while he worked without getting in his way. He finished in forty-five minutes, putting him home by seven thirty. Later than he wanted to be, earlier than Lucy expected.

He bumped open the door with his hip, surprised to smell the odor of butter and Cajun spices.