Free Delusion by Peter Abrahams Page A

bottle in one hand, gun in the other, as if to indicate: things everywhere.
    “Were you friends with Alvin DuPree?” Lee Ann said.
    “Al DuPree? Thief, bully, coward, snake.”
    “Then why did you send the tape? Why did you write the note?”
    Nappy gave Lee Ann a pitying look, arms still raised high. Nell wondered about the wisdom of making a grab for the gun, or maybe just asking him to put it away. “Ever heard of justice?” Nappy said.
    “In the interest of justice,” Lee Ann said. “I understand. But then, when nothing happened with the tape, why didn’t you follow up?”
    “Know what I don’ like about you? You look so smart, but it turns out the other.”
    “Then walk me through it,” Lee Ann said.
    “Walk you through it,” Nappy said, mimicking her. He started to lower his arms. “You still don’ even realize the obvious fac’—I was inside of the store when Al was poundin’ away on the—” At that moment, he stopped speaking and toppled over.
    “Christ,” said Lee Ann, “he passed out.”
    Bourbon gurgled out of the bottle, onto the grass. Nell and Lee Ann knelt beside Nappy. Twenty or thirty seconds passed before they realized he’d been shot in the head. In fairness to them, the entry wound was small and partly hidden by his hair. Only when they turned him over, revealing the other side of his head with the exit-wound crater, was the truth plain.
    C H A P T E R 8
    Clay hurried across the clearing, followed by his driver and, farther behind, Sergeant Bowman, oldest detective on the Belle Ville force. He saw Nell and picked up the pace, was almost running when he reached her. He put his hands on her shoulders, looked into her eyes.
    “Are you all right?” he said.
    “Yes.”
    He embraced her, just for a second, and squeezed. She squeezed back. Then he let her go and turned to Solomon Lanier, first black sheriff of Stonewall County.
    “Big Sol,” he said. “Thanks for calling.”
    “Don’t even mention it, Chief,” Lanier said.
    They shook hands; not many men made Clay seem small, but Sheriff Lanier was one. Clay glanced around, took in the cops moving in the woods; the stretcher on the ground, a sheet covering the body, EMTs standing by; a spray-painted human form in front of the cabin with a small spray-painted circle a few yards away; and Lee Ann, writing in a notebook. She looked up, met his gaze, nodded.
    Clay turned to the sheriff, not acknowledging Lee Ann at all.
    “What have we got, Sol?”
    “Shooting victim,” the sheriff said. “Makes five in the county so far since January, down a tick from last year.”
    They walked over to the stretcher. An EMT pulled back the sheet, 58
    PETER ABRAHAMS
    down to Nappy Ferris’s chin. From this angle, Nell couldn’t see the exit wound, but the cliché that the dead man could have been sleeping did not apply: one of his eyes was open, the other closed. Nell wished someone would do something about that.
    “Name of Napoleon Ferris,” said the sheriff. “Subject of interest down your way?”
    Clay nodded.
    “There he is,” said the sheriff.
    The two men gazed at the body. Clay glanced over and saw Nell watching. She didn’t say anything, just thought the thought. He bent over, closed the open eye, drew the sheet back up.
    “Plus we got this,” said the sheriff, taking a misshapen, lead-colored slug from his pocket and holding it up to the light. “Just the one so far,” he said, “turned up over there.” He pointed to the spray-painted circle. “Looks like a thirty-ought-six to me, but I’m no expert.”
    “Me either,” said Clay.
    “We’ll let those good old lab boys worry about it.”
    “Belle Ville lab’s at your disposal.”
    “Much obliged,” said the sheriff. “We’ll take a swing at it up here, all the same with you.”
    Clay gave a slight nod. “Where did the shot come from?” he said.
    “Little bump in the road on that one,” said the sheriff. “The ladies didn’t hear a shot.” The sheriff held