Free Holy Death by Anthony Neil Smith Page B

buck. He hadn’t quite decided between drowning out there sometime this coming fall, right before it turned to ice, or simply drifting off to eternal sleep after a handful of pills, a bottle of Four Roses, and a recording of Desiree’s voice playing in the background, those voicemails he kept and listened to in the late hours almost every night.
    Rome offered Wyatt a beer, but the trooper turned it down, said, “A bottle of water?”
    “I don’t do bottles of water. Tap?”
    “That’s okay.”
    Rome sighed, filled a glass with water, no ice, and brought it over. He led the way to the leather couch and armchair, flicked on the lamp, very soft light. He took the chair, and Wyatt eased onto the couch.
    “Nice place.”
    “The last one I’ll ever own.”
    “You’re too young to think like this, you know. Hell, even I’m too young to think that way.”
    Rome grinned. “You know what I mean.”
    “That’s what I’m worried about.”
    “You here for an intervention? You by yourself?”
    Wyatt took a sip of water, looked around for a coaster. Since there weren’t any, he held his glass on his knee. “I probably shouldn’t have come. I mean—”
    “But now you’ve come, so get on with it. I promise, I’ll listen politely.”
    “You don’t get it. I come bearing gifts.”
    “Of gab?”
    Wyatt leaned forward, reached for his back pocket and pulled out a block of folded papers, tossed them on the end table on top of all the water rings from Rome’s whiskey glasses. Son of a bitch could’ve set down his glass at any time if he’d been paying attention. Bugged the shit out of Rome. But he kept his tongue still and picked up the papers, unfolded them. They were printouts of digital photos, terrible quality. But they didn’t need to be great to capture the images of a bathroom wall, three-foot tall letters smeared onto it, shouting WELCOME HOME LAFITTE.
    “Well, fuck me. Is that shit?”
    “Yessir. Written in shit. Yes indeed. This one was going around Instagram last night, and it got flagged by my Google search for Lafitte. Hattiesburg, Mississippi truck-stop. Some truckers took pics on their phones and posted them. But keep going.”
    A photo of Lafitte in a delivery truck. Sure as shit it was him.
    Next one, Lafitte delivering boxes marked MUSCLE MAX to a strip-mall store.
    Another. Another.
    The alcohol in Rome’s blood swirled down an imaginary drain. “What the goddamn—”
    “That’s him, ain’t it?”
    “That’s him.” Rome flipped back to the first one, the shit letter. “Someone thinks they’ve got a line on him, someone from his past, or they wouldn’t be bothering.”
    Wyatt nodded. “I’ve heard some stories this past week, some sightings. This last one, the shit-writing, was a surprise.”
    Rome sat back in the chair. Tension, released. He took a deep breath.
    Wyatt said, “You’re dying to know.”
    “I am.”
    “No, they haven’t got him yet.”
    Rome rubbed his hand across his mouth, his stubble, his chin. “But he’s there. Holy shit, he’s there. Motherfucker.”
    “So, should we call? Give the police a heads up?”
    Rome cut his eyes at Wyatt. “Shit.”
    “I’m just saying, we’re kind of far away, you know.”
    Rome looked at his watch. “When’s the next flight to Mobile?”
    “I thought you might want to know. Out of Minneapolis, six in the morning.”
    Rome rolled his head on the back of the chair. “I wish I could still fly whenever I wanted.”
    “So, what did you think of my intervention?”
    “You’re coming with me, right?”
    A nod. “Told my wife I need about five days. Fishing trip. But the moment it starts to look dangerous, we call for back-up. Agreed?”
    “Goddamn. I mean, goddamn .” Rome started laughing. “Nobody ever said he was smart. Lucky, but never smart.”
    “Let’s get moving. Two hours back to the Cities, some time to get you coffeed up, couple of tacos in you. Not sure what we’ll do for sidearms yet, but I’ll make