Free KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set by Gordon Kessler Page A

hit the bottom of the ditch hard. I lost consciousness again, this time more from the impact than the drugs still clouding my mind.
    When I came to, my movements were slow — very slow and labored. I glanced to Zack and found him leaning against the steering wheel, a trickle of blood coming from his forehead, eyes closed. The truck was nose down in the ditch, and after what seemed like minutes, I realized the old Dodge’s horn was blaring.
    Then, I saw the smoke.
    The cloud of hay smoke came heavily through the broken rear window, so thick I could barely breathe. The hay bales had busted apart and alfalfa was everywhere inside the cab. The truck would soon be entirely engulfed in flames. I kicked open my door, took the big horn player by the arm and began pulling his limp body out of the cab. As I did, he came to consciousness and helped. We crawled away a few feet and he collapsed.
    “ Soc au’ lait! ” Zack said, and at first I thought he was crying. But when he gave that Walter Brennan chuckle in between wails of giddy emotion, I realized he was laughing hysterically.
    “She-it, man!” he said. “Cuz’s gonna be pissed!”
    I coughed from the smoke and found myself laughing with him. I figured the silliness we were embracing must have been from whatever hallucinogenics the beautiful, black Voodoo woman had passed me by aerosol powder or fingernail scratch. Still, the laughter lay on my face and throat like a tight mask, and I couldn’t shake it no matter how hard I tried.
    “It’s just hay — alfalfa,” I said, trying to control myself. “What’s it go for, these days, twelve bucks a bale?”
    “She-it, E Z boy!” he said, “not this alfalfa. This’s the good stuff! Fifteen G’s a bale.”
    I frowned not understanding, at first. I realized I was starting to get very hungry, in spite of being in danger of losing my life. The cop was probably incapacitated up on the road, but more police would surely arrive soon. Still, I was hungry and laughing my fool ass off. When I took my next good breath, I realized why. Marijuana?
    “Zack,” I said between chuckles. “Your cousin’s goats eat Mary Jane .”
    “Uh-huh! When Cuz is wasted ‘nough t’gives it to’m. Cuz eats’t, too. An’ he rolls’t, an’ smokes’t, an’ brews’t in his po’lickah, an’ bakes’t in his cookies — an’ sells’t t’his neighbors an’ kinfolk!”
    We were both laughing too hard to stop, leaning back on our elbows, watching the cherry ‘52 Dodge pickup burn.
    We both finally settled some, and I asked, “What about your pickup burning up?”
    “Yessir, sure wish w’had some hot dogs an’ marshmallows!”
    The laughing erupted again, with the shrill Walter-Brennan keening and snorts. Tears were streaming from our eyes.
    Finally, I caught my breath again. “Really, Zack — your beautiful truck?”
    “It jus’ a thin’, E Z boy. Ain’t folks like you an’ me, an’ Poodoo an’ Ella Fitzgerald. An’ not like Billy. I’ll do fine withou’ ol’ Dodge. Won’t withou’ any m’folks — let’s go fin’ Billy.”
    He started giggling like a child again as we pulled ourselves up the embankment, one handful of weeds at a time.
    “What?” I asked him.
    “What?” he shook his head and giggled some more.
    It was contagious. “Come on — what?”
    He could barely get it out between chuckles. “I ... sure ... got ... them munchies!”
    “Well, hell — let’s get outa here and go get some Twinkies!”
    “Okay, E Z boy. An’ pity the fool get’n ou’way!”

 
     
    Chapter 11
    Jambalaya, Crawfish Pie, F ilé Gumbo and Twinkies
     
    When we got to the road, the sheriff’s deputy was lying beside his wrecked patrol car unconscious. We heard a conversation on the cruiser radio putting out an APB on us and the pickup.
    We’d been headed for Margoles Bait and Gas, a small store catering to bayou hunters and fishermen. Zack said that if anyone in the Honey Island Swamp had seen Billy, it would be