Poesy regarded him for a few moments. “You want to learn how?”

  “Are you serious, Sir? You’d teach me?”

  “There ain’t much else to do while we’re waiting for Grace to arrive.”

  “You think she’ll come?”

  Poesy nodded. “I’m sure she’ll come. Here, take a couple of knives, and start off easy. I’ll throw the wood, and you see if you can hit it.”

  An hour later, he’d scored a single hit out of dozens of throws. The older man was patient, and he explained how to aim off, and focus on the tip of each blade as it went into the air. “You’ve got the basic idea, but you need to expand your mindset. Watch the blade, line it up on the target, and follow through.”

  Another hour passed, and he’d scored a few more hits. Once, he even managed to two consecutive strikes on the target, and Poesy nodded approvingly. “That’s good. Keep it up, and when you can hit it with both knives one hundred percent of the time, we’ll try a third. After that, I’ll show you how to use the knife as a weapon, to defend yourself, and to kill a man if you need to.”

  Ryder didn’t reply, but Joe understood. “You’re not new to killing, John-Wesley; I can see it in your eyes. I don’t want to know what you’ve done, but I’ll show you how to do it right.”

  He stopped at the sound of a vehicle engine approaching and stared at Ryder. “Best make yourself scarce, in case it's trouble.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He ran to the barn and stepped inside. He peered through a gap in the woodwork and watched the vehicle approach, a Buick Sedan. The man who climbed out was a stranger to Ryder. Yet Joe knew him, for they embraced like old friends. He shouted toward Ryder.

  “Come on out, son. This here’s an old friend of mine.”

  He walked toward the two men. The new arrival was a big man of about mid-fifties, with a big belly. Although most of it was muscle, he looked like a man who could take care of himself. Joe did the introductions.

  “John-Wesley, this is an old friend, retired Navy Chief Frank Callahan. We served together, and boy, did we have some good times.”

  Callahan threw out a meaty hand, and they shook. “Pleased to meet you, John-Wesley. I guess you were named after the preacher.”

  “Yes, Sir, that’s right.”

  “Father a minister?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He grinned. “Thought as much.” He squinted at the balk of wood lying nearby, with two knives embedded, “I guess Joe’s been teaching you some of his tricks. How’s he getting on, Joe?”

  “Better than you ever did, Frank. No matter how much you tried, you never got it right.”

  He grimaced. “One day I’ll get the hang of it.” He looked at Ryder. “Joe tells me you have a problem.”

  He didn’t reply.

  How much has Joe told him? Does he know I killed a man?

  “You can trust Frank,” Poesy murmured, “He has ways of finding things out that we can’t. His son Al works for the FBI.”

  Both men looked at Ryder, waiting for a response. When he stayed silent, Poesy nodded and said, “Okay, I get it. You don’t trust anyone. Even so, I trust Frank, so I asked him to look into Grace’s disappearance. See if he can get any leads on where she may have gone.”

  “That’s all?”

  Frank supplied the answer. “That’s all he asked, for me to look out for any sign of Grace, the usual places, Sheriff’s offices, hospital ER rooms, that kind of thing. I put the word out, and I’m waiting to hear back. Is there something else I should know about?”

  A pause. “Nothing.”

  “Fine. Now show me what you can do.”

  Joe threw the timber, and Ryder made several attempts to hit it. To his surprise, some even nailed the target, but his mind was elsewhere. Thinking about Grace. Thinking about the FBI. After two hours of chatting about old times, Frank Callahan took off, and they prepared dinner. Joe was quiet, and Ryder waited him out. While they were eating, he got to the point.

  “She hasn’t been in touch, and I’m worried about her. Frank’s a good man, and I’m sure his son will do his best, but she’ll be all on her lonesome, lost somewhere out in the boonies. Tired, hungry, she could even be hurt.”

  “What can I do, Sir?”

  “It’s Joe,” he said again, “I’ve given it some thought. We’ll let Frank do his best, and I reckon another five days is enough. We can’t leave it any longer, by then she’ll have been missing for a week. After that, we go looking. I’ll head east toward the coast, and you go in the direction you came from. New Orleans.”

  He held up his hand to forestall the objection, “I know the cops may be looking for you there, but it’s Grace we have to think about.”

  “It’s a lot of country, Joe.”

  “It is. As she didn’t make it here, I’m guessing she’s not too far from her home. That’s where I want you to search, say a five-mile radius of Daniel’s farm.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Good. In the meantime, we have three days. I’ll show you some close in knife work, and we’ll do some more throwing.” Then his face darkened, “Find the mother who killed Daniel, and put those lessons to some good use.”

  “He could be a cop. Almost certainly is a cop.”

  He shrugged. “The question is, whether he’s a murderer.”

  They didn’t have three days. At the end of the second day, the cops arrived. He was inside the house with Joe, preparing dinner, when the tires crunched on the gravel. A quick glance through the window, and he relaxed. It was a civilian vehicle. A moment later, he knew he was in trouble. A man climbed out, and he recognized Lieutenant Arthur Dubois. With him was another, younger and thinner man, also in civilian clothes. Like Dubois, he had ‘cop’ written all over him.

  “It’s him. It’s that detective.”

  Joe nodded. “Get yourself upstairs, and stay quiet. I’ll handle this.”

  Ryder vaulted up the staircase and watched what was going on through a narrow gap in the woodwork.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Art Dubois emerged from the car; grateful the long journey had ended. Three hours, sitting on the plastic seats of an unmarked cruiser driven by his partner, Detective Caleb Fry. After the first hour, he’d snapped and told him to shut off the radio. Fry was a Country and Western enthusiastic. Dubois hated most music, period. C&W, rock ’n’ roll, classical, jazz, hip-hop, and especially hip-hop.

  My idea of culture’s a long cold beer and a sour mash chaser, several sour mash chasers, in fact. When I get back, I’ll need double measures to swill the dust from my throat and soothe the aches in my body.

  The Poesy farm was like many other small farms in the region, a small house, with two barns and a few cows grazing in the field. He hadn’t phoned ahead. He preferred to take people by surprise. He watched the guy walk out through the front door. It had to be Joe Poesy. He was big, but unlike Dubois, most of his size was muscle. Working a farm meant he had it easy, a fit, outdoor lifestyle. The guy didn’t have to work odd shifts, stakeouts, eating doughnuts, and downing endless coffees to stay awake.

  Caleb Fry switched off the engine and joined him. Dubois was wary of the rookie detective; the man was an eager beaver. A cop who with weird ideas about ‘doing it by the book.’ He’d soon learn if he lived long enough. For now, the problem was drip-feeding him just enough information to keep him on the investigation, without knowing the real reason that lay behind the hunt for Grace Poesy. She hadn’t been the first, and Dubois had used his detective’s shield over the years to pursue his little ‘hobby.’ The whores asked for it anyway, so why shouldn’t he give it to them. Sure, a few squealed, and there’d been the odd complaint. Even a couple of deaths he’d managed to hide, but so far, he’d always dealt with them. Threats usually worked, and if they didn’t, there was another way of silencing the complainant, a more permanent way.

  He fixed a polite smile on his face. “Mr. Poesy? I’m Lieutenant Dubois. Me and my partner here are looking for someone.”

  Did his expression just become hostile when he heard my name? How much does he know?

  “Who would that be?”

  “You know about your brother? He was murdered.”

  “I heard.”

  “Uh, huh. We’re looking for two people to answer some questions. Your niece, Grace Poesy, and a youth by the name of John-Wesley Ryder, you seen either of them here?”

  “Nope, I don’t see many people in these parts. Lonely out here.”

  “Right. You mind if we take a look around?”

  The look of hostility isn’t my imagination. The guy knows something. Shit.

  Joe nodded. “You can look around anytime you like.”

  “Thanks.” They started forward, but he didn’t move aside, “After you show me your warrant.”

  Dubois froze. “Sir, we’re investigating the murder of your brother. If you don’t wish to cooperate, we may have to assume you have something to hide.”

  Poesy didn’t budge. “There’s nothing I need to hide, Lieutenant. Just show me the warrant and you can look anywhere you like.”

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Dubois scowled, “If I…”

  “And make it an Alexandria warrant. I doubt your New Orleans jurisdiction extends to these parts.”

  He knew when he was beaten, at least, for the time being. He’d lost this battle, but this awkward bastard would see who won the war. Dubois carried a warrant, one that never failed. It was called a Glock 22. Longer and heavier than the iconic Glock 17, Dubois preferred the better accuracy and stopping power of the .40 caliber bullet. He also had a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun in the trunk of the vehicle.

  This sucker has screwed with the wrong cop.

  He forced a smile.

  “It’s your call, Mr. Poesy. We’ll come back with the warrant, and we’ll bring more officers. Give your place a good going over.”

  Joe shrugged. “It won’t make any difference, unless it makes you feel better. Lieutenant.”

  This time he couldn’t hide his contempt, and in that moment, Arthur Dubois knew two things for certain. First, either Grace Poesy or the kid, John-Wesley Ryder was there, or had been there. Second, the man knew he was responsible for the death of his brother. His eyes were eloquent, filled with anger and contempt. Which could have been a problem. Unless…

  Another voice to silence, no sweat!

  “Let’s go, Detective Fry.”

  He about turned and strolled back to the car. Fry climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and turned the car around. As they headed out the gates, he said, “Where to now, Lieutenant? I guess we should go into Alexandria and ask the locals for help.”

  “Like hell we do. Find a way to loop around the back of the farm. We’ll see what’s going on there while they think we've gone chasing that warrant."

  “Lt, is that the right way to play it? He was right. We’re outside of our jurisdiction. We should…”

  “What you should do, Detective Fry, is what I tell you. Find a way around the back, and we’ll watch the place for a while. You never know, the suspects could be in there. We may get a clear shot at them if we strike lucky.”

  “A clear shot, now hold on there, Lt. We don’t know if either of them is guilty.”

  “Of course they’re guilty. That damn knife was sticking out of his chest.”

  “What knife was that? I saw the body when we got there, and I didn’t see a knife.”

  I know it was there. I put it there. One of those interfering little shits must have taken it.

  “I, uh, must have confused it with another crime. Yeah, I could have sworn there was a knife stuck in him.” He forced a grin, “Getting old is all, Caleb, that’s my problem.”

  He looked uncertain. “Sure, Lt.”

  I’ll have to be careful with this buttoned up little straight arrow.

  They drove along a narrow track until they reached the rear of the Poesy farm. Two fields across they could see the farmhouse about a quarter of a mile away.

  He climbed out, opened the trunk, and emerged with the Remington cradled in his arms. He looked at Fry. “We’ll sneak across the fields, and keep watch from the boundary. See what we see.”

  “Lt, I dunno. This doesn’t feel right. I mean, why the shotgun? Shouldn’t we call for local help?”

  “The shotgun is all the help we need, Detective.”

  “But we don’t know who killed Poesy. You mean to shoot these kids?”

  “She killed her father, Caleb, her and the boy, I know they did it. What do you want me to do, ask them out for drinks?”

  He climbed over the fence, almost fell into a ditch part filled with stagnant green water, and stumbled across the rough field. A moment later, Fry followed, and they kept moving until they reached the boundary of the farm. A convenient clump of small trees and bushes hid them, and they settled down to wait. Dubois pulled out a hip flask, took a long pull, and offered it to Fry, who refused.

  He shrugged. “No sweat, that’s more for me.” He took another long pull and settled down with his back to a tree to watch the house.

  They’re inside, I’m certain of it. Whether Fry likes it or not, they’re going down, the uncle, too, if that’s what it takes.

  Dubois had made it this far without being caught. He wasn’t about to let his career slip away because some whore saw his face and got away from him.

  * * *

  Joe gave them time to get clear before he called, “You can come down now, John-Wesley, but stay inside the house.”

  He walked down the staircase. “They’ve gone?”

  “They left, but they haven’t gone far. I saw a reflection of a car windshield two fields across, to the west.”

  “They’re watching the house?”

  “Yep, that’s what they’re doing. You need to stay inside. We’ll carry on with your lessons in the living room, close in knife fighting.” He frowned, “The way things are going, you may be putting some of these lessons into practice before too long.”

  “You believe me about Dubois?”

  “I always did, after you came clean when you got here. I could read that guy’s face like a book. He killed Daniel, and he’s the guy who tried to rape my niece. For a man like that, all bets are off.”

  Ryder was shocked. He was talking about murder. “You don’t think we should report it?”

  A chuckle. “To whom? The cops? They’ll close ranks and blame you and Grace for the murder. As for the Feds, I reckon it’s a coincidence Dubois got here so soon after I asked Frank Callahan for help.”

  “You think he ratted us out?”

  “Not Frank, no, not ever. But his son, the Feebie, that’s something else. He’d have spoken to him in confidence, I'm certain. But straight after he finished the call, I'm betting the son called the New Orleans PD.”

  “So, what do we do now, Sir?”

  “It’s Joe. What do we do? We get justice for Daniel, that’s what. First, you need to finish your lessons. Grab a practice blade, and we’ll get started.”

  Joe Poesy, despite his bulk, moved like a whirlwind, and for hour after hour, Ryder never saw where the blade came from. The edges were rounded and blunted, which was just as well. He’d have been dead a dozen times over otherwise. All they stopped for was a hurried dinner, and Joe insisted they went on into the evening.

  “We don’t have much time, John-Wesley. Sooner or later, we’ll have to tangle with those cops and you need to know everything I can teach you.” He grinned, “Besides, it makes me feel good knowing those two flatfoots are out there, cold and uncomfortable. I’m enjoying this.”

  “You think they’ll stay there overnight?”

  “Nah, they’ll check into a motel or somewhere local. It would take someone tougher than those two to sit out in the cold and dark. Especially that spot they’ve chosen.” His grin widened, “Before they dug the ditches, it was a swamp, and the ground is always damp. In the evening, the flies and mosquitoes will come out to make a meal of them. They won’t last long.”

  He inspected the big, old wall clock. “It’s almost 21.00. I’d say about now they’ll leave, the cold and the bug bites will finish them.”

  An engine started in the distance, and the clock stated the time was 20.57. Ryder looked at him as if he was a magician, but Joe shrugged it off. “It’s no trick. I just know this place better than they do. We can do another hour before we turn in. You need as much practice as you can get.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The following morning they continued, and by midday, Ryder had scored two hits on Joe. By late afternoon, it was neck and neck, and his tutor nodded approvingly. “You learn fast, John-Wesley. I reckon you’re a natural. When the time comes, you won’t let me down.”

  “No, Sir, Joe, but what should we do about Grace? I mean, with the cops staking out this place it’s not likely she’ll come anywhere near.”

  “She may not know they’re there. She could walk right into them, and they’d throw her in a cell in the blink of an eye. Or worse.”

  “I won’t let that happen, Joe. I said I’d take care of her.”

  “Yeah, I know. We’ll give it until midday tomorrow, in which case we’ll assume she’s not coming, and then we go looking. I can get you out hidden in my truck, and we’ll split up when we’re away from here.”

  “We’ll find her.”

  “We must find her, before something terrible happens.”

  Joe pushed him hard after dinner. The lessons were coming to an end, and soon Ryder would be on his own, scouring the countryside for a runaway girl who meant the world to him. When they finished, it was almost 23.00, and they were both dripping with sweat. Despite his exhaustion, he slept little, thinking about the impossible task in front of him. To find Grace Poesy, keep her safe, secure justice for a man who’d been a good friend to him, Daniel Poesy, and to deal with Lieutenant Arthur Dubois.

  He awoke the next morning, knowing it would be his last at the small farm. Like his brother Daniel, Joe Poesy had been a friend and mentor. It would be a wrench to leave him, but it had to be done. They ate an early lunch, and Joe brought out a cloth-wrapped package.