Alois reached out and lifted the Needle Box from his father’s hand. “How about this? I could make one cut in a motorcycle seat—very carefully—and plant this baby right under someone’s butt cheek. Toons, for example. And anytime I wanted over the next twelve hours . . . he’d get a shot of cyanide. And tha-tha-tha-that’s all folks!”

Deep pleasure spread through Snake’s belly and chest. But his mind was moving so fast, he stifled the laugh he felt rising and took back the box from his son.

“Where else? Could you put it in a car seat?”

“Sure. Any kind of seat that’s got enough padding.”

Snake looked back toward the office and shook his head. Then he released his laugh, a sudden expulsion of triumphant glee.

“What you thinking, Pop?” Alois asked.

Snake laughed until he’d caught his breath. “I’m picturing Toons with the red-ass, boy.”

Alois laughed, too, so happy was he to have earned his father’s respect.

“The Needle Box,” Snake said. “How many of these little boogers you got?”

“A couple. But I can build more. All you want.”

“Two’ll do.” Snake winked. “For a start.”

Chapter 16

We spent a lot of the afternoon cleaning the house in preparation for my mother moving back in tomorrow. Annie especially wants the house to be in perfect condition, and she took quite a while arranging things just so in the guest room where Mom will be staying. Mom would probably prefer to sleep in her own house, but there’s no question of that while Snake and his VK soldiers are on the loose, especially after the warning he sent to Dad.

About an hour ago Tim and I drove down to C&M Seafood and bought twenty pounds of huge crawfish that had just come off the heat. Now we’re all gathered around the kitchen table—even the security guys—cracking shells and sucking heads while Annie yells “Gross!” every minute or so. Serenity’s been trying to get her to suck the meat from a head, but Annie steadfastly refuses.

A loud knock at the door causes Tim to get up a little more swiftly than the average person might, but he’s calm about going to check who’s there. When he returns, a handsome black man of about twenty-five is following him. Because Carl Sims isn’t wearing his Lusahatcha County deputy’s uniform but a light blue polo shirt and jeans, it takes me a second to recognize him.

“Carl!” I cry. “What are you doing here, man? Not official business, I hope.”

“Nah, man,” he says. “I got a little news for you, on that thing you asked about, but it’s nothing urgent.”

The woman whose son was killed at the Bone Tree . . .

“I see y’all got some mudbugs!” Carl says, laughing. “Big ones, too.”

“Sit down and make a plate.”

“I won’t say no to that.”