“I walked down to the dock to help Batist, the black man who worked for me, fold up the Cinzano umbrellas on our spool tables and close up the bait shop. There was a rain ring around the moon, and I pulled back the awning that covered the dock, then went inside just as the phone rang on the counter.“Mout’ called me. His son wants to come in,” the voice said.“Stay out of police business, Megan.”“Do I frighten you? Is that the problem here?”“No, I suspect the problem is use.”“Try this: he’s fiftee...n miles out in the Atchafalaya Basin and snakebit. That’s not metaphor. He stuck his arm in a nest of them. Why don’t you deliver a message through Mout’ and tell him just to go fuck himself?”After I hung up I nicked off the outside flood lamps. Under the moon’s yellow light the dead trees in the swamp looked like twists of paper and wax that could burst into flame with the touch of a single match. AT DAWN THE WIND was out of the south, moist and warm and checkered with rain, when I headed the cabin cruiser across a long, flat bay bordered on both sides by flooded cypress trees that turned to green lace when the wind bent their branches.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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