“She knew we weren’t quite right,” Lucas said. “We got creases.”
“Or, could be your haircut. Gas company plumbers don’t have hundred-dollar haircuts.”
* * *
On the way to Curry’s house in the gas company van, with Devlin driving, Lucas took a phone call: “The lawyer and the two search specialists are on the island, a few minutes behind you,” Orish said. “It’s coming together. Good luck and call me the minute everything is secure and I’ll send them in.”
Lucas clicked off and said to Devlin, “Sounds like a bad British spy movie. ‘Everything is secure.’ I was ripping on the British again this morning . . .”
“Could be a bad Canadian spy movie,” Devlin said.
“So then we sound like anti-Canadian bigots.”
“Yes. We’re nervous and we’re trying to be funny. Happens every time,” Devlin said. He pulled out his Glock, popped the magazine, reseated it, put it back in his pocket. “Bob could be funny.”
“He tried,” Lucas said. “But we weren’t very funny. Not really.”
Orish called again: “Curry’s in his driveway unloading the groceries.”
“We’re five minutes out. Call us when he’s done unloading and is inside.”
They were four blocks away when she called back: “He got the last load out and locked the truck. He’s inside.”
“We’ll be there in a minute or two,” Lucas said.
“I know. We’ve got eyes on you.”
* * *
They parked directly in front of Curry’s house. The day hadn’t gotten any warmer, and there was nobody on the sidewalks. Lucas looked up at the house and said, “Two doors, the inner door and the storm door. Both might be locked, so they’ll get a long look at us before they unlock the storm door. The storm door will open out. Looks like there might be some ice on the top step, so watch it. I don’t want you falling on your ass.”
“I got it.”
“Right. You Louisiana guys are like ballerinas on ice,” Lucas said.
“I got it, man,” Devlin said impatiently. “Let’s do it.”
They climbed out of the van and Devlin got a canvas tool bag out of the back; it was stuffed with newspaper to fill it out, since it was empty when delivered with the uniforms.
Lucas led the way up the steps, unsnapped the leg pocket with the gun. He glanced back, saw that Devlin had his hand in his pocket. Lucas said, “Little ice,” and reached out to the doorbell and pushed it three times, hard. They could hear it ringing inside.
Ten seconds later, Devlin muttered, “Looking at us out the window.”
Then the door lock rattled and Lucas said, “I’m gonna punch it.”
A fleshy middle-aged blond woman looked out through the storm door’s window, frowned, fumbled with the lock and handle on the storm door and said, “Gas company?”
Lucas had his hand on the handle of the storm door, yanked it open, pulling her off balance, said, “U.S. Marshals,” and pushed past her and through her, knocking her back into the house and as he went by, the woman screamed, “Cops!”
* * *
Lucas burst down a short entry hall and into the home’s living room, where two elderly people were watching television, an old man from a wheelchair and an elderly woman from an overstuffed green couch; both of their mouths were hanging open. Through a hallway off the living room, he could see Curry standing in front of a refrigerator with a twelve-pack of Pepsi-Cola in his hands. Lucas ran straight on through, toward Curry, heard two doors slam behind him, the storm door and the inner door, heard Devlin shouting something at somebody, not him.
Ahead, Curry leaped sideways and out of sight and Lucas pulled his weapon in case Curry was going for one, but one second later, as he charged into the kitchen, he found Curry trying to get out a back door, rattling a heavy deadbolt lock, and Lucas shouted, “Stop! Stop!”
Curry looked wildly back into the muzzle of Lucas’s gun and put up his hands. “Okay. Okay!”
Devlin, in the front room, was shouting, “Show me your hands, your hands . . .”
A screeching sound ripped through the house and Lucas waved his gun at Curry and shouted, “Keep your hands up . . . Keep them up and get in the living room, get in the living room!”
There was another screeching sound and a woman shouted, “Get away from her, get away from Mom.”
As Lucas pushed Curry down the short hallway to the living room, a bird—he thought a chicken, large and white with a flash of yellow, but flying—dove straight at his head. He flinched, turned, the bird flapped around the kitchen and came back on a second pass, and Lucas pushed Curry harder into the living room and found Devlin pointing his weapon at the two women, the younger one standing in front of the older one, and Devlin shouted at Lucas, “Gun! The old lady’s got a gun in the couch!”
The bird hit Lucas on the back of the head, and he felt a claw scrape across his scalp. Lucas pushed Curry hard between the shoulder blades farther into the living room and the bird ricocheted around the room, brushing both the younger woman and Devlin’s shoulders before going after the old man in the wheelchair, who swung a cane at the bird and called, “Get away, get away, you shitass.”
Devlin shoved the younger woman into the lap of the man in the wheelchair and snatched the old lady by her blouse off the couch; a gun skittered out of her hidden left hand and fell on the floor. Lucas kicked it like a soccer ball down the hallway to the kitchen. As he turned back, he realized for the first time that a dog was barking at them, crazy, excited, and maybe panicked barking, and he looked down and saw a dachshund dancing around Curry’s feet.
“Everybody shut up!” Lucas shouted. “Somebody get the goddamned bird.”
The younger woman shouted, “Stay away from my bird! You motherfucker, stay away . . .”
The bird came after Lucas again and he swatted at it with his gun, smacked it hard, two or three small feathers flying. The bird crashed into a wall and fell flapping to the floor, and the woman came at Lucas with her fingernails. She had to pass Devlin, who stuck out a foot, tripped her, and she went down in a pile, landing on the dog, which squealed and ran under a chair.
In a moment of stunned silence, Lucas said, loudly, but not shouting, “You’re all under arrest. Everybody except the old guy.” He pointed at the elderly man, who shrugged.
Curry said, “We want a lawyer.”
“You’ve got one coming,” Lucas said. “Right now, you’ve got the chance to commit several more felonies. You want to do it, it’s up to you. If you don’t want to do that, sit down.”