Something—possibly my sanity—breaks as Ever circles the safe with his tools held aloft. I can’t help myself; the image is too funny. I start to laugh.
He raises his eyebrows. “Am I witnessing your mental breakdown?”
“You look ridiculous. Like some sort of movie villain.”
“Disrespectful, Ruth.” He sighs. “Stand back.”
I stifle my laughter and step away—and as soon as I do, he jabs the tire iron into the gap behind the door of the safe and strikes it with his hammer, wedging the iron in. With every blow, he wrenches the door forward a little more. Then he drops the hammer with a clang and worksthe tire iron, putting his whole body into it, the corded muscles of his arms and back straining.
Something strange happens as I watch Everett bend the metal: I remember that he is a man. Strong and solid and formidable. His methodical exertion calls back the image of him taking apart Renard’s body, that bloody ax swinging down, violent and steady. It’s like I’ve grown so close to him I’ve forgotten what he looks like from a distance. But now I remember.
He peels the door of the safe forward like it’s the lid on a tuna can, and it swings open. I stand gaping—at the accomplishment and the contents.
“Told ya.” He drops the tire iron and wipes his sweaty brow on his shirtsleeve, breathing heavily. “Don’t worry. I used the subtler method in your dad’s office.”
“Ever—the money.”
The safe is filled with stacks of bills bound haphazardly by grubby rubber bands.
He crouches in front of it and I follow suit. “Yeah. Most runners give the Sons money as collateral. They make them buy in with more than the value of a shipment so it doesn’t make sense to run off. Here, help me clear it out.”
Together we pull stacks of money out of the safe and place them neatly on the concrete floor. The last time I saw this much money, Everett was holding it out to me in a grocery bag behind Dale’s Country Corner. When it’s cleared, all that’s left in the safe are a few slips of paper. I pick up one that calls to me—Pepto-Bismol pink.
“A car title.” A truck, registered to one Mr. Jebediah Ray.
Ever waves a creamy page. “This one’s a boat title.”
“Jeez.” The next piece of paper looks like it’s been ripped out of a notebook. An address in Shreveport, scribbled in pen. I show Ever. “What do you think this is?”
He studies the address for a moment. “Nothing good.”
I stare at the paper until I realize. And then I wonder whether whoever lives there knows their lives are collateral, kept hostage in this safe. Goose bumps prickle my arms.
“Bingo.” Ever unfolds the last pages, thick and bound by a heavy-duty staple. “I was right. It’s still here.”
I take the pages and smooth them. Sure enough, it’s the deed to a house in Breaux Bridge, where Renard’s mother lived. The form details the transfer of ownership from Renard Laurent and Sue Ellen Michaels to Jebediah Ray.
“Wait.” I frown, grabbing the car title, then the boat one. “All of these are in Jebediah Ray’s name.”
“Exactly.” Strangely, Ever’s beaming. “That’s the part that’s gonna make this whole plan work. If a runner can’t get his hands on enough cash to buy in, the Sons make him transfer ownership of something valuable. That way, if he runs off, the property’s already theirs.”
“So if you want to escape the Sons, all you lose is whatever you turned over?”
“No. The price for taking off is they hunt you down and kill you. Whatever you turned over is just a tax for the effort.”
They hunt you down and kill you.Like I suspect they did to Fred. That’s who we’re messing with. Stone-cold killers. Professionals.
Ever taps the deed. “This is our proof Renard was mixed up with them. If we send deputies to their place in Forsythe and they catch them cookingandfind this? Game over.”
“But who’s this Jebediah Ray?”
He hesitates for a moment, then says, “They call him the Serpent King. He’s the leader of the Sons. They wear rattlesnakes on their jackets,” he adds, off my dubious look. “It’s their club symbol. Something to do with colonial America.”
“Like ‘Don’t tread on me’?”
He snorts. “Exactly. Real patriotic heroes, these guys.” Ever scoops the papers and stacks of cash into his shirt, lifting the hem to create a makeshift basket. “Help me get all this.”
I seize his wrist. “What are you doing? We came here for the deed.”
