Billy Bob and Hackberry Holland Ebook Boxed Set by James Lee Burke Page A

shaking needles out of the branches, cursing the quiet desperation of his life.
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    AMBER CALLED ME at the office early the next morning and told me of Darrel McComb’s bizarre behavior at her house. “He was lying. He’s a voyeur,” she said.
    â€œHe told you he was following a man named Dixon?”
    â€œRight. Who’s this guy Dixon, anyway?”
    â€œA guy who left his pancakes on the stove too long.” I glanced out the window.
    â€œWhat’s he want with us?” she asked.
    â€œI’ll let you know. He’s looking through my window right now.”
    After I hung up, I opened my door and went into the reception area just as Wyatt came through the front door. He wore a purple-striped western shirt with scarlet garters on the sleeves. The bottoms of his jeans were streaked with water, as though he had walked through wet weeds. He grinned stupidly at the receptionist, his gaze raking her face and breasts.
    â€œWhat were you doing at the Finley place?” I said.
    â€œTaking a drain,” he said, his eyes still fastened on the receptionist. He started to speak to her.
    â€œHildy, go down to Kinko’s and pick up our Xerox work, will you?” I said.
    â€œGladly,” she said, picking up her purse.
    I walked inside my office and closed the door after Wyatt was inside.
    â€œNice little heifer you got out there,” he said.
    â€œYou have thirty seconds.”
    â€œGot the goods on Darrel McComb. Seems like he’s been doing some window-peeking up the Rattlesnake. My official statement on the matter might do a whole lot to hep that Indian boy. I might also have some information about that senator always got his nose in the air.”
    â€œWhat do you want for this?”
    â€œYou got to sign on as my lawyer.”
    â€œWhy me?”
    â€œI need investors in my rough stock company. Folks don’t necessarily trust their money to a man who’s been jailing since he was fifteen.”
    â€œForget it.”
    â€œWe’re more alike than you think, Brother Holland.”
    â€œYou’re wrong,” I said.
    â€œTell me the feel of a gun in your hand don’t excite you, just like the touch of a woman.”
    â€œWe’re done here.”
    â€œViolence lives in the man. It don’t find him of its own accord. My daddy taught me that. Every time he held my head down in a rain barrel to improve my inner concentration.”
    â€œGet out.”
    â€œWalked the rim of your pasture this morning. I’d irrigate if I was you. A grass fire coming up that canyon would turn the whole place into an ash heap.”
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    BUT MY MORNING INVOLVEMENT with Wyatt was not over yet. Two hours later Seth Masterson came into the office, sat down in front of my desk, and removed a Xeroxed sheet from a sheaf of documents inside a folder. “Read this,” he said.
    The letter had probably been typed on an old mechanical typewriter; the letters were ink-filled and blunted on the edges. The date was only one week ago, the return address General Delivery, Missoula, Montana. It read:
    Dear President George W. Bush,
    I am a fellow Texan and long supporter of the personal goals you have set for yourself and our great country. I particularly like the way you have stood up to the towel heads who has attacked New York City and the Pentagon. With this letter I am offering my expertise in taking care of these sonsofbitches so they will not be around any longer to get in your hair. Let me know when you want me to come to Washington to discuss the matter.
    My character references are William Robert Holland, a lawyer friend in Missoula, and Rev. Elton T. Sneed of the Antioch Pentecostal Church in Arlee, Montana.
    Your fellow patriot,
    Wyatt Dixon
    â€œIs this guy for real?” Seth said. His legs wouldn’t fit between his chair and my desk and he kept shoving the chair back to give himself more space.
    â€œYou must have pulled everything