Day of Independence by William W. Johnstone

build houses on a bridge we haven’t crossed yet.”
    â€œAll right, we’ll lay that aside for the moment,” Cannan said. “Tell me if I have enough evidence to arrest Abe Hacker.”
    â€œI didn’t see him do it, Cannan,” Dupoix said.
    â€œWhat about his woman?”
    â€œNora? She didn’t see it, either, and even if she did, she wouldn’t testify against her meal ticket.”
    â€œAnyone else?”
    â€œNope. Not a soul.” Dupoix sat on a chair, crossed his legs, and lit a cigar. The whiskey in his hand glowed like Black Hills gold in the waning light. “Besides all that, you can’t even get out of bed, Cannan. How are you going to arrest anybody?”
    â€œI can deputize some of the townsmen.”
    â€œAnd leave a dozen of them dead on the ground? Too steep a price to pay for a rat like Hacker.”
    â€œYou don’t like him, do you?”
    â€œNo, but I don’t have to like him to take his money.” Dupoix sipped his drink and said, “Without much success, I’ve been trying to buck a losing streak that started in Denver a year ago. Right now I’m down to my last chip, and I need this job.”
    â€œThe people of this town all the way up to the mayor are concerned about Hacker,” Cannan said.
    â€œThey should be,” Dupoix said.
    â€œWhat the hell is he up to?” Cannan said.
    â€œIt’s all in the Bible,” Dupoix said.
    The Ranger choked on his whiskey, then wiped his wet mustache with the back of his hand.
    â€œWhat bible?”
    â€œThe holy one, I guess,” Dupoix said.
    Seeing Cannan stare at him in puzzlement, he added, “Hacker said his plan for Last Chance, its fields, orchards and ranches, is all written down in the Bible.” Dupoix smiled. “He said a do-gooder like you would have one.”
    â€œMy wife has one,” Cannan said. Then, scowling, “Damn it, I hurt like hell all over.”
    Dupoix, relaxed, watched the lazy drift of his cigar smoke. “It’s from shock, Ranger Cannan. I mean Abe Hacker getting his villainous inspiration from the Good Book.”
    â€œWhat part, Dupoix?”
    â€œThe part that says God sent a plague of locusts to destroy the land of Egypt.” Dupoix frowned. “Or was it Moses who sent the locusts? I can’t quite remember.”
    â€œWhoever sent them, that’s not a plan,” Cannan said.
    Dupoix shrugged. “Hacker thinks it is.”
    â€œA plague of locusts... locusts...” Cannan said. “Hell, I don’t get it.”
    â€œNor do I, Cannan. Unless the locusts decided that they’re on Hacker’s side.” Dupoix smiled and rose to his feet. “Maybe this town should stock up on flyswatters.”
    Â 
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    A low mist hung low over the bayou so all Henriette Valcour saw of Jacques St. Romain was his gray head poking above the haze.
    â€œJacques,” she called out, her voice a hollow echo, “you come over here now. I need to talk with you, me.”
    â€œI wasn’t huntin’ your gators, Miz Henriette,” the old man yelled.
    â€œThen what was you huntin’? The loups-garous?”
    Jacques paddled his canoe closer.
    â€œI don’t bother them none, Miz Valcour, and them gettin’ ready for the ball an’ everyt’ing.”
    â€œYou come here, Jacques.”
    â€œI ain’t lookin’ at you none, me. An’ don’t you go lookin’ at me, Miz Valcour. You turn me into a frog, maybe so.”
    Jacques had muddy brown eyes, the whites cracked with red. His hands on the paddle were huge and muscular, a legacy of the twenty years he did on the Huntsville State Prison rock pile for murder.
    â€œYou come closer, Jacques,” Henriette said. “All this shouting will bring the loups-garous.”
    The old man quickly paddled closer, the pearly mist opening and closing around him.
    He stood in the canoe and held on to a