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's many fine restaurants with the money he saved on rent； and often relied on the kindness of friends。 Dougal had so much slack that it was considered something of a privilege among French Quarter bohos to buy him lunch once in a while。
The outside of his treehouse was painted in a drab brown camouflage pattern。 The inside pensated with a riot of color。 The walls were red； yellow； green； and purple； covered with snapshots of Dougal's American and Jamaican friends； the former a motley cross…section of New Orleans freak society； the latter invariably dreadlocked and grinning。
The striped ceiling was not quite high enough for Dougal to stand up straight； though Eddy could do so fortably。 The floor was covered with a woven straw mat。 There was a nest of blankets in one corner； a crate of books and a boom box with some tapes stacked around it in another。 He kept a lot of stuff in his car in case the treehouse was ever discovered； but somehow it never was。
〃How do you get phone service up here？〃 Eddy asked as she settled herself on a gorgeously embroidered cushion。 She had told him the whole story on the ride over from the lake。
Dougal held up a sleek black cellular phone。 〃Present from Zachary。〃
〃I should've known。 Can I use that？〃
He gave it to her； then pulled a fat straw pouch and a package of rolling papers from his pocket； shook out a generous quantity of fragrant green pot； and started rolling a joint。 Eddy dialed the Sacred Yew's number again。 It only rang once； then a piercing electronic tone wailed in her ear and a recorded voice said； 〃The number you have reached has been temporarily disconnected。 No further information is available at this time。 The number you have reached…〃
〃DAMMIT！〃 Eddy nearly hurled the phone across the treehouse。 Only the fear that it would fly out the window and go crashing to the ground fifty feet below stopped her hand。 Her treacherous eyes filled with tears again； though she was sick of crying。 〃Our only link to Zach has just been severed。 Now what do we do？〃
〃Relax； sweetheart。〃 Dougal handed her the joint； an enormous； tightly rolled bomber。 〃First we smoke a spleef。 Then we t'ink better； an' we plan。〃
〃Speak for yourself。 You must have been smoking this stuff since you were born。〃
〃I was smokin' it in my momma's womb；〃 Dougal assured her。 〃But don' worry。 This is smart ganja。 Relaxes you an' clears your head。〃
Eddy regarded the huge bomber glumly。 Dougal struck a match； offered her the flame cupped between his pinkbrown palms。 Oh； what the hell； she decided； and let him light it for her。
The taste was sticky and sweet； almost cloying。 But as it swirled through her lungs and out into her bloodstream； she thought she could feel some of the shadows lifting。 By the time she'd had two hits； she actually believed she might see Zach again； might even be able to save him。 Another drag and she'd probably be imagining them as an old married couple。 She handed the joint back to Dougal。 〃What is this stuff？〃
〃Fresh Jamaican。〃 Dougal wrapped his hand around the joint； brought it to his lips； and produced an enormous cloud of smoke。 She noticed that he didn't automatically pass the joint back as Americans did； but let it dangle casually between his first two fingers until he was ready to hit it again。 When you grew up in Jamaica； Eddy guessed； you always knew where your next joint was ing from。
The afternoon light was very clear； sifting through the canopy of leaves and the cracks in the wood； filling the treehouse with green and gold。 Eddy leaned back against the wall； beginning to relax。 〃Where do you get fresh Jamaican around here？〃
〃Got a frien' who flies to Jamaica two times a month or so。 He lan' at a little strip up in de hills near Negril on de western coast； pick it up an' fly back to his place in de swamp； then somebody else pick it up an' bring it to New Orleans。 No problem。〃
〃He has an airstrip in the swamp？〃
〃Ya mon。 Jus' a little shack an' a place to lan' his plane。〃
Eddy's heart was pounding。 〃Do you think he might be making a trip soon？〃
〃I fink he could be convinced；〃 said Dougal gravely。 〃I don' b'lieve he would fly to North Carolina。 He don' like to fly over U。S。 airspace。 But if we get Zachary down to de swamp； I fink my frien' would take him。〃
〃I'll drive to Missing Mile。 I'll shoot coffee into my veins and drive all night if I have to。 I'm not letting them get him。〃
〃You wan' drive my car？ You wan' me to go with you？〃
〃I guess so。 We can't bring Zach back through New Orleans。 We'll have to go around it and straight down into the swamp。 Do you think your friend…〃
〃My frien' will be there；〃 Dougal soothed。 〃Don' worry。 We call him once we get on the road。〃
He was smiling at her； his teeth crooked but very white in his dark face； his eyes the color of warm chocolate。 She couldn't help smiling back。
〃See；〃 said Dougal。 〃I tol' you we plan better with our heads cleared out。 De smart ganja works ever' time。〃
Agent Cover maneuvered his white Chevy van through the carbon monoxide snarl of downtown New Orleans。 A fruitless visit to the French Quarter had left him staring at a lot of dead ends。 Edwina Sung's toothbrush was missing from her bathroom； and it turned out she had withdrawn seven thousand dollars from her bank account yesterday afternoon； several hours after the raid。 Possibly she was shacked up somewhere； consoling herself over the loss of her favorite wanted criminal。 But Cover suspected his exotic little bird had flown the coop。
A short electronic purr came from the region of his armpit。 His cellular phone。 He wrested it out of his sweaty jacket and thumbed the talk button。 〃Cover。〃
〃Afternoon； Agent。 This is Payne from the DMV。〃
〃Yeah？〃 Cover perked up a little。 A call from the Department of Motor Vehicles could mean good news。
Sure enough； Payne went on； 〃We got a trace on that name you gave us。 Zachary Bosco…〃
〃Bosch。〃
〃Well； it took us a while to trace 'cause somebody had changed it in the puter。 But we got a registration for him。 Plate reads LLBTR…5。 It's a 1965 Chevy pickup； color red； down in Terrebonne Parish…〃
〃Terrebonne？ You mean down by Houma？〃
〃Yep； Houma it is。〃
〃Shit。〃
〃You gotta go down there； Agent？ Better be careful。 Some a' them Cajuns don't like cops much。 Kinda got their own laws an' idears about things an' all。 Hot as hell an' swampy as an open grave too。 Listen； you need anything else today？〃
〃No。 Thanks； Payne。〃
Cover terminated the call； tugged the knot of his tie loose； and sat in stalled traffic with the air…conditioning vents aimed straight at his face。 He knew Bosch must have gotten into the DMV puter and messed with the plates。 Bosco。 Cute。 He probably could have deleted his registration altogether； but that might have set off alarms in the puter； and it was more his style to create as much confusion with as few keystrokes as possible。
A red 1965 Chevy pickup 。。。 it was all wrong。 Stefan 〃Phoetus〃 Duplessis knew approximately as much about automobiles as he did about girls； but he swore up and down that he remembered Bosch driving a black Mustang。
Duplessis had been of little help so far。 He had found articles in the Times…Picayune implying Bosch could be found in； variously； Cancun； Mexico； Bangor； Maine； and Port…au…Prince； Haiti。 The newspaper； of course； insisted no hacker could ever violate the sanctity of their system and every word they printed was one hundred percent genuine。 And it turned out they did have a staff writer named Joseph Boudreaux； the byline on the goddessin…a…bowl…of…gumbo story。 Cover had an agent tracking down the reporter to find out if he'd actually written the story。 But there was little doubt that Bosch could have cracked the paper's pathetic security。
Privately； Cover thought the hacker had grabbed his cache of ready money and left the country； in which case they were most likely fucked。 Duplessis said Bosch was part Cajun； it was just possible that he had relatives in Houma and was lying low in some fish camp。 But Cover thought he was too smart to have stayed in Louisiana。 And from other things Duplessis had said about the Bosch family； Cover doubted the kid would want to stay with any of his relatives。
He called in an all…points bulletin on the pickup； though he hoped the damn thing was rusting in a junkyard somewhere and wouldn't be found。 He knew it couldn't have anything to do with Bosch。
But by the time he made it back to the office； the pickup had already been sighted in Houma； which was only an hour's drive from New Orleans。 Cover could think of no excuse that would keep him from checking it out。
〃Any word on that hacker？〃 Frank Norton called as Cover strode past his door。
〃Maybe。〃
〃You know； Ab； if you get outsmarted by a nineteen…year…old； you're really gonna have egg on your face。〃
〃Fuck you； Spider。〃
The old agent let out an annoyingly hearty belly laugh that followed Cover all the way down the hall。
The highway between New Orleans and Houma was precariously close to flooding； as it was much of the year。 Cover's tires had thrown off a thin steady spray of water for the last forty miles or so。 There were cranes in the breakdown lane； big white birds standing on one leg watching his van slush by； or catching frogs in the reeds and cattails that grew right up onto the blacktop。 Huge gnarled trees hung low over the road； draped in Spanish moss。 God； he hated the look of Spanish moss。
The local cop in Houma said the truck was parked in somebody's front yard and looked like it hadn't moved in a while。 Cover navigated the joyless streets of downtown Houma； got lost several times； finally pulled up in front of the house。 The yard was dotted here and there with scraggly chickens。 He disliked chickens； his grandmother had kept a henhouse； and even as a little boy the chalky smell of their shit； their scaly feet； and the weird； wobbly red flesh of their bs had filled him with revulsion。
The pickup was a sorry sight； sitting on three flat tires and a cement block； with an ancient paint job that might have once been red beneath the chicken shit。 But there was the license plate； clear as anything： LLBTR…5。 The cop was leaning against his cruiser taking a steady torrent of abuse from a big black…haired； red…faced man with a flair for dramatic gestures。 Relief spread across the cop's ratty little face as Cover pulled up。
〃Mister Big Damn G…man！〃 hollered the Cajun。 Cover cringed。 He hated being called a G…man。 〃Mister G…man； maybe you can tell me for why this stupid cop wants to plague me all damn day； hein？ I'm just stirrin' up a pot a' gumbo； me； an' he e knockin' an' ask so many questions I done scorched my roux！〃
〃Uh； Agent Cover； this is Mr。 Robicheaux；〃 the cop broke in。 〃He says the truck hasn't been driven for about five years…〃
〃Damn right it ain't！ My wife she made me put on that damn； what…you…call…him； vanity plate。 Was a damn voodoo curse； says me。 S'posed to stand for 'Laissez Les Bans Temps Rouler；' an' it ain't rolled since。 Now the chickens roost in there。〃
Agent Cover opened the truck's passenger door。 There were three frizzly chickens on the front seat； several more nesting in straw on the floorboards。 They cocked their reptilian eyes at him and gobbled frantically。
As if to cap off the sheer perfection of his day； a single egg rolled off the seat and landed square on the tip of his left tassel loafer。 Cover stared down at the golden yolk and milky albumen oozing over the carefully polished leather。
Somebody hates me； he thought。 He wished he never had to set foot in the sweltering mud of Louisiana again。 He wished he never had to interrogate another snotty punk who knew a thousand times more about puters than he ever would or wanted to。 He wished he had the coveted White House detail。
But none of that mattered。 What was the first thing they had drummed into him at Glynco？
Absalom Cover was a Secret Service agent。 And Secret Service agents were granite agents。
Chapter Eighteen
Trevor sat in the diner punishing a bottomless cup of coffee； sketching and writing in an old spiral notebook he'd found in the