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ought 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 back of Zach's car。 His hands shook a little； and the glossy black Formica of the tabletop was scattered with constellations of white sugar。 Only by pressing the heel of his right hand against the table and holding the notebook flat was he able to steady his pen。
Eyes； hands； screaming mouths clawed their way across the page and were lost in the drowning pattern。 He could never remember drawing this fast； not since early childhood； when he was desperate to get as many things as possible down on paper because he knew that was the only way he would ever get good at it。
His hand began to cramp； and he banged it against the table in frustration。 He hated it when his hand cramped； it was like having his mind go blank。 Trevor made himself extend and flex the fingers； stretch the muscles of the palm。 He flipped through the pages； saw that Zach had noted things here and there in a nearly illegible handwriting full of flourishes and jagged psycho spikes。 A trio of phone numbers for Caspar； Alyssa； and 〃Mutagenic BBS。〃 A bunch of inprehensible scribblings that looked mostly like this：
DEC=》 A
YOU=》 info ter
DEC=》 all sorts of shit； then A
or 〃MILNET： WSMR…TAC； NWC…TAC〃 or 〃Crap file…》 CRYPT Unix