to her.
Wes didn't answer right away, played with the dogs, didn't feel like it. Florence waited, watching him. The depths of warmth and understanding in those hazel eyes would have soothed a rabid wolverine. Wes told his story in some detail.
Florence listened, saying little. When Wes described the final shots to the naked man's face, Florence blinked tears from her eyelashes. Wes understood that women were their canaries in the mine shaft. His mother, when his parents were still together, used to cough reflexively when his father lit a cigarette in the other room. And here was Florence Jillison, expressing the grief that the men could not. Wes didn't tell her about the naked man's last word. He hadn't told anyone. It seemed to violate a confidence somehow.
The Crown Victoria passed from the shadow of the orchard into a splash of late afternoon sun that painted the long grass in bright chlorophyll, the light so pure it almost hurt to look.
"Florence wondered if Mr. Bjornstedt left any personal effects. Anything we should forward to his family."
Bell was driving with his left hand, his right arm flung out along the top of the benchseat like a Sunday driver. "Reese found some pencil drawings in his bag. Said they were pretty good. Of course a lotta ampheads do arts and crafts. In Yermo there was this biker who woodburned Pickett's charge, you know, from the battle of Gettysburg,all up and down his living room wall. Copied it from a book," said Bell. "The detail was amazing."
The LTD rounded a bend and approached the towering smoke stack of the diatomaceous earth plant. The on-shore flow swept the thick white smoke east toward the mountains. Wes noticed that the roadside bushes were splotched with white. As they passed under the stack a few drops of chalky condensation spotted the windshield. "The Department," shuddered Bell in the strangled voice of Richard Nixon, "Of Evil."
"So," said Wes. "Should we send the drawings along?"
"No we should not," said Bell. "We should definitely not send the bereaved members of the dead man's family, assuming he has one that gives a shit, a tearful letter saying 'Here are some momentos I recovered after shooting your husband/father/son to death six times with my semi-automatic, treasure them always and please contact me at the above address with future wrongful death lawsuits.'" Bell shook his head slowly from side to side. "No, we should definitely not do that."
"Florence could send them. She volunteered."
Bell got on the brake as lonesome Highway 46 became busy Playa Road at the southeast corner of Wislow. He grasped the wheel with both hands, the Sunday drive over. "You do not
ever
, under any circumstances, share evidence with a civilian."
They motored down Playa Road past J Street. A pigeon nestled in the green traffic light. Bell looked up as they passed. "How come they never hang out in the amber light?"
Wes pondered. "Probably because the amber light doesn't stay on long enough to warm them up."
"12 Frank - Control."
Bell leaned over, stopped, leaned back and gestured to the radio mike. "You do it, you're so fuckin smart."
Wes picked up the boxy metal microphone, coughed dryly, depressed the button and said, "Control, this is 12Frank," in clear, crisp tones. He remained hunched forward, waiting for the return transmission. There was no response.
"You gotta key off, dickhead," said Bell, broadcasting this friendly reminder throughout the entire north county on the blue frequency. Wes released the button and the speaker spit static.
"Disturbance, 2-8-3-6 H-Hill, in the carport."
Wes keyed on, said, "Roger, control," and keyed off. Bell looked left at the
lublublublub
of an idling late 60's muscle car. He saw a lace-painted lavender 389 cubic inch '69 El Camino with chrome exhausts. The guy in the passenger's seat, a big necked Mexican with mounds of pommaded black hair slicked back and razor cut, smiled at him.
Bell gave him a cool once-over but the man didn't look
Wes didn't answer right away, played with the dogs, didn't feel like it. Florence waited, watching him. The depths of warmth and understanding in those hazel eyes would have soothed a rabid wolverine. Wes told his story in some detail.
Florence listened, saying little. When Wes described the final shots to the naked man's face, Florence blinked tears from her eyelashes. Wes understood that women were their canaries in the mine shaft. His mother, when his parents were still together, used to cough reflexively when his father lit a cigarette in the other room. And here was Florence Jillison, expressing the grief that the men could not. Wes didn't tell her about the naked man's last word. He hadn't told anyone. It seemed to violate a confidence somehow.
The Crown Victoria passed from the shadow of the orchard into a splash of late afternoon sun that painted the long grass in bright chlorophyll, the light so pure it almost hurt to look.
"Florence wondered if Mr. Bjornstedt left any personal effects. Anything we should forward to his family."
Bell was driving with his left hand, his right arm flung out along the top of the benchseat like a Sunday driver. "Reese found some pencil drawings in his bag. Said they were pretty good. Of course a lotta ampheads do arts and crafts. In Yermo there was this biker who woodburned Pickett's charge, you know, from the battle of Gettysburg,all up and down his living room wall. Copied it from a book," said Bell. "The detail was amazing."
The LTD rounded a bend and approached the towering smoke stack of the diatomaceous earth plant. The on-shore flow swept the thick white smoke east toward the mountains. Wes noticed that the roadside bushes were splotched with white. As they passed under the stack a few drops of chalky condensation spotted the windshield. "The Department," shuddered Bell in the strangled voice of Richard Nixon, "Of Evil."
"So," said Wes. "Should we send the drawings along?"
"No we should not," said Bell. "We should definitely not send the bereaved members of the dead man's family, assuming he has one that gives a shit, a tearful letter saying 'Here are some momentos I recovered after shooting your husband/father/son to death six times with my semi-automatic, treasure them always and please contact me at the above address with future wrongful death lawsuits.'" Bell shook his head slowly from side to side. "No, we should definitely not do that."
"Florence could send them. She volunteered."
Bell got on the brake as lonesome Highway 46 became busy Playa Road at the southeast corner of Wislow. He grasped the wheel with both hands, the Sunday drive over. "You do not
ever
, under any circumstances, share evidence with a civilian."
They motored down Playa Road past J Street. A pigeon nestled in the green traffic light. Bell looked up as they passed. "How come they never hang out in the amber light?"
Wes pondered. "Probably because the amber light doesn't stay on long enough to warm them up."
"12 Frank - Control."
Bell leaned over, stopped, leaned back and gestured to the radio mike. "You do it, you're so fuckin smart."
Wes picked up the boxy metal microphone, coughed dryly, depressed the button and said, "Control, this is 12Frank," in clear, crisp tones. He remained hunched forward, waiting for the return transmission. There was no response.
"You gotta key off, dickhead," said Bell, broadcasting this friendly reminder throughout the entire north county on the blue frequency. Wes released the button and the speaker spit static.
"Disturbance, 2-8-3-6 H-Hill, in the carport."
Wes keyed on, said, "Roger, control," and keyed off. Bell looked left at the
lublublublub
of an idling late 60's muscle car. He saw a lace-painted lavender 389 cubic inch '69 El Camino with chrome exhausts. The guy in the passenger's seat, a big necked Mexican with mounds of pommaded black hair slicked back and razor cut, smiled at him.
Bell gave him a cool once-over but the man didn't look
Similar Books
