from a half mile away.
Now, through the wet glass, he saw Russell Gleason standing in the living room, hands in his pockets, looking at the television. His wife, Anna, came out of the kitchen, carrying a glass of water, sat on the couch. They were talking, but with the rain beating off the hood of his jacket, the killer couldn’t hear what was being said.
The killer touched the gun in his pocket: .357, always ready. No safety, no spring to get soft, every chamber loaded. Inside, Gleason laughed at something: a last time for everything, the killer thought.
The killer stepped back in the dark, walked around the house to the front door. Gleason had been involved in it, right up to his chin: he and Judd would have to pay. He rang the bell…
Virgil touched his chin, reading down the electronic document. He was already cheating: he kept writing “the killer,” repetitively, which clanked in his writer’s ear. He needed a workable synonym. He couldn’t use the pronouns “he” or “she,” because he wasn’t sure which was correct. And Gleason had been involved in whatever it was, with Judd, right up to his chin—but what was it?
He had no idea.
But there would be, he thought, a link.
Before he finished the story, though, he’d need a lot of other answers. Where did the killer come from? Where did the gun come from? Where did he/she learn to use the gun? Why was the body dragged to the yard, why were the lights turned on? Had the killer known about the lights on the exterior, and where the switch was, suggesting a familiarity with the house, or had the act been spontaneous? Why the shots in the eyes?
Why then, at that exact moment, had the killer come to the Gleasons?
Why hadn’t Stryker mentioned that his father had killed himself because of the Jerusalem artichoke scandal, and his relationship with Judd? How had he, Virgil, managed to get picked up by Stryker’s sister on his first day in town? Why had she steered him toward Todd Williamson and George Feur?
Things you had to know, for a decent piece of fiction.
5
Wednesday Morning
F OUR FAT GUYS in short-sleeved shirts, standing outside the courthouse, stopped talking and stared at Virgil inside. Virgil gave the high sign to the secretary, who took in his antique Stones/Paris T-shirt, and shook her head and sighed as though a great weight were sitting on her soul.
He ambled past her desk and stuck his head in Stryker’s office. Stryker was sitting with his feet up on his desk and a stunned look on his face. He pointed Virgil at a chair and rubbed his face with his hands and said, “Ah, shit.”
Virgil sat. “What?”
Stryker dropped his feet to the floor, turned his chair around, opened a two-six-pack-sized office refrigerator, and took out a bottle of Coke. “You wanna Coke?”
“No, thanks…”
“Got the goddamnedest telephone call,” Stryker said, twisting the top off the bottle. He tossed the bottle top at a wastebasket, sank the shot. “There’s a woman lives out in Roche—you know where that is?”
“Yeah. Other side of Dunn.”
“That’s it. Town the size of my dick. Her name is Margaret Laymon and she called me up, about five minutes ago. Says her daughter, Jessica, is the natural daughter of William Judd. She wants to make sure that her daughter gets her rights. As she put it.”
They sat staring for a moment, then Virgil said, “Jesus. If there’s no will, and she can prove it…”
Stryker nodded: “Bill Jr. is gonna have a stroke.”
“Wonder if there are any more little Judds running around?”
“That’s an interesting question, but I don’t know how you’d find out,” Stryker said. “Unless they call you up and tell you.”
“Huh. You gonna tell Junior?”
“Not up to me,” Stryker said. “I told Margaret to hire a lawyer, real quick. She’s going to do that. I suppose, what? She’d file something with the court?”
“I don’t know. There’d be some DNA tests to do…”
“She says that’s not
Now, through the wet glass, he saw Russell Gleason standing in the living room, hands in his pockets, looking at the television. His wife, Anna, came out of the kitchen, carrying a glass of water, sat on the couch. They were talking, but with the rain beating off the hood of his jacket, the killer couldn’t hear what was being said.
The killer touched the gun in his pocket: .357, always ready. No safety, no spring to get soft, every chamber loaded. Inside, Gleason laughed at something: a last time for everything, the killer thought.
The killer stepped back in the dark, walked around the house to the front door. Gleason had been involved in it, right up to his chin: he and Judd would have to pay. He rang the bell…
Virgil touched his chin, reading down the electronic document. He was already cheating: he kept writing “the killer,” repetitively, which clanked in his writer’s ear. He needed a workable synonym. He couldn’t use the pronouns “he” or “she,” because he wasn’t sure which was correct. And Gleason had been involved in whatever it was, with Judd, right up to his chin—but what was it?
He had no idea.
But there would be, he thought, a link.
Before he finished the story, though, he’d need a lot of other answers. Where did the killer come from? Where did the gun come from? Where did he/she learn to use the gun? Why was the body dragged to the yard, why were the lights turned on? Had the killer known about the lights on the exterior, and where the switch was, suggesting a familiarity with the house, or had the act been spontaneous? Why the shots in the eyes?
Why then, at that exact moment, had the killer come to the Gleasons?
Why hadn’t Stryker mentioned that his father had killed himself because of the Jerusalem artichoke scandal, and his relationship with Judd? How had he, Virgil, managed to get picked up by Stryker’s sister on his first day in town? Why had she steered him toward Todd Williamson and George Feur?
Things you had to know, for a decent piece of fiction.
5
Wednesday Morning
F OUR FAT GUYS in short-sleeved shirts, standing outside the courthouse, stopped talking and stared at Virgil inside. Virgil gave the high sign to the secretary, who took in his antique Stones/Paris T-shirt, and shook her head and sighed as though a great weight were sitting on her soul.
He ambled past her desk and stuck his head in Stryker’s office. Stryker was sitting with his feet up on his desk and a stunned look on his face. He pointed Virgil at a chair and rubbed his face with his hands and said, “Ah, shit.”
Virgil sat. “What?”
Stryker dropped his feet to the floor, turned his chair around, opened a two-six-pack-sized office refrigerator, and took out a bottle of Coke. “You wanna Coke?”
“No, thanks…”
“Got the goddamnedest telephone call,” Stryker said, twisting the top off the bottle. He tossed the bottle top at a wastebasket, sank the shot. “There’s a woman lives out in Roche—you know where that is?”
“Yeah. Other side of Dunn.”
“That’s it. Town the size of my dick. Her name is Margaret Laymon and she called me up, about five minutes ago. Says her daughter, Jessica, is the natural daughter of William Judd. She wants to make sure that her daughter gets her rights. As she put it.”
They sat staring for a moment, then Virgil said, “Jesus. If there’s no will, and she can prove it…”
Stryker nodded: “Bill Jr. is gonna have a stroke.”
“Wonder if there are any more little Judds running around?”
“That’s an interesting question, but I don’t know how you’d find out,” Stryker said. “Unless they call you up and tell you.”
“Huh. You gonna tell Junior?”
“Not up to me,” Stryker said. “I told Margaret to hire a lawyer, real quick. She’s going to do that. I suppose, what? She’d file something with the court?”
“I don’t know. There’d be some DNA tests to do…”
“She says that’s not