someone was giving his soul a root canal. “Listen to me, Gareth William Tanner. Fate comes in and sweeps us all like a big broom, you hear? And the dust goes flyin’ and it lands where it lands, and we get no say in the matter.”
“Sweep in the new, eh?”
Billy pshawed. “That idiot from Calverton? He’s no lawman. Not like you. He’s a…a…he’s a—what’s the word I’m looking for?” Billy snapped his fingers repeatedly with disproportionate urgency. “What’s the word? Starts with D .”
“Disaster?”
“No.”
“Douchebag?”
Billy guffawed, but the humor never touched his eyes. “No. Come on.”
“Dickhead,” G. William growled, and it felt good to say it out loud.
“Dilettante!” Billy shouted, so loud that the word carried above the bar’s sound system and folks paused to glance their way for a moment. He slapped a triumphant palm on the table. Fortunately, their drinks were nearly empty. “Dilettante! He’s a goddamn dilettante. Sheriff is just one more bullet point on his résumé. Stepping-stone to something bigger. Not like you, Sheriff. You’re dedicated . This office means something to you.”
G. William was feeling blurry at this point, and Billy’s words hit him harder than he would have imagined possible. “Thanks, Billy,” he said quietly. “I just wish I could have…”
Dead Girl One and Dead Girl Two swam before his eyes for a moment. Somewhere in the current, Maribeth delivered another beer, and G. William lunged for it.
“Wish I could have…”
Leaning in some more, Billy said—in a conspiratorial tone—“My daddy used to say something to me, back when he was still with us. Used to say: ‘Ain’t no shame in losing to a better man.’”
“You think Mr. Sweep-in-the-New is a better man?”
Billy paused just long enough that G. William began to wonder what was going on. Then Billy cackled, “Hell, no!” and they clinked glasses again.
“Glad someone’s still got faith in me,” G. William said.
“This sick SOB can’t avoid you forever,” Billy said with verve. “You got more than my faith, Sheriff. You’ve got my vote .”
Chapter 8
G. William awoke the next day on his sofa, which was better than the bathtub, but most disturbing of all was that he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten home. His car was missing from the driveway, so at least he hadn’t risked killing someone on his way home. His head throbbed with hangover excellence, and his eyes wanted to scrub themselves clean.
A note on the end table told the tale, written in a scrawl that was not G. William’s own.
“Sleep well, Sheriff,” Billy Dent had written. “PS: Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Good for me,” G. William muttered, and headed for the shower.
As if the hangover weren’t enough, the day also dawned with Weathers’s blog finally getting some traction. As G. William shaved and dressed for the day with CNN on, he heard the unmistakable voice of Doug Weathers. Peering out from the bathroom, he beheld Weathers blathering over a chyron that blared TERROR IN A TINY TOWN!
Lovely.
No one in the office—no one in town—would have gainsaid G. William if, less than a week before the election, he’d taken the day off. But he was damned if he would slink off into the night. No, if he was going away, he would do so on his own terms. And he would leave the incoming sheriff with every possible scrap of information about the murders in Lobo’s Nod.
He drove his county-issued sedan to the office, making a mental note to pick up his car from Roscoe’s later, then spent a good part of the morning typing up his notes, translating his chicken scratch into the computer so that someone else could use them. Then he wrote up a carefully detailed and annotated description of how he’d come to the realization that both Dead Girl One and Dead Girl Two had been killed by the same man. He would not announce this information before the election. Not out of a sense of
“Sweep in the new, eh?”
Billy pshawed. “That idiot from Calverton? He’s no lawman. Not like you. He’s a…a…he’s a—what’s the word I’m looking for?” Billy snapped his fingers repeatedly with disproportionate urgency. “What’s the word? Starts with D .”
“Disaster?”
“No.”
“Douchebag?”
Billy guffawed, but the humor never touched his eyes. “No. Come on.”
“Dickhead,” G. William growled, and it felt good to say it out loud.
“Dilettante!” Billy shouted, so loud that the word carried above the bar’s sound system and folks paused to glance their way for a moment. He slapped a triumphant palm on the table. Fortunately, their drinks were nearly empty. “Dilettante! He’s a goddamn dilettante. Sheriff is just one more bullet point on his résumé. Stepping-stone to something bigger. Not like you, Sheriff. You’re dedicated . This office means something to you.”
G. William was feeling blurry at this point, and Billy’s words hit him harder than he would have imagined possible. “Thanks, Billy,” he said quietly. “I just wish I could have…”
Dead Girl One and Dead Girl Two swam before his eyes for a moment. Somewhere in the current, Maribeth delivered another beer, and G. William lunged for it.
“Wish I could have…”
Leaning in some more, Billy said—in a conspiratorial tone—“My daddy used to say something to me, back when he was still with us. Used to say: ‘Ain’t no shame in losing to a better man.’”
“You think Mr. Sweep-in-the-New is a better man?”
Billy paused just long enough that G. William began to wonder what was going on. Then Billy cackled, “Hell, no!” and they clinked glasses again.
“Glad someone’s still got faith in me,” G. William said.
“This sick SOB can’t avoid you forever,” Billy said with verve. “You got more than my faith, Sheriff. You’ve got my vote .”
Chapter 8
G. William awoke the next day on his sofa, which was better than the bathtub, but most disturbing of all was that he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten home. His car was missing from the driveway, so at least he hadn’t risked killing someone on his way home. His head throbbed with hangover excellence, and his eyes wanted to scrub themselves clean.
A note on the end table told the tale, written in a scrawl that was not G. William’s own.
“Sleep well, Sheriff,” Billy Dent had written. “PS: Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Good for me,” G. William muttered, and headed for the shower.
As if the hangover weren’t enough, the day also dawned with Weathers’s blog finally getting some traction. As G. William shaved and dressed for the day with CNN on, he heard the unmistakable voice of Doug Weathers. Peering out from the bathroom, he beheld Weathers blathering over a chyron that blared TERROR IN A TINY TOWN!
Lovely.
No one in the office—no one in town—would have gainsaid G. William if, less than a week before the election, he’d taken the day off. But he was damned if he would slink off into the night. No, if he was going away, he would do so on his own terms. And he would leave the incoming sheriff with every possible scrap of information about the murders in Lobo’s Nod.
He drove his county-issued sedan to the office, making a mental note to pick up his car from Roscoe’s later, then spent a good part of the morning typing up his notes, translating his chicken scratch into the computer so that someone else could use them. Then he wrote up a carefully detailed and annotated description of how he’d come to the realization that both Dead Girl One and Dead Girl Two had been killed by the same man. He would not announce this information before the election. Not out of a sense of
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