being controlled by evil snakes. You circled away from her, and she followed. You didn’t try to take the cleaver away from her—”
“I figured I’d be killed. I tried to talk her down.”
“So you kept circling until you reached the nightstand where you kept a .38 automatic.”
“I warned her to drop the cleaver. I warned her.”
“Instead, she rushed at you with the cleaver raised. So you shot her. Once. In the chest.”
Kale was leaning forward now, his face in his hands.
The sheriff put down his pen. He folded his hands on his stomach and laced his fingers. “Now, Mr. Kale, I hope you can bear with me a little bit longer. Just a few more questions, and then we can all get out of here and get on with our lives.”
Kale lowered his hands from his face. It was clear to Tal Whitman that Kale figured “getting on with our lives” meant he would be released at last. “I’m all right, Sheriff. Go ahead.”
Bob Robine didn’t say a word.
Slouched in his chair, looking loose and boneless, Bryce Hammond said, “While we’ve been holding you on suspicion, Mr. Kale, we’ve come up with a few questions we need to have answered, so we can set our minds to rest about this whole terrible thing. Now, some of these things may seem awful trivial to you, hardly worth my time or yours. They are little things. I admit that. The reason I’m putting you through more trouble . . . well, it’s because I want to get reelected next year, Mr. Kale. If my opponents catch me out on one technicality, on even one tiny little damned thing, they’ll huff and puff and blow it into a scandal; they’ll say I’m slipping or lazy or something.” Bryce grinned at Kale—actually grinned at him. Tal couldn’t believe it.
“I understand, Sheriff,” Kale said.
On his window seat, Talbert Whitman tensed and leaned forward.
And Bryce Hammond said, “First thing is—I was wondering why you shot your wife and then did a load of laundry before calling us to report what had happened.”
8
Barricades
Severed hands. Severed heads.
Jenny couldn’t get those gruesome images out of her mind as she hurried along the sidewalk with Lisa.
Two blocks east of Skyline Road, on Vail Lane, the night was as still and as quietly threatening as it was everywhere else in Snowfield. The trees here were bigger than those on the main street; they blocked out most of the moonlight. The streetlamps were more widely spaced, too, and the small pools of amber light were separated by ominous lakes of darkness.
Jenny stepped between two gateposts, onto a brick walk that led to a one-story English cottage set on a deep lot. Warm light radiated through leaded glass windows with diamondshaped panes.
Tom and Karen Oxley lived in the deceptively small-looking cottage, which actually had seven rooms and two baths. Tom was the accountant for most of the lodges and motels in town. Karen ran a charming French cafe during the season. Both were amateur radio operators, and they owned a shortwave set, which was why Jenny had come here.
“If someone sabotaged the radio at the sheriff’s office,” Lisa said, “what makes you think they didn’t get this one, too?”
“Maybe they didn’t know about it. It’s worth taking a look.”
She rang the bell, and when there was no response, she tried the door. It was locked.
They went around to the rear of the property, where brandy-hued light flowed out through the windows. Jenny looked warily at the rear lawn, which was left moonless by tree shadows. Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the wooden floor of the back porch. She tried the kitchen door and found it was locked, too.
At the nearest window, the curtains were drawn aside. Jenny looked in and saw only an ordinary kitchen: green counters, cream-colored walls, oak cabinets, gleaming appliances, no signs of violence.
Other casement windows faced onto the porch, and one of these, Jenny knew, was a den window. Lights were on, but the curtains were drawn. Jenny
“I figured I’d be killed. I tried to talk her down.”
“So you kept circling until you reached the nightstand where you kept a .38 automatic.”
“I warned her to drop the cleaver. I warned her.”
“Instead, she rushed at you with the cleaver raised. So you shot her. Once. In the chest.”
Kale was leaning forward now, his face in his hands.
The sheriff put down his pen. He folded his hands on his stomach and laced his fingers. “Now, Mr. Kale, I hope you can bear with me a little bit longer. Just a few more questions, and then we can all get out of here and get on with our lives.”
Kale lowered his hands from his face. It was clear to Tal Whitman that Kale figured “getting on with our lives” meant he would be released at last. “I’m all right, Sheriff. Go ahead.”
Bob Robine didn’t say a word.
Slouched in his chair, looking loose and boneless, Bryce Hammond said, “While we’ve been holding you on suspicion, Mr. Kale, we’ve come up with a few questions we need to have answered, so we can set our minds to rest about this whole terrible thing. Now, some of these things may seem awful trivial to you, hardly worth my time or yours. They are little things. I admit that. The reason I’m putting you through more trouble . . . well, it’s because I want to get reelected next year, Mr. Kale. If my opponents catch me out on one technicality, on even one tiny little damned thing, they’ll huff and puff and blow it into a scandal; they’ll say I’m slipping or lazy or something.” Bryce grinned at Kale—actually grinned at him. Tal couldn’t believe it.
“I understand, Sheriff,” Kale said.
On his window seat, Talbert Whitman tensed and leaned forward.
And Bryce Hammond said, “First thing is—I was wondering why you shot your wife and then did a load of laundry before calling us to report what had happened.”
8
Barricades
Severed hands. Severed heads.
Jenny couldn’t get those gruesome images out of her mind as she hurried along the sidewalk with Lisa.
Two blocks east of Skyline Road, on Vail Lane, the night was as still and as quietly threatening as it was everywhere else in Snowfield. The trees here were bigger than those on the main street; they blocked out most of the moonlight. The streetlamps were more widely spaced, too, and the small pools of amber light were separated by ominous lakes of darkness.
Jenny stepped between two gateposts, onto a brick walk that led to a one-story English cottage set on a deep lot. Warm light radiated through leaded glass windows with diamondshaped panes.
Tom and Karen Oxley lived in the deceptively small-looking cottage, which actually had seven rooms and two baths. Tom was the accountant for most of the lodges and motels in town. Karen ran a charming French cafe during the season. Both were amateur radio operators, and they owned a shortwave set, which was why Jenny had come here.
“If someone sabotaged the radio at the sheriff’s office,” Lisa said, “what makes you think they didn’t get this one, too?”
“Maybe they didn’t know about it. It’s worth taking a look.”
She rang the bell, and when there was no response, she tried the door. It was locked.
They went around to the rear of the property, where brandy-hued light flowed out through the windows. Jenny looked warily at the rear lawn, which was left moonless by tree shadows. Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the wooden floor of the back porch. She tried the kitchen door and found it was locked, too.
At the nearest window, the curtains were drawn aside. Jenny looked in and saw only an ordinary kitchen: green counters, cream-colored walls, oak cabinets, gleaming appliances, no signs of violence.
Other casement windows faced onto the porch, and one of these, Jenny knew, was a den window. Lights were on, but the curtains were drawn. Jenny
Similar Books
