ON THE WAY BACK to Bluestem, out on I-90, Joan said, "You are very talkative for a cop. I've known every cop in Bluestem and a few from Worthington; some of them were pretty old friends, and none of them have been as talkative as you-telling me all about the case, and so on."
"A PERSONALITY FAULT," Virgil offered.
"Really? I started to wonder, 'Did this man take me out to a fancy Tex-Mex restaurant, and tell me all of this, because he figures I'll blab it all over the place, and that'll stir everything up?'"
"I'm shocked that you'd even think that," Virgil said.
"You don't sound shocked," she said.
"Well, you know," he said. He glanced at her in the dark, and said, "One thing-you're a little smarter than I was prepared for."
She laughed and they went on down the highway.
LATE THAT NIGHT, Virgil turned on his laptop, flexed his fingers, and began writing his story, a little fact, and a lot of fiction. Fiction was different than outdoor writing. Different because you had to think about it, make it up, rather than simply report an experience. He stared at the computer screen for a moment, and began:
The killer climbed out of the river valley, stumbling in the dark, slipping on the wet grass; paused at the edge of the yard, then crossed quickly to the sliding glass door at the back of the house. He'd seen the Gleasons arrive, their headlights carving up the hillside through the night; you could see them 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 FOUR 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 a problem. But I'll tell you what is a problem." He turned his chair around again, a full circle, thinking, and then said, "Of all the women I ever wanted in my entire life, Jesse Laymon is right at the top of the list. We even went out twice, but not three times. She wants somebody with more of an edge. A ramblin' gamblin' man."
"A bad country song," Virgil said. The second he'd found in so many days. The prairie was full of them.
"But it's true," Stryker said. He took a hit on the Coke. "I get my heart in my mouth every time I see her, but the fact is, what she wants is one of those black-eyed dope-dealing rascals who drinks too much and drives too fast and dances good. That's not me."
"Well, hell."
"Yeah."
THEY SAT for a minute, thinking it over, then Virgil said, "Maybe it's because your dick is the size of Roche."
Stryker had been taking another sip of Coke, and he choked, sputtering, laughed, said, "Come to speak of it, what were you and Joanie doing on her front porch last night about ten o'clock?"
Virgil laughed, but not hard, touched by a finger of guilt. So much apparent friendship, and he was sitting here smiling, and thinking that the Strykers would be suspects in the Judd killing, on any rational list…
VIRGIL SAID, "I'm gonna go talk to Todd Williamson, see if he'll let me look in his files, if he's got any. Then I'm heading out to see George Feur."
Stryker's eyebrows went up. "You got something?"
"Not exactly. I want to talk to him, look him over, push him a little," Virgil said.
"When you say, 'Not exactly'…"
"Feur's a Bible beater and he's an asshole and he was working on Judd," Virgil said. "Bible beaters don't beat anything harder than the book of Revelation. I noticed when I was up at the Gleasons' yesterday, that Anna Gleason had a book of Revelation right under her hand when she was shot. A pretty new one, it looked like."
"She did?" Stryker frowned and leaned forward. "Why didn't I know that?"
Virgil shrugged. "Maybe nobody noticed. This was before Judd was killed, and Feur's name didn't really come up until the fire."
"Hell of a thing not to notice, though," Stryker said. "I'll have to talk to Larry and Margo about this. They should have seen it. At least had it in the back of their minds."
Virgil didn't disagree. "Maybe they should have," he said. "Especially for a guy with Feur's history."
"You know about him and me, right?" Stryker asked. "I busted him for robbery, when I was a deputy? He went to Stillwater. Claims I railroaded him."
"Nothing to that, though," Virgil offered.
"No. He was caught on a liquor store camera," Stryker said. "He had a hat pulled down low, but I knew him the minute I saw the tape. Went and dug him out of his hole, got his gun, too. The gun did it as much as anything-it was an old piece with a nine-inch barrel, and that, you see perfectly, on the tape."