Virgil would never suggest that newspeople were cynical, but the story concluded with, “Questioned by a reporter, Crewdson agreed that the contribution, made to Knowles’s charitable organization, would be fully tax deductible.”
That same day, Jon Duncan called and said that since Virgil had a job-related injury, he wouldn’t be required to qualify with his pistol until the following year. “We thought that would be best for everybody,” Duncan said.
–
By the eighth day after Peck’s death, Virgil was walking without crutches, though his ankles still hurt and felt wobbly. A doc told him that without the RICE, it might have taken him a month or more before he could jog. He thought Virgil might start jogging in another week. Virgil, he said, probably had a grade-one sprain, on the border of a grade two, whatever that meant.
By that time, Katya the tiger’s future was not only assured, but the zoo had announced that they’d stored semen from her former mate, Artur, and she would be impregnated the next time she came in season, and she would be expected to produce three or four cubs. Robert McCall, the wealthy chairman of the zoo’s board of directors, announced that he had agreed to fund an animal psychologist, to be flown in from San Diego, to treat Katya for any psychological trauma she may have incurred during her imprisonment.
–
On the tenth day, Brad Blankenship rolled his red Ford pickup into the parking lot of Waters’ Waterhole, his favorite bar, and sat for a moment, waiting for the gravel dust to settle. Another hot day. The next day was supposed to be even worse, with a flood of humid air coming up from the Gulf of Mexico. He picked up the seed corn hat from the passenger seat, put it on, and got out of the truck as a six-door white Mercedes-Benz stretch limo pulled up a few feet away.
A wedding limo, Blankenship thought, exactly the kind rented by eight or ten horny young bridesmaids before they went out to a bar and got wasted and laid. He’d never seen one at the Waterhole, which was basically a rural dive, but nevertheless, it might be an opportunity; there was hardly anyone else around in the midafternoon, so he’d have the ladies to himself.
He lingered near the front of the Benz, checking out the fat driver. Then the three doors on the far side of the limo popped open and several heavyset men climbed out into the parking lot. He’d never seen them before, but they were looking at him. He noticed that one of them was carrying a baseball bat; maybe they were a bar team.
“What are you guys supposed to be?” he asked, curling a lip. “The New York fuckin’ Yankees?”
Well, no.
–
Virgil’s ankles still hurt, but he could swing a baseball bat. He had three fielders spread out across the barnyard: young Sam, Father Bill, and Honus the dog. He smacked a grounder out toward Sam, who flinched as it popped up in his face, but he smothered the ball, picked it up, and threw it back.
Virgil hit a sharper drive at Honus, who went to his right, snagged the ball on the second bounce, and ran it back to Virgil.
He was about to send one out to Bill when his phone chirped. A text message from an unknown phone. The message said, “We’re all square.” It wasn’t signed. He contemplated the phone for a moment, then put it back in his pocket.
He was still out there, hitting balls, when his phone went off again. The sheriff asked, “You got some witnesses where you’re at?”
“I’m hitting baseballs at a young boy, a Catholic priest, and a dog named Honus, up at Frankie’s farm. I got witnesses all over the place.”
“Well, good. Because about fifteen minutes ago, somebody caught Brad Blankenship out at the Waterhole and broke his arms and legs. All his arms and legs. And his fingers.”
“Wasn’t me,” Virgil said.
“Didn’t think it was,” the sheriff said. “You take it easy there, Virgil.”
“I’ll do that.”
–
Frankie came out on the porch, chewing on an apple. She was wearing a white T-shirt and ripped blue jeans and sandals, blond braid falling down her back; she was an American dream. “It’s awful hot,” she said. “You guys come on inside, I’ve made some lemonade.”
Sam and Bill started toward the porch, but Honus hung back deep in the imaginary infield.
When Sam and Bill were inside, Frankie called, “You coming? Maybe you and me and Sparkle and Bill could go on down to the swimming hole after the lemonade?”
Virgil took off his baseball cap and wiped away the sweat on his forehead. Really was hot.
He said, “That sounds terrific. Minnesota in the summertime, huh? But let me hit a couple more grounders out to Honus.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Sandford is the author of twenty-six Prey novels; nine Virgil Flowers novels, most recently Deadline; three young adult novels, written with Michele Cook; and the science fiction thriller Saturn Run, written with Ctein. He lives in New Mexico.
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