He kept the volume low so he could hear the front door when his mom got home. That way, he could try and claim he’d been working on homework. His mom would know better, but he figured it was better to get caught for a minor infraction, instead of raising her suspicion.
All he knew was that he had to get the gun back into the hiding place before she noticed it was gone.
Bob was in the bathroom again. He strained. He pushed. He gritted his teeth.
Still nothing.
He thought his announcement at the Korner Kafe had been a disaster, since that cheap prick Walsh had decided to pick that particular morning to be even more of an asshole than usual. But Cochran had surprised him by saying that the whole thing had been fine.
In the pickup on the ride back, Cochran smiled and patted Bob’s shoulder. “Hell, I’ve been to press conferences that were a hundred times worse. You did great. The farmer throwing his weight around, Walsh, is it? He was going to ask questions no matter what you told him. He just needed a chance to show everybody that he’s still a tough guy. Don’t worry about it. No, the important thing is that everyone saw your strength. That’s what will last.” Cochran squeezed Bob’s shoulder one last time, then looked out the window at the rows of corn that flashed past in hypnotic bursts. “That cocksucker wants to push things, he’ll find out the hard way that the people in charge don’t take kindly to troublemakers.”
Bob had been reassured at the time.
Back at home, back in the bathroom, he just wanted to feel better. He hadn’t eaten anything in at least fourteen hours yet still couldn’t pass anything. He’d thrown up his wife’s prune juice that she kept in the back of the refrigerator. He’d swallowed a couple of Dulcolax as soon as they’d got home. So far, nothing.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if his stomach had been still. But he felt constant mounting pressure inside, as if something was pushing his stomach and guts into his spine. No matter how hard he forced and squeezed, it felt like he’d swallowed foam insulation that had settled and expanded.
He got up, disgusted with himself, zipped. Washed his hands. Saw that his skin was starting to break out. Weird little blackheads were clustered around his frown lines. Perfect. Just what he needed. He spent some time scraping his tongue against his teeth and spitting into the sink. The spit was black and foul. He ran water for a while to wash it all down the drain so he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.
He checked his watch. He’d been in the bathroom ten minutes. It was past time to get out, to get back to Cochran. Bob didn’t want to leave his guest for too long. It was bad enough his wife would not leave their master bedroom.
There was another reason as well. Cochran had asked to look over his records, just to make sure there wasn’t anything that the press could get hold of and make things embarrassing for the Morton family. Cochran had been awfully convincing, and Bob had opened up everything, spreading it all out on his antique rolltop desk. He’d expected Cochran to glance at everything and declare it all up to snuff. Instead, Cochran rolled up his sleeves, asked for a cup of coffee, and spent hours poring over Bob’s records, seed receipts, fuel usage, acreage and yield estimates, and every other damn thing.
Bob was starting to regret giving the man so much access to his private business and didn’t want Cochran to uncover anything unpleasant, least of all the two acres out by the expressway where he’d planted Junior’s seeds.
He dried his face, made sure his shirt was tucked into his jeans, and stepped into the living room. His rolltop desk was over by the big windows. Reports, graphs, and receipts were strewn about as if a tornado had hit the desk and sprayed everything inside out onto the floor.
Cochran looked up and smiled. “Feeling okay?” he asked. “I can get a doctor out here in the hour, if you need.”
Bob shook his head. “Feel fine. Besides, I got any problems, I can always call Mike Castle. He’s been taking care of me and Belinda for years, hell, decades now, I suppose.”
“Of course, of course.” Cochran nodded. “I just meant if you wanted to discuss anything that maybe you wouldn’t want to talk about with your family doc, then I know some folks, experts in their field, that might help, that’s all. Anything different, unusual. That’s all.”
Bob drew himself up to his full height. “I feel fine. I am tired. I miss my son.”
Cochran nodded solemnly. “And God bless you for having the strength to carry on.” He nodded more briskly. “Just wanted to let you know that any other care you might want is available. You need anything, anything at all, you let me know.”
“I appreciate that. Anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.”
Cochran studied his face. Bob couldn’t tell if the lawyer’s gaze lingered on the weird blackheads near his mouth. Then the moment was gone, and Cochran turned back to his paperwork. “Why don’t you go upstairs and rest. The memorial service is tomorrow, after all. Might be a good idea for you and your wife to get some sleep. I would imagine the media will be out in full force; we’d like to have you looking your best.”
Bob didn’t want to admit it, but Cochran had a point. Bob was feeling awfully tired. He wouldn’t dare disrupt his wife in their bedroom, but there was always the bed in the guest bedroom. It was made and empty; Cochran had been sleeping on the couch in the living room. A lie down in a nice, dark, cool room might be just what Bob needed. He said, “Okay,” and started up the stairs.
Cochran called to him as Bob started up to the second floor. “Oh, you know anything offhand about this little bit of land you’ve got, a skinny patch down by I-72? Your records are somewhat confusing.”
Bob had sense enough to keep climbing the stairs. “No idea. I’ll look everything over later. Right now, I need some rest.”
It had been a hell of a day. Sandy promised herself that once she had paid Mrs. Kobritz, she was going to step into the garage and beat the shit out of the bag for a while. Then, after a hot bath and a large glass of red wine, it was time to sit down with Kevin and find out, once and for all, what was happening with her son.
Back at the office, she had ultimately sat back at her desk and typed out a report so vague and sloppy it would have made her instructors crumple it up and throw it in the trash. It certainly wouldn’t stand up to any kind of scrutiny from Illinois Internal Affairs. She hoped it would never come to that.
For today, it was enough to simply get through the report and not piss off Sheriff Hoyt.
Mrs. Kobritz’s car was not out front. Sandy pulled into the driveway and collected her thoughts. In the past five years, Mrs. Kobritz had never missed a day or night looking after Kevin. It was possible the old lady had forgotten, but something in Sandy’s gut, the same feeling that told her that Kurt hadn’t killed Ingrid, was now telling her that Mrs. Kobritz wasn’t the kind of woman who would forget to look after a child.
Sandy went inside and called out, “Kevin? Mrs. Kobritz?”
Kevin appeared at the top of his stairs. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“Where’s Mrs. Kobritz?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. She wasn’t here when I got home.”
“That’s… different.”
He shrugged again.
“She never called, anything?”