Determined to keep work off her mind, she undressed, slipped into a long T-shirt and watched a pay-per-view movie beamed down to her trailer from a distant satellite, somewhere over the equator. She had another drink. She had noticed that she tended to drink a bit more when she was alone than when she was out with others. She’d have to watch that, she thought as she leaned back in bed, switched off the light, finished her drink and tried to concentrate on the movie.
She was awakened by an unaccustomed noise, the growling of a dog. It took her a sleepy moment to remember that she, in fact, owned a dog, and that it was Daisy who was growling. It was a slight noise, down in the throat, almost as if the dog were whispering to her. Holly sat up, put her feet on the floor and listened. She thought she heard a metallic clank, but if she did, it was very faint. Daisy continued to make the noise.
Holly picked up the remote control and turned down the volume on the TV, which was playing trailers of coming attractions on satellite broadcasting. If there was someone outside the trailer, she didn’t want to alert them by simply switching it off. She heard the clank again.
She leaned over and whispered in Daisy’s ear, “Quiet, Daisy.”
The dog was immediately silent.
“Lie down.”
The dog did.
“Stay.” Holly got up quietly and went to where she had draped her uniform over a chair. She dug under the trousers and came up with her pistol. “Stay,” she whispered again to the dog. She walked toward the trailer door on bare feet. She didn’t want to expose her presence at the door, so she stopped short and stuck her head into the doorway, straining to see through the screen. She could see nothing, but a little breeze had sprung up and was making a hissing noise in the trees.
Holly worked the action of the pistol, opened the screen door as quietly as she could and stepped out into the night, the gun at her side, her thumb on the safety. She didn’t really want to shoot anybody, especially for simply trespassing, but she was worried enough to be ready to defend herself. She stepped away from the trailer, feeling the breeze around her bare legs, and walked around the perimeter of the little clearing, peering into the dark woods. She saw nothing and heard nothing.
Relieved, she started back toward the trailer, and, nearly simultaneously, two things happened. She heard a faint whump from somewhere nearby, and she smelled gas. Hadn’t she turned off the grill? She looked over to where it should have been, but it wasn’t there. A second later she saw it, standing hard against one end of the trailer. That was very peculiar, she thought, then the night sky lit up.
She looked up and saw a ball of bright red fire descending slowly from a good hundred feet in the air. She watched it, mesmerized, as it floated toward her. She was beginning to get the feeling that she might have to dodge it. A parachute flare, she said to herself. Some boater on the river in difficulties. Then she smelled the gas again. “Holy shit,” she said aloud, and ran toward the trailer.
She dropped the gun and fell to her knees before the grill, as if it were some pagan altar. She twisted the knobs, but they were all in the off position. She dove behind the grill, feeling her way down the rubber hose toward the tank, and she found that she had the loose end of the hose in her fingers. She looked up; the flare was no more than fifty feet above her, seeming to home in on where she knelt. Panicked, she groped for the valve, to close the tank, but there was no valve, simply the opening through which gas was pouring, freezing her fingers.
Then she felt the gas stop coming. She leapt to her feet, grabbed a lawn chair and batted at the flare, sending it toward the perimeter of the clearing, where it hit the ground and lay there, sizzling, in the dirt. She watched, mesmerized, as it burned itself out, and she was surprised to learn that she had the pistol again, and that she was pointing it at the dying flare.
She took a deep breath and discovered that she couldn’t smell gas anymore. She stepped inside the trailer and got a flashlight. Daisy was lying there, watching her intently. “Good girl,” she said. “Stay.” She went to the grill and switched on the flashlight. The valve from the top of the tank lay on the ground, a dent in one side of it.
It was clear to her that she was looking at a case of sabotage. Someone had removed the hose from the tank, opened it, then knocked the valve handle off so it couldn’t be closed. She remembered that when she had cooked her burger, the tank had seemed nearly empty. Thank God for that, she thought. The combination of gas in the air, the parachute flare and the shrapnel from the exploding tank would have reduced her trailer to a smoking ruin, after she had burned to death in the explosion.
Her first impulse was to call the station and report the incident, but she held herself back. She sat down on the trailer’s doorstep and thought about it. She would keep it to herself for the time being.
Daisy made a small noise. “Okay, Daisy, come to me,” Holly said, opening the screen door.
Daisy came and leaned against her, sniffing the night air.
CHAPTER
12
Holly was finishing a sandwich at her desk the following noon when the county attorney arrived, accompanied by a tall, slender, dark-haired man in a rumpled suit who needed a haircut. Jane made the introductions.
“Chief, this is Marty Skene, the county attorney, and the tall one is Jackson Oxenhandler, a public defender.”
“Did they ask for a lawyer?” Holly asked, shaking hands with both men.
“No,” Skene said, “but it seemed like a good time to do it. I want everything on the up-and-up.”
“Sure,” Holly said. “Mr. Oxhander…”
“It’s Oxenhandler,” the tall man said. “There was apparently some livestock in the family history.”
“Oxenhandler, sorry. Have you met your clients?”
“Not yet.”
“They’re with Bob Hurst, right now, being questioned on another matter.”
“Another matter?” Oxenhandler asked, furrowing his brow.
“The murder of Hank Doherty.”
“You didn’t tell me this was a double shooting,” the lawyer said to the prosecutor.
“I didn’t know myself until this minute.”
“I want questioning ended now,” the lawyer said, “until I’ve had a chance to consult with my clients.”
Holly motioned toward the interrogation room. “Jane, ask Bob to come out here right now.”
“What’s the evidence against my clients?” Oxenhandler asked.
“Their tire tracks at the scene of the crime, possession of the victim’s weapon and a positive ballistics match between the bullet taken from the chief’s head and a thirty-two Smith and Wesson revolver found in the glove compartment of the accused’s van.”
“You go talk to your clients,” Skene said, “and then maybe you’ll want to discuss a plea. I’d like to wrap this up as soon as possible.”
Jackson Oxenhandler nodded and walked toward the interrogation room, passing Bob Hurst along the way. He stopped at the door of the adjoining room, looked in, then went on to the door of the interrogation room. He turned back and called out, “I’d like that room kept empty while we talk.” He disappeared into the interrogation room.