But even if Henderson had been murdered, it wasn't likely that his killer had used the victim's own gun, conveniently leaving fingerprints on it. Furthermore, Paul didn't appear to have been shot; if any shooting had been done, he was probably the one who had pulled the trigger.
She picked up the pistol and examined it. The cylinder had a six-round capacity, but three of the chambers were empty. The sharp odor of burnt gunpowder told her that the weapon had been fired sometime today; maybe even within the past hour.
Carrying the .45, scanning the blue tile floor, she rose and walked to one end of the reception area, then to the other end. Her eye caught a glint of brass, another, then another: three expended cartridges.
None of the shots had been fired downward, into the floor. The highly polished blue tiles were unmarred.
Jenny pushed through the swinging gate in the wooden railing, moving into the area that TV cops always called the “bull pen.” She walked down an aisle between facing pairs of desks, filing cabinets, and work tables. In the center of the room, she stopped and let her gaze travel slowly over the pale green walls and the white acoustic-tile ceiling, looking for bullet holes. She couldn't find any.
That surprised her. If the gun hadn't been discharged into the floor, and if it hadn't been aimed at the front windows which it hadn't; no broken glass — then it had to have been fired with the muzzle pointing into the room, waist-high or higher. So where had the slugs gone? She couldn't see any ruined furniture, no splintered wood or torn sheet-metal or shattered plastic, although she knew that a .45-caliber bullet would do considerable damage at the point of impact.
If the expended rounds weren't in this room, there was only one other place they could be: in the man or men at whom Paul Henderson had taken aim.
But if the deputy had wounded an assailant — or two or three assailants — with three shots from a .45 police revolver, three shots so squarely placed in the assailant's body trunk that the bullets had been stopped and had not passed through, then there would have been blood everywhere. But there wasn't a drop.
Baffled, she turned to the desk where the gooseneck fluorescent lamp cast light on an open issue of Time. A brass nameplate read SERGEANT PAUL J. HENDERSON. This was where he had been sitting, passing an apparently dull afternoon, when whatever happened had… happened.
Already sure of what she would hear, Jenny lifted the receiver from that stood on Henderson's desk. No dial tone. Just the electronic, insect-wing hiss of an open line.
As before, when she had attempted to use the telephone in the Santinis' kitchen, she had the feeling that she wasn't the only one on the line.
She put the receiver down — too abruptly, too hard.
Her hands were trembling.
Along the back wall of the room, there were two bulletin boards, a photocopier, a locked gun cabinet, a police radio (a home base set), and a teletype link. Jenny didn't know how to operate the teletype. Anyway, it was silent and appeared to be out of order. She couldn't make the radio come to life. Although the power switch was in the on-position, the indicator lamp didn't light. The microphone remained dead. Whoever had done in the deputy had also done in the teletype and the radio.
Heading back to the reception area at the front of the room, Jenny saw that Lisa was no longer standing in the doorway, and for an instant her heart froze. Then she saw the girl hunkered down beside Paul Henderson's body, peering intently at it.
Lisa looked up as Jenny came through the gate in the railing. Indicating the badly swollen corpse, the girl said, “I didn't realize skin could stretch as much as this without splitting.” Her pose — scientific inquisitiveness, detachment, studied indifference to the horror of the scene — was as transparent as a window. Her darting eyes betrayed her. Pretending she didn't find it stressful, Lisa looked away from the deputy and stood up.
“Honey, why didn't you stay by the doors?”
“I was disgusted with myself for being such a coward.”
“Listen, Sis, I told you”
“I mean, I'm afraid something's going to happen to us, something bad, right here in Snowfield, tonight, any minute maybe, something really awful. But I'm not ashamed of that fear because it's only common sense to be afraid after what we've seen. But I was even afraid of the deputy's body, and that was just plain childish.”
When Lisa paused, Jenny said nothing. The girl had more to say, and she needed to get it off her mind.
“He's dead. He can't hurt me. There's no reason to be so scared of him. It's wrong to give in to irrational fears. It's wrong and weak and stupid. A person should face up to fears like that,” Lisa insisted, “Facing up to them is the only way to get over them. Right? So I decided to face up to this.” With a tilt of her head, she indicated the dead man at her feet.
There's such anguish in her eyes, Jenny thought.
It wasn't merely the situation in Snowfield that was weighing heavily on the girl. It was the memory of finding her mother dead of a stroke on a hot, clear afternoon in July. Suddenly, because of all of this, all of that was coming back to her, coming back hard.
“I'm okay now,” Lisa said, “I'm still afraid of what might happen to us, but I'm not afraid of him.” She glanced down at the corpse to prove her point, then looked up and met Jenny's eyes. “See? You can count on me now. I won't flake out on you again.”
For the first time, Jenny realized that she was Lisa's role model. With her eyes and face and voice and hands, Lisa revealed, in countless subtle ways, a respect and an admiration for Jenny that was far greater than Jenny had imagined. Without resorting to words, the girl was saying something that deeply moved Jenny: I love you, but even more than that, I like you; I'm proud of you; I think you're terrific, and if you're patient with me, I'll make you proud and happy to have me for a kid sister.
The realization that she occupied such a lofty position in Lisa's personal pantheon was a surprise to Jenny. Because of the difference in their ages and because Jenny had been away from home almost constantly since Lisa was two, she had thought that she was virtually a stranger to the girl. She was both flattered and humbled by this new insight into their relationship.
“I know I can count on you,” she assured the girl, “I never thought I couldn't.”
Lisa smiled self-consciously.
Jenny hugged her.
For a moment, Lisa clung to her fiercely, and when they pulled apart, she said, “So… did you find any clue to what happened here?”
“Nothing that makes sense.”
“The phone doesn't work, huh?”
“No.”
“So they're out of order all over town.”
“Probably.”
They walked to the door and stepped outside, onto the cobblestone sidewalk.
Surveying the hushed street, Lisa said, “Everyone's dead.”
“We can't be sure.”
“Everyone,” the girl insisted softly, bleakly, “The whole town. All of them. You can feel it.”
“The Santinis were missing, not dead,” Jenny reminded her.
A three-quarter moon had risen above the mountains while she and Lisa had been in the sheriff's substation. In those nightclad places where the streetlamps and shop lights did not reach, the silvery light of the moon limned the edges of shadowed forms. But the moonglow revealed nothing. Instead, it fell like a veil, clinging to some objects more than to others, providing only vague hints of their shapes, and, like all veils, somehow managing to make all things beneath it more mysterious and obscure than they would have been in total darkness.