bulge of the chimney and the windows on either side. Saw the wall of trees to her right. She looked down at one of the photographs.
A possibility: this was as far away from her as Gwen would allow him. Any farther down the walk, he'd be circling back in her direction. Pulled back in her direction. Even dead, she's more powerful than he is, that's part of why he had to do this. But here, right here, Archie is at the apex of his orbit. The end of his leash. And he can't be seen from inside. Gwen, the insufferable witch, the monster who finally got what she asked for so many years, won't be able to see him right here because he's behind the chimney. She has no idea what he's up to. He's free now.
Merci sees that, having come down the walkway this far, Archie's back is to his wife. This seems natural, that he would turn his back on her one final time.
He's shivering by now, she thinks, his fury and resolve and mad logic are delaminating and he's beginning to feel true horror at what he's done. And what he still has to do.
He turns around, facing the way he came. Why? As if he could go back, undo things? Make a fresh beginning? Go confess to Gwen that he really doesn't hate her? Say a simple hello? Or goodbye?
He takes a deep breath. He swings quickly and confidently, and fires. Never hears it. Sees nothing. Feels nothing. Maybe an owl watches the brass flicker into the violets, the brief puff of smoke as the gun clatters on the walk at the same time the heavy human bulk of Archie Wildcraft slumps like a fountain turned off for the night.
Thus, just what we found, Merci thinks: one brass nine-millimeter casing to the right side of the walkway, where the ejector on the Smith would logically throw it.
Okay. I can believe this. I can believe this. But I still can't see it.
What about Size Sixteen, waiting under the Chinese flame tree? What about all the footprints on the other side of the walk? Who made them and what were they looking for?
She felt her heart beating fast and the sweat cooling on her scalp. Her fingers were slick on the photographs so she wiped them on her chinos. She smelled herself and her perfume and the sweet stink of some flower or vine and the rich damp smell of earth with things growing in it.
She continued down the walkway, trying to clear her thoughts. She stopped by the swimming pool for a moment and watched the clear blue water. She looked at the two chaise lounges, touching lengthwise and the little round tables on either side. So they can touch, she thought. Drowsy in the sun. Sweet smell of flowers. Reach. Touch. Quiet words. Eyes still shut, sun orange and warm on the lids. Let go inside. Oh, yes.
Near the far end of the pool were two eucalyptus trees. Stretched between them was a hammock big enough for two. Merci looked across to the patio, where Zamorra had sat at the end of that long first day here. There was the little cafe table and, of course, two long-legged cafe chairs.
It's everywhere I look, she thought: two young people in love. That must be what it's like, you arrange the world around yourselves. Us. Us. Us and them.
She started out in the bedroom again. But this time, Archie wasn't going to be the shooter. And the first thing she thought was: Gwen wasn't shot first. The rock hadn't been lying on the carpet since afternoon. It had come through the window just after five in the morning, and Archie got out of bed when he heard it. He made sure his wife was in the bathroom with the cell phone. He wouldn't let her call 911 yet because he's a cop, a young cop with a handgun and a flashlight ready for something like this. If there's a dragon in his castle, Archie's going to slay it himself. Chop off its head and parade around the grounds with it.
Merci rechecked her lights list, imagining Archie as a home defender instead of a murderer. But the lights wouldn't tell her much about what Wildcraft had done because, if she was right, someone had been in the house after him.
Down the
A possibility: this was as far away from her as Gwen would allow him. Any farther down the walk, he'd be circling back in her direction. Pulled back in her direction. Even dead, she's more powerful than he is, that's part of why he had to do this. But here, right here, Archie is at the apex of his orbit. The end of his leash. And he can't be seen from inside. Gwen, the insufferable witch, the monster who finally got what she asked for so many years, won't be able to see him right here because he's behind the chimney. She has no idea what he's up to. He's free now.
Merci sees that, having come down the walkway this far, Archie's back is to his wife. This seems natural, that he would turn his back on her one final time.
He's shivering by now, she thinks, his fury and resolve and mad logic are delaminating and he's beginning to feel true horror at what he's done. And what he still has to do.
He turns around, facing the way he came. Why? As if he could go back, undo things? Make a fresh beginning? Go confess to Gwen that he really doesn't hate her? Say a simple hello? Or goodbye?
He takes a deep breath. He swings quickly and confidently, and fires. Never hears it. Sees nothing. Feels nothing. Maybe an owl watches the brass flicker into the violets, the brief puff of smoke as the gun clatters on the walk at the same time the heavy human bulk of Archie Wildcraft slumps like a fountain turned off for the night.
Thus, just what we found, Merci thinks: one brass nine-millimeter casing to the right side of the walkway, where the ejector on the Smith would logically throw it.
Okay. I can believe this. I can believe this. But I still can't see it.
What about Size Sixteen, waiting under the Chinese flame tree? What about all the footprints on the other side of the walk? Who made them and what were they looking for?
She felt her heart beating fast and the sweat cooling on her scalp. Her fingers were slick on the photographs so she wiped them on her chinos. She smelled herself and her perfume and the sweet stink of some flower or vine and the rich damp smell of earth with things growing in it.
She continued down the walkway, trying to clear her thoughts. She stopped by the swimming pool for a moment and watched the clear blue water. She looked at the two chaise lounges, touching lengthwise and the little round tables on either side. So they can touch, she thought. Drowsy in the sun. Sweet smell of flowers. Reach. Touch. Quiet words. Eyes still shut, sun orange and warm on the lids. Let go inside. Oh, yes.
Near the far end of the pool were two eucalyptus trees. Stretched between them was a hammock big enough for two. Merci looked across to the patio, where Zamorra had sat at the end of that long first day here. There was the little cafe table and, of course, two long-legged cafe chairs.
It's everywhere I look, she thought: two young people in love. That must be what it's like, you arrange the world around yourselves. Us. Us. Us and them.
She started out in the bedroom again. But this time, Archie wasn't going to be the shooter. And the first thing she thought was: Gwen wasn't shot first. The rock hadn't been lying on the carpet since afternoon. It had come through the window just after five in the morning, and Archie got out of bed when he heard it. He made sure his wife was in the bathroom with the cell phone. He wouldn't let her call 911 yet because he's a cop, a young cop with a handgun and a flashlight ready for something like this. If there's a dragon in his castle, Archie's going to slay it himself. Chop off its head and parade around the grounds with it.
Merci rechecked her lights list, imagining Archie as a home defender instead of a murderer. But the lights wouldn't tell her much about what Wildcraft had done because, if she was right, someone had been in the house after him.
Down the
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