shot,” her mother said.
“Grandma.”
“Grandma? At midnight? What the hell for?”
Guinevere was silent.
“I asked a question.”
“I had a bad feeling for her.”
“So you wake her in the middle of the night?”
Burt joined her mother in the doorway. “What the hell?” He stood in his underwear and scratched his lumpy crotch.
Can’t she smell me on him?
“Well?” her mother said. “What did she say?”
“She didn’t say anything. She’s dead.”
Fay marched down the hall and swiped the handset from the wall. Dialed Grandma’s number with her thumb. In her other hand, tucked partly under her arm, a handgun glinted in moonlight.
Mother waited several minutes with the phone to her ear. Gwen’s feet grew cold and she stood with one set of toes resting atop the other, and traded off. She overheard the ringing in the handset. Her mother placed the phone in the receiver. “She’s been a heavy sleeper all her life. Go back to bed.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if she needs help?”
“Go to bed,” her mother said, trailing Gwen back the hallway.
Burt had already returned to the sheets and his snores drifted into the hall.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I open the Bronco’s passenger door. Sager sits in the driver’s seat. Looks sick. His face points at the floor; his elbows are braced on wide-set knees. The windshield is wet with melted snow, and flakes dissolve as they land, and it puts me in the mind of a snowball spittin’ and sizzlin’ on the flat of a wood stove.
“When Cooper comes, you send him out after me. Tell him I didn’t figure to keep up with him and the dogs and went ahead. When coroner Fields gets here, show him the body and do as he says. And one more thing: I don’t want Fay Haudesert in that barn.”
Sager nods.
“You all right?”
“Breakfast ain’t sitting too well.”
“Yeah.” I bust a clump of phlegm out of my throat. “Well, you got a job in the law. You’ll have to deal with your breakfast.”
I grab a furled balaclava and my gloves from the seat. Slap my holster. I kept a tin of jerked venison at the station and already had it loaded in the vehicle. A fistful of meat goes into my pocket. I pat my coat; pipe and tobacco are secure. On second thought, I remove them, pack a bowl and light it.
“Be careful out there,” Sager says.
I slam the door.
Go inside the barn, step around the blood and return to the loft ladder. I climb it again, and reaching the top, get real slow and careful. Ease one leg over and half-lay on the loft, fingers stretched and searching for something to hang on to. Finally my weight is more on the loft than the ladder and I get on hands and knees and crawl to the spread-out coat and the object beside it. I reach, trembling. My eyes are filled with Guinevere running in a summer breeze, making bubbles. Guinevere tumbling on warm grass. Gwen gazing with curiosity at a buzzing insect.
I wish she’d worn a dress this morning.
I grab the object—Gwen’s shoe—and put it into the wide, deep pocket close to the hem of my coat.
* * *
Looking across a field, the only way to guesstimate snow depth is by what it covers. Some places nothing sticks through, and the drifts could crest at six feet—and the storm is just getting started. Other places, cornstalks poke up, and the snow is ragged around them, clinging on the windward side, cupping on the lee, and it’s like someone shoved a stick down through a giant white cobweb. Gwen, missing a shoe, walked through this with her lover, a boy a quarter-again as old as her. Twenty to sixteen.
Too big a difference in Burt Haudesert’s book; too big in any father’s book. Gale G’Wain run a pitchfork through him because of it, and by sundown, Gale G’Wain will answer for it. I won’t have the luxury of working him over a few days before he goes to court, like in days past with vermin such as Smith Bixby or Marvin Waldock, a pair of characters that long ago learned you don’t drift into
“Grandma.”
“Grandma? At midnight? What the hell for?”
Guinevere was silent.
“I asked a question.”
“I had a bad feeling for her.”
“So you wake her in the middle of the night?”
Burt joined her mother in the doorway. “What the hell?” He stood in his underwear and scratched his lumpy crotch.
Can’t she smell me on him?
“Well?” her mother said. “What did she say?”
“She didn’t say anything. She’s dead.”
Fay marched down the hall and swiped the handset from the wall. Dialed Grandma’s number with her thumb. In her other hand, tucked partly under her arm, a handgun glinted in moonlight.
Mother waited several minutes with the phone to her ear. Gwen’s feet grew cold and she stood with one set of toes resting atop the other, and traded off. She overheard the ringing in the handset. Her mother placed the phone in the receiver. “She’s been a heavy sleeper all her life. Go back to bed.”
“What if you’re wrong? What if she needs help?”
“Go to bed,” her mother said, trailing Gwen back the hallway.
Burt had already returned to the sheets and his snores drifted into the hall.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I open the Bronco’s passenger door. Sager sits in the driver’s seat. Looks sick. His face points at the floor; his elbows are braced on wide-set knees. The windshield is wet with melted snow, and flakes dissolve as they land, and it puts me in the mind of a snowball spittin’ and sizzlin’ on the flat of a wood stove.
“When Cooper comes, you send him out after me. Tell him I didn’t figure to keep up with him and the dogs and went ahead. When coroner Fields gets here, show him the body and do as he says. And one more thing: I don’t want Fay Haudesert in that barn.”
Sager nods.
“You all right?”
“Breakfast ain’t sitting too well.”
“Yeah.” I bust a clump of phlegm out of my throat. “Well, you got a job in the law. You’ll have to deal with your breakfast.”
I grab a furled balaclava and my gloves from the seat. Slap my holster. I kept a tin of jerked venison at the station and already had it loaded in the vehicle. A fistful of meat goes into my pocket. I pat my coat; pipe and tobacco are secure. On second thought, I remove them, pack a bowl and light it.
“Be careful out there,” Sager says.
I slam the door.
Go inside the barn, step around the blood and return to the loft ladder. I climb it again, and reaching the top, get real slow and careful. Ease one leg over and half-lay on the loft, fingers stretched and searching for something to hang on to. Finally my weight is more on the loft than the ladder and I get on hands and knees and crawl to the spread-out coat and the object beside it. I reach, trembling. My eyes are filled with Guinevere running in a summer breeze, making bubbles. Guinevere tumbling on warm grass. Gwen gazing with curiosity at a buzzing insect.
I wish she’d worn a dress this morning.
I grab the object—Gwen’s shoe—and put it into the wide, deep pocket close to the hem of my coat.
* * *
Looking across a field, the only way to guesstimate snow depth is by what it covers. Some places nothing sticks through, and the drifts could crest at six feet—and the storm is just getting started. Other places, cornstalks poke up, and the snow is ragged around them, clinging on the windward side, cupping on the lee, and it’s like someone shoved a stick down through a giant white cobweb. Gwen, missing a shoe, walked through this with her lover, a boy a quarter-again as old as her. Twenty to sixteen.
Too big a difference in Burt Haudesert’s book; too big in any father’s book. Gale G’Wain run a pitchfork through him because of it, and by sundown, Gale G’Wain will answer for it. I won’t have the luxury of working him over a few days before he goes to court, like in days past with vermin such as Smith Bixby or Marvin Waldock, a pair of characters that long ago learned you don’t drift into
Similar Books
