pebble from the tread. White, soft caliche, like the gravel that littered Sparrow Point.
He got to his feet. A cardboard box had been partially hidden in a tumble of gardening tools. Leaning over a rake, he peeked inside: Avon packages. A Torku bill of lading, the hue of bubble gum, sat atop three boxes of toothpaste labeled ETTA WILSON.
DeWitt took his penlight front the squad car’s glove compartment and went to the rear of Janet’s Suburban. He faced the navy blue door in painful indecision.
Impossible. Loretta had been five inches taller, a hundred pounds heavier—Janet couldn’t have killed her. But before DeWitt could sleep, he had to banish all doubt.
The come-along. That might have been enough to get the body into the Suburban. He shone the penlight into the shadowed depths of the carport. The small block and tackle, rusty with disuse, lay atop his workbench where he had left it.
DeWitt opened the rear of the Suburban and swept the pencil-thin beam over the roomy interior. Balls of fluff sat atop the beige carpet like pills on an old sweater.
Janet would have had to catch her victim by surprise. Look here, Loretta, look what I got. The snap of a garrote around Loretta’s neck. No time, no air, to scream. The struggle. Loretta’s shoes whipping back and forth across the carpet. Maybe Loretta didn’t bleed to death. Maybe her throat had been torn to obliterate the marks of strangulation.
But a lot of things could have caused those scuffs. Janet had carted lumber. The boards had shifted.
DeWitt crawled inside, searching on hands and knees. He found a tiny lipstick sample. A toy car. A soda straw still in its paper sheath. He ran his hands along the side, dipped his fingers under the carpet. A penny. A toothpick. A piece of foil.
He brought out the foil and studied it. Heavy grade, blue on one side, silver on the other; the circular indentation of what it had contained.
The instant DeWitt recognized what he was holding, his brain froze. His instinct was to fling it away. He couldn’t. His fingers clenched the condom package as if they had seized a live wire.
He’d take this to the bedroom, wake Janet up, ask her who she was sleeping with. Ask her for God’s sake why. And if she didn’t tell him, he’d shake her so hard, her delicate neck would snap.
No need. He already had the answer. DeWitt always knew that one day he might lose his wife to Foster. And if he confronted her now, she would leave and take the children. He could deal with her affair if she didn’t flaunt it, if only she would stay.
Besides, he had lost Janet a hundred times before: in high school, when Foster had the money to take her to the prom; in college, when he’d had the better car. An MG then. A Corvette now.
In trying to please her, DeWitt had repeatedly made the wrong choices. He sat in the Suburban that Janet hated, that he had bought with such pride, and suddenly he realized how Foster had gotten Loretta’s body to Sparrow Point.
DeWitt took the foil to the rows of garbage bags and gave it an indecent burial, between an empty Doritos package and a wet mass of coffee grounds.
Faintly, far away, someone screamed. DeWitt returned to the house, and in the hall nearly collided with Janet. “I’ll get it,” he snapped, his resentment still raw.
Without a word she turned and went back to bed.
The bedside lamp was on in the girls’ room, and Linda was sitting up, staring at her sister. Tammy’s hands were over her face. Her mouth was open, and an odd, inhuman wail was coming out of her.
“Here, baby. Daddy’s here.” DeWitt sat down and tugged her fingers from her face. The screams became hiccupping sobs. Settling her cheek against his chest, he crooned a worried parent’s song.
From the opposite twin bed, Linda watched.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart.”
She yawned. “Bathroom.” Fumbling her way out of the covers, rubbing her eyes with her small knuckles, Linda padded out.
“I was watching cartoons,” Tammy
He got to his feet. A cardboard box had been partially hidden in a tumble of gardening tools. Leaning over a rake, he peeked inside: Avon packages. A Torku bill of lading, the hue of bubble gum, sat atop three boxes of toothpaste labeled ETTA WILSON.
DeWitt took his penlight front the squad car’s glove compartment and went to the rear of Janet’s Suburban. He faced the navy blue door in painful indecision.
Impossible. Loretta had been five inches taller, a hundred pounds heavier—Janet couldn’t have killed her. But before DeWitt could sleep, he had to banish all doubt.
The come-along. That might have been enough to get the body into the Suburban. He shone the penlight into the shadowed depths of the carport. The small block and tackle, rusty with disuse, lay atop his workbench where he had left it.
DeWitt opened the rear of the Suburban and swept the pencil-thin beam over the roomy interior. Balls of fluff sat atop the beige carpet like pills on an old sweater.
Janet would have had to catch her victim by surprise. Look here, Loretta, look what I got. The snap of a garrote around Loretta’s neck. No time, no air, to scream. The struggle. Loretta’s shoes whipping back and forth across the carpet. Maybe Loretta didn’t bleed to death. Maybe her throat had been torn to obliterate the marks of strangulation.
But a lot of things could have caused those scuffs. Janet had carted lumber. The boards had shifted.
DeWitt crawled inside, searching on hands and knees. He found a tiny lipstick sample. A toy car. A soda straw still in its paper sheath. He ran his hands along the side, dipped his fingers under the carpet. A penny. A toothpick. A piece of foil.
He brought out the foil and studied it. Heavy grade, blue on one side, silver on the other; the circular indentation of what it had contained.
The instant DeWitt recognized what he was holding, his brain froze. His instinct was to fling it away. He couldn’t. His fingers clenched the condom package as if they had seized a live wire.
He’d take this to the bedroom, wake Janet up, ask her who she was sleeping with. Ask her for God’s sake why. And if she didn’t tell him, he’d shake her so hard, her delicate neck would snap.
No need. He already had the answer. DeWitt always knew that one day he might lose his wife to Foster. And if he confronted her now, she would leave and take the children. He could deal with her affair if she didn’t flaunt it, if only she would stay.
Besides, he had lost Janet a hundred times before: in high school, when Foster had the money to take her to the prom; in college, when he’d had the better car. An MG then. A Corvette now.
In trying to please her, DeWitt had repeatedly made the wrong choices. He sat in the Suburban that Janet hated, that he had bought with such pride, and suddenly he realized how Foster had gotten Loretta’s body to Sparrow Point.
DeWitt took the foil to the rows of garbage bags and gave it an indecent burial, between an empty Doritos package and a wet mass of coffee grounds.
Faintly, far away, someone screamed. DeWitt returned to the house, and in the hall nearly collided with Janet. “I’ll get it,” he snapped, his resentment still raw.
Without a word she turned and went back to bed.
The bedside lamp was on in the girls’ room, and Linda was sitting up, staring at her sister. Tammy’s hands were over her face. Her mouth was open, and an odd, inhuman wail was coming out of her.
“Here, baby. Daddy’s here.” DeWitt sat down and tugged her fingers from her face. The screams became hiccupping sobs. Settling her cheek against his chest, he crooned a worried parent’s song.
From the opposite twin bed, Linda watched.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart.”
She yawned. “Bathroom.” Fumbling her way out of the covers, rubbing her eyes with her small knuckles, Linda padded out.
“I was watching cartoons,” Tammy
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