film of emotional ice, and Sam doubted the man wanted to answer any questions that would force him to revisit traumatic events in his past.
The dark wooden walls absorbed all the light in the house, creating a gloom that complemented Roy’s mood. Or maybe it was the other way around. The great room faced the kitchen with its counter and stools and the staircase to the upper floor. To the left was a bay dining area, to the right a fireplace. The house had the look of a bachelor pad—there were no flowers in vases or other feminine touches, but it was clean and orderly. A mahogany coat rack stood by the door, a couple of Navajo throw rugs spread on the floor, a big analog clock over the stove. It was efficient but almost impersonal, like a rental unit, with Roy as the caretaker rather than homeowner.
The one small personal touch was a row of framed family photos on the wall beside the kitchen. In one, a much younger Roy with shoulder length hair had his arm wrapped around the shoulders of an attractive brunette. Another photo showed the same woman holding a baby boy. A third showed the same boy, now a young man in his late teens or early twenties, standing in front of the green El Camino, smiling as he dangled a set of car keys from a raised index finger. In a fourth photo, the young man stood at attention wearing a police uniform and a serious expression on his face.
Dean walked past Sam, carrying the cooler on his way to the kitchen, and noticed the photo that had caught Sam’s attention. “A cop?” he whispered, glancing sidelong to where Bobby was talking softly with Roy, probably trying to smooth some ruffled feathers.
Dean shook his head slightly and took his liquid stash into the kitchen, setting the cooler on the counter.
Recalling the El Camino outside, Sam asked Roy, “Do you live alone?”
“What of it?” Roy asked irritably.
“Nothing,” Sam said. “I saw the photo of the El Camino.”
“My son’s car,” Roy said. His tone softened as he walked over to stand beside Sam. “Killed four years back.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, caught off guard.
“Top of his class,” Roy said proudly. “Cop right here in Laurel Hill. Less than a year on the job. One night, he pulls over a speeder.” He cleared his throat, jaw muscles working to suppress his emotions. “Standing there, examines the man’s license, registration, insurance card. Same old drill, right? Gone through it dozens of times before. Except that night, another driver comes along. Man in his late seventies. Wilfred Banks. Confused by the lights. Too damn old to be behind the wheel, basically. Hits my boy, drags him under his car for two hundred yards before he figures out which one’s the brake pedal.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam repeated.
“Some people don’t know when to quit,” Roy said, more to himself than Sam. “Old bastard lived two more years after killing my boy.” Roy nodded somberly, scratched hisjaw. “Now I got another one to bury.”
Bobby came over. “Roy?”
“Mother-in-law,” Roy said. “Out of state.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Tomorrow,” Roy said. “Hitting the road in a few hours. Expect my place to be standing when I get back.”
“Extend my sympathies to her folks,” Bobby said.
“Doubt I’ll be speaking to any of them,” Roy said, and turned, walking away. “Sally’s mother never forgave me for her death. But I gotta pay my respects.”
Roy crossed the great room without another word, stepped into the downstairs master bedroom and closed the door softly behind him.
Sam looked questioningly at Bobby. After transferring his liquor supply to the refrigerator, Dean cracked open a few beers and joined them, offering a bottle to each of them.
“Bout fifteen years ago,” Bobby said in a whisper as he stared at the bedroom door, “ghoul attack in Philly. Killed Sally, wrecked Roy’s arm.”
“Why’d the mother-in-law blame Roy … ?” Dean started to ask before putting the
The dark wooden walls absorbed all the light in the house, creating a gloom that complemented Roy’s mood. Or maybe it was the other way around. The great room faced the kitchen with its counter and stools and the staircase to the upper floor. To the left was a bay dining area, to the right a fireplace. The house had the look of a bachelor pad—there were no flowers in vases or other feminine touches, but it was clean and orderly. A mahogany coat rack stood by the door, a couple of Navajo throw rugs spread on the floor, a big analog clock over the stove. It was efficient but almost impersonal, like a rental unit, with Roy as the caretaker rather than homeowner.
The one small personal touch was a row of framed family photos on the wall beside the kitchen. In one, a much younger Roy with shoulder length hair had his arm wrapped around the shoulders of an attractive brunette. Another photo showed the same woman holding a baby boy. A third showed the same boy, now a young man in his late teens or early twenties, standing in front of the green El Camino, smiling as he dangled a set of car keys from a raised index finger. In a fourth photo, the young man stood at attention wearing a police uniform and a serious expression on his face.
Dean walked past Sam, carrying the cooler on his way to the kitchen, and noticed the photo that had caught Sam’s attention. “A cop?” he whispered, glancing sidelong to where Bobby was talking softly with Roy, probably trying to smooth some ruffled feathers.
Dean shook his head slightly and took his liquid stash into the kitchen, setting the cooler on the counter.
Recalling the El Camino outside, Sam asked Roy, “Do you live alone?”
“What of it?” Roy asked irritably.
“Nothing,” Sam said. “I saw the photo of the El Camino.”
“My son’s car,” Roy said. His tone softened as he walked over to stand beside Sam. “Killed four years back.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, caught off guard.
“Top of his class,” Roy said proudly. “Cop right here in Laurel Hill. Less than a year on the job. One night, he pulls over a speeder.” He cleared his throat, jaw muscles working to suppress his emotions. “Standing there, examines the man’s license, registration, insurance card. Same old drill, right? Gone through it dozens of times before. Except that night, another driver comes along. Man in his late seventies. Wilfred Banks. Confused by the lights. Too damn old to be behind the wheel, basically. Hits my boy, drags him under his car for two hundred yards before he figures out which one’s the brake pedal.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam repeated.
“Some people don’t know when to quit,” Roy said, more to himself than Sam. “Old bastard lived two more years after killing my boy.” Roy nodded somberly, scratched hisjaw. “Now I got another one to bury.”
Bobby came over. “Roy?”
“Mother-in-law,” Roy said. “Out of state.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Tomorrow,” Roy said. “Hitting the road in a few hours. Expect my place to be standing when I get back.”
“Extend my sympathies to her folks,” Bobby said.
“Doubt I’ll be speaking to any of them,” Roy said, and turned, walking away. “Sally’s mother never forgave me for her death. But I gotta pay my respects.”
Roy crossed the great room without another word, stepped into the downstairs master bedroom and closed the door softly behind him.
Sam looked questioningly at Bobby. After transferring his liquor supply to the refrigerator, Dean cracked open a few beers and joined them, offering a bottle to each of them.
“Bout fifteen years ago,” Bobby said in a whisper as he stared at the bedroom door, “ghoul attack in Philly. Killed Sally, wrecked Roy’s arm.”
“Why’d the mother-in-law blame Roy … ?” Dean started to ask before putting the
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