The Psalmist by James Lilliefors Page A

Guarantee.”
    â€œBased on what?”
    Shipman shrugged and, as he sometimes did, answered a different question: “I’m telling you, this thing is freaking them. ’Course, being an election year, it wouldn’t hurt any if they can show that they were the ones who solved it, not us.”
    â€œGuess not.” Hunter waited, knowing he’d say more. Ship tended to open up around her more than he did with anyone else. Early on there’d been a few awkward moments when he’d suggested that they should go “ out out” sometime. But they were long past that now, and Hunter thought of Ben Shipman as an older brother.
    â€œIf they can’t have a real solution,” he said, “they’ll settle for the appearance of a solution. A ‘necessary outcome.’”
    â€œI don’t like the sound of that.”
    â€œI know. I’m just saying. It is what it is.”
    Yes, it is, Hunter thought , feeling her face flush with anger. They rode in silence again past the Blue Crab Diner, Holland’s Family Restaurant, and the white frame Baptist church at the other end of Main Street, then over the northern trickle of Jimmy Creek toward the highway and the county’s small commercial strip. As with most of her cases, Hunter had already raised the stakes of this one, figuring there was more involved than just finding a criminal; there was also a darker riddle of human motivation to be answered. She had heard the term “God’s work” used to describe homicide investigations years before she understood what it meant. Now she understood, but tried not to think about it.
    â€œWhat are they saying about the numbers in her hand?”
    â€œNot much,” Ship said. “The state’s attorney evidently thinks it’s irrelevant. A red heron.”
    â€œHerring.”
    â€œHerring.”
    â€œBut for what purpose?”
    â€œJust Robby, trying to divert attention.”
    No, Hunter thought. Not possible. Robby Fallow doesn’t think that way. The number in her hand is something else. The number in her hand has to mean something. It’s probably the key to understanding this.
    â€œThere’s another reason, too, you know.” Ship was grinning slightly as he switched lanes.
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œA lot of ­people don’t like Robby Fallow. ­People respected his daddy, but not him. Lot of ­people’d be glad to see him gone. They just don’t want to go to war with him. Robby can be a stubborn guy.”
    â€œYeah, I know.” Hunter recalled the hand-­painted plywood sign he’d nailed to a tree last winter reading, Private Property. Keep Out. This Means You.
    â€œSo this would be a way of forcing him out?” she said. “That seems a stretch.”
    â€œDon’t underestimate what the sheriff’s capable of when he gets a bee in his bonnet. I can see it going there—­I mean, say they end up working out a plea deal, he agrees to leave Tidewater. The case is quietly dropped. Maybe Robby sells the property, gets enough to buy a nice little retirement place down in Florida or the Carolinas, for him and his son. Everyone lives happily ever after.”
    â€œAnd a murderer goes free?”
    â€œWell,” Shipman said. “There’s that.”
    S HIP PLACED THEIR orders without asking Hunter: Oriental salad and small fries for her, Big Mac and large fries for himself. Otherwise a healthy eater, Hunter harbored a weakness for McDonald’s french fries.
    They were driving back when Sonny Fischer, the other local member of the homicide unit, called. Fisch was Ship’s antithesis in many ways, a heath and exercise nut who could literally become ill in the presence of fast food. He was also highly antisocial. Both, though, in their own ways, were exceptional investigators.
    â€œGoing or coming?”
    â€œComing,” Hunter said. “Why?”
    Ship reached for a