orange-and-green sunset.
The encircling woods bristled dark, growing darker. If a hostile observer had taken up position in that timber, crouching in ferns and philodendrons, none but a sharp-nosed dog could have known that he was out there.
A hundred toads, all unseen, had begun to sing in the descending gloom, but in the kitchen, past the open door, all was silent.
Perhaps Lanny just needed a little more time to find a way to tweak the truth.
Surely he cared about more than himself. He could not have been reduced so totally, so quickly, to the most base self-interest.
He was still a cop, lazy or not, desperate or not. Sooner than later he would realize that he couldn’t live with himself if, by obstructing the investigation, he contributed to more deaths.
The ink-spill in the east soon saturated the sky overhead, while in the west, all was fire and blood.
chapter 9
AT 9:00, BILLY LEFT THE BACK PORCH AND WENT inside. He closed the door and locked it.
In just three hours, a fate would be decided, a death ordained, and if the killer followed a pattern, someone would be murdered before dawn.
The key to the SUV lay on the dinette table. Billy picked it up.
He considered setting out in search of Lanny Olsen. What he had thought was resentment, earlier, had been mere exasperation. Now he knew real resentment, a dark and bitter brooding. He badly wanted confrontation.
Preserve me from the enemy who has something to gain, and from the friend who has something to lose.
Lanny had been on day shift. He was off duty now.
Most likely he would be holed up at home. If he was not at home, there were only a handful of restaurants, bars, and friends’ houses where he might be found.
A sense of responsibility and a strange despairing kind of hope held Billy prisoner in his kitchen, by his telephone. He no longer expected Lanny to call; but the killer might.
The mute listener on the line the previous night had been Giselle Winslow’s murderer. Billy had no proof, but no doubt, either.
Maybe he would call this evening, too. If Billy could speak to him, something might be accomplished, something learned.
Billy was under no illusion that such a monster could be charmed into chattiness. Neither could a homicidal sociopath be debated, nor persuaded by reason to spare a life.
Hearing the man speak a few words, however, might prove valuable. Ethnicity, region of origin, education, approximate age, and more could be inferred from a voice.
With luck, the killer might also unwittingly reveal some salient fact about himself. One clue, one small bud of information that blossomed under determined analysis, could provide Billy with something credible to take to the police.
Confronting Lanny Olsen might be emotionally satisfying, but it would not get Billy out of the box in which the killer had put him.
He hung the key to the SUV on a pegboard.
The previous evening, in a nervous moment, he had lowered the shades at all the windows. This morning, before breakfast, he had raised those in the kitchen. Now he lowered them again.
He stood in the center of the kitchen.
He glanced at the phone.
Intending to sit at the table, he put his right hand on the back of a chair, but he didn’t move it.
He just stood there, studying the polished black-granite floor at his feet.
He kept an immaculate house. The granite was glossy, spotless.
The blackness under his feet appeared to have no substance, as if he were standing on air, high in the night itself, with five miles of atmosphere yawning below, wingless.
He pulled the chair out from the table. He sat. Less than a minute passed before he got to his feet.
Under these circumstances, Billy Wiles had no idea how to act, what to
do.
The simple task of passing time defeated him, although he had not been doing much else for years.
Because he hadn’t eaten dinner, he went to the refrigerator. He had no appetite. Nothing on those cold shelves appealed to him.
He glanced at the SUV key dangling
The encircling woods bristled dark, growing darker. If a hostile observer had taken up position in that timber, crouching in ferns and philodendrons, none but a sharp-nosed dog could have known that he was out there.
A hundred toads, all unseen, had begun to sing in the descending gloom, but in the kitchen, past the open door, all was silent.
Perhaps Lanny just needed a little more time to find a way to tweak the truth.
Surely he cared about more than himself. He could not have been reduced so totally, so quickly, to the most base self-interest.
He was still a cop, lazy or not, desperate or not. Sooner than later he would realize that he couldn’t live with himself if, by obstructing the investigation, he contributed to more deaths.
The ink-spill in the east soon saturated the sky overhead, while in the west, all was fire and blood.
chapter 9
AT 9:00, BILLY LEFT THE BACK PORCH AND WENT inside. He closed the door and locked it.
In just three hours, a fate would be decided, a death ordained, and if the killer followed a pattern, someone would be murdered before dawn.
The key to the SUV lay on the dinette table. Billy picked it up.
He considered setting out in search of Lanny Olsen. What he had thought was resentment, earlier, had been mere exasperation. Now he knew real resentment, a dark and bitter brooding. He badly wanted confrontation.
Preserve me from the enemy who has something to gain, and from the friend who has something to lose.
Lanny had been on day shift. He was off duty now.
Most likely he would be holed up at home. If he was not at home, there were only a handful of restaurants, bars, and friends’ houses where he might be found.
A sense of responsibility and a strange despairing kind of hope held Billy prisoner in his kitchen, by his telephone. He no longer expected Lanny to call; but the killer might.
The mute listener on the line the previous night had been Giselle Winslow’s murderer. Billy had no proof, but no doubt, either.
Maybe he would call this evening, too. If Billy could speak to him, something might be accomplished, something learned.
Billy was under no illusion that such a monster could be charmed into chattiness. Neither could a homicidal sociopath be debated, nor persuaded by reason to spare a life.
Hearing the man speak a few words, however, might prove valuable. Ethnicity, region of origin, education, approximate age, and more could be inferred from a voice.
With luck, the killer might also unwittingly reveal some salient fact about himself. One clue, one small bud of information that blossomed under determined analysis, could provide Billy with something credible to take to the police.
Confronting Lanny Olsen might be emotionally satisfying, but it would not get Billy out of the box in which the killer had put him.
He hung the key to the SUV on a pegboard.
The previous evening, in a nervous moment, he had lowered the shades at all the windows. This morning, before breakfast, he had raised those in the kitchen. Now he lowered them again.
He stood in the center of the kitchen.
He glanced at the phone.
Intending to sit at the table, he put his right hand on the back of a chair, but he didn’t move it.
He just stood there, studying the polished black-granite floor at his feet.
He kept an immaculate house. The granite was glossy, spotless.
The blackness under his feet appeared to have no substance, as if he were standing on air, high in the night itself, with five miles of atmosphere yawning below, wingless.
He pulled the chair out from the table. He sat. Less than a minute passed before he got to his feet.
Under these circumstances, Billy Wiles had no idea how to act, what to
do.
The simple task of passing time defeated him, although he had not been doing much else for years.
Because he hadn’t eaten dinner, he went to the refrigerator. He had no appetite. Nothing on those cold shelves appealed to him.
He glanced at the SUV key dangling
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