Rough country

12

PRUDENCE BAUER HAD FIFTEEN or twenty sealed cardboard moving boxes full of her sister's life, consolidated in a back bedroom, and when Virgil opened the first one, he was hit in the face by a dusty lilac-scented perfume that smelled more like death than death itself. Two of the boxes contained papers taken from Connie's desk within a couple days of her death, including a diary, and an appointment book from the Louvre.

"Was she an art enthusiast?" Virgil asked Bauer, thinking of the museum membership cards he'd seen in McDill's wallet.

"No, not especially-she used to get those from the Barnes and Noble store up in Cedar Rapids. There's another one around, but I think it was on the theme of cats."

She left him sitting in a rocking chair, in the bedroom, on a braided rag rug, flipping through the paper and getting nowhere. She came back fifteen minutes later with a Diet Coke: "Found anything?"

He took the Coke. "Not so far. But it all helps: even if I don't see anything now, maybe something relevant will pop up later. It's a matter of getting the most information that you can, into your head."

"You know, you should look at the phone receipts, to see who she was talking to at the time. They're in here somewhere…"

She started digging through boxes of records, looking for the phone receipts, as he paged through the diary, which was fairly bland: who did what to whom, in Swanson, and none of the things done were dramatic, except that a man named Don left his wife, Marilyn, and moved to Marion, wherever that was, to be around a woman named Doris.

"Whatever happened to Don and Doris?" Virgil asked Bauer.

She looked up, her eyes distant, for a moment, and then she said, "I think they moved to Oklahoma. Lake Eufaula."

"So Don never got back with Marilyn?"

"No. Marilyn's still alone. Sometimes I see her standing in her window, looking out. She lives just down the street and around the corner," she said.

"Maybe she's looking for Don coming back," Virgil suggested.

Bauer looked at him and smiled: "That's going to be a long wait. Don and Doris are in love."

HE'D FOUND NOTHING at all when Bauer handed him a stack of phone bills: "There are four calls to northern Minnesota right before she died. Three to one number, one to another."

He took the bills, checked through them, copied the numbers into his notebook, held up the bills, and said, "I'd like to take these. I'll give you a receipt."

"I don't really need-"

"Legal niceties," Virgil said.

He was curious about the numbers, though, got on his phone, called the office in St. Paul, read the numbers off to Davenport's secretary, and said, "Get somebody to run those down. They're two years old."

"How soon do you need them?"

"I'll be back tonight. You could leave them on your desk, if you get them."

When he'd finished with the paper, he called Doug Wayne, the pilot, arranged to meet him at the airport. Bauer walked him out to the rental car, touched his elbow, and said, "I think you'll find him, whoever he is. When you asked about Don and Doris, that gave me confidence that you're interested in things."

Virgil nodded. "I will find him. I will run him down."

"And if you kill the sonofabitch, I would shed no tears at all."

"Why, Prudie," Virgil began, intending to shine the light of his third-best smile on her, but his phone rang and he fumbled it out, looked at the phone number, unknown, but from northern Minnesota. Like a cool breeze down his shirt: he punched up the phone and said, "Yeah?"

"Hey, this is Mapes…"

"I was gonna call you, man, but I'm down in Iowa. What happened with that shell?"

"The shell came from a.223 bolt action, but hey, Virgil, shut up for a minute. Listen: a woman got shot, an hour and a half ago. Named Jan Washington. Was she part of your investigation?"

"No, never heard of her," Virgil said. "Where was she shot?"

"In the back, the bullet exited outa her-"

"No, no, where in Minnesota?"

"Oh-right outside town. Outside Grand Rapids. The thing is, since we were still working here, the sheriff asked us to go out and take a look. We came up with one, single.223 shell, fired from a sniper's nest. And I'll tell you what, Virgil-it's going to take the lab to tell us for sure, but I will kiss your ass in Macy's front window if it didn't come out of the same gun as killed McDill."

Virgil didn't react immediately; let it percolate down through the lobes of his prefrontal cortex. Then he said, "Shit."

"Yeah."

"Is the woman dead?" Virgil asked.

"No, she isn't. She's hanging on," Mapes said. "Not talking, but hanging on, and they say that she's got a good possibility of making it, though she's lost most of one kidney and her spleen."

"I gotta get up there."

"See ya," Mapes said.

HE TOLD BAUER ABOUT IT, and she asked, "What does this mean?"

"I don't know," Virgil said. "I'll call you and tell you, when I find out."

HE GOT TO THE AIRPORT before Wayne, and called Sanders, the sheriff, who was driving back toward Grand Rapids from Bigfork, where he'd been looking for Little Linda, and asked, "How is Washington connected to the Eagle Nest?"

"As far as I can tell, she's not," Sanders said. "Her husband said neither one of them has ever been there."

"Her husband-so she's not gay?" Virgil asked.

"Not gay or bi, either one," Sanders said. "At least, that's what I believe, from knowing each other all our lives."

"Does she know Wendy?"

"Probably. Most people do. I asked James-he's the husband-and he said they don't know her well. Know her to see her on the street. They don't go to the Goose."

"Gotta be something there," Virgil said. "This shooting is different enough that if we can see the connection, we'll know who did it."

"We'll ask her when she wakes up," Sanders said. "The thing I thought was, if she was shot because she knows something about all this, and she lived, maybe the guy'll try again. So I got three people around her. They'll stay long as it takes."

"Good idea, man. Listen, I'm heading that way. Talk to you in the morning," Virgil said.

HE GOT UP IN THE AIR with Wayne, called Davenport, filled him in, and took a call from Zoe: "Have you heard?" she asked.

"Yeah, I heard. How did you hear?"

"Everybody in town knows," Zoe said. "There were only about ten deputies out there, and they're blabbing all over the place. They say your crime-scene crew said it's the same guy who shot Erica."

"Could be. Damnit. You know anything about this woman?"

"Works in a candy store. She's more Sig's age than mine, but she seemed nice enough. Her husband works at the golf course, and they organized a deal to put some cross-country ski tracks around the course in the winter, and Jan raised the money for a tracking machine. She just seems… nice."

"Is she part of the gay community up there?"

"Oh, God, no. And I'd know. Nope. She was not-is not," Zoe said.

"Maybe I'll stop by Sig's when I get up there. Think she'd know any more?" Virgil asked.

"No, but I wouldn't doubt that she'd like to tell you what she knows."

She said it with a little snap, and Virgil thought, Uh-oh. And didn't pursue it. "Okay. Well, see you up there. Probably coming in late."

THEY WERE BACK in St. Paul before dark, landing into the setting sun, the prop beating through the pulsing orange starfire as they touched down. Virgil thanked Wayne, threw his bag in his truck, and drove over to the BCA headquarters on Maryland Avenue, climbed the stairs and walked back to Davenport's office, checked his secretary's desk. A file folder sat squarely in the middle of the work space, and Virgil was scrawled across the folder with a Sharpie.

He opened it and found a single piece of paper, with a name, Barbara Carson, and an address in Grand Rapids, attached to the number that had been called once. The other number, which Constance had called three times, was for the Eagle Nest.

On the way out the door, he ran into the BCA's resident thugs, Jenkins and Shrake, coming through the door. They were both big guys, in sharp suits and thick-soled shoes, whose faces had been broken a few times. Jenkins said, "It's that fuckin' Flowers."

Shrake asked, "Has he got on one of those fruity musical shirts?"

Jenkins looked at it and said, "Hard to tell. It says, 'Breeders.' "

Shrake: "Christ, if he's breeding, now, we gotta find a way to stop it."

Jenkins: "I read your stories in The New York Times, and I was wondering, could I have your autograph?"

"Envy is a sad thing to see," Virgil said. "But I suppose my proximity might bring a little joy into your humble lives."

"Weren't you dating a little Joy a couple of years ago? Played sandlot beach-ball bingo or some shit?" Jenkins asked.

"She was a professional beach volleyball player and was highly skilled," Virgil said. "And her name was June, not Joy."

"I believe the skilled part," Jenkins said. "She looked like she had all sorts of skills."

"A maestro on the skin flute," Shrake said.

"The old pink piccolo," Jenkins added.

Shrake asked, "So what's happening up north? You figure it out?"

"It's a little nuts," Virgil said. He gave them a quick outline of the situation, and they all drifted over to a snack machine behind the atrium and rattled some coins through it, dropping out bags of corn chips. Virgil realized he hadn't eaten since lunch, and was close to starvation.

When he finished telling them about the two shootings, Shrake said, "You know, you're right. It is nuts. You've got a nut. One of your problems is, none of this other stuff-the lesbians, the resort, the band, Wendy-might have anything to do with it. Even the murder down in Iowa. It might just be some weird high school kid with a rifle, getting his rocks off."

Jenkins said, "The first woman who got shot, in the canoe-shooting her like that was pretty unprofessional, you know? If he's four inches off at eighty or ninety or a hundred yards, on a moving target, he misses clean, and she's over the side and under water. He could have shot her in the chest, which is twice as big a target. So the thing is, he was either showing off, or… well, there isn't an or. He's proud of himself. Proud of his ability to do that."

"So why'd he shoot the other woman in the back?" Virgil asked. Something was tickling at the back of his brain, a thought, but he couldn't catch it.

"We don't know, but I bet there's a reason. Bet the shot was longer. You said she was riding a bike. If she was moving fast, and it was a long shot-that might have been one hell of a shot," Jenkins said. "Not moving, between the eyes, eighty yards, is an easier shot than hitting something that's moving fast, bouncing maybe, at two hundred yards. We need to know how far away he was…"

"So you think he's a shooter. A marksman."

"He thinks he is," Jenkins said. "Or he's like Lee Harvey Oswald-he's trying to prove something."

VIRGIL HAD BEEN LEANING against a wall, and now he straightened and said, "I've got to get my ass back up there."

"She out in the car?" Shrake asked.

"Who?"

"Your ass," Shrake said, and he and Jenkins faked laughs and bumped knuckles.

"Listen, boys, if I get to the point where I need to beat the answers out of somebody, I'll give you a call," Virgil said.

"Always happy to protect and serve," Jenkins said.

Virgil left, still trying to catch the thought that the two thugs had stirred up; still didn't catch it, but it was back there, and felt like it did when he went to the supermarket and forgot to buy the radicchio.

A thought that itched.

VIRGIL HEADED NORTH, up I-35, stopped more or less halfway at a diner called Tobie's. Hungry as he was, he didn't feel like diner meat, so he got a piece of blueberry pie and a cup of coffee, pushed on, north and then west, and pulled into his motel in Grand Rapids at ten minutes after ten. He carried his bag up to his room, and found the phone blinking. A message from Signy: "I talked to Zoe a minute ago and she thought you might have a question for me, about Jan Washington. I'm always up until midnight, so come on over if you want."

He thought about it for a minute-he was tired, but not too-and headed out, stopped at a supermarket and got a hot whole-roast chicken and a six-pack, and drove out to Signy's. He saw her shadow on the window when he pulled in, and then she pushed the door open, a wry smile on her face, saw the supermarket bag, and said, "Oh, you brought me roses. You shouldn't have."

"Bought you something better than roses-I bought you a roast chicken," Virgil said.

He went through the door, and she said, "You must think I'm sitting out here starving."

"No, but I have the feeling that you're not much interested in cooking," he said. "Maybe that's why Joe left; he wanted a pork chop."

"You could be onto something," she admitted. She opened the chicken bag and the scent filled the room, and she said, "You cut up the chicken, I'll open the beer."

They ate at the little table, facing each other, and he asked her about her day, and she told him about the quilt group that couldn't talk about anything but the McDill murder, and how, halfway through the quilting bee, Zoe had called her to tell her about Jan Washington, and how the group had freaked out.

"They really, really couldn't figure that out. We all decided that there's a crazy man loose. You're going to start getting some pressure, I think. People want this guy caught right away. They don't want to hear how it's hard. And if you can't, then bring in more cops until everybody's got their own cop."

Virgil told her about his day, and asked about the woman Barbara Carson, whom Constance Lifry had called before she was murdered. "Barbara," she said. "Hmm. I know her, she used to work for the county in human services or something like that-welfare, I think. But she's an older lady… if you wanted me to swear that she's not gay, I couldn't. I couldn't swear that she was, either. Zoe might know."

"How about Jan Washington?" Virgil asked. "We think it's the same woman who shot McDill… or the same person anyway. The same gun. What's the connection?"

"Beats me," she said. "We all live in the same town. But Barbara… Everybody else involved in this, like Margery and McDill and this Constance woman and Wendy and even Zoe, are worker-types, and they're gay. Jan is a housewife who never wanted to work, but she had to, because her husband got hurt. I can't think of anything she really has in common with the others. She goes to the First Baptist Church, and she helps organize food-shelf drives, and I don't think any of the other ones go to any church. Not one of them."

"Huh." He looked at her, and she brushed hair out of her eyes.

"What?" she asked.

"Do you have a gun?"

"You think I shot them?" She was incredulous.

"No, no, of course not. I was thinking, you're out here alone, your sister is seen hanging around with a cop, and her house gets broken into," Virgil said. "Now the cop investigating the murders is hanging around you… I don't want you to be a target. If you already are, I'd hope you'd be able to defend yourself."

"How do you defend yourself? He shoots you in the back when you're riding your bike, or when you're sitting in a canoe, bird-watching. He's a sneak."

Virgil got up, rinsed his hands and face in the kitchen sink, and dried himself with a paper towel, and said, "The Washington shooting could be the critical one that breaks this, because it'll bring light from an entirely different direction. Unless he's a nut…"

He went out and dropped on the couch, and she brought her beer along and dropped next to him, and he put his arm around her shoulders and she said, "It's a little scary, all right."

"It's a little scary when you think that somebody broke into Zoe's place."

"Well, I do have a gun, a shotgun, a twenty-gauge that Joe bought me," she said. "It's under my bed. My windows are pretty good-I was thinking I could stack some beer cans behind the doors, and if they fall over…"

"Lock yourself in the bedroom with your cell phone and scream for help," Virgil said.

"Mmm," she said.

Virgil stroked her hair and she leaned closer, and he kissed her; and events moved along, as they do, and at some point down the line, he popped the catch on her brassiere and slipped his hands around her breasts. They were, in the whole world of breasts, on the smaller side, but that was fine with Virgil. He'd seen more than one of his mother's friends go from 38C to 38-Long, and that was not a problem with the slender ones…

"Mmmm."

They were both breathing hard, and he was in the precise process of squeezing her left nipple between his thumb and forefinger, like picking a blueberry, and she had a hand on his belt buckle, when his cell phone went off.

She jumped and said, "Virgil… For God's sakes, you left your phone on?"

The curse of being a cop, and not the first time this had happened to him. He groaned and thought about letting it go, but curiosity got the better of him and he slipped it out. The sheriff. He groaned again.

"Who is it?"

"The sheriff," he said.

"Well… answer it. Better than wondering what he wants," Sig said.

Virgil clicked up the phone and Sanders asked, "Where are you?"

"Just got some gas, I'm gonna turn in," Virgil lied.

"Head over to the hospital," Sanders said. "One of my guys called two minutes ago and said Jan Washington woke up, and she's talking. You need to talk to her-just in case."

"In case…"

"She dies," Sanders said.

"Of course," Virgil said.

He hung up and looked at Signy for a minute, and said, "I can't help it."

He told her what happened and she stood up and said, "Then you really do have to go. Come on. Get up."

They went to the door, and she was tangled up in her shirt and brassiere, and Virgil stopped to kiss her good-bye and she said, "I'm a mess," and she stopped fighting the tangle of clothing and simply took it off, and Virgil asked, "Aw, man, did you have to do that?" and he crowded her into the corner between the door and the wall, and they were in there for a minute or so and then she pushed away, laughing, and said, "Take a good look, buster, and get out of here."

He got out.

Preceded by what he believed to be the most substantial erection he'd had since junior high.