Now, doodling on a yellow note pad as if only half his mind was on the interrogation, the sheriff said, “Mr. Kale, rather than ask you a lot of questions that you've already answered a dozen times, why don't I summarize what you've told us? If my summary sounds pretty much right to you, then we can get on with these new items I'd like to ask you about.”
“Sure. Let's get it over with and get out of here,” Kale said.
“Okay then,” Bryce said, “Mr. Kale, according to your testimony, your wife, Joanna, felt she was trapped by marriage and motherhood, that she was too young to have so much responsibility. She felt she had made a terrible mistake and was going to have to pay for it for the rest of her life. She wanted some kicks, a way to escape, so she turned to dope. Would you say that's how you've described her state of mind?”
“Yes,” Kale said, “Exactly.”
“Good,” Bryce said, “So she started smoking pot. Before long, she was stoned almost continuously. For two and a half years, you lived with a pothead, all the while hoping you could change her. Then a week ago she went berserk, broke a lot of dishes and threw some food around the kitchen, and you had hell's own time calming her down. That was when you discovered she'd recently begun using PCP — what's sometimes called 'angel dust' on the street. You were shocked. You knew that some people became maniacally violent while under the influence of PCP, so you made her show you where she kept her stash, and you destroyed it. Then you told her that if she ever used drugs around little Danny again, you'd beat her within an inch of her life.”
Kale cleared his throat. “But she just laughed at me. She said I wasn't a woman-beater and I shouldn't pretend to be Mr. Macho. She said, 'Hell, Fletch, if I kicked you in the balls, you'd thank me for livening up your day.'”
“And that was when you broke down and cried?” Bryce asked.
Kale said, “I just… well, I realized I didn't have any influence with her.”
From his window seat, Tal Whitman watched Kale's face twist with grief — or with a reasonable facsimile. The bastard was good.
“And when she saw you cry,” Bryce said, “that sort of brought her to her senses.”
“Right,” Kale said, “I guess it… affected her… a big ox like me bawling like a baby. She cried, too, and she promised not to take any more PCP. We talked about the past, about what we had expected from marriage, said a lot of things maybe we should have said before, and we felt closer than we had in a couple of years. At least I felt closer. I thought she did, too. She swore she'd start cutting down on the pot.”
Still doodling, Bryce said, “Then last Thursday you came home early from work and found your little boy, Danny, dead in the master bedroom. You heard something behind you. It was Joanna, holding a meat cleaver, the one she'd used to kill Danny.”
“She was stoned,” Kale said, “PCP. I could see it right away. That wildness in her eyes, that animal look.”
“She screamed at you, a lot of irrational stuff about snakes that lived inside people's heads, about people being controlled by evil snakes. You circled away from her, and she followed. You didn't try to take the cleaver away from her?”
“I figured I'd be killed. I tried to talk her down.”
“So you kept circling until you reached the nightstand where you kept a.38 automatic.”
“I warned her to drop the cleaver. I
“Instead, she rushed at you with the cleaver raised. So you shot her. Once. In the chest.”
Kale was leaning forward now, his face in his hands.
The sheriff put down his pen. He folded his hands on his stomach and laced his fingers. “Now, Mr. Kale, I hope you can bear with me a little bit longer. Just a few more questions, and then we can all get out of here and get on with our lives.”
Kale lowered his hands from his face. It was clear to Tal Whitman that Kale figured “getting on with our lives” meant he would be released at last. “I'm all right, Sheriff. Go ahead.”
Bob Robine didn't say a word.
Slouched in his chair, looking loose and boneless, Bryce Hammond said, “While we've been holding you on suspicion, Mr. Kale, we've come up with a few questions we need to have answered, so we can set our minds to rest about this whole terrible thing. Now, some of these things may seem awful trivial to you, hardly worth my time or yours. They
“I understand, Sheriff,” Kale said.
On his window seat, Tal Whitman tensed and leaned forward.
And Bryce Hammond said, “First thing is — I was wondering why you shot your wife
Chapter 8
Barricades
Severed hands. Severed heads.
Jenny couldn't get those gruesome images out of her mind as she hurried along the sidewalk with Lisa.
Two blocks east of Skyline Road, on Vail Lane, the night was as still and as quietly threatening as it was everywhere else in Snowfield. The trees here were bigger than those on the main street; they blocked out most of the moonlight. The streetlamps were more widely spaced, too, and the small pools of amber light were separated by ominous lakes of darkness.
Jenny stepped between two gateposts, onto a brick walk that led to a one-story English cottage set on a deep lot. Warm light radiated through leaded glass windows with diamond-shaped panes.
Tom and Karen Oxley lived in the deceptively small-looking cottage, which actually had seven rooms and two baths. Tom was the accountant for most of the lodges and motels in town. Karen ran a charming French cafe during the season. Both were amateur radio operators, and they owned a shortwave set, which was why Jenny had come here.
“If someone sabotaged the radio at the sheriff's office,” Lisa said, “what makes you think they didn't get this one, too?”
“Maybe they didn't know about it. It's worth taking a look.”
She rang the bell, and when them was no response, she tried the door. It was locked.
They went around to the rear of the property, where brandy-hued light flowed out through the windows. Jenny looked warily at the rear lawn, which was left moonless by the shadows. Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the wooden floor of the back porch. She tried the kitchen door and found it was locked, too.
At the nearest window, the curtains were drawn aside. Jenny looked in and saw only an ordinary kitchen: green counters, cream-colored walls, oak cabinets, gleaming appliances, no signs of violence.
Other casement windows faced onto the porch, and one of these, Jenny knew, was a den window. Lights were on, but the curtains were drawn. Jenny rapped on the glass, but no one responded. She tested the window, found that it was latched. Gripping the revolver by the barrel, she smashed a diamond-shaped pane adjacent to the center post. The sound of shattering glass was jarringly loud. Although this was an emergency, she felt like a thief. She reached through the broken pane, threw open the latch, pulled the halves of the window apart, and went over the sill, into the house. She fumbled through the drapes, then drew them aside, so that Lisa could enter more easily.
Two bodies were in the small den. Tom and Karen Oxley.
Karen was lying on the floor, on her side, legs drawn up toward her belly, shoulders curled forward, arms crossed over her breasts — a fetal position. She was bruised and swollen. Her bulging eyes stared in horror. Her mouth hung open, frozen forever in a scream.
“Their faces are the worst thing,” Lisa said.
