Mad River

“So now you have,” his father said.

Virgil followed him into the kitchen, and they chatted while the old man finished the scrub-up with soap and water, and his mother grilled some hamburger and sliced some large purple onions, and they all ate cheeseburgers together, with fries and beer, and they picked at him about the murder. Then Virgil said, “Yeah, I understand Becky worked over here for a while, at the McDonald’s. None of them could get. . What?”

His father had stopped chewing in mid-bite and was staring at Virgil. He said, “Don McClatchy wasn’t in church this morning. Neither was his wife. They’re almost always there.”

Virgil said, “Don McClatchy?”

“Runs the McDonald’s.”

His mother had given Virgil a couple of folded paper towels to use as a napkin, and he popped the last piece of cheeseburger in his mouth and dabbed at his face with the towels, and said, “Come on. Let’s go over there.”

“We could call them in one minute,” his father said. “I’ve got them on my computer.”

Virgil shook his head. “I want to see them. These kids probably tried to rob the O’Learys because they thought the O’Learys were rich. They probably think her boss at McDonald’s is rich.”

“They are rich. . at least for Marshall.”

The McClatchys lived off Horizon Drive, a half mile or so from the Flowers place. They were there in two minutes, driving Virgil’s truck; his father pointed it out: “Light’s on.”

“You stay here,” Virgil said. He got his gun out from under the seat, checked the magazine, made sure it was seated, and put the gun and holster under his back beltline.

“Try to avoid getting shot,” his father said.

“I will.”

“Maybe I better come with you.”

“Okay. Get your gun, so you’ll have something to do if they’re inside and start shooting,” Virgil said.

“Virgil. .”

“Stay here,” Virgil said.

Virgil took a long look at the house, then walked up the circular drive to the front door and looked through the window. He could hear music playing, but couldn’t see anyone. After a few seconds, he reached out and pushed the doorbell, then stood back and put one hand on his pistol.

He heard footsteps, and a moment later a young woman opened the front door and looked out at him. She didn’t open the storm door. He said, “I’m Virgil Flowers. I’m with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. McClatchy.”

She said, “They’re not here.”

She didn’t seem to be under any particular duress, so Virgil let go of the gun and took his ID out of his jacket pocket and held it so she could see it. Then he asked, “Could you step out on the porch and tell me where they are?”

She hesitated, then said, “Sure,” and stepped out on the porch. “Why do you want me out here?” and, “Are you related to Reverend Flowers, over at-”

“I’m his son,” Virgil said. “Could you tell me where Mr. and Mrs. McClatchy are? And who you are?”

“They’re in Naples.” Virgil frowned and she said, “Florida. Until the twentieth. They go down there to play golf so they can get a jump on the season. I live down the street. I take care of the dogs. What happened?”

“I just. . uh. . Do you know where they’re staying?” Virgil asked.

“Yes. I have an emergency number for them.”

She got the emergency number, and by that time Virgil knew that she wasn’t hiding any killers. He explained about the suspects in the murders. “I don’t think you have a problem, but don’t hurry to open the door. Check first. Feed the dogs and go home. Don’t hang out.”

She was wide-eyed. “I saw about the murders on TV. When are you going to catch them?”

“Soon-but don’t take any chances,” he said. “My dad’s out in the car. Wave at him.”

She stepped off the porch to look around a stunted cedar, and waved. Virgil could see the old man wave back.

“So we’re good,” he said. “But-be careful.”

In the car, the old man said, “So we’re good.”

“Yeah, we’re good. It was a long shot. But I’d like you to call the McClatchys.”

His father did, and one of the McClatchys answered, and they had a brief gossipy chat, and then his father hung up and said, “Now we are good. And thank the good Lord for that.”

Virgil dropped his father off and went back to the motel, watched a movie on pay-per-view, got undressed, took a shower, then lay on his bed and thought about God, and eventually, almost drifted off to sleep. Almost.

Then he was wide awake, said to the ceiling, “Ah, bullshit.” He lay there for a few more seconds, then looked at the telephone. Not that late; but then, his parents usually went to bed about nine o’clock.

He picked up the phone, pushed the “home” button, and ten seconds later his father asked, “Virgil?”

“There are two McDonald’s in town. Do the McClatchys own both of them?”

“No, the one out on 23 is Rick Box. I don’t know where they live. . in town, though. Are you going over there?”

“Maybe. Rick Box.”

“Yeah. Rick and Nina. Maybe Paul Berry would know, I think they belong there. You want me to come with you?”

Berry was a Catholic priest, and an old golfing pal of Virgil’s father. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I’ll get back to you. Like, tomorrow.”

“If anything happens, call me tonight.”

Virgil didn’t call the priest. Instead, he brought his laptop up and signed onto the DMV computers. Rick and Nina Box were both licensed drivers. Rick was thirty-six and overweight, and Nina was thirty-four, and they lived on Parkside, not far from the McClatchys.

Virgil got dressed, went out to his truck, and drove over; not really that late, still well before midnight, but the streets were empty. The Boxes lived in a brick-and-clapboard ranch house that was elbow-to-elbow with other ranch houses, and right next door to the parents of a guy, Randy Carew, with whom Virgil had played high school basketball seventeen or eighteen years earlier. Old man Carew always had a couple cases of beer in the garage, and Virgil had stolen more than a few bottles from him.

Virgil went on past the Boxes’ place, past the Carews’, to the next house, stopped, got out, and walked up the Carews’ driveway. There was no sign of a light, but there was no sign of a light in most of the houses on the street. He leaned on the doorbell. Nothing happened for a moment, and then he heard an impact, feet hitting a floor. A minute later, an older man came to the door, looked out through the glass panel, turned on the porch light, opened the door, and said, “Virgil?”

Virgil thought, God bless you, and said, quietly, because he couldn’t remember Carew’s first name, “Mr. Carew, I’m with the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension now. I’m a cop.”

“I knew that.” Carew was wearing a pajama top and jeans, and was barefoot.

“I need to come inside and talk to you for a minute,” Virgil said.

“You’re not here for the rest of my Budweiser, are you?”

Made Virgil laugh, and he said, “Not at the moment, but maybe later. I need to take a second of your time.”

“Sure, come on in,” Carew said, holding open the door.

Virgil stepped across the threshold and Carew called, “Viv? It’s Virgil Flowers.”

“Virgil? What’s he want? The rest of your beer?” She came out a minute later, a robust woman in a pink terrycloth bathrobe, and Virgil remembered that her name was Vivian. She said, “C’mere, you,” and grabbed Virgil by the cheeks and bent him over so she could kiss him on the forehead.

Carew asked, “What’s going on?”

“Probably nothing,” Virgil said. “I’m trying to chase down some kids who’ve gotten themselves in a lot of trouble. . Killed some people over in Bigham and Shinder.”