Blossom

'You're not coming in?'

'I got work to do.'

'When will you be finished?'

'Maybe eleven.'

'Toss a pebble against my window,' she said. 'You know where it is.'

97

'ARE YOU GOING to live with us?' Virginia asked me at dinner that night. Flat out, the way a kid asks. Wanting to know, not playing with it.

'Child, where did you put your manners?'

'She don't mean nothing, Reba. You like folks to live with us, don't you, honey?'

'Not everybody, Daddy. Just my family. That's how I got my Lloyd, when he came to live with us.'

Lloyd sat up straighter in his chair.

98

WE WENT RIDING that night. Looking. It was just after eight when I pulled into a gas station. Virgil filled the tank while I reached out for Vincenzo. The Prof put him on the phone.

'The kind of person you want is a piquerist,' he told me.

'A what?'

'Piquerist.' He spelled it for me. Explained how the word came from the French, meaning to penetrate. I didn't interrupt him— Vincenzo flies down the track when he's got a full head of steam, but he derails easily.

'That sounds right to me,' I told him.

'It wasn't in the DSM-III, not even in the latest revised edition. It's a pathological condition: it means the realization of sexual satisfaction from penetrating a victim by sniper activity. Or stab wounds, or even bites. And I found that case you wanted. People v. Drake. The defendant went to the city dump late at night. He fired nineteen rounds from a semi-automatic rifle into a car parked there. Two people were killed. He said that he didn't know anybody was in the car— he was just taking target practice. When the police examined the bodies, they found the female victim had bite marks on her and a bruised rectum. The female was dead before the bite marks were inflicted. Do you want the citation?'

I knew better than to say no.

'The official designation is 129 A.D.2d 966, Appellate Division, Fourth Department, decided April 3, 1987.'

'Perfect job, Vincenzo. Can I ask you some questions about the case?'

'I have a copy with me.'

'Okay. Was the shooter wearing camo gear?'

'Camo gear? It says…he was dressed in battle fatigues.'

'Yeah, right. The weapon, do you have any specifics?'

'It says .22 caliber semi-automatic rifle, plus a high-powered 5.69-millimeter rifle and two large hunting knives. That's all.'

'Just one more, Vincenzo. It was a psychiatrist who said this guy was a…piquerist, right?'

'Yes.'

'Did he testify for the defense or the prosecution?'

'For the prosecution. The defendant said the whole thing was an accident. He was just practicing.'

'You're the world's best researcher, Vincenzo.'

'Thank you. I have a lot of notes, should I…?'

'Hang on to them for me, okay? Let me speak to the Prof.'

'I'll bet a dime my man was on time.'

'Right on time. I'm in the picture now.'

'They got freaks everywhere, bro'. You should know.'

99

BACK IN THE CAR, dark all around. Moving slow. Watching. I told Virgil about the call.

'Sounds like our man.'

'Yeah. Sounds like the way Bundy worked. I knew it, just didn't know what to call it.'

'Man like that, he wouldn't stop?'

'Not stop for good. He could hold up for a while. Until the pressure starts to pop his valves.'

'Think he'd have a record?'

'No. Maybe some juvenile thing we couldn't find out about. It's a young man's crime.'

We did a long, slow figure eight around the area. Merrillville, Glen Park, Miller, Gary, Lake Station. I didn't know the way in yet, working on the different ways out.

'Virgil, I got something from Sherwood. You ever hear of a guy named Matson?'

'No.'

'One of those Nazi types. Got some little group. You know: white power, save the race, kill the Commies and the niggers.'

'Yeah.'

'If our boy ever tried to link up, that's the place he'd go. Where he could wear his gear, carry his weapons, be part of something. I figure, maybe I'll try and talk to this Matson. Tell him I'm selling guns. Maybe he saw this freak.'

'Those boys're not wrapped too tight.'

'I know. I don't have an address for him. Just a place he hangs out. On the Interstate, a strip joint.'

The windshield reflected Virgil's face, Cherokee cast to his features. 'There's a number you can call at the mill. Pay phone. Anyone answering, you just tell them to get me. I can be anywhere around here in maybe fifteen minutes.'

100

IT WAS WELL past eleven when I tossed a handful of pebbles and dirt in a gentle arc against Blossom's bedroom window. A light blinked on. I went around to the back door, an airline bag in my hand. She was wearing the terry-cloth robe, her face puffy with sleep.

She grabbed the sleeve of my jacket, turned around, and went back to her room, tugging me behind her.

101

IT WAS AFTER three in the morning when I felt her hands on my shoulders.

'Why are you sitting out here by yourself, baby?'

'I wanted to smoke a cigarette. Figured you didn't want the smell in your bedroom.'

'Come on back with me. Bring your damn cigarettes.'

102

THE PHONE rang in her bedroom. She didn't stir. Voice of an answering machine picking up. Man's voice. A hard man. 'Nobody's available to talk to you right now. Leave a message and one of us will get back to you.'

The machine beeped. Hang-up tone.

'Working at the diner, you meet all kinds of folks. It's not hard to get a phone number. They call, hear that voice, they figure I'm not living alone. It wouldn't bother anyone with a real message for me.'

'Who made the tape for you?'