“Billy. Dear sweet Jesus, Billy.”
“What?”
“I’m sweating. Look at me sweating.”
“What—Whatisit?”
“I can’t stop sweating. It’s not that hot.”
Suddenly Billy felt greasy. He wiped one hand across his face and looked at the palm, expecting filth. To the eye, it appeared to be clean.
“I need a beer,” Lanny said. “Two beers. I need to sit down. I need to think.”
“Look at me.”
Lanny wouldn’t meet his eyes. His attention was fixed on the note in Billy’s hand.
That paper remained folded, but something unfolded in Billy’s gut, blossomed like a lubricious flower, oily and many-petaled. Nausea born of intuition.
The right question wasn’t what. The right question was who, and Billy asked it.
Lanny licked his lips. “Giselle Winslow.”
“I don’t know her.”
“Neither do I.”
38
“Where?”
“She taught English down in Napa.”
“Blond?”
“Yeah.”
“And lovely,” Billy guessed.
“She once was. Somebody beat her nearly to death. She was messed up really bad by someone who knew how to draw it out, how to make it last.”
“Nearly to death.”
“He finished by strangling her with a pair of her pantyhose.”
Billy’s legs felt weak. He leaned against the Explorer. He could not speak.
“Her sister found her just two hours ago.”
Lanny’s gaze remained fixed on the folded sheet of paper in Billy’s hand.
“The sheriff’s department doesn’t have jurisdiction down there,” Lanny continued. “So it’s in the lap of the Napa police. That’s something, anyway. That gives me breathing space.”
Billy found his voice, but it was rough and not as he usually sounded to himself. “The note said he’d kill a schoolteacher if I didn’t go to the police, but I went to you.”
“He said he’d kill her if you didn’t go to the police and get them involved.”
“But I went to you, I tried. I mean, for God’s sake, I tried, didn’t I?”
Lanny met his eyes at last. “You came to me informally. You didn’t actually go to the police. You went to a friend who happened to be a cop.”
“But I went to you.” Billy protested, and cringed at the denial in his voice, at the self-justification.
Nausea crawled the walls of his stomach, but he clenched his teeth and strove for control.
“Nothing smelled real about it,” Lanny said.
“About what?”
“The first note. It was a joke. It was a lame joke. There isn’t a cop alive with the instinct to smell anything real in it.”
“Was she married?” Billy asked.
39
A Toyota drove into the lot and parked seventy or eighty feet from the Explorer.
In silence they watched the driver get out of the car and go into the tavern. At such a distance, their conversation couldn’t have been overheard. Nevertheless, they were circumspect.
Country music drifted out of the tavern while the door was open. On the jukebox, Alan Jackson was singing about heartbreak.
“Was she married?” Billy asked again.
“Who?”
“The woman. The schoolteacher. Giselle Winslow.”
“I don’t think so, no. At least there’s no husband in the picture at the moment. Let me see the note.”
