Blood Trail

“Not all kinds.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Some animals deserve to die,” Moore said, letting his face go dead. “Like rats. I don’t like rats.”

25

IN THE SHED in back of my house I set up a stepladder against the far wall, where the shelves with old garden hoses, automotive parts, and sporting equipment have been for years. I don’t turn on the light because I don’t want to alert my neighbors I’m in here. Instead, I bite on a small Maglite flashlight and use the tiny beam to see. The shed smells of dust and long-dead grass.

As I climb, the beam of my flashlight illuminates the contents of the shelves—canning jars, paint cans, baskets, bags of fertilizer and grass seed, potting soil, containers of chemicals. A heavy coat of dust covers it all, and I take pains not to disturb anything.

On the top shelf, behind a barrier of ancient cans of deck stain, I grope for the handle of my duffel bag. I lift it over the cans and take it down to the shed floor. I unzip the long bag and inventory what’s inside: dark clothes, boots that alter my footprints, cap, rifle, cartridges. And one last red poker chip.

Randy Pope is coming back.

Soon, it will be over.

26

JOE WAS surprised to see lights on in the kitchen and living room of his house when he pulled into the driveway at 2 A.M. and killed the motor. He was exhausted and his stomach roiled. For a moment he sat in the dark and looked at the front door and thought, I don’t like this house very much. He knew it wouldn’t be many more hours before Ed next door would be outside getting his morning paper, smoking his pipe, commenting on the dusting of snow and finding it wanting, surveying the Pickett house to see if the fence was fixed yet, calculating how much the value of his property had dropped during the night due to his negligent neighbors.

But it wasn’t just his house that was bothering Joe. Klamath Moore had all but confessed to murder back in the parking lot and there was little he could do to nail the man on it. Joe didn’t have his digital recorder with him at the time, and it would be his word against Klamath Moore’s. With Joe’s apparent obsession with Moore—at least according to the sheriff’s office—this latest revelation would be greeted with the suspicion it probably deserved. Plus, Moore’s words about hunting rats could be taken different ways, although Joe knew what was meant.

While he ran it through his mind, the front door opened and Marybeth came outside in a sweatshirt and jeans. He was surprised she was dressed, and felt guilty for keeping her up so late waiting for him.

He hauled himself out of the van and trudged toward her.

“Sorry to keep you up,” he said.

“No bother,” she said. Her voice was light, airy, not what he’d expected given the circumstances. “There’s someone here to see you.”

“It’s about time,” Joe said, suddenly awake.

NATE ROMANOWSKI and Alisha Whiteplume sat at the kitchen table. They’d obviously been there for some time judging by the empty plates, glasses, and coffee mugs that were pushed to the side.

“Nate,” said Joe, “where in the hell have you been?”

“Joe . . .” Marybeth cautioned.

“Around,” Nate said.

“Around,” Joe repeated. “Do you realize what kind of heat I’ve been getting from Randy Pope and everybody else? They all thought I’d lost you. You’re supposed to be in my custody, remember?”

Nate shrugged. “I said I’d keep in touch.”

“I can account for his whereabouts,” Alisha said coolly.

“And those whereabouts are... where?” Joe asked.

“Mainly in bed with me,” Alisha said evenly.

Nate had a smug look on his face, Joe thought.

“Would anyone like more coffee?” Marybeth asked in a mock-cheerful tone.

WHILE A pot of decaf dripped into the carafe, Joe filled the three of them in on what had happened over the past days. He noticed how Alisha stared at him with barely disguised hostility while he described his visit to the high school, and how Marybeth covered her face with her hands and moaned while he detailed his assault on Officer Byron. Nate looked on skeptically when he heard about Bill Gordon’s wounds. Both Alisha and Marybeth gasped when Joe recounted what Klamath Moore had said about rats.

“So he did it,” Marybeth said. “My God.”

Joe talked mainly to Nate, but shot side glances at Marybeth and Alisha while he did so. He knew he’d have to explain himself further to his wife later on, and that she’d have questions. What he couldn’t understand was the antagonism from Alisha. Was it simply because he was the reason Nate had to resurface? Or something else?

“So that’s where we are,” Joe said. “Bodies everywhere, and the same suspect we’ve had all along but no proof to nail him with.”

“Meanwhile,” Marybeth said sourly, “Randy Pope is on his way up here to take charge or fire you again. But can he do that? Aren’t you working solely for the governor?”