my life.”
“You did exactly what a good citizen should have done, under the circumstances,” the captain told him, though he himself didn’t believe it even while he was saying it.
Nor did Hopwood. “A good citizen with a death wish,” he suggested.
The captain decided to let that drop. Facing the others, he said, “So none of you had had dealings with this man before today.”
With seeming reluctance, as though still troubled by that word “relationship,” Suzanne Gilbert said, “Well . . . I saw him last night.”
“Ah,” the captain said, not showing his surprise. “And where was that?”
“Just outside there,” she said, nodding at the front window. “I was driving by, and he was walking along the road. You don’t usually see people walking around here.”
“No,” the captain agreed. “You just happened to be driving by?”
“No, I often drive this way after work,” she said, as though he’d accused her of something and she was determined to rise above it. “If Jack wants to talk, he’ll have the porch light on.”
“Ah. And was the porch light on?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“I was asleep in front of the damn TV,” Riley said. “Again.”
“And you saw this man,” the captain said. “Just walking, you say?”
“Yes. I thought it was strange, so I stopped and asked him if I could help with anything, and he said he was staying with Tom Lindahl—”
“The man whose parrot was shot.”
She looked blank. “I’m sorry?”
So these people hadn’t heard that part of it. “Nothing,” the captain said, not wanting a distraction.
But Hopwood said, “Somebody shot a parrot?”
“Tom Lindahl’s parrot.”
“I never knew he had one,” Hopwood said. “Why would anybody shoot a parrot?”
“To keep it from talking,” Jack said, and actually cackled.
“Jack!” his granddaughter said, reproving him, and squeezed his shoulder to make him behave.
To her, the captain said, “Let’s get back. This man you talked to last night said he was staying with Tom Lindahl.”
“Yes.” She looked a little confused and said, “So then I thought it was all right.”
Hopwood said, “He had Tom’s car, at the station, I know that car.”
Suzanne Gilbert said, “Did he do something to Tom, too?”
“We don’t know, ma’am,” the captain said. “He isn’t at home, and neither is his car.”
Hopwood said, “That fellow stole Jeff Eggleston’s car. From my place.”
“The black Infiniti,” the captain said. “Yes, I know, we’ve put out a bulletin on it.”
“What I mean is,” Hopwood said, “if he’s got Jeff’s car, he can’t have Tom’s. You can only drive one car.”
“Then we have to assume,” the captain said, “that Lindahl is driving his own car. Does anybody have any idea where he might go?”
“Nowhere,” Hopwood said, and Suzanne Gilbert said, “When I talked to that man last night, he said Tom Lindahl was a hermit. I think that’s true.”
The captain paused, trying to think of a question that might help him move forward on this problem, and in the little silence the front doorbell rang, startling them all. The captain said, “Trooper Oskott can answer.”
The trooper turned, opened the door, and spoke briefly with somebody on the porch. Then he turned back to say, “To see you, Captain.”
“Thank you.” Rising, he told the others, “I think we’re just about finished. Let me see what this is.”
“I’d like to get home,” Hopwood said.
“I’m sure you would,” the captain said, and went out to the porch, where a plainclothes state police inspector named Harrison said, “How’s it going?”
“Confusing.”
“Well, this may help a little. Mrs. Thiemann gave us a statement.”
“Yes?”
“She says her husband was part of the group that went out looking for the fugitives yesterday.”
“I saw them there,” the captain said. “He was teamed up with the missing householder here, Lindahl, and this fella we’ve been calling Smith.”
“She says, her husband told her, they went up to Wolf Peak—”
