He spun his chair around so that he was facing the gun cabinet. 'You wanted a pistol?'
I nodded, standing up so I could get a better view. 'How about that one?' I pointed at a black revolver hanging from a peg in the cabinet's bottom-right-hand corner. It looked like the one he wore on his belt.
Carl took a key ring from his pocket, unlocked the glass-paneled door, and removed the gun. Then he sat down, opened his bottom desk drawer, and took out a small cardboard box full of bullets. He flipped open the pistol's cylinder and showed me how to load it.
'You just aim along the barrel and squeeze the trigger,' he said. 'Don't jerk it, pull it easy.' He handed the gun across the desk to me, along with two bullets. 'The cylinder'll advance automatically. There's no safety or anything like that.'
I set the bullets down on the desk, side by side.
'It's my old pistol,' Carl said.
I hefted it in my hand. It had a dense, compact feel, like a fist of iron. It was cool and oily to the touch.
'It's like the one you carry now?' I asked.
'That's right, just older. Probably older than you even. I got it when I first took office.'
We both sat back down. I placed the gun on the edge of the desk, beside the bullets. The bullets were smaller than I'd expected, with shiny silver jackets and gray conical heads. They didn't look like they belonged with the gun. They weren't sinister enough; they lacked the pistol's threatening quality, its overt potential for violence. They looked harmless, like toys. I leaned forward and picked one of them up. Its skin had the same oily surface as the gun.
'I'll probably want to take a couple of practice shots before I actually do it,' I said.
Carl stared at me.
'You think I could have a few more?'
He opened the drawer again to take out the box. 'How many?'
'How many does it hold?'
'Six.'
'How about four more, then?'
He removed four bullets from the box and rolled them one at a time across the desk. I collected them in my hand.
Beyond the window, I saw Tom Butler appear, stoop shouldered against the misting rain, a bright orange poncho clinging to his body. He was unloading something from the trunk of his car.
'There's Tom,' I said. I stood up, checked my watch. It was ten minutes till nine. 'I should be able to finish by five after. Can you wait till then?'
Carl waved his arm at me. 'Take your time, Hank. We're in no rush.'
I started toward the door, but he stopped me.
'Wait,' he said, and I turned, startled. He held out his hand. 'Let me have the gun.'
He picked up the bag of donuts and emptied it out onto the desk. There were three donuts inside, two powdered and one chocolate. The chocolate one rolled slowly across the desk's wooden surface, balanced for an instant on its edge, and then fell with a soft slap to the floor at my feet. I bent over to retrieve it. When I stood up, Carl was wrapping the pistol in the paper bag.
'You don't want to get it wet,' he said.
I took it from him, nodding. The bag was pink and white, with blue lettering. LIZZIE'S DONUTS, it said, the words folding themselves slantwise across the pistol's butt.
'You'll be careful, won't you?' he asked. 'Hate to loan you a gun and have you accidentally shoot yourself with it.'
'I'll be careful,' I said. 'I promise.'
AS I WAS making my way down the town hall steps, I caught sight of Agent Baxter up the street, just climbing from his car. I paused on the sidewalk, waiting for him to approach.
He strode toward me, his body erect, his head held up against the rain. His feet, bootless, cut straight through the piles of slushy snow scattered across the sidewalk. I watched him come, searching his face for similarities to the picture of Vernon Bokovsky. I scanned the close-set eyes, the small, flat nose, the low, squarish forehead, tried to draw in a beard along his jawline, to lengthen his hair and add weight to his cheeks, but I only had a second to do it. Then he was right in front of me, returning my gaze with a directness that unnerved me, made me feel awkward and suspicious. I looked away.
'Good morning, Mr. Mitchell,' he said.
Confronted with his presence, I had an instant's tremor of panic. He was dressed exactly like the day before -- a dark suit; an overcoat; black, shiny shoes. His head was bare, his hands gloveless. He had that same confident air about him that I'd found so intimidating on our first meeting, and beside him -- dressed in my old jeans, a flannel shirt, my oversized parka -- I felt like a hick, a country bumpkin fresh from the fields.
The panic passed, however, almost as quickly as it had come. I looked at the man before me, his crew cut slick with rain, his skin raw looking from the cold, and I realized that the walk, the handshake, the practiced formality, were nothing but a show. He was cold and uncomfortable, and he was going to be miserable when he got out into the woods.
'The sheriff's inside,' I said. 'I've just got to run a quick errand across the street before we go.' I waved my arm toward the feedstore. Tom Butler was standing outside its front door, a damp cardboard box clenched beneath one of his arms. He was searching his pockets for his keys. The poncho, all folds and billows, hindered him like a shroud.
As I started out into the street, the agent called me back.
'Hey,' he said. 'What's in the bag?'
I turned halfway toward him. He was standing before me on the sidewalk, the barest hint of a smile on his face. I glanced down at the bag. I was holding it clasped against my chest, the paper molded into the damp, unmistakable shape of a pistol.
'The bag?'
'I'd kill for a donut right now.'
I smiled at him, relief rushing through my body like a drug. 'They're inside,' I said. 'I just borrowed the bag so my camera wouldn't get wet.'
He eyed the bag. 'Camera?'
I nodded, the lie seeming to maintain itself of its own accord, without any conscious thought on my part. 'I'd loaned it to the sheriff.'
I started to turn back toward the road but then stopped myself. 'Want me to take your picture?' I asked.
Agent Baxter retreated a step toward the doors above him. 'No. That's okay.'
'You sure? It's no problem.' I started to unwrap the bag.
He backed another step away from me, shaking his head. 'It'd just be a waste of your film.'
I shrugged, retightening the paper. I put the bag back against my chest. 'Your choice,' I said.
Turning to cross the street, I caught sight of my reflection in the rain-smeared window of a parked car. Above my shoulder I could see Agent Baxter continuing on up toward the town hall's big wooden doors.
Before I'd even fully thought it out, I'd called his name.
'Vernon,' I said.
His reflection, murky and dim on the wet glass, paused as it pushed at the doors. He turned his head halfway toward me. It was an ambiguous gesture; it allowed me to see in it whatever I wanted.
'Hey, Vernon,' I yelled, waving across the street at Tom, who was just disappearing into Raikley's. I jogged out into the road. Tom turned to stare at me, the cardboard box still clamped beneath his arm. He waited for me, holding open the door.
'You call me Vernon?' he asked.
I brushed the rain from my parka, stomped my boots on the rubber mat, and gave him a confused look. 'Vernon?' I shook my head. 'I said, 'Wait, Tom.''
When I glanced back across the street, the town hall steps were empty.
