One of the men laughed wickedly.
When they were gone, Valentine ducked inside the house and got his gun from his suitcase. It was a Glock pocket rocket. People who purchased them did so with the intent of carrying them around. He needed to start doing that, or go home and enter the shuffleboard league near his house. He ventured outside the front door and got the flashlight from the trunk of his Honda. It was the kind favored by foot cops, and big enough to double as a weapon.
He walked around the house and into the backyard. It was peaceful again, and he walked to the forest with the gun’s barrel aimed at the shadows. Entering the darkness, he flicked the flashlight on and saw its yellow beam cut a wide swath in the brush. He found the footpath and walked down it, trying to make as little noise as possible.
He found the dead rabbit in the middle of the path. Its body was still warm, and he examined the entry point of the bullet. It had gone through the back of the neck and was small enough to be a .22. Tough guys didn’t carry. 22s. Kids did.
He felt the air trapped in his lungs escape. Had they been planning to rob the house? That was the logical explanation, and he decided to go with it. But it didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be careful. Arming himself was a good start.
The next morning, he awoke at dawn, just like he had every day of his adult life. Splashed water on his face and brushed his teeth, then threw on last night’s clothes and went outside.
It was always coldest before dawn and there was frost on the grass. He went into the garage and found a shovel propped against the wall. Going into the forest, he found the rabbit just as he’d left it. He lifted its limp body with the shovel.
He found a shady spot in the backyard and laid the rabbit down. Then he dug a hole a few feet down. The ground was hard and unforgiving, and sweat dotted his brow. The older he’d gotten, the more he’d come to appreciate the sanctity of life, even that of dumb animals.
He laid the rabbit in the hole and covered it with dirt. With the toes of his shoes, he patted the mound down, then found a stick in the forest that resembled a cross. He plunged the stick into the mound, crossed himself, and went back inside the house.
10
Rising before dawn, Ricky Smith threw on a track suit and headed out the door, his trusty Doberman by his side, the dog enjoying this new habit his master had acquired. His name was Thor, and although he technically belonged to Ricky’s ex-wife, Thor had run away from her and back to Ricky so many times that she’d given up trying to make any claims on him. “Keep him!” she’d screamed into the phone the last time they’d spoken. Ricky had hung up, laughing his head off.
His feet quickly found the familiar trail through the woods, the matted leaves glistening from yesterday’s rain. Right after he’d come back from Las Vegas he’d started jogging, determined to shed the extra fifty pounds he’d been lugging around since high school. He’d started out slow, huffing and puffing, but after a few days tiny wings had sprung from his heels, allowing him to keep up with Thor’s medium-paced trot.
Hank Ridley’s woods backed up onto Ricky’s two acres, and as Ricky jogged down the path, Ridley’s falling- down barn became visible through the trees. A chemical in the shingles made them glow under the sunlight, and Ricky saw his rotund neighbor coming around the path, a joint palmed in his hand. Hank’s dog, a shaggy mutt named Buster, exploded through the trees and stopped dead upon seeing Thor. The two dogs sniffed tails, checking out what the other had for dinner, then started wagging.
“Morning, Hank,” Ricky said. Wherever Hank went, an aromatic fog of marijuana followed. He’d never been arrested, nor asked to curb his egregious behavior, and Ricky was one of the few in town who knew why: Hank’s family still held the lease on the land on which the police department was built.
“Morning, Ricky,” Hank said, exhaling a blue cloud. “How’s the rat race?”
Hank did not read the paper or watch TV and, like Roland, knew nothing of Ricky’s recent good fortune. It had kept their relationship normal, and Ricky said, “Not so bad. Yourself?”
“Can’t complain. Ever read any Walt Whitman?”
“Just
“Didn’t make much of an impression, huh?” The joint dropped from Hank’s hand, and he ground it into the wet path. In Hank’s world there were people who read poetry and those who didn’t. “Didn’t know if you’d heard the latest, but we’ve got a new neighbor.”
“Someone rented the Muller place?”
“Yeah. Guy named Tony Valentine. Rumor is, he’s a retired cop writing his memoirs.”
The wind was blowing easterly, carrying the pungent smell of Hank’s breath away. Slippery Rock’s grapevine had many drums, and strangers didn’t stay that way very long.
“You talk to him?”
“Naw, but your ex has. She rented him the house.”
Ricky was getting cold standing still, the sun hanging like an ornament in the crisp blue sky. Talking about Polly always put him in a funk, and he shrugged. Hank snapped his fingers, and Buster exploded out of a bush, all out of breath.
“I’ll keep you posted once I find out what he’s up to.”
“You think he’s up to something?” Ricky asked.
“Why the hell else would someone come to Slippery Rock?”
“Thanks, Hank.”
Ricky took a long cut home, his legs having grown stiff from standing too long. He ran down a seldom used path, the steep descent made treacherous by the wet leaves. Clumps of mud flew up from his heels, and he found himself surfing down the hill with Thor by his side. At its bottom, he hung a sharp left and got onto a paved road.
A minute later he passed the old Muller place. A beat-up Honda Accord with Florida plates was parked in the drive. It was early May, and from what he’d seen on the Weather Channel, the weather in Florida was letter perfect. Slippery Rock was anything but perfect, with lots of rain and leftover cold winter air. Hank was right. It was a strange time of year for someone from Florida to be visiting.
Only after he had showered and was drinking coffee at the nook in his kitchen did Ricky give it any more thought. Polly had obviously checked the guy out. She checked out all her potential clients. If she thought Valentine was snooping around, would she have deliberately rented him a house nearby?
Going to his study, he booted up the computer on his desk and got on the Internet. He went to Ask Jeeves, typed in Valentine’s name, then hit Search. A split second later, he was staring at a menu of Internet articles that included Valentine’s name. The first item immediately caught his eye. The guy had a Web site called Grift Sense.
Ricky went onto the site. Valentine ran a consulting business and helped casinos around the world catch cheaters. The site included articles he’d written for
“Thanks, Polly,” he said.
The alarm clock in the kitchen buzzed. He went and turned it off, then fiddled with the radio on the kitchen table until he found WADU. He pumped up the volume as they played a roadhouse boogie of Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Love Struck Baby,” the supercharged twelve-bar shuffles getting Ricky’s toe tapping. WADU was public, and therefore at the mercy of those who gave it money. Upon receiving Ricky’s promise of a generous donation, the station manager had been more than willing to review a list of his “favorite artists” as well as the “time of day” that Ricky usually tuned in. According to a blurb he’d seen in the paper, the station had put out a call for Stevie Ray’s old bootlegs. He could hardly wait to see what they turned up.
Thor came into the kitchen followed by Miss Marples. She, too, had refused his ex’s company, tearing up so much furniture that Polly had appeared on his doorstep one day and handed her over, not a word spoken. Miss Marples was old and slept in most mornings, asking to be fed whenever she awakened, and Ricky opened the fridge
