The traffic thinned out at the exit, so he backed off several hundred feet. Less than a mile after taking the ramp, she turned left. She was just going home for lunch.
Gotcha!
Her house was set back in the woods far enough so that it couldn’t be seen from the road. Bubbs’ brain seized as he passed the driveway. He was going to have to find a place to park and think.
He didn’t know the area. The green sign at the ramp said MEMORIAL PARK DRIVE. That could only have meant a couple of things.
Some brown signs appeared. There was a one-lane bridge coming up that crossed over Pickering Creek, then some historical thingies and a picnic area.
Bubbs managed to suss out that he was in a park…a memorial one in fact.
The Softail rumbled over the bridge and into the picnic area’s lot. The grunt, flustered but not beaten, shut off his bike, put down the kickstand, and leaned on the handlebars as something akin to a linear thought started to percolate.
He kept his eyes open for other vehicles. A few passed. None took notice of him, save one black pickup truck. It slowed down, but it didn’t stop. Bubbs figured he’d scared the driver off.
“That’s it pencil-neck. Keep driving.”
There were maybe fifty tree-covered yards between the lot and Warner’s house. It wouldn’t take him long to sneak through and catch her as she left the house. Easy in; easy out.
He thought about fingerprints. That was an easy fix. He’d leave on his riding gloves. He thought about being recognized. Even easier, he’d leave on his helmet. What else was there?
Nothing. Time to teach a bitch cop a lesson.
He did one last check to see if anyone was around and made his way into the woods. The helmet made negotiation difficult as he’d been denied the ability to look down comfortably. Every third step he went into a hole or catapulted a stick into his crotch. Crouching made things easier, but he still looked like a drunkard trying to find a contact lens. It never occurred to him to take the thing off. Such was what happened when Bubbs thought for himself.
Eventually, the trees thinned, and the ground hardened. He’d found the edge of the driveway. Now he could sit and wait. He was good at sitting and waiting. He could see Warner walking around inside the house.
Heh heh.
His little field trip had turned out well. He didn’t mind giving himself a pat on the back and indulging in a devious chuckle…which came out his nose and stimulated a cluster of nerve endings.
Not in the helmet. Not in the helmet.
“Achoo!!”
Ughh!
Once the fog cleared, he looked through his own saliva spatter to see no change inside the house. He hadn’t been heard.
For the amount of grief the helmet was giving him, Bubbs had yet to realize the tragic irony in his choice to leave it on.
He’d had the thing customized. The airbrushed head of a honey badger (meanest animal alive according to Google) covered it front to back. By design, the helmet was one of a kind, just like a finger print or hair follicle, and the dumb-ass had left it on so he couldn’t be identified.
Oblivious to this colossal blunder, he still couldn’t wait to take it off. The thing was hot, smelled like onions, messed up his hair, narrowed his vision, and, as he realized when the orange aluminum bat crashed into his spine, muffled his hearing.
A sharp rock dug into his abdomen when his body flattened. He felt his honey badger helmet get yanked over his ears and a second blow to the back of his head. It was a blackjack. He knew what a blackjack felt like. It was definitely a blackjack. He would have no other sensation for the better part of an hour.
The Reillys were hunters. They knew how to sneak up on their prey. When you weigh north of 325, dress like an Aryan Race reject, and set up a stakeout across the street from your latest victim’s place of work, you make yourself easy to find.
They’d followed him all the way from Potterford.
Fat idiot.
15. The Maplewood District
Potterford’s Maplewood District started at the Creekside Golf Course and worked its way, block by pristine block, to the edge of East Main. The town’s aristocracy called it home and had done so since the Second Industrial Revolution. Its spotless streets were lined with Victorian and Georgian manor homes separated by perfectly coiffed shrubbery and cobblestone sidewalks. The beauty of the architecture and landscaping was topped only by the palpable aura of Doctorate Degrees and old money.
In 1998, a God-fearing landowner’s dying wish cleared the path for the only modern structure in the District, Maplewood Evangelical Church.
Lynch and Gomez left Ellisport armed only with two facts: Their murder weapon was otherwise used at the Fellowship Battle of the Bands. And, one…one of the participating acts happened to belong to a church in the town where the murder took place.
“Ernie, did you know the phrase ‘grasping at straws’ refers to a drowning man trying to hold onto anything to stay afloat?”
“Sounds right. How do you want to play this?”
“There were six other bands at the show…”
“Right.”
“…and an audience of about 1200…”
“Right.”
“…and who knows how many of them were members at Maplewood.”
“Right.”
“So, I say let’s just do a general stir of the pot and see what bubbles up.”
“Right with you, partner.”
“Don’t put your fist up.”
“I wasn’t gonna!”
“You want to take lead? These are musicians. That’s your lane, not mine.”
“I would love to.”
Lynch had called Maplewood Evangelical from Ellisport and spoke to Mick, the church’s sound tech. The band had regular rehearsals on Tuesdays and Thursdays, starting around 4:30. Mick instructed them to use the side entrance, cut through Community Hall…
“...and then follow the music, man.”
He failed to mention the clothing drive.
The large, general-purpose room, known as Community Hall, teemed with protestant housewives
