He knew the road, so he walked the north route, across the hillside. Came over the top, saw the first of the buffalo. They were far enough away not to be a problem, but he kept an eye on them; and they kept an eye on him. The day was still warm, close to perfect, but the clouds were thickening up. He zigzagged looking for a trail, a break that somebody might have followed through the high grass, but saw nothing in particular.
And the going was rough. He tried walking with his eyes closed, and floundered around like a two-legged goat. Huh.
He looked back at the road. The road was it.
BACK IN BLUESTEM, he walked down to Judd Jr.'s office. His secretary was standing in the door of the inner office, talking, and stopped when Virgil came in. She said, 'Mr. Flowers is here.'
Judd stepped into Virgil's line of view, cracked a smile: 'You got old Todd hung from a light post yet?'
'Not yet,' Virgil said. 'I need to talk to you for a minute.'
Judd pointed at a chair, and said to the secretary, 'Run up to Rexall and get me a sleeve of popcorn.'
She wanted to stay and listen, but shook her head and shuffled off. Virgil waited until she was gone. Judd said, 'I don't need any more family members, Mr. Flowers. I already had one too many.'
'Yeah, well, I guess you should have talked to your father about that,' Virgil said. He asked, 'Who cut your father's lawn? Who cut that piece of short grass out between the house and the bluff? I didn't see any lawn mowers on the garage pad.'
Judd was puzzled: 'Well, he had all of his yard care done by Stark Gardens. They got a greenhouse and do lawn care and cleanup…Why?'
'Trying to nail a few things down-who might have been coming and going,' Virgil said. 'The night of the fire, do you have any idea of how long it took the fire department to get up there?'
Judd shook his head-'You could ask them, but I imagine, let me see: Somebody had to call it in, then the guys had to get going…had to get through town…Doesn't seem long, but I bet it was eight or ten minutes.'
'Okay.' Virgil stood up. 'Thanks.'
Judd said, leaning back in his leather chair, 'I'd like to know something. Just between you and me. Private.'
'Ask,' Virgil said.
'You gettin' anywhere?'
Virgil said, 'I think so. I feel like things are about to break.'
Judd said, 'Jesus, I hope. I made some calls up to the Cities, to ask about you. Word was, you're pretty good. I need to stop walking around feeling like there's a crosshairs on my neck.'
Virgil thought about Pirelli and his DEA crew: 'I can sympathize. You could be excused for feeling a little twitchy right now.'
AT THE SHERIFF'S OFFICE, he asked for Margo Carr, the crime-scene tech. She worked the north county as a full-time deputy when she wasn't doing crime-scene work, he was told. He borrowed a radio and called her.
'You keep your crime-scene stuff in your truck?'
'I do,' she said.
'Meet me somewhere,' he said. 'I need to borrow some spy equipment.'
There was a moment's silence, then she said, with a smile lurking in her voice, 'Mr. Flowers, Agent Flowers…'
Flowers said, 'Just meet me.'
They hooked up five miles out of town. Carr was a redhead, chunky in all of her gear, and not that pretty, but she gave off a distinct vibe, and Virgil had the feeling that there'd never been a shortage of men coming around. He borrowed a metal-detecting wand from her. 'When you said 'spy equipment'…' she began.
'Between you and me, that was for other listeners,' Virgil said. 'If other listeners ask me what I borrowed, don't tell them.'
THE SUN WAS a red ball, still two hand-widths above the horizon, thunderheads starting to pop up, when Virgil turned off the interstate and headed into Roche. The bad thing was, it was Monday evening, and most people didn't go dancing on Mondays. The good thing was, Roche was tiny. He could park a half mile away, down the back road out of town, on the crest of a hill, and watch the Laymon house with his Zeiss binoculars.
That's what he did. There was a Ford Taurus and a beat-up Ford F-150 parked in the side yard, one for each of the women, he thought. Jesse would be out, or going out. Stryker was all over her, and she did like to move around. Her mother was the question…
While he waited, he put through a call to Pirelli. Pirelli was working, he was told, and would probably call back in a minute or two, or maybe never.
Pirelli called back: 'Things are moving. Be patient. I won't talk to you about this on a cell phone, but we got to an inside guy, one of the local grain handlers. There's a building out there that they call 'the lab,' and none of the locals are allowed in. We are ninety-nine percent, and after tonight…we should be better. So…'
'Stay in touch.'
STRYKER SHOWED AT 8:30.
Jesse didn't wait for him to come in. As soon as he pulled up, she came out, walked around the front of the truck, and climbed in. Stryker did a U-turn and headed out of town, toward the interstate. They were ten miles from anywhere, so it'd take them twenty minutes to get back, even if they had a fight and called the date off…
So there was the second car. Virgil watched for fifteen minutes, half an hour, hoping in the fading light that Margaret Laymon would go for a ride. A few minutes before nine o'clock, she came out to her car. He wasn't precisely sure it was she, but whoever it was got in the Taurus, did a turn, and headed for the interstate.
Virgil started the truck, and rolled in behind her.
Watched her taillights disappear…
Was it possible, he wondered, that Jesse, having already learned from her mother that she was a Judd heir, had also learned there might yet be a third heir? And not knowing that the third heir was already in town, had gone about eliminating any leads to him? Or might there be a conspiracy to set Jesse up with an inheritance?
That, he thought, sounded like a TV show.
So why are you sitting in this truck, Virgil, with a butter knife in your hands, a butter knife that you stole, showing no conscience about it at all, from the poor folks at the Holiday Inn?
Because a butter knife was the perfect thing with which to slip the crappy lock on the Laymons' front door.
HE DIDN'T HIDE. He made sure Margaret was well out of town, then turned back and parked in front of her house. Put the metal wand in a jacket pocket, held the butter knife partly up his coat sleeve, in his right hand. Pushed the doorbell, heard it ring. Pushed it and held it. Dropped the butter knife into his hand. Held the doorbell, looked back toward the interstate. No headlights.
Slipped the knife into the crack of the door, pushed, felt the lock slip, and pressed the door open with his toe. Stepped inside, into the light. Five minutes to go through the house. Checked a bedroom, found old photos, a made bed, and a framed Doors poster. Had to be Margaret's.
Next bedroom: an iPod on the nightstand, the bed unmade. Jesse's. Now where…?
Virgil looked around, turned on the wand, and began to hunt. He moved through the bedroom quickly, getting metallic pulses from almost everything. But nothing in a wrong spot…
And finally got a strong pulse from a pair of knee-high winter boots in the closet, which was the second place he'd looked, after the chest of drawers.
Turned the boot, and the revolver tumbled out into the lamplight.
He didn't touch it immediately, but he smiled. Pretty good. He took a pencil from his pocket, moved the gun around. Smith amp; Wesson,.357 Magnum. He slipped the pencil down the muzzle, used it to lift the gun and drop it into a Ziploc bag. He put the bag in his pocket, then sat back on his heels, working it through.
After a minute, he moved back through the house, closed the door behind him, heard the lock latch. In the dark, he could see lightning both to the southeast and to the northwest, but could hear no thunder. Those storms
