from the porch. “Got to split, bro.” By now the coming dawn was evident
to all of us. The sun had not yet appeared above the eastern hills, but
the night was doing a fade, from blackest soot to gray dust.
Beyond the windows, the backyard was no longer a landscape in shades of
black but a pencil sketch.
I showed him the drawing of the crow. “Maybe this isn’t about Wyvern,
after all. Maybe someone has a grudge against Louis.” Bobby studied the
paper, but he wasn’t convinced that this proved the kidnapping was
merely a crime of vengeance. “Everything goes back to Wyvern, one way or
another.”
“When did Louis leave the police department? ” I asked.
Lilly said, “He retired about four years ago, a year before Ben died.”
“And before everything went wrong at Wyvern, ” Sasha noted. “So maybe
this isn’t connected.”
“It’s connected, ” Bobby insisted. He tapped one finger against the
crow. “It’s too radically weird not to be connected.”
“We should talk to your father-in-law, ” I told Lilly.
She shook her head. “Can’t. He’s in Shore haven.”
“The nursing home?”
“He’s had three strokes over the past four months. The third left him in
a coma. He can’t talk to anyone. They don’t expect him to live much
longer.” When I looked at the ink sketch again, I understood that
Bobby’s “radically weird” had referred not only to the hand-lettered
words but also to the crow itself. The drawing had a malevolent aura,
The wing feathers bristled, the beak was open as if to let out a shriek,
the talons were spread and hooked, and the eye, though merely a white
circle, seemed to radiate evil, fury.
“May I keep this? ” I asked Lilly.
She nodded. “It feels dirty. I don’t want to touch it.” We left Lilly
there with a cup of tea and with hope that, if it could have been
measured, might not have equaled the volume of juice she could squeeze
from the lemon wedge on her saucer.
Descending the porch steps, Sasha said, “Bobby, you better bring Jenna
Wing back here as quick as you can.” I gave him the sketch of the crow.
“Show her this. Ask her if she remembers any case Louis worked on …
anything that might explain this.” As we crossed the backyard, Sasha
took my hand.
Bobby said, “Who’s spinning music when you’re here? ”
“Doogie Sassman’s covering for me, ” she said.
“Mr. Harley-Davidson, the man-mountain love machine, ” Bobby said,
leading us along the brick walk beside the garage. “What program format
does he favor head-banging heavy metal? ”
“Waltzes, ” Sasha said. “Fox-trots, tangos, rumbas, cha-chas.
I’ve warned him he has to stick with the tune sheet I gave him, cause
otherwise, he’d just play dance music. He loves ballroom dancing.”
Pushing open the gate, Bobby stopped, turned, and stared at Sasha in
disbelief. To me, he said, “You knew this? ”
“No.”
“Ballroom dancing? ” Sasha said, “He’s won some prizes.”
“Doogie? He’s as big as a Volkswagen Beetle.”
“The old Volkswagen Beetle or the new one?
“The new one, ” Bobby said.
“He’s a big guy, but he’s very graceful, ” Sasha said.
“He has a tight turning radius, ” I told Bobby.
The thing that happens so easily among us, the thing that makes us so
close, was happening again. The groove or rhythm or mood or whatever it
is we so routinely fall into with one another we were falling into it
again. You can handle anything, including the end of the world as we
know it, if at your side are friends with the proper attitude.
Bobby said, “I thought Doogie hangs out in biker bars, not ballrooms.”
“For fun, he’s a bouncer in a biker bar two evenings a week, ” Sasha
said, “but I don’t think he hangs out there otherwise.”
“For fun? ” Bobby said.
“He enjoys breaking heads, ” Sasha said.
“Who doesn’t, ” I said.
As we followed Bobby into the alleyway, he said, “The dude is a way
skilled audio engineer, rides a Harley like he came out of the womb on
it, dates awesome women who make any Ms. Universe look like the average