The owner emerged from the house as I went past.
“Now, Shooter, hush up!” The woman wore a quilted robe, fuzzy slippers, and curlers, and didn’t seem to mind a bit walking outside like that. She picked up the newspaper and smacked it against her palm as she yelled some more. I imagined that prior to Emily Steiner’s death, the only crime anyone worried about in this part of the world was a neighbor stealing your newspaper or stringing toilet paper through your trees. Cicadas were sawing the same scratchy tune they had played last night, and locust, sweet peas, and morning glories were wet with dew. By eleven, a cold rain had begun to fall, and I felt as if I were at sea surrounded by brooding waters. I imagined the sun was a porthole, and if I could look through it to the other side I might find an end to this gray day. It was half past two before the weather improved enough for me to leave. I was instructed that the helicopter could not land at the high school because the Warhorses and majorettes would be in the midst of practice. Instead, Whit and I were to meet at a grassy field inside the rugged stone double-arched gate of a tiny town called Montreal, which was as Presbyterian as predestination and but a few miles from the Travel-Eze. The Black Mountain Police arrived with me before Whit appeared, and I sat in a cruiser parked on a dirt road, watching children play flag football. Boys ran after girls and girls ran after boys as everybody pursued the small glory of snatching a red rag from an opposing player’s waistband. Young voices carried on a wind that sometimes caught the ball and passed it through the fingers of trees huddled at borders, and whenever it spiraled out of bounds into briars or the street, everybody paused. Equality was sent to the bench as girls waited for boys. When the ball was retrieved, play went on as usual.
I was sorry to interrupt this innocent frolicking when the distinctive chopping noise became audible. The children froze into a tableau of wonderment as the Bell Jetranger lowered itself with a roaring wind to the center of the field. I boarded and waved goodbye as we rose above trees. The sun settled into the horizon like Apollo lying down to sleep, and then the sky was as thick as octopus ink. I saw no stars when we arrived at the Academy. Benton Wesley, who had been kept informed of our progress by radio, was waiting when we landed. The instant I climbed out of the helicopter, he had my arm and was leading me away.
“Come on,” he said.
“It’s good to see you, Kay,” he added under his breath, and the pressure of his fingers on my arm unsettled me more.
“The fingerprint recovered from Ferguson’s panties was left by Denesa Steiner.”
“What?” He propelled me swiftly through the dark.
“And the ABO grouping of the tissue we found in his freezer is 0-positive. Emily Steiner was 0-positive. We’re still waiting for DNA, but it appears Ferguson stole the lingerie from the Steiner home when he broke in to abduct Emily.”
“You mean, when someone broke in and abducted Emily.”
“That’s right. Gault could be playing games.”
“Benton, for God’s sake, what crisis? Where’s Lucy?”
“I imagine she’s in her dorm room,” he replied as we walked into the lobby of Jefferson.
I squinted in the light and was not cheered by a digital sign behind the information desk announcing WELCOME TO THE FBI ACADEMY. I did not feel Welcome this night.
“What did she do?” I persisted as he used a magnetized card to unlock a set of glass doors with Department of Justice and National Academy seals.
“Wait until we get downstairs,” he said.
“How’s your hand? And your knee?” I remembered.
“Much better since I went to a doctor.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly.
“I’m referring to you. You’re the only doctor I’ve been to recently.”
“I might as well clean your stitches while I’m here.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I need hydrogen peroxide and cotton swabs. Don’t worry.” I smelled Hoppes as we walked through the gun-cleaning room.