poor white trash from Kentucky, though Lem was ten years younger than the
sheriff, the two were friends. More than friends. Buddies. They played bridge
together, went deep-sea fishing together, and found unadulterated pleasure in
sitting in lawn chairs on one or the other’s patio, drinking Corona beer and
solving all of the world’s problems. Their wives even became best friends, a
serendipitous development that was, according to Walt, “a miracle, ‘cause the
woman’s never liked anyone else I’ve introduced her to in thirty-two years.”
To Lem, his friendship with Walt Gaines was also a miracle, for he was not a man
who made friends easily. He was a workaholic and did not have the leisure to
nurture an acquaintance carefully into a more enduring relationship. Of course,
careful nurturing hadn’t been necessary with Walt; they had clicked the first
time they’d met, had recognized similar attitudes and points of view in each
other. By the time they had known each other six months, it seemed they had been
close since boyhood. Lem valued their friendship nearly as much as he valued his
marriage to Karen. The pressure of his job would be harder to endure if he
couldn’t let off some steam with Walt once in a while.
Now, as the chopper’s blades fell silent, Walt Gaines said, “Can’t figure why
the murder of a grizzled old canyon squatter would interest you feds.”
“Good,” Lem said. “You’re not supposed to figure it, and you really don’t want
to know.”
“Anyway, I sure didn’t expect you’d come yourself. Thought you’d send some of
your flunkies.”
“NSA agents don’t like to be called flunkies,” Lem said.
Looking at Cliff Soames, Walt said, “But that’s how he treats you fellas, isn’t
it? Like flunkies?”
“He’s a tyrant,” Cliff confirmed. He was thirty-one, with red hair and freckles.
He looked more like an earnest young preacher than like an agent of the National
Security Agency.
“Well, Cliff,” Walt Gaines said, “you’ve got to understand where Lem comes from.
His father was a downtrodden black businessman who never made more than two
hundred thousand a year. Deprived, you see. So Lem, he figures he’s got to make
you white boys jump through hoops whenever he can, to make up for all those
years of brutal oppression.”
“He makes me call him ‘Massah,’ “ Cliff said.
“I don’t doubt it,” Walt said.
Lem sighed and said, “You two are about as amusing as a groin injury. Where’s
the body?”
“This way, Massah,” Walt said.
As a gust of warm afternoon wind shook the surrounding trees, as the canyon hush
gave way to the whispering of leaves, the sheriff led Lem and Cliff into the
first of the cabin’s two rooms
Lem understood, at once, why Walt had been so jokey. The forced humor was a
reaction to the horror inside the cabin. It was somewhat like laughing aloud in
a graveyard at night to chase away the willies.
Two armchairs were overturned, upholstery slashed. Cushions from the sofa had
been ripped to expose the white foam padding. Paperbacks had been pulled off a
corner bookcase, torn apart, and scattered all over the room. Glass shards from
the big window sparkled gemlike in the ruins. The debris and the walls were
spattered with blood, and a lot of dried blood darkened the light-pine floor.
Like a pair of crows searching for brightly colored threads with which to dress
up their nest, two lab technicians in black suits were carefully probing through
the ruins. Occasionally one of them made a soft wordless cawing Sound and
plucked at something with tweezers, depositing it in a plastic envelope.
Evidently, the body had been examined and photographed, for it had been
transferred into an opaque plastic mortuary bag and was lying near the door,
waiting to be carried out to the meat wagon.
Looking down at the half-visible corpse in the sack, which was only a vaguely
human shape beneath the milky plastic, Lem said, “What was his name?”
“Wes Dalberg,” Walt said. “Lived here ten years or more.”
“Who found him?”
“A neighbor.”
“When was he killed?”
“Near as we can tell, about three days ago. Maybe Tuesday night. Have to wait