Chuck Hogan - The Killing Moon - A Novel

Stunned by her sudden and inappropriate affection, he let it go many more seconds than he otherwise would have before abruptly pulling away.

She stayed where she was, on her side of the front seat, not ashamed or embarrassed, cheeks glistening with mashed tears, eyelashes damp and shiny black. “I think he did it.”

“What?” Maddox said.

She stared into the middle ground between them, as though coming to terms with this herself.

Maddox, still mystified by the kissing, felt something else now, something like danger. He had a sense that marriages generated their own peculiar force field, some more powerful than others. Especially the less likely unions. The warped vibrations of this one were warning him to keep away.

“You need to get home,” he said, throwing the car into drive and making for the road.

A state police cruiser pulled up across the street from Ripsbaugh’s driveway as Maddox drove off after dropping off Val. It was only a matter of time before they picked him up, and Maddox felt a pang of sympathy for the hunted man.

Ripsbaugh the loner. Ripsbaugh the vengeful. Ripsbaugh the cuckold.

His tires crunched onto Pinty’s white-rock driveway and he got out and ducked underneath Mrs. Pinty’s arbor, the woven ivy making him think of Pinty’s hairpiece and the Vitalis he insisted on sprinkling over it, more fragrant than anything in these hedges. The front door was unlocked as usual, and he entered into the middle landing, calling Pinty’s name. He went downstairs to where Pinty had moved his bed, then checked the newly converted kitchen and found Pinty’s walking stick leaned up against the end of the counter. Through the sliding glass doors he saw the wheelchair out on the brick patio beneath the raised deck, and Pinty lying on his side next to it.

Maddox threw open the door. Pinty was not moving and Maddox’s eyes did not know what to take in first. The gray pallor of Pinty’s face. His fists clenched and drawn to his chest as though pulling back on reins. A spray of pallid yellow vomit on the brick, already visited by ants.

Maddox rolled Pinty onto his back. Pinty’s eyes were closed and for a moment Maddox could not remember any of his training. He got that same suffocating feeling as when he thought about his mother dying alone.

A-B-C. Airway, Breathing, Circulation.

He put his ear to Pinty’s nose and felt warm breath push faintly against it. He jabbed two fingers into the soft flesh beneath the ridge of Pinty’s jawbone, locating a pressure point, the pulse slow yet persistent. He raised Pinty’s neck in order to tilt up his head, and heard a gurgle.

Inside he found the phone and punched in 911. He got a state trooper at the station and instructed him to skip the ambulance call and instead order a medical helicopter.

When Bucky Pail and Keith Ullard and Bart Stokes arrived anyway, carrying equipment cases from their rescue truck and accompanied by Eddie Pail and Mort Lees in POLICE shirts, Maddox stood firm. “Stay away,” he warned them.

“Maddox,” scolded Eddie, bullheadedly trying to get around him to Pinty.

Maddox kicked the wheelchair into their way. “You don’t touch him.”

“Get away, Maddox,” said Bucky.

Bucky knelt down to unclasp his blue tackle box of medical supplies. Maddox kicked it over.

Bucky stood, whipping his cigarette into the grass. The five of them fanned out around Maddox on the bricks. Maddox warned them again to keep away, and Mort Lees charged him from the side.

It seemed stupid later, everything coming to a head there with Pinty lying unconscious on the ground. But this brawl had been months in the making. Maddox blamed them for Pinty’s sudden decline, and unloaded his anger onto them as they unloaded theirs onto him. Maddox tried to single out Bucky for some special vengeance, but, true to form, Bucky remained out on the periphery of the fray, jumping in only when he had a clear punch.

Yet Maddox held his own, never letting them pin him down. It was the arriving troopers following up on the 911 call who broke it up. The medical helicopter set down in Pinty’s backyard soon after, flight nurses climbing out wearing helmets.

Maddox rode with him to the hospital, gripping Pinty’s hand in the sideways sunlight as Black Falls shrunk away below them.

Pinty was wheeled off after they landed. Maddox declined an ER trip for his face, and was instead escorted to a windowless room where, left alone, he paced among cloth-covered chairs with small boxes of half-sized tissues poised on each wooden arm. Pale ocean watercolors hung on the walls — lonely boats, empty docks, muted sunsets — and Maddox realized they had installed him in the grief room.

Cullen looked at the ring cuts on Maddox’s cheeks and forehead, the abrasion on his neck, and the bruise under his left eye, not quite black but definitely blue.

“Fighting your fellow peace officers,” said Cullen. “That’s good strategy.”

Maddox mock-smiled, raising his eyebrows. “Yup.”

“Making friends all over the place. About ready to pack it in, then?”

Maddox didn’t dignify that. He looked at the blank screen of the television set he had switched off as soon as they had stepped inside the empty waiting area.

“Good,” said Cullen, wanting to come off motivational rather than bitchy. “May I ask what your thinking was there?”

“My thinking was, I’m going to kick these sons of bitches’ asses for what they’ve done to him.”

Cullen nodded. Maddox had plenty more fight in him, which was a good thing, if properly channeled. Cullen noticed that, though Maddox had not left the hospital since bringing in the old man, the gray T-shirt he wore was fresh and not speckled with blood. Maddox had somebody bringing him things.

Cullen loosened his tie and flopped it out straight over his belly, glancing out the window of Rainfield Good Samaritan. Every window he had ever stood at or sat by in Rainfield looked out at some segment of the interstate or one of the gas station islands that fed it. “Okay. I have to kick some ass here now. This is supposed to be your rehab assignment.”

Maddox frowned and sat back, inspecting the tender parts of his discolored knuckles.

“You were frustrated,” said Cullen. “You thought you had them on the murdered snitch. You wanted them for it. Turns out, the snitch got pushed over by someone else.”

“I don’t know that for sure.”

“Then allow me to convince you. Crime Scene Services got clever working over the witch’s house. They figured the killer had spent some time there, so they keyed in on a couple of things. One was the fact that the towel rack in the upstairs bathroom was empty. Maybe the towels were used to wipe up or clean off something, maybe even the assailant himself. Luckily, this was on the side of the house that didn’t burn so bad. First thing they scored were footwear impressions from the wet bath mat.”

“Size ten and a half sneakers,” said Maddox. “Hess already dangled that detail.”

“Then they found that the sink — faucet, cabinet, vanity, whole thing — had been wiped down, scrubbed clean. Again — a good spot for cleaning something off, maybe washing up. A defensive wound, perhaps. So they went down into the plumbing. The pipes underneath the sink. Pulled the drain traps, and there was blood.”

“Blood?” said Maddox. “Heat from the fire didn’t cook it?”

“Not all. Blood type immediately excluded the victim, Frond. While all this was going on, they turned up that safe under a bed upstairs. The letters.”

“Right.”

“Her husband, the roads guy, admits to knowing about his wife and the witch. Guy’s alibi is soft, very uncorroborated. But the critical thing is this gash on his arm.”