Chuck Hogan - The Killing Moon - A Novel

Maddox nodded but demonstrated no sympathy.

Cullen rounded it up quickly, tired of the details he had spent the last forty-eight hours assembling. “Wanda moved it through Sculp and others via a drop at the vet’s. Sculp dealt to the other kids at his house, and the kids further seeded it around town. The supply chart was growing, doubling every eight to twelve weeks. The tipping point was approaching soon, where Bucky would have to turn it loose. Sculp dealt to Sinclair. Don’t know how they connected originally, and unless Frankie gets a grip on himself after detox, we’ll have to wait for Sinclair to get caught to find out.”

Maddox sat forward. “They need help here for this. We have to go through town and figure out some way to deal with these people, reach out to them. They’ve had a taste of it now. We need to get in here and address this before it occurs to somebody that they can cook this shit themselves, in the trunk of their car.”

“Well,” said Cullen, “I’m with you on that, but let’s be honest. That’s the mopping up that never gets done. The message is always, ‘Mission Accomplished,’ through the press, and, yes, through my office. Drugs confiscated? Problem solved. That’s the only story people want to hear. I just don’t see us getting much support. Especially with the Sinclair hysteria ongoing. You following that?”

“Not really.” Maddox had been out of action since Wanda Tedmond’s arrest.

“Sightings all over town,” said Cullen. “A twelve-year-old kid walking home from a friend’s house yesterday saw Sinclair beckoning to him from some trees across the street. People’ve seen him cutting across their neighbors’ backyards. Calls come in to nine-one-one saying he’s down in the basement right now. Or their kids’ toys were moved around in the driveway — maybe it was Sinclair.” Cullen smiled in amazement. “It’s a legitimate phenomenon. We have a saying in the DA’s office: Awaken the fears of a parent and you awaken the fears of a community.”

“Police radio last night said something about coyotes—”

“Roaming the streets, it’s true. A couple of them got shot and killed. The Air Wing helicopter with its thirty-million-candlepower searchlight rousted them all from the state forest. Or maybe they were drawn here by the scent of fear. Of course, having state police strike teams in full ninja tac skulking through your neighbor’s pasture, clearing old barns and outbuildings — that doesn’t exactly help calm things down. Doesn’t ease much anxiety. My way over here, I passed people out on their front steps, hunting rifles across their laps. Guy shot out his own patio window last night, thought he saw a shadow. They’re pulling down antique Winchesters from over the fireplace, riding around with loaded handguns on the passenger seat. Massachusetts has the most restrictive firearms laws in the country, but enforcing those statutes tonight would mean packing half the town into two small jail cells. This is a holiday for people, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to lock and load in public, maybe even bag themselves a gen-u-ine child molester.”

Maddox said, “Wonderful.”

“So you can see how well martial law would go over. State police actually imposed a curfew, but nobody knows it. How do you alert a community without a Web site or cable TV channel or even a town newspaper? This is why you need to stay on. In name only, just until Sinclair is brought in. Can’t totally disband a town’s police department during a crisis like this. Plus, my boss’s perspective is, there’s one thousand seven hundred fifty-eight potential votes here, so don’t mobilize taxpayers by pissing them off.”

“Nobody here votes.”

“Still, she doesn’t want a lawless town on her register. Just let Hess and his bunch do their thing, and wait this out. Play the small-town cop for a couple more days.”

Maddox nodded unhappily. “And after that?”

Cullen shrugged, flapping his tie out over his lap. “That’s up to your brass. You might as well know, no matter how this Sinclair shit storm falls, I’m recommending you back with full confidence.”

“Actually,” said Maddox, “I was asking about the town.”

“You mean their police?” Cullen shrugged again. “That’s a little beyond our purview, isn’t it? I’m sure they’ll work it out, hire on replacements. What other choice do they have?”

Maddox accepted this quietly. He had seemed uncomfortable since answering the door, but only now did it occur to Cullen that Maddox was impatient for him to leave. Another subtle creak upstairs drew Cullen’s eyes to the swirled pattern of the plaster ceiling, then the detailed molding around the edge.

“One thing I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Cullen. “I saw the pictures from Sinclair’s camera. The one of your house here. What was that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I want to either. You ever crack open an egg and get a bloody yolk? Crack open Sinclair’s head, and that’s what you’d get.”

“But what do you think ? Was he fixated on you?”

“I don’t know how he saw me. I had a secret. A secret job, a secret life. He was drawn to that. I think he wanted that for himself. A great secret existence.”

“Maybe he found one. I’d watch yourself, anyway.” Cullen patted his own knee, uncrossing his legs. “And now I get to go home.” He stood, returning the wheel pillow to the corner of the divan, reaching for his file. “What about you? What’s the night hold?”

Maddox shrugged, getting to his feet.

“Alone with your thoughts, eh? Well, enjoy your downtime. God knows, it never lasts.”

The moment had arrived either to shake hands or not. Cullen tapped Maddox lightly on the chest with the file folder, then nodded and started away. Sometimes it ended that way. No finish-line string-breaking or end-zone spike. There was an excellent chance they would never even see each other again.

On his way out through the garage, Cullen took another look at the old Ford pickup. Its rusted wheel wells and dinged sides and mud-browned tires marked it as a true, working truck, a farm rig, and, as such, unsuited to Maddox’s needs. Cullen checked the front seat through the driver’s window and saw a package of breath mints, a garage door remote control, and a paperback with a pink and blue cover he recognized as being one of his wife’s book group novels.

A pickup truck and chick lit. Cullen was only sorry he’d never been introduced.

Tracy went downstairs after she heard the car drive away.

Donny, alone in his kitchen, turned and raised a “there you are” smile.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know he was coming by.”

She shrugged. “That’s okay.”

“I’m not used to mixing work with my private life. Not really used to having a private life at all.”

“Okay,” she said again.

“He’s from the Mitchum County District Attorney’s office. I don’t know how much you heard...”

“Was I supposed to be listening?”

He shrugged like it was all right if she had been.

“Most of it,” she admitted.

He nodded. “I never, ever lied to you. To everyone else but you.”

“You never told me much truth either.”

“I know. But I’m about to.”

Tracy stood against the dishwasher to steady herself. This buildup was too much. She folded her arms protectively, to stop herself from trembling. “Okay.”

“This isn’t my first job in law enforcement. I’ve been with the state police for just over ten years.”

Tracy had guessed as much, listening from the foot of his bed upstairs. But hearing him say it now blew holes in her ears. “You’re a state trooper?”