John Sandford - Mad River

“All right,” Virgil said. “Like I said, I’m ninety-five percent that I know who did it, I just have to find them.”

He took another step and said, “Just to cross all the t’s and dot all the i’s. . what was the name of the friend who went to the Cities with Ag?”

Mary touched her neck, just at the collarbone, and said, “Why, Laura Deren. She’s an old friend of ours. Ag’s, especially. She lives here in town-she’s an accountant.”

“Thank you,” Virgil said. He looked out at the town-the O’Leary house was just at the crest of a hill, looking out over it-and he said, “You’ve got a great view up here.”

“It looks awful to me, right now,” Mary said. “It looks cold and lonesome forever.”

Virgil called Duke. “Heard anything?”

“Silent as a tomb. Can’t figure out where that silver truck went. We’ve stopped every silver truck for five states around.”

“Well. Keep looking,” Virgil said. “The media on you yet?”

“Yes. They’re setting up on the courthouse lawn. We’ll have a press conference in a couple hours.”

“I’m gonna stay clear,” Virgil said. “If you need any information from me, give me a ring.”

“I’ll do that,” Duke said. “I should be okay. I did a few of these during the hassle over the so-called concentration camp.”

“I suppose you did,” Virgil said. “I’m going back to Shinder, and then probably on to Marshall for the night. Nothing much to do except monitor the phones. Not until they pop up again.”

The crime-scene crew was still working on the two sites in Shinder, but had nothing that was either new or relevant. Virgil made some calls about getting the stolen car back to the Rogers family, and was told that it would be a few more days. He called LuAnne Rogers and told her that.

If Sharp, Welsh, or McCall had had more friends, there would have been more talking to do; as it was, Virgil sat outside the Surprise, eating an ice cream sandwich, and tried to think of something that he needed to do, that would help, but he couldn’t think of anything.

Eventually, he drove over to Marshall, called his parents and invited himself to dinner, then took a shower and a nap.

Thought, as he drifted away, that everything had gone too quiet, and smiled at the thought, remembering the old black-and-white films on late-night TV:

The drums. . the drums have gone quiet. They always go quiet just before they attack.

When Virgil arrived for dinner, there were three freshly painted chairs sitting in the mouth of his parents’ two-car garage. His father collected old furniture from the congregation, repaired it, painted it, and passed it along to anyone who needed it, except the twenty or so people who populated the local Church of Scientology, which he loathed.

“If I go to hell, which would be very disappointing, I can tell you, after all my efforts, it’ll be because I really. . despise those people,” he said. He was in the mudroom, scrubbing his hands with odorless mineral spirits. “I can’t find it in my heart to forgive them,” he said. “It’s the biggest con job in the history of the United States. It makes what’s-his-name look like a piker.”

“Good old what’s-his-name was a jerk, that’s for sure,” Virgil said.

“You know who I mean. That guy who stole all those billions of dollars. The Ponzi scheme.”

“Madoff.”

“Yeah. Him. They make him look like a piker,” his old man said.

“That’s interesting,” Virgil said. “I don’t think I’ve heard the word ‘piker’ and ‘Madoff’ in the same sentence before.”

“So now you have,” his father said.

Virgil followed him into the kitchen, and they chatted while the old man finished the scrub-up with soap and water, and his mother grilled some hamburger and sliced some large purple onions, and they all ate cheeseburgers together, with fries and beer, and they picked at him about the murder. Then Virgil said, “Yeah, I understand Becky worked over here for a while, at the McDonald’s. None of them could get. . What?”

His father had stopped chewing in mid-bite and was staring at Virgil. He said, “Don McClatchy wasn’t in church this morning. Neither was his wife. They’re almost always there.”

Virgil said, “Don McClatchy?”

“Runs the McDonald’s.”

His mother had given Virgil a couple of folded paper towels to use as a napkin, and he popped the last piece of cheeseburger in his mouth and dabbed at his face with the towels, and said, “Come on. Let’s go over there.”

“We could call them in one minute,” his father said. “I’ve got them on my computer.”

Virgil shook his head. “I want to see them. These kids probably tried to rob the O’Learys because they thought the O’Learys were rich. They probably think her boss at McDonald’s is rich.”

“They are rich. . at least for Marshall.”

The McClatchys lived off Horizon Drive, a half mile or so from the Flowers place. They were there in two minutes, driving Virgil’s truck; his father pointed it out: “Light’s on.”

“You stay here,” Virgil said. He got his gun out from under the seat, checked the magazine, made sure it was seated, and put the gun and holster under his back beltline.

“Try to avoid getting shot,” his father said.

“I will.”

“Maybe I better come with you.”

“Okay. Get your gun, so you’ll have something to do if they’re inside and start shooting,” Virgil said.

“Virgil. .”

“Stay here,” Virgil said.

Virgil took a long look at the house, then walked up the circular drive to the front door and looked through the window. He could hear music playing, but couldn’t see anyone. After a few seconds, he reached out and pushed the doorbell, then stood back and put one hand on his pistol.

He heard footsteps, and a moment later a young woman opened the front door and looked out at him. She didn’t open the storm door. He said, “I’m Virgil Flowers. I’m with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. I’m looking for Mr. and Mrs. McClatchy.”

She said, “They’re not here.”

She didn’t seem to be under any particular duress, so Virgil let go of the gun and took his ID out of his jacket pocket and held it so she could see it. Then he asked, “Could you step out on the porch and tell me where they are?”

She hesitated, then said, “Sure,” and stepped out on the porch. “Why do you want me out here?” and, “Are you related to Reverend Flowers, over at-”

“I’m his son,” Virgil said. “Could you tell me where Mr. and Mrs. McClatchy are? And who you are?”

“They’re in Naples.” Virgil frowned and she said, “Florida. Until the twentieth. They go down there to play golf so they can get a jump on the season. I live down the street. I take care of the dogs. What happened?”

“I just. . uh. . Do you know where they’re staying?” Virgil asked.

“Yes. I have an emergency number for them.”

She got the emergency number, and by that time Virgil knew that she wasn’t hiding any killers. He explained about the suspects in the murders. “I don’t think you have a problem, but don’t hurry to open the door. Check first. Feed the dogs and go home. Don’t hang out.”

She was wide-eyed. “I saw about the murders on TV. When are you going to catch them?”

“Soon-but don’t take any chances,” he said. “My dad’s out in the car. Wave at him.”

She stepped off the porch to look around a stunted cedar, and waved. Virgil could see the old man wave back.

“So we’re good,” he said. “But-be careful.”

In the car, the old man said, “So we’re good.”

“Yeah, we’re good. It was a long shot. But I’d like you to call the McClatchys.”