Jeffery Deaver - The Lesson of Her Death

She pressed her eyes closed. Wrinkles blossomed into her face and for a moment she seemed ten years older than she was.

"If anybody's at risk, it's me," Corde said.

"That sure makes me feel damn better," she shot back at him.

"Honey, this fellow isn't stupid. Murdering a law enforcement officer's a capital crime."

"Does he know that?" she blurted.

"Diane."

She stormed into the kitchen.

There was nothing more to do. Corde went back outside to talk to Ribbon. Ten minutes later Diane poked her head out the door and told him in an ominous monotone that dinner was ready. Corde asked Steve Ribbon and the deputy if they wanted to stay but they couldn't or more likely didn't want to. They left. Corde walked into the dining room, then Jamie and Sarah joined their parents and the family sat down to dinner.

Corde told the children with gentle words that there might be some people who weren't real happy with what he was doing to solve this case, so not to go anywhere by themselves and to stay close to home. Don't talk to strangers. Then Corde somehow found the strength to turn the conversation funny and talked about a sports blooper tape he'd seen recently. The only time a pall filled the room was when Corde realized he had stopped talking in mid sentence and was staring out the black window at the backyard. He stood up fast and closed the drapes. Everybody looked at him. Then he sat down and ate a huge third helping of string beans even though he didn't want them but it seemed like a comic thing to do and the evening returned more or less to normal.

T.T. Ebbans's practice was to question people at home at night. He'd try not to conduct interviews during business hours at offices, where guards are up and minds instinctively think up lies and excuses – for bosses, for fellow workers, for clients, for creditors.

Ebbans also happened to enjoy the evening. It reminded him of a wholly different era of his life, years before. The oily smell of night, the stillness, the bleaching to monotone of the deep colors of the day and the feel of his heartbeat quickening – a prelude to the five-man search-and-destroy night missions that were both the peak and the valley of his life.

At ten-thirty he came to the last house, a colonial on one acre sloping down to Blackfoot Pond. This hour was usually postbedtime in New Lebanon for anybody under fifteen and over thirty. But lights shone in the windows of this house. He thunked the brass lion's-head knocker once and the door swung open almost immediately. He found the couple waiting for him. Communication was good among Blackfoot Pond homeowners.

They all introduced themselves church-social formal. Tall, paunchy, bushy-haired Hank said, "Come on in, Officer. Get you anything?"

"Maybe if I could trouble you for a glass of water."

"Surely." Lisa, still in her real estate broker's white blouse and trim red skirt, vanished like a spooked mouse.

Hank motioned Ebbans into a living room spotless as an operating theater. Plush white carpet, a cream-color sofa covered with clear plastic. The furniture was antiqued white and gold. Lisa walked into the room and handed the water to the deputy. They both stared at him as he drank it all down. He wasn't so thirsty as this but he didn't know where to set down the glass. He handed it to her. "Thank you." She returned a moment later. They sat. Plastic crinkled loudly.

Hank said, "You're here about the murder."

"I'm asking everyone in the area if they saw or heard anything around the time of the killing. That would be ten o'clock."

"That was Tuesday, right?" Lisa asked, gesturing, moving her fingers in a circular motion to count back on an invisible calendar.

"Nothing! Hank said. We didn't see anything."

"No," Lisa echoed. "Not a thing. Sorry we can't be more help." Hank said he wished they could but, well, Ebbans knew how it was.

The deputy let them stew in a lengthy silence then asked Lisa, "But do I understand that you saw something another night?"

Lisa's busy hands spread apart for a moment. Ebbans noticed they had left sweat stains on her crimson skirt. "Pardon?"

Hank said, "We didn't see -"

Ebbans said to his wife, "You asked if it was Tuesday. I was just wondering if that meant you saw something some night other than Tuesday."

She stared for a minute then gave a fast burst of a laugh. "Oh, I see what you mean. No. The only reason I asked if it was Tuesday was to, you know, orient myself. Because of Sean. He…" She blinked. Hank's head turned slowly to her. Ebbans figured they had debated all evening about keeping their secret. Lisa began to tremble. Ebbans wondered how loud the discussion between these two would be after he left.

"Sean is…?" Ebbans asked.

"Our son," Hank muttered.

Lisa said, "He was here on Tuesday. That's right. I'd forgotten." She swallowed hard and Ebbans wondered if she was going to cry. "Sean got home from a Rifle Club practice late."

"What time would that have been?"

She looked at her husband and decided not to lie. "About ten."

Ebbans asked, "Is Sean here now?"

"Well, he is," Hank conceded. "But I doubt he can help you."

Lisa said, "It was pretty dark. I don't think he saw much."

"Anything you tell me is confidential. Nobody'll know he gave us any information."

Hank walked to the stairs and called his son. A tall boy in jeans and a T-shirt appeared in a minute, looking assured, smiling, staring Ebbans right back in the eyes. Ebbans, who had two daughters and had never for one minute regretted that, thought he would love to have a son like Sean. "You heard about the girl was killed over by the dam."

"Yessir. We heard the next day."

"I understand you got home about ten. From the Rifle Club. What kind of gun you shoot?"

" Winchester 75. With a target barrel."

"That's a good gun. What's your rank?"

"Sharpshooter. All positions."

Ebbans jutted out his jaw, impressed, and asked, "You were outside about ten on Tuesday?"

"After I dumped the garbage bags in the bin I saw this raccoon and I chased him off, down toward the lake. I saw two people sitting on the other side of the dam."

"What were they doing?"

Lisa said, "Don't be afraid to say you don't know, if you don't."

"Looked like they had tackle but it might just have been gym bags or something. They weren't fishing."

"Can you describe them?"

"Sorry, sir. Not too good." He nodded vaguely toward where the dam must have been. "It's a ways. All I could see was their, you know, outlines. Silhouettes."

Ebbans said, "Could you tell if they were men or women, boys? White or black?"

"Well, I got the feeling they were guys. Kids from school, I mean." He added formally, "I don't believe they were African-Americans."

"What did you see them do?"

"After a couple minutes they stood up and picked up whatever they were carrying and walked to the dam. There was this flash from one of their hands. I thought it was a knife. The way he held it."

Ebbans said, "Might it have been a bottle or a soda can?"

"Yessir, could've been. They sat on the dam for a while then I saw one of them point and they ducked down and ran off into the bushes. I thought they might be hatters so -"

"Hatters?"

"You know, like geeks or something. So I put the bikes in the garage."

"And you didn't see them again?"

"Nosir. But I did see someone who walked by close to them. An old guy. He was fishing. He was about sixty, I'd guess. About my grandpa's age. He was casting spoons but he had a fly fisherman's hat on. A red one."

"You haven't seen him since?"

"Nosir. You want me to keep an eye out for him, I'll be happy to do that."

"No, honey," Lisa said. "I mean, you've done plenty."

With the authoritative voice of a middle manager, Hank said, "That's not our job, son."