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CHAPTER 9

Dean had first turned onto the Pratt farm’s gravel road the night he picked up Cindy Pratt for the school winter dance just after he had turned sixteen. He had been nervous, his palms so sweaty he had worried he would ruin the steering wheel he clutched so hard his knuckles were white. He had loved Cindy since before he could remember, though he was just a boy out there to her. Her original date to the dance, Tom Perkins, had broken his leg a few weeks earlier during basketball practice. Tom and Cindy were an item, but he had called on his good friend, Dean, to step in and take her to the dance so she would not have to miss it. If Tom had known Dean’s feelings for her, he would not have made the suggestion. But he did not and he did.

Dean had not swept her off her feet at that dance, as he had dreamed of, but he was no longer just the boy who hung out with Tom and Eliot and Christian. Dean won her in the end. Lost his friend, but won her, and she was the prize. Tom got a football scholarship and disappeared from Zion shortly after. Eliot was a lawyer in New York. Christian died on some hill near the Cambodian border.

He bounced over the final ruts in the driveway as he pulled to a stop next to the S-class, light brown Mercedes-Benz, its wheel wells splattered with dirt and dirty snow. A familiar orange-warm glow emanated from the front windows of the house. He used to be a part of that cozy family, before he had dragged it to shit. He turned off the car and gazed into the glow for a few minutes before getting out and walking up the front porch.

As he got ready to knock, the door opened. Jenny stood there beaming. “Daddy.” She hugged him, her thin arms wrapping around his waist, just above his revolver and radio. Her long blond hair was braided into pigtails that fell down onto her collarbones and the front of her shirt. She looked up at him with her green eyes and smiled again.

“Hey there, pumpkin.” He hugged her back.

Cindy sat on the couch across from a well-stoked fire next to her mother, Eileen. Both shared a remarkable resemblance: the same chin and nose and eyes. Cindy, if she had been so inclined, was model material. Jenny’s eyes and hair were her mother’s. Cindy waved and returned to talking to her mother.

“Daddy, are we going to do anything fun?”

He had given this some thought. “How about some sledding?”

She beamed and hugged him again. “Let me get my stuff.” She unclenched him and ran up the stairs.

“No running,” said Cindy, who was now standing and walking toward him. “Hello.” She stopped in front of him and slid her hands into her jean pockets. She wore a light cream colored blouse with red trim and buttons.

“Hi.” He half smiled at her. “You look good.”

She ignored his last statement. “School starts Monday, so I’ll be back on Saturday to pick her up. Okay?”

He nodded. “How was the drive up?”

“Long.”

“Well, be careful going back.”

“Don’t strain yourself over the concern.” She said it without anger lacing the words. Matter of fact. Nearly monotone.

He closed his eyes and breathed in deep and reminded himself the toxicity in their relationship was his fault, or at least he blamed himself. That did not make putting up with any of it any easier though. “Geez, I was just trying to be nice.”

“Save it for when it counts.” She gave him a stern look, like a scolding from a parent.

He held up his hands in defeat.

Jenny came back down the stairs, slowing when she saw her mom. She sat her bag down on the floor and hugged Cindy.

Dean picked the bag up and watched the two of them. They had a familiarity he had forever lost with his daughter. He would be spared much of the difficulty of raising a teenage girl, but he would have preferred to have had that so he too could be embraced every day. He pinched his mouth to hold back the sadness.

“Behave, okay?” Cindy rubbed her daughter’s head.

“I will Mommy.”

Cindy pulled them apart and guided Jenny toward Dean and the front door. “I’m serious.”

Jenny walked out to the porch.

Dean looked at Cindy. “See you Sunday.”

Cindy nodded and turned back toward the fire.

* * *

On the drive back, Jenny peppered him with questions about where the good sledding hills were and told him stories of slumber parties and school with her friends. He knew, by the time they pulled into his driveway, that Jessie and Connie were her best friends and that Christmas break had been fun but was getting boring.

While unlocking the front door of the house, he asked, “Did you have supper yet?”

She shook her head and ran inside. He turned on the light. “How about pizza?” Despite having eaten at Brunetti’s for lunch and having had dinner, pizza sounded tasty.

“No mushrooms.”

“Pepperoni?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. Let’s get you settled in, and I’ll have one delivered.”

He opened the door to her bedroom, where two years earlier, he had set up the twin bed with a blue bedspread, white headboard, and a white, pine dresser. Jenny walked in. “What’s that?”

“That,” Dean said as he tapped the small desk he had bought a few weeks ago and placed in here, “I got for you so you can do your drawing and stuff.”

“Oooh.”

He sat down her bag. “Okay, I’m going to order the pizza now.” As he walked out of her room, he said, “With so many mushrooms they’ll think they’re in a mushroom farm.”

“Stop it.”

He caught the door jamb with his left hand, leaned back, and smiled at her. After calling Brunetti’s and ordering a large pepperoni pizza, he turned on the TV in the family room. Little House on the Prairie was on. The phone rang, so he turned down the sound of the TV and answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Dean is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Dr. Miles Cotton.”

“Ah, yes, doc. Thanks for calling.”

“Yeah. Look, I did the autopsy today. And no way it was a suicide. I’m ruling it a homicide.”

“I thought it would come down that way. What makes you say so, though?” Dean covered the phone’s mouthpiece and coughed quickly.

“—no powder residue.”

“But the weather could have done that.”

“Yeah, but here’s the other thing. I didn’t notice it at the scene. Neither did you. But it was cold and his coat was thick. I thought I reached in. But we had gloves on.”

“I understand. We missed something.”

“Yes. Yes. There was a pistol in his inside coat pocket. Small thirty-eight. Snub nose. Six bullets in the cylinder. Serial number is filed away.”

“Yeah? So either he brought two guns or—”

“Right. Except, that’s not likely. If this was suicide, he would have used the revolver in his pocket. Powerful enough. Simple gun to work.”

Dean contemplated the idea. The coroner’s logic was sound, though not all encompassing. Billy could have walked in with two guns. “Any idea how long he’s been out there?”

Miles paused. “Could be two days. Could be two weeks. It’s been cold since before Christmas. But with the way the birds had gotten to him and allowing for some thawing of the parts of the body exposed to the sun, I’d estimate, he’s been out there at least a few days. Around New Year’s or so. I can’t be anymore precise.”

“So since he disappeared.”

“That’s what I’d go with.”

“All right. What else can you tell me?”

Miles yawned and mumbled, “Sorry,” part way through. “He’d busted his knee and ankle. I’m guessing he stepped in a hole or tripped over something. But it wasn’t long before he was killed. Inflammation but no healing. He would’ve been in pain.”

“He couldn’t have run from his killer?”

“Unlikely. Though I guess a jolt of adrenaline could have helped. But where he was when we found him was where he was when he was shot.”

“Tripped. Hurting. Takes a seat against a tree. Bam. Killer drops the gun there.”

“That’s the short of it.”

“Anything else doc?”

“Nope. That’s it. My report’ll be on your desk tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah. Have a good night.” Miles hung up.

Dean sat the phone down.

“Something wrong daddy?” Jenny opened the refrigerator and grabbed a Big Red.

“Oh, nothing. Just work, pumpkin.”

When the pizza arrived, he placed a couple of slices on a plate for Jenny and only a single slice for himself. After the TV show ended, he tucked her in, letting her read with the lamp next to her desk.

He sat on the couch. He clicked to the movie A Small Town in Texas. He ignored it mostly, though he paid attention when Poke barrels over the corrupt sheriff and sparks a chase scene featuring more pursuit vehicles than any small town had a right to.

When he turned in, he laid awake longer than normal. He had seen plenty of death and murder through the years. The cruelty of man was no philosophical puzzle to him. He had seen it. He had done it. But that was war and New York City. This murder in Zion, his hometown, the town he had fled to after everything crumbled, this place of solace—as much as he hated to admit that—felt different. A violation of that peace, that security he expected here.

He slept fitfully through the night.

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