Bad Blood

sat around the dead man, on the rug. It looked like the candles had been cut down, for none was more than a half-inch thick.
    “Goddamn,” Schickel breathed. “Gotta get out of here, Virgil. It’s a time bomb.”
    “Do you know that guy?” The gasoline odor was burned into his nose and the back of his throat.
    Schickel said, “It’s Junior Einstadt, the old man’s son. He must have been down at Rouse’s.”
    Virgil studied the scene for another few seconds, then said, “No way to move him. If we touch that rug, some of that flame could come down off a candle, it’d blow.”
    “Let’s get out of here,” Schickel said.
    “Walk careful,” Virgil said, and the two of them tiptoed away.
    Outside again, Schickel called for a fire truck, and Virgil got the other cars backed away from the house. Then they sat and watched, one minute, three minutes, and Virgil said, “Maybe we could have gotten him out.”
    Schickel was on the radio and he said, “They can see the truck but he’s half a mile ahead of them and he’s down at 90. He’s gonna make it to the highway.”
    “Not much traffic this time of the night. Morning. Whatever it is,” Virgil said.
    “But what there is, is mostly farmers in pickup trucks,” Schickel said. “But where’re they going to run to? We’ll get him, it’s just a matter of time.”
    And the house blew. First there was a brighter light, then immediately a whoosh , when the gas went all at once; they watched the fire climb through the house, and Virgil said, “One more place tonight, Gene. Let’s see what’s happening at the Floods’.”

    JENKINS HAD RIDDEN along in the caravan with another cop, and Virgil got him and the other cop to follow as they went down the road to the Flood place.
    As with the Einstadt house, there were lights: they drove up the driveway and found a pickup sitting next to the side door. They stopped, and Virgil said, “Run it,” and Jenkins got out of his truck and pointed his M16 at the house.
    Schickel was talking to the comm center about the truck’s tags, and the name came back thirty seconds later.
    “It’s Emmett Einstadt’s truck,” Schickel said. “You lucked out. You got the old man after all.”
    Jenkins shouted, “We got movement.”
    The side door was opening, and a few seconds later, a young girl called, “Don’t shoot me.”
    Virgil called, “Take it easy, everybody.” And, “Is that you, Edna?”
    “Is that you, Virgil Flowers?”
    Virgil called back, “Yes. It’s me. Are you okay?”
    “I’m okay. My mom wants you to come in. Only you. If anybody else comes in . . . she’s got a gun.”
    “What about your grandpa?” Virgil called.
    “He’s here, sitting in his chair. Rooney’s here, too.”
    Virgil looked at Schickel, and shrugged. “Give me the radio,” he said.
    “You’re really going in?”
    “Yeah.” He called back to Edna, “I’ll be there in just a minute. I’ve got to get my men spaced around. I’ll be right there.”
    He climbed back in the truck, with Schickel’s radio, got a roll of duct tape out of his console, and taped the broadcast button down. “I’ll leave the radio on, much as I can. You guys listen close; I don’t know how much you hear. If you hear a shot, come in and get me.”
    He stepped away from his truck and Jenkins called, “You got your gun?”
    That made him smile, and he called back, “Yeah, this time.”
    And he called to Edna, “I’m coming in, honey.”

23
    V irgil didn’t know what to expect when he went in, but he went in behind the muzzle of his pistol. At the top of the entry stairs, he saw Edna looking at him from the doorway to the living room. She was dressed from head to foot in a dress that was either dark blue or dark gray, and fell in one line from her neck. She said, “There’s nobody to shoot.”
    Virgil said, “Why don’t you come around behind me?”
    She shook her head and said, “No, we’re all in here,” and she stepped away into the living room. Virgil expected something weird, in keeping with the rest of the night. Instead of following, he edged backward across the kitchen to the mudroom, made sure there was nobody there, who’d be behind him.
    Edna came to the doorway again and watched him as he crossed the kitchen—somebody had been frying chicken, but a while ago, without cleaning up, and he could smell the cold grease. He paused at the dining room door, then stepped through: it was empty, but another arch at the end of the