Dark of the Moon

don’t think Maggie knew, for sure. She was running wild.”
    “You never knew?”
    “No…and after she died, there was no way to find out. Sure as heck weren’t no men coming around to ask about it.”
    “And the baby…?”
    “Was adopted. We didn’t have any money, my husband was sick all the time—he was a roofer, he hurt his back,” she said, sorry for herself. “I was working all the time, so, it seemed like the best thing to do was to let the baby go.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah. You know, to a good family.”

22
    V IRGIL GRABBED a McDonald’s meal on the way back to Bluestem, ten minutes off the highway and back on, the car smelling like Quarter Pounders with Cheese and fries, driving into the dying light; thinking, as he drove, that Williamson’s past had not been quite what he’d expected. You could take the mad-dog view of things—that Williamson was nuts, driven that way by parental neglect and, possibly, actual abuse. And that as sorry a tale as that might be, a mad dog is still a mad dog.
    You could just as easily take another view: orphaned kid, abused by adoptive parents, pushed onto the streets when he was still a kid—and somehow, he rights himself, goes in the Army, learns a trade, and becomes a respectable citizen.
    Virgil, who basically had a kindly heart, preferred the second story. But his cop brain said, a mad dog is still a mad dog, even if it’s not the dog’s fault.
     
    H E WAS in Bluestem a little before eleven o’clock. Larry Jensen’s house was lit up like a Christmas tree, and when he got out of his truck, on the driveway, Virgil could feel an impact through his feet, as though somebody were shooting a big gun in Jensen’s basement, but not quite like a gun.
    He rang the bell, and a moment later, Jensen’s wife came to the door. She was a small woman, sweaty, very pregnant. She turned on the porch light and Virgil felt the impact again, whatever it was. She peered out through the window in the door, then opened it and said, “You’re Virgil.”
    “Yes. Is Larry here?”
    “He’s down breaking up the basement,” she said. “What’s going on?”
     
    J ENSEN WAS BREAKING UP the basement floor with a sledgehammer, working bare chested. The basement had been finished sometime long before, and now the walls had been stripped of the Sheetrock, showing the bare studs and long streaks of old PL200, with chunks of drywall still stuck to it.
    Virgil came down the steps just as Jensen came through a swing, the hammer cracking into the concrete, and then he turned and his eyes narrowed when he saw Virgil. He wiped his head and asked, “What’s up?”
    “Putting in a toilet, huh?”
    “Gonna have one more kid,” he said, propping the hammer against the basement wall. “That’ll be three girls and a boy, and we sure as shit won’t get along with one bathroom…So what’re you doing?”
    “Gotta ask you a question, Larry. If Stryker’s popularity takes a fall…are you running for sheriff?”
    Jensen looked at him for a moment, not answering, then, “Why would you want to know?”
    “Larry, believe me…Just answer the question, okay?”
    Jensen wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand, wiped his hand on his jeans, and said, “Naw. I’m happy like I am. I’ll get my twenty-five when I’m forty-five, and then maybe try something new. Double-dip.”
    “The power doesn’t appeal to you,” Virgil said.
    Jensen shook his head: “What’re you up to, Virgil? And no, it doesn’t appeal to me.”
    “Come on. Get your jacket: we gotta make a call.”
    “It’s midnight, Virgil. Does Jim know about this?”
    “Get your jacket, Larry. We gotta make a call, and I’m not going alone. I need a witness. And Margo Carr—call her up, too. Jim doesn’t know about it, because it would embarrass him to know about it. Officially.”
    Jensen put his hands on his hips: “Well, shit.”
    “Larry…”
     
    T HEY GOT a key from the evidence locker and rode out to the Schmidt house in silence. “This worries me; I really don’t like it,” Jensen said.
    “I don’t like it either,” Virgil said.
    The Schmidt house was dark and silent, an air of gloom gripping it like a glove. They parked under the yard light, and Jensen led the way across the yard, joked, “You’re not afraid of ghosts, are you?”
    “No. Not that I’d mess around with one, if I had the chance,” Virgil said.
     
    I NSIDE, THEY BROUGHT the computer up. Virgil went to the inbox, checked