Dead to the World

small dining room: a house that could be duplicated any number of times in any town in America.
    The house was quite tidy. Jason had never lived like a pig, though sometimes he acted like one. Even the king-size bed that almost filled the biggest bedroom was more-or-less pulled straight, though I could see the sheets were black and shiny. They were supposed to look like silk, but I was sure they were some artificial blend. Too slithery for me; I liked percale.
    “No evidence of any struggle,” the detective pointed out.
    “While I’m here, I’m just going to get something,” I told him, going over to the gun cabinet that had been my dad’s. It was locked, so I checked my key ring again. Yes, I had a key for that, too, and I remembered some long story Jason had told me about why I needed one—in case he was out hunting and he needed another rifle, or something. As if I’d drop everything and run to fetch another rifle for him!
    Well, I might, if I wasn’t due at work, or something.
    All Jason’s rifles, and my father’s, were in the gun cabinet—all the requisite ammunition, too.
    “All present?” The detective was shifting around impatiently in the doorway to the dining room.
    “Yes. I’m just going to take one of them home with me.”
    “You expecting trouble at your place?” Beck looked interested for the first time.
    “If Jason is gone, who knows what it means?” I said, hoping that was ambiguous enough. Beck had a very low opinion of my intelligence, anyway, despite the fact that he feared me. Jason had said he would bring me the shotgun, and I knew I would feel the better for having it. So I got out the Benelli and found its shells. Jason had very carefully taught me how to load and fire the shotgun, which was his pride and joy. There were two different boxes of shells.
    “Which?” I asked Detective Beck.
    “Wow, a Benelli.” He took time out to be impressed with gun. “Twelve-gauge, huh? Me, I’d take the turkey loads,” he advised. “Those target loads don’t have as much stopping power.”
    I popped the box he indicated into my pocket.
    I carried the shotgun out to my car, Beck trailing on my heels.
    “You have to lock the shotgun in your trunk and the shells in the car,” the detective informed me. I did exactly what he said, even putting the shells in the glove compartment, and then I turned to face him. He would be glad to be out of my sight, and I didn’t think he would look for Jason with any enthusiasm.
    “Did you check around back?” I asked.
    “I had just gotten here when you pulled up.”
    I jerked my head in the direction of the pond behind the house, and we circled around to the rear. My brother, aided by Hoyt Fortenberry, had put in a large deck outside the back door maybe two years ago. He’d arranged some nice outdoor furniture he’d gotten on end-of-season sale at Wal-Mart. Jason had even put an ashtray on the wrought-iron table for his friends who went outside to smoke. Someone had used it. Hoyt smoked, I recalled. There was nothing else interesting on the deck.
    The ground sloped down from the deck to the pond. While Alcee Beck checked the back door, I looked down to the pier my father had built, and I thought I could see a smear on the wood. Something in me crumpled at the sight, and I must have made a noise. Alcee came to stand by me, and I said, “Look at the pier.”
    He went on point, just like a setter. He said, “Stay where you are,” in an unmistakably official voice. He moved carefully, looking down at the ground around his feet before he took each step. I felt like an hour passed before Alcee finally reached the pier. He squatted down on the sun-bleached boards to take a close look. He focused a little to the right of the smear, evaluating something I couldn’t see, something I couldn’t even make out in his mind. But then he wondered what kind of work boots my brother wore; that came in clear.
    “Caterpillars,” I called. The fear built up in me till I felt I was vibrating with the intensity of it. Jason was all I had.
    And I realized I’d made a mistake I hadn’t done in years: I’d answered a question before it had been asked out loud. I clapped a hand over my mouth and saw the whites of Beck’s eyes. He wanted away from me. And he was thinking maybe Jason was in the pond, dead. He was speculating that Jason had fallen and knocked his head against the pier, and then slid into the water. But there was a puzzling print. . .