Phantoms

discovered she’d recently begun using PCP—what’s sometimes called ‘angel dust’ on the street. You were shocked. You knew that some people became maniacally violent while under the influence of PCP, so you made her show you where she kept her stash, and you destroyed it. Then you told her that if she ever used drugs around little Danny again, you’d beat her within an inch of her life.”
    Kale cleared his throat. “But she just laughed at me. She said I wasn’t a woman-beater and I shouldn’t pretend to be Mr. Macho. She said, ‘Hell, Fletch, if I kicked you in the balls, you’d thank me for livening up your day.’”
    “And that was when you broke down and cried?” Bryce asked.
    Kale said, “I just… well, I realized I didn’t have any influence with her.”
    From his window seat, Tal Whitman watched Kale’s face twist with grief—or with a reasonable facsimile. The bastard was good .
    “And when she saw you cry,” Bryce said, “that sort of brought her to her senses.”
    “Right,” Kale said. “I guess it… affected her… a big ox like me bawling like a baby. She cried, too, and she promised not to take any more PCP. We talked about the past, about what we had expected from marriage, said a lot of things maybe we should have said before, and we felt closer than we had in a couple of years. At least I felt closer. I thought she did, too. She swore she’d start cutting down on the pot.”
    Still doodling, Bryce said, “Then last Thursday you came home early from work and found your little boy, Danny, dead in the master bedroom. You heard something behind you. It was Joanna, holding a meat cleaver, the one she’d used to kill Danny.”
    “She was stoned,” Kale said. “PCP. I could see it right away. That wildness in her eyes, that animal look.”
    “She screamed at you, a lot of irrational stuff about snakes that lived inside people’s heads, about people being controlled by evil snakes. You circled away from her, and she followed. You didn’t try to take the cleaver away from her—”
    “I figured I’d be killed. I tried to talk her down.”
    “So you kept circling until you reached the nightstand where you kept a .38 automatic.”
    “I warned her to drop the cleaver. I warned her.”
    “Instead, she rushed at you with the cleaver raised. So you shot her. Once. In the chest.”
    Kale was leaning forward now, his face in his hands.
    The sheriff put down his pen. He folded his hands on his stomach and laced his fingers. “Now, Mr. Kale, I hope you can bear with me a little bit longer. Just a few more questions, and then we can all get out of here and get on with our lives.”
    Kale lowered his hands from his face. It was clear to Tal Whitman that Kale figured “getting on with our lives” meant he would be released at last. “I’m all right, Sheriff. Go ahead.”
    Bob Robine didn’t say a word.
    Slouched in his chair, looking loose and boneless, Bryce Hammond said, “While we’ve been holding you on suspicion, Mr. Kale, we’ve come up with a few questions we need to have answered, so we can set our minds to rest about this whole terrible thing. Now, some of these things may seem awful trivial to you, hardly worth my time or yours. They are little things. I admit that. The reason I’m putting you through more trouble… well, it’s because I want to get reelected next year, Mr. Kale. If my opponents catch me out on one technicality, on even one tiny little damned thing, they’ll huff and puff and blow it into a scandal; they’ll say I’m slipping or lazy or something.” Bryce grinned at Kale—actually grinned at him. Tal couldn’t believe it.
    “I understand, Sheriff,” Kale said.
    On his window seat, Tal Whitman tensed and leaned forward.
    And Bryce Hammond said, “First thing is—I was wondering why you shot your wife and then did a load of laundry before calling us to report what had happened.”
     

Chapter 8
    Barricades
     
    Severed hands. Severed heads.
    Jenny couldn’t get those gruesome images out of her mind as she hurried along the sidewalk with Lisa.
    Two blocks east of Skyline Road, on Vail Lane, the night was as still and as quietly threatening as it was everywhere else in Snowfield. The trees here were bigger than those on the main street; they blocked out most of the moonlight. The streetlamps were more widely spaced, too, and the small pools of amber light were separated by ominous lakes of darkness.
    Jenny stepped between two