Point Blank

pitcher on the high-school team?”
    “Sorry, Rob, I didn’t, but I sure intended to.” Not that Rob really cared whether he had, Dix thought as Rob rushed on. “The thing is, Ruth, I’m only a sophomore. Billy Caruthers started last year as a junior, and he’s totally pissed the coach picked me.”
    Dix gave his son a long look.
    Rob cleared his throat. “Ah, Dad, everyone says it. Okay, Billy Caruthers was being a jerk—”
    Dix said, “Rob, remember how your mom once washed out your mouth with soap? That real strong soap that could peel the skin right off your hands?”
    Rob stared down at his plate. “Yeah, I remember. It burned off all my nose hair.”
    “You got the soap twice, Rob,” Rafe said, poking his brother’s arm.
    “You should have, too,” Rob said, and lifted his fist toward his brother. Dix said, “Boys?” in a quiet voice, and they stopped dead in their tracks. “Good. Rob, finish it up now.”
    “Okay, he was so mad he looked like he was gonna burst.”
    Dix gave him a thumbs-up. “I’ll give that a pass.”
    Ruth raised her glass. “Here’s to the next Derek Lowe.”
    “Hear! Hear!” Dix drank down the rest of his tea. “You guys ready for some bread pudding?”
    Ruth perked up. “Bread pudding? When did you have time to make that, Dix?”
    Rafe snickered. “Nah, Dad didn’t make it, it was Ms. Denver, the physics teacher. She’s been after Dad since the beginning of the school year. She’s a really good cook, so Rob and I don’t mind except—”
    “That’s enough, Rafe.”
    Rafe subsided, slouching back in his chair.
    Rob said, “Dad, you are going to catch the killers, aren’t you?”
    Dix looked at his eldest son. “What do you think?”
    Rob didn’t hesitate. “I told the kids you’d have them in jail by Tuesday.”
    “Well, that’s a motivator,” Dix said, with a rueful glance at Ruth. Ruth leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “I agree with you, Rob. I’m thinking Tuesday is about right. But you and Rafe both know it’s not quite that easy.”
    “I’m thinking Monday, myself,” Dix said, and folded his arms over his chest. Ruth thought the boys would burst with pride at this macho display. Rob said, “Dude! Dad, we’re not kids. You can talk stuff over with us, really. Everyone at school is talking about Ms. Rafferty being killed in her bed, about how you found that student buried in Winkel’s Cave.” He paused for a moment and cleared his throat, but his voice was unsteady. “And about Mr. McGuffey. Oh man, that was really bad.”
    Dix’s own voice wasn’t all that steady, either. “Walt was a fine man. I really liked him.”
    Rafe said to Ruth, his voice still quavering, “Mom always liked Mr. McGuffey. Last Thanksgiving he said Dad’s turkey was as good as Mom’s, but he couldn’t do stuffing worth a damn. I told him you couldn’t find Mom’s recipe.”
    “I’ll give you one, Dix,” Ruth said, knowing they were skating on very thin ice. The boys seemed both hyper and scared, and trying not to show either. “Corn bread with water chestnuts and cranberries.”
    “I like water chestnuts,” Rafe said. “But I like lots of sausage in my dressing, too.”
    Ruth beamed when Rob said, “Maybe we can try it your way, too, Ruth.”
    DIX’S DOORBELL RANG not long after the boys went to bed.
    “You missed a great corn-on-the-cob gross-out,” Dix said by way of a greeting.
    “Let me get your coats,” Ruth said, peeling off Sherlock’s leather jacket. She paused, then took a step back. “What’s wrong, guys? What happened?”
    “Sorry,” Savich said shortly. “Lots on our minds, no excuse.”
    He and Sherlock followed Dix into the living room. Savich held up his hand when Ruth opened her mouth. “No, Ruth, Sean’s all right, we spoke to him earlier. He’s already decided he wants a Yorkshire terrier whose name is going to be Astro.”
    Sherlock was still acting a bit stiff, but she tried, giving Ruth and Dix big smiles. “Last summer we talked about putting down Astroturf in the backyard for a very miniature miniature golf course. I guess Sean fell in love with the word.”
    But it had nothing to do with Astroturf or anything else, Ruth thought, glancing at the two of them. She looked from one carefully expressionless face to the other, saw the strain in Dillon’s eyes, the red creeping up Sherlock’s cheeks, which meant she wanted to kick someone—Dillon?
    Dillon and Sherlock were the anchors of Ruth’s