Rough Country

same woman who shot McDill . . . or the same person anyway. The same gun. What’s the connection?”
    “Beats me,” she said. “We all live in the same town. But Barbara . . . Everybody else involved in this, like Margery and McDill and this Constance woman and Wendy and even Zoe, are worker-types, and they’re gay. Jan is a housewife who never wanted to work, but she had to, because her husband got hurt. I can’t think of anything she really has in common with the others. She goes to the First Baptist Church, and she helps organize food-shelf drives, and I don’t think any of the other ones go to any church. Not one of them.”
    “Huh.” He looked at her, and she brushed hair out of her eyes.
    “What?” she asked.
    “Do you have a gun?”
    “You think I shot them?” She was incredulous.
    “No, no, of course not. I was thinking, you’re out here alone, your sister is seen hanging around with a cop, and her house gets broken into,” Virgil said. “Now the cop investigating the murders is hanging around you. . . . I don’t want you to be a target. If you already are, I’d hope you’d be able to defend yourself.”
    “How do you defend yourself? He shoots you in the back when you’re riding your bike, or when you’re sitting in a canoe, bird-watching. He’s a sneak.”
    Virgil got up, rinsed his hands and face in the kitchen sink, and dried himself with a paper towel, and said, “The Washington shooting could be the critical one that breaks this, because it’ll bring light from an entirely different direction. Unless he’s a nut . . .”
    He went out and dropped on the couch, and she brought her beer along and dropped next to him, and he put his arm around her shoulders and she said, “It’s a little scary, all right.”
    “It’s a little scary when you think that somebody broke into Zoe’s place.”
    “Well, I do have a gun, a shotgun, a twenty-gauge that Joe bought me,” she said. “It’s under my bed. My windows are pretty good—I was thinking I could stack some beer cans behind the doors, and if they fall over . . .”
    “Lock yourself in the bedroom with your cell phone and scream for help,” Virgil said.
    “Mmm,” she said.
    Virgil stroked her hair and she leaned closer, and he kissed her; and events moved along, as they do, and at some point down the line, he popped the catch on her brassiere and slipped his hands around her breasts. They were, in the whole world of breasts, on the smaller side, but that was fine with Virgil. He’d seen more than one of his mother’s friends go from 38C to 38-Long, and that was not a problem with the slender ones. . . .
    “Mmmm.”
    They were both breathing hard, and he was in the precise process of squeezing her left nipple between his thumb and forefinger, like picking a blueberry, and she had a hand on his belt buckle, when his cell phone went off.
    She jumped and said, “Virgil . . . For God’s sakes, you left your phone on?”
    The curse of being a cop, and not the first time this had happened to him. He groaned and thought about letting it go, but curiosity got the better of him and he slipped it out. The sheriff. He groaned again.
    “Who is it?”
    “The sheriff,” he said.
    “Well . . . answer it. Better than wondering what he wants,” Sig said.
    Virgil clicked up the phone and Sanders asked, “Where are you?”
    “Just got some gas, I’m gonna turn in,” Virgil lied.
    “Head over to the hospital,” Sanders said. “One of my guys called two minutes ago and said Jan Washington woke up, and she’s talking. You need to talk to her—just in case.”
    “In case . . .”
    “She dies,” Sanders said.
    “Of course,” Virgil said.
    He hung up and looked at Signy for a minute, and said, “I can’t help it.”
    He told her what happened and she stood up and said, “Then you really do have to go. Come on. Get up.”
    They went to the door, and she was tangled up in her shirt and brassiere, and Virgil stopped to kiss her good-bye and she said, “I’m a mess,” and she stopped fighting the tangle of clothing and simply took it off, and Virgil asked, “Aw, man, did you have to do that?” and he crowded her into the corner between the door and the wall, and they were in there for a minute or so and then she pushed away, laughing, and said, “Take a good look, buster, and get out of here.”
    He got out.
    Preceded by what he believed to be the most substantial erection he’d had since junior high.

13
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