Rough Country

said. “Now tell me the truth: have you lost him?”
    “Temporarily,” Virgil said.
    She said, “Oh my God, no,” and he regretted calling.
    “We don’t know that anything happened,” he said.
    “But you think that, or you wouldn’t have called,” she snapped. “Don’t lie to me, young man.”
    “We’d like to find him,” Virgil conceded.
    “You should call his ex-wife. Her name is Irma Windrow, and she still works at the Spodee-Odee as the bookkeeper. They’re very close,” she said.
     
     
     
    VIRGIL DID THAT.
    “We’re trying to get in touch about this, uh, contract he was working out with Wendy Ashbach,” Virgil said.
    “Haven’t heard a thing—he usually calls around ten o’clock. It’s past that, so, you know, he doesn’t always call . . .”
    She knew nothing—but Windrow hadn’t called in.
    Virgil’s annoyance was shifting to alarm.
     
     
     
    THE SHERIFF CALLED BACK. “We got the tag number from the rental place, and did a quick run-through in town, didn’t find him. We’re gonna spread out. What’re you doing?”
    “I’m going out to Ashbach’s place. That’s where he was before he disappeared—this whole damned thing has to do with the Ashbachs. I don’t know which one, but it’s one of them.”
    “Where you at?”
    “Just going past the Arby’s.”
    “Pull in there, at Arby’s. If you’re going out to Ashbach’s. I’m going to send a couple guys along with you.”
     
     
     
    VIRGIL PULLED IN, left the motor running, and three or four minutes later, a sheriff’s car pulled in and he got out to talk.
    The two cops were called Ben and Dan, both large, beefy guys with blue eyes and butt-crack chins, and Virgil said, “It’s my personal opinion that one of the Ashbachs is involved in all this. I want to keep everything calm when we go in there, because this shooter knows how to use a weapon and he’s crazy. Okay? Got your vests? When we get there, I want you to behave like it was a ‘shots heard’ situation. Don’t get right next to each other so he could spray you. Let me go in, while you stay back. You got a rifle? Lay the rifle flat on the backseat and when you get out, open a back door and stand behind it, just in case.”
     
     
     
    WHEN HE FINISHED the briefing, and thought Ben and Dan understood the problem, he led the way through the dark to Slibe’s. The farther in they got, the more the dark seemed to close down on them, like India ink spilling across the sky, and the more the trees seemed to hang down low over the road; and when they got on the gravel track, the narrower the road seemed to get, and the shorter the headlight beams, like the lead-in to a horror movie.
    They went past the red mailbox that marked the last house before Slibe’s, saw lights in a garage and what was probably the kitchen, and then they were at the end of the road. Slibe’s house was dark, though an outdoor light cast a pink glow over the yard. Virgil could see a light in the kennel, up toward the peak of the roof, and a couple of lights in Wendy’s double-wide. Two cars were parked outside the double-wide, and Slibe’s truck was parked in front of his house.
    Virgil tapped the brakes three or four times to tell the deputies that they’d arrived, then turned past the no trespassing sign, rolled by the sprawling garden, into the yard.
     
     
     
    VIRGIL WENT TO THE DOUBLE-WIDE , lights trailing across the windows. He saw a curtain move as he got out of the truck, and a flash of Wendy’s face, and then the door popped open and Wendy, with Berni behind her, asked, “Did you find him?”
    “No.” He was aware of the two deputies lounging behind their car. Good.
    “Did he go back to Iowa?” Berni asked, over Wendy’s shoulder.
    “His plane’s still at the airport,” Virgil said. He looked around and then asked Wendy, “Where’s your old man? And your brother?”
    “Dad’s down at the house, the Deuce, I don’t know—but he was here earlier. He didn’t have anything to do with this.”
    A door slammed on Slibe’s house and Virgil turned that way and saw Slibe coming off the porch, and he glanced at the deputies—one of them nodded and said something to the other, in a low voice.
    Wendy said, “Berni told us about you beating her up this afternoon.”
    Slibe came up and asked, “What the hell’s going on?”
    Virgil said, “Jud Windrow’s gone missing.”
    “What’s that got to do with us?”
    The question was too sharp and too quick,