Shallow Graves

as if the hunter had gotten tired of taking lives. Or at least of displaying his kills. Pellam, squinting, saw a number of rifles in the cases. Several looked like they were .30 caliber and at least two of them had telescopic sights.
    Pellam lifted his hands up to the window and tested it. Unlocked. He stood completely still for a moment, his face millimeters away from the rippled, old-fashioned glass. Then he eased up the window, which moved slowly. He opened it about two feet. A hard climb, though, he thought—considering his bruised thigh, his damaged joints.
    It was then that he glanced inside and noticed something odd.
    What’s wrong with this picture?
    The second gun cabinet. The third space from the left.
    Empty.
    Thinking: If a man was as organized as Ambler seemed to be and he didn’t have enough guns to fill a cabinet, he’d probably keep the ones he did have centered in the rack. Which meant—
    “Don’t move,” the man said.
    The jump was involuntary, though the cold touch of the shotgun barrel at his head brought the movement under control real fast.
    The voice was that of a middle-aged man. He asked, “You have a gun?”
    “Yes.”
    “Hand it to me.”
    If he was impressed with the Colt, the man didn’t say so. He slipped it into his pocket and, leaving the Remington over-under at Pellam’s neck like a nesting kitten, said, “Let’s go inside.”

Chapter 20
    PELLAM MOVED BACK and forth slowly in the bentwood rocker he’d been invited toward by the blunt 12-gauge trap gun. (Pellam hated shotguns. Shotguns were really loud.)
    The man—he was Wex Ambler, according to his muttered introduction—studied Pellam carefully. Pellam gazed back. It was an odd contrast—hateful dark eyes and an L.L. Bean Sunday gardener’s outfit, complete with bright green Izod shirt.
    “What were you doing?” Ambler asked.
    “Thinking of shooting a movie here. I was—”
    “You know I could shoot you now. Blow your head clean off and all the sheriff’d do is tell me how sorry he was I lost a window and bloodied my floor.”
    Pellam saw the stillness in Ambler’s eyes and knew this was a man who could easily kill.
    He said, “I wanted to see if you were really the man who was trying to send me to Attica for ten years.”
    Ambler said, “I didn’t want you to go to prison. I wanted you to leave town. Get the hell out and not come back. You chose not to play by the rules.”
    “You could’ve asked.”
    “You were asked. Several times.”
    Goodbye  . . .
    Ambler’s eyes flashed. “You people . . . We have a decent town and you think you can come here from Hollywood, and make your movies, but you’re laughing at us. Behind our backs you’re laughing. I hate you people.”
    Pellam was laughing. “Bullshit. I came to town to rent a few houses and stores for a couple of weeks. That’s all we wanted. My friend gets killed and I get beat up and somebody plants drugs on me. . . .”
    Ambler shook his head, whipping Pellam’s words off like they were gnats.
    Pellam’s eyes measured distances, noticing that the shotgun’s safety was on, that Ambler’s finger was outside the trigger guard, that the muzzle was aimed sixty or seventy degrees away from him. Noticing a carving set on the counter, antler handled, a burnished, well-honed blade on the knife. Even the serving fork looked vicious.
    “Sin city,” Ambler said.
    Pellam rocked forward. His legs tensed, thinking he could probably make it. He wondered what it was like to stab someone. “It’s just a business,” Pellam said.
    Ambler didn’t hear him. “People here go to church, they have children, they teach them Christian values, they work hard, they—”
    Pellam thought: Make millions selling smack.
    “—don’t need your kind of influence.”
    Outside influence. So it was a script. Moorhouse and Ambler and the sheriff all had the same script and the lines were terrible. They’d all be in on it, of course. This man with a million-dollar house was probably the ringleader. He’d arranged to bring thedrugs in from someplace out of the country. Then he’d distribute them in small towns like this. An untapped market. Moorhouse, Tom the sheriff and the pastel-sunglassed deputies were his enforcers.
    Ambler was lecturing. Sin, providence, promises unkept.
    The words didn’t quite harmonize with the fact the man had killed Marty. Or was seeding God-fearing Dutchess County with exotic drugs. (But Pellam recalled a former