Velocity

and put them away.
    In the bathroom, he peeled the bandage off his forehead. Each hook had torn him twice. The six punctures looked red and raw.
    Gently he washed the wounds, then reapplied alcohol, hydrogen peroxide, and Neosporin. He fashioned a fresh bandage.
    His brow was cool to the touch. If the hook had been dirty, an infection might not be prevented by his precautions, especially if the points and barbs had scored the bone.
    He was safe from tetanus. Four years previously, renovating the garage to accommodate a woodworking shop, he’d sustained a deep cut in his left hand, from a hinge that corrosion had made brittle and sharp. He’d gotten a booster shot of DPT vaccine. Tetanus didn’t worry him. He would not die of tetanus.
    Neither would he die of infected hook wounds. This was a false worry to give his mind a rest from real and greater threats.
    In the kitchen, he peeled the note off the refrigerator. He wadded it in his fist and took it to the waste can.
    Instead of throwing the note away, he smoothed it on the table and read it. Stay home this morning. An associate of mine will come to see you at 11:00. Wait for him on the front porch. If you don’t stay home, I will kill a child. If you inform the police, I will kill a child. You seem so angry. Have I not extended to you the hand of friendship? Yes, I have. Associate. The word troubled Billy. He did not like that word at all.
    In rare cases, homicidal sociopaths worked in pairs. The cops called them kill buddies. The Hillside Strangler in Los Angeles had proved to be a pair of cousins. The D.C. Sniper had been two men.
    The Manson Family numbered more than two.
    A simple bartender might rationally hope to get the best of one ruthless psychopath. Not two.
    Billy did not consider going to the police. The freak had twice proved his sincerity; if disobeyed, he would kill a child.
    In this instance, at least, a choice was open to him that did not entail selecting anyone for death.
    Although the first four lines of the note were straightforward, the meaning of the last two lines could not be easily interpreted. Have I not extended to you the hand of friendship?
    The mockery was evident. Billy also detected a taunting quality suggesting that information had been offered here that would prove helpful to him if only he could understand it.
    Rereading the message six times—eight, even ten—did not bring clarity. Only frustration.
    With this note, Billy had evidence again. Although it did not amount to much and would not itself impress the police, he intended to keep it safe.
    In the living room, he surveyed the book collection. In recent years, it had been nothing to him except something to be dusted.
    He selected In Our Time. He tucked the killer’s note between the copyright page and the dedication page, and he returned the volume to the shelf.
    He thought of Lanny Olsen sitting dead in an armchair with an adventure novel in his lap.
    In the bedroom, he fetched the .38 Smith and Wesson from under the pillow.
    As he handled the revolver, he remembered how it felt when it discharged. The barrel wanted to rake up. The backstrap hardened against the meat of the palm, and the recoil traveled the bones of the hand and arm, seeming to churn the marrow as a school of fish churned water.
    In a dresser drawer was an open box of ammunition. He put three spare cartridges in each of the front pockets of his chinos.
    That seemed to be enough insurance. Whatever might be coming, it would not be a war. It would be violent and vicious, but brief.
    He smoothed the night out of the bedclothes. Although he didn’t use a spread, he plumped the pillows and tucked in the sheets so they were as taut as a drum skin.
    When he picked up the gun from the nightstand, he remembered not only the recoil but also what it felt like to kill a man.
     
     
     

Chapter 19
     
    Jackie O’Hara answered his cell phone with a line he sometimes used when he worked behind the bar. “What can I do ya for?”
    “Boss, it’s Billy.”
    “Hey, Billy, you know what they were talking about in the tavern last night?”
    “Sports?”
    “The hell they were. We’re not a damn sports bar.”
    Looking out a kitchen window toward the lawn from which the deer had vanished, Billy said, “Sorry.”
    “The guys in sports bars—the drinking doesn’t mean anything to them.”
    “It’s just a way to get high.”
    “That’s right. They’d as soon smoke a little pot or even get a Starbucks buzz.