Velocity

was a friend of Lanny Olsen. She worked for the Napa County Sheriff’s Department. She came into the tavern now and then.
    Before Billy had been able to decide what to do about Lanny’s body, it must have been found.
    The instant that he realized he hadn’t responded to her, Rosalyn said probingly, “Are you all right?”
    “Me? I’m fine. Doin’ okay. This heat’s making me crazy, though.”
    “Is something wrong there?”
    He flashed on a mental image of Cottle’s corpse in the bathroom, and guilt rolled his mind into angles of disorientation. “Wrong? No. Why would there be?”
    “Did you just call here and hang up without saying anything?” Clouds of mystification thickened for a moment, then abruptly evaporated. For a moment he had forgotten what Rosalyn did in the sheriff’s department. She was a 911 operator.
    The name and address of every 911 caller appeared on her monitor as soon as she picked up the phone at her end.
    “That was just—what?—was that even a minute ago?” he asked, thinking fast, or trying to.
    “A minute ten now,” Rosalyn said. “Did you—”
    “What I did,” he said, “is I keyed in 911 when I meant to call information.”
    “You meant to call 411?”
    “I meant to call 411, but I pressed 911. I realized right away what I’d done, so I hung up.”
    The freak was still in the house. The freak had called 911. Why he had done this, what he hoped to achieve, Billy couldn’t figure, at least not under this pressure.
    “Why didn’t you stay on the line,” Rosalyn Chan asked, “and tell me the call was made in error?”
    “I realized my mistake right away, I hung up so fast, I didn’t think a connection had been made yet. That was stupid. I’m sorry, Rosalyn. I was calling 411.”
    “So you’re all right?”
    “I’m all right. It’s just this crazy heat.”
    “Don’t you have air conditioning?”
    “I have it, but it conked out.”
    “That sucks.”
    “Totally.”
    The revolver lay on the desk. Billy picked it up. The freak was in the house.
    “Hey, maybe I’ll stop in the tavern around five,” she said.
    “Well, I won’t be there. I’m feeling sort of punky, so I called in sick.”
    “I thought you said you were fine.”
    So easy to trip himself up. He needed to look for the intruder, but he needed to sound right to Rosalyn.
    “I am fine. I’m okay. Nothing serious. Just a little stomach thing. Maybe it’s a summer cold. I’m taking that nasal gel stuff.”
    “What stuff?”
    “You know, that zinc gel, you squeeze it up your nose, it knocks the cold right out of you.”
    She said, “I think I heard about that.”
    “It’s good. It works. Jackie O’Hara put me on to it. You should keep some on hand.”
    “So everything’s okay there?” she asked.
    “Except for the heat and me feeling punky, but you can’t do much about that. Nine-one-one can’t fix a cold or an air conditioner. I’m sorry, Rosalyn. I feel like an idiot.”
    “It’s no big deal. Half the calls we get aren’t emergencies.”
    “They aren’t?”
    “People call, their cat’s in a tree, the neighbors are having a noisy party, things like that.”
    “That makes me feel better. At least I’m not the biggest idiot on the block.”
    “Just take care of yourself, Billy.”
    “I will. You too. You take care of yourself.”
    “Bye,” she said.
    He put down the phone and rose from his chair.
    While Billy had been in the bathroom with the corpse, the freak had come back into the house. Or maybe he had already been inside, hiding in a closet or somewhere that Billy hadn’t checked.
    The guy had balls. Big brass ones. He knew about the .38, but he came back into the house and he called 911 while Billy was taking the vinyl cover off the computer.
    The freak might still be here. Doing what? Doing something.
    Billy crossed the study to the door, which he had left open. He went through fast, two hands on the revolver, sweeping it left, then right.
    The freak wasn’t in the hall. He was somewhere.
     
     
     

Chapter 27
     
    Although Billy Wiles wasn’t wearing his wristwatch, he knew that time was running out as fast as water through a sieve.
    In the bedroom, he slid aside one of the closet doors. No one.
    The space under the bed was too tight. No one would choose to hide under there because squirming out quickly wasn’t possible; that hiding place would be a trap. Besides, no overhanging spread curtained that low space.
    Looking under the bed would be a waste