Velocity

still tending bar?”
    “There’s always a need. It’s the third oldest profession.”
    “What’s second, after whores?” Palmer asked.
    “Politicians.”
    The sheriff seemed to be amused. “Are you writing these days?”
    “A little,” Billy lied.
    One of his published short stories had featured a character who was a thinly veiled portrait of John Palmer.
    “Doing some research for your writing?” Palmer asked.
    From where the sheriff sat, he had a direct view of the computer at which Billy had been working, although not of its screen.
    Maybe Palmer had a way of finding out what Billy had been doing at the work station. A public computer might keep a record of a user’s keystrokes.
    No. Probably not. Besides, there were privacy laws.
    “Yeah,” Billy said. “Some research.”
    “Deputy of mine saw you parking in front of Harry Avarkian’s office.”
    Billy said nothing.
    “Three minutes after you left Harry’s, the time on your parking meter ran out.”
    That might be true.
    Palmer said, “I put two quarters in for you.”
    “Thanks.”
    “The window’s busted out of your driver’s door.”
    “A little accident,” Billy said.
    “It’s not a code violation, but you ought to get it fixed.”
    “I’ve got an appointment on Friday,” Billy lied.
    “This doesn’t bother you, does it?” the sheriff asked.
    “What?”
    “You and me talking like this.” Palmer surveyed the library. No one was close to them. “Just the two of us.”
    “It doesn’t bother me,” Billy said.
    He had every right and reason to walk away. Instead he stayed, determined not to give even the appearance of intimidation.
    Twenty years ago, as a fourteen-year-old boy, Billy Wiles had endured interrogations conducted in such a way that they should have destroyed John Palmer’s law-enforcement career.
    Instead, Palmer had been promoted from lieutenant to captain, later to chief. Eventually he had campaigned for the office of sheriff and had been elected. Twice.
    Harry Avarkian had a succinct explanation for Palmer’s ascent and claimed that he had heard it from deputies in the department: Shit floats.
    “How’s Miss Mandel these days?” Palmer asked.
    “The same.”
    He wondered if Palmer knew about the 911 call. Napolitino and Sobieski had no reason to file a report on it, especially since it had been a false alarm.
    Besides, the two sergeants worked out of the St. Helena substation. While Sheriff Palmer toured throughout his jurisdiction, his office was here in the county seat.
    “What a sad thing that was,” Palmer said.
    Billy did not reply.
    “At least for the rest of her life, she’ll get the best care, with all that money.”
    “She’s going to get well. She’ll come out of it.”
    “Do you really think so?”
    “Yes.”
    “All that money—I hope you’re right.”
    “I am.”
    “She ought to have a chance to enjoy all that money.”
    Stone-faced, Billy gave no slightest sign that he understood Palmer’s pointed implication.
    Yawning, stretching, so relaxed and casual in his chair, Palmer probably saw himself as a cat toying with a mouse. “Well, people are going to be happy to hear that you’re not burnt out, that you’re writing a little.”
    “What people?”
    “People who like your writing, of course.”
    “Do you know any of them?”
    Palmer shrugged. “I don’t move in those circles. But I’m pretty sure about one thing…”
    Because the sheriff wanted to be asked What?, Billy didn’t ask.
    Off Billy’s silence, Palmer said, “I’m pretty sure your mom and dad would be so proud.”
    Billy walked away from him and out of the library.
    After the air conditioning, the summer heat assaulted him. He felt as though he were suffocating when he inhaled, as if strangling when he exhaled. Or maybe it wasn’t the heat, but the past.
     
     
     

Chapter 38
     
    Speeding north on Route 29, out of sun and into sun, with the famous and fertile valley narrowing imperceptibly at first and then perceptibly, Billy worried about protecting Barbara.
    The trust fund could hire around-the-clock security for the duration, until Billy found the freak or until the freak finished him. Money was no issue.
    But this wasn’t a big city. The phone book didn’t contain page after page of ads for private-security firms.
    Explaining to the guards why they were needed would be risky. The whole truth would tie Billy to three murders for which he was most likely being set up to take the fall.
    If he