You’re bound to judge by results.”
Jack said, “Well, now…”
Maddie shifted on the bench. Todd was staring at him.
Rob kept his voice even. “I’m sorry to offend you with questions, but we do have a homicide. A valuable member of your community has been killed. Finding out who committed this outrage will be easier if you cooperate—”
The door to the main house flew open and a thinner, shorter version of Jack Redfern burst in. “I talked to her. She knows.” He broke off, sobbing, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “She wants to kill you, Maddie. Hell, she wants to kill me.”
Todd and Jack spoke simultaneously. Todd took Leon Redfern’s arm and helped him to a seat near his brother. Jack patted his shoulder.
Rob stood still and watched them. When he glanced at Madeline Thomas, she ducked her head, breaking eye contact, as if she were ashamed. So she should be. She hadn’t thought anything would come of it. In spite of himself, Rob felt a twinge of sympathy for the stubborn woman.
When Leon seemed calmer, Rob introduced himself and shook hands. He showed Redfern the artist’s version of his son’s face and waited for the bereaved man to compose himself.
To his surprise, Todd intervened. He gave Leon a brief hug, went to the basket table, and took a big cylindrical tin and a shallow glass vessel from a drawer Rob hadn’t noticed. The tin held French cigarettes.
Rob had quit smoking when his daughter was born, and he didn’t miss the habit, but he took a cigarette when Todd passed them out. The vessel was an ashtray of the sort found in wealthy households in the 1950s. Jack lit his brother’s cigarette with an old Zippo lighter that was probably also a collector’s item. Then he passed the lighter around.
Rob managed not to cough when he lit up.
They smoked, Rob and Todd standing, the others sitting. Everyone was silent. The ashtray on Jack Redfern’s knee took on a ceremonial presence. Tobacco was a sacred plant to most Native American cultures. This ritual struck Rob as parody—as the room itself was a parody of a longhouse—but the effect was genuine.
Outside, the wind soughed. Rain spattered the plastic skylight. Smoke wreathed and hung in a blue cloud. Leon Redfern calmed and collected himself almost visibly. Maddie’s shoulders slumped. Jack smoked and patted his brother’s arm, rocking a little on the bench.
As for Rob, the short, filterless cigarette made him queasy and lightheaded, but the nicotine kicked in. He could feel his vision sharpening. His pulse accelerated.
Todd gave a cough and stubbed out his smoke. The others followed suit, Rob with relief. His mouth tasted sour.
Leon Redfern spoke to him directly. “I want you to find my son’s killer.”
“I’ll do my best. Will you tell me about Eddy?”
Leon closed his eyes, opened them, blinking. “He was smart, that kid. And he played good basketball. Made the varsity his sophomore year, shortest one on the team, but he could jump.” And he went on, halting to sob as his loss caught up with him. He persisted, dogged, as if he wanted Eddy’s life on record. He didn’t object when Rob turned on the tape machine.
Rob didn’t interrupt. He listened hard. He could tell that Todd was listening, too, and Madeline. Jack sat with one hand on his brother’s arm.
When Rob asked Leon the name of his son’s dentist, Leon told him, and broke down again.
Madeline said in a low voice, “Did you have to?”
Rob nodded.
There was a long pause. “I have a name for you.”
Their eyes locked. “The name of a looter?”
She nodded slowly. “William Meek. From Montana. Nickname Billy or Digger.” Her mouth twisted in a grimace. “He’s one of those skinheads, keeps dropping out of sight.”
“A white supremacist?”
“Aryan Nation,” Todd chimed in. “They were recruiting in the high school when I was there. The Aryans came from west-central Asia, didn’t they?”
“I believe so.”
“We used to say they
Jack said, “Well, now…”
Maddie shifted on the bench. Todd was staring at him.
Rob kept his voice even. “I’m sorry to offend you with questions, but we do have a homicide. A valuable member of your community has been killed. Finding out who committed this outrage will be easier if you cooperate—”
The door to the main house flew open and a thinner, shorter version of Jack Redfern burst in. “I talked to her. She knows.” He broke off, sobbing, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “She wants to kill you, Maddie. Hell, she wants to kill me.”
Todd and Jack spoke simultaneously. Todd took Leon Redfern’s arm and helped him to a seat near his brother. Jack patted his shoulder.
Rob stood still and watched them. When he glanced at Madeline Thomas, she ducked her head, breaking eye contact, as if she were ashamed. So she should be. She hadn’t thought anything would come of it. In spite of himself, Rob felt a twinge of sympathy for the stubborn woman.
When Leon seemed calmer, Rob introduced himself and shook hands. He showed Redfern the artist’s version of his son’s face and waited for the bereaved man to compose himself.
To his surprise, Todd intervened. He gave Leon a brief hug, went to the basket table, and took a big cylindrical tin and a shallow glass vessel from a drawer Rob hadn’t noticed. The tin held French cigarettes.
Rob had quit smoking when his daughter was born, and he didn’t miss the habit, but he took a cigarette when Todd passed them out. The vessel was an ashtray of the sort found in wealthy households in the 1950s. Jack lit his brother’s cigarette with an old Zippo lighter that was probably also a collector’s item. Then he passed the lighter around.
Rob managed not to cough when he lit up.
They smoked, Rob and Todd standing, the others sitting. Everyone was silent. The ashtray on Jack Redfern’s knee took on a ceremonial presence. Tobacco was a sacred plant to most Native American cultures. This ritual struck Rob as parody—as the room itself was a parody of a longhouse—but the effect was genuine.
Outside, the wind soughed. Rain spattered the plastic skylight. Smoke wreathed and hung in a blue cloud. Leon Redfern calmed and collected himself almost visibly. Maddie’s shoulders slumped. Jack smoked and patted his brother’s arm, rocking a little on the bench.
As for Rob, the short, filterless cigarette made him queasy and lightheaded, but the nicotine kicked in. He could feel his vision sharpening. His pulse accelerated.
Todd gave a cough and stubbed out his smoke. The others followed suit, Rob with relief. His mouth tasted sour.
Leon Redfern spoke to him directly. “I want you to find my son’s killer.”
“I’ll do my best. Will you tell me about Eddy?”
Leon closed his eyes, opened them, blinking. “He was smart, that kid. And he played good basketball. Made the varsity his sophomore year, shortest one on the team, but he could jump.” And he went on, halting to sob as his loss caught up with him. He persisted, dogged, as if he wanted Eddy’s life on record. He didn’t object when Rob turned on the tape machine.
Rob didn’t interrupt. He listened hard. He could tell that Todd was listening, too, and Madeline. Jack sat with one hand on his brother’s arm.
When Rob asked Leon the name of his son’s dentist, Leon told him, and broke down again.
Madeline said in a low voice, “Did you have to?”
Rob nodded.
There was a long pause. “I have a name for you.”
Their eyes locked. “The name of a looter?”
She nodded slowly. “William Meek. From Montana. Nickname Billy or Digger.” Her mouth twisted in a grimace. “He’s one of those skinheads, keeps dropping out of sight.”
“A white supremacist?”
“Aryan Nation,” Todd chimed in. “They were recruiting in the high school when I was there. The Aryans came from west-central Asia, didn’t they?”
“I believe so.”
“We used to say they
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