her hair. The postmaster slapped her hands away. "Knock it off, Rebecca, you're only making it worse."
"Mr. Gilbert," Liam said, producing a pad and pencil. For some reason a pad and pencil always helped to focus people's attention, and this time was no exception. Gilbert fended off Rebecca once more and she retreated obediently back into a corner. He straightened in his chair and looked at Liam through thick-rimmed, thick-lensed glasses. "Mr. Gilbert," Liam repeated, "could you please tell me exactly what happened here this morning?"
Then an odd thing occurred. Like crumpled cotton under the heat of an iron, the rage smoothed out of the postmaster's face. Gilbert stiffened his spine and folded his hands on the desk before him, and when he spoke his voice was calm and his words were measured, studied, almost pontifical. The effect was somewhat ruined by the voice itself; it was thin and high-pitched, erring occasionally to a raspy squeak. "How do you do, officer," he said formally. "This is Rebecca."
The woman, short, stubby, and dark-haired, made a sort of curtsy in Liam's direction and offered him a timid smile. "Ma'am," Liam said, and inclined his head in lieu of touching the brim of his hat, which was back in his bag at the office. He'd responded to three calls in twenty-four hours, and not one of them in uniform. He was liable to be fined for it if his boss ever found out.
"Precisely what is it that you wish to know, officer?" the postmaster said.
Equally formal, in trooper mode at least endlessly patient, Liam repeated, "Could you please tell me exactly what happened here this morning?"
The postmaster frowned at his folded hands, formed them into a steeple, and looked to the ceiling for guidance. Next to Liam the mayor shifted, and the trooper said quickly, "Jim Earl, do me a favor? Call dispatch and see if there have been any other incidents of shooting this morning? Be a good idea to see if this guy's been practicing on more than one target." Jim Earl made a move toward the phone on the desk, and Liam said even more quickly, "Mr. Gilbert, is there a phone in the other office the mayor can use while we talk in here?"
The woman in the corner positively leapt forward to be of assistance, and with reluctance Jim Earl followed her from the room, casting a doubtful look over his shoulder on his way out the door. Liam closed it firmly behind him and turned once again to the postmaster, who had lowered his gaze from the ceiling and was regarding Liam over the tips of his steepled fingers, the thick lenses of his glasses enlarging his eyes to the point that they seemed to be protruding from his head. Exactly like a goldfish in a bowl, Liam thought.
"Now then, Mr. Gilbert, please tell me exactly what happened this morning."
"Certainly, officer," Gilbert replied. "I was sitting right here, at my desk. I had--"
"What time was this?"
"Oh. A few minutes after eight--we'd just opened. I was settling down to work on some of the month-end reports when I heard shouting out in the shop." He gestured behind him. "I turned to look and I saw Greg--that's Greg on the forklift--running away. I stood up, and I saw Kelly McCormick in the open doorway of the freight bay."
"The semi with the freight igloos in it wasn't backed up there at that time?"
"Almost. You see, Greg had been backing it in, in preparation for loading it. The plane leaves--"
"So Greg must have jumped down from the cab when he saw Kelly McCormick."
Gilbert didn't look as if he was accustomed to being interrupted. "Yes."
"And he ran because--?"
The postmaster's lips thinned. "He ran because he saw that son--because Mr. McCormick was carrying a rifle."
Liam looked out into the freight bay. It faced directly east. The door of the building was larger than the back of the igloo, and the morning sun poured in through the open space and formed a blinding frame of light. "You say you saw Mr. McCormick."
"Yes. Standing in the door of the freight bay."
"And he was
"Mr. Gilbert," Liam said, producing a pad and pencil. For some reason a pad and pencil always helped to focus people's attention, and this time was no exception. Gilbert fended off Rebecca once more and she retreated obediently back into a corner. He straightened in his chair and looked at Liam through thick-rimmed, thick-lensed glasses. "Mr. Gilbert," Liam repeated, "could you please tell me exactly what happened here this morning?"
Then an odd thing occurred. Like crumpled cotton under the heat of an iron, the rage smoothed out of the postmaster's face. Gilbert stiffened his spine and folded his hands on the desk before him, and when he spoke his voice was calm and his words were measured, studied, almost pontifical. The effect was somewhat ruined by the voice itself; it was thin and high-pitched, erring occasionally to a raspy squeak. "How do you do, officer," he said formally. "This is Rebecca."
The woman, short, stubby, and dark-haired, made a sort of curtsy in Liam's direction and offered him a timid smile. "Ma'am," Liam said, and inclined his head in lieu of touching the brim of his hat, which was back in his bag at the office. He'd responded to three calls in twenty-four hours, and not one of them in uniform. He was liable to be fined for it if his boss ever found out.
"Precisely what is it that you wish to know, officer?" the postmaster said.
Equally formal, in trooper mode at least endlessly patient, Liam repeated, "Could you please tell me exactly what happened here this morning?"
The postmaster frowned at his folded hands, formed them into a steeple, and looked to the ceiling for guidance. Next to Liam the mayor shifted, and the trooper said quickly, "Jim Earl, do me a favor? Call dispatch and see if there have been any other incidents of shooting this morning? Be a good idea to see if this guy's been practicing on more than one target." Jim Earl made a move toward the phone on the desk, and Liam said even more quickly, "Mr. Gilbert, is there a phone in the other office the mayor can use while we talk in here?"
The woman in the corner positively leapt forward to be of assistance, and with reluctance Jim Earl followed her from the room, casting a doubtful look over his shoulder on his way out the door. Liam closed it firmly behind him and turned once again to the postmaster, who had lowered his gaze from the ceiling and was regarding Liam over the tips of his steepled fingers, the thick lenses of his glasses enlarging his eyes to the point that they seemed to be protruding from his head. Exactly like a goldfish in a bowl, Liam thought.
"Now then, Mr. Gilbert, please tell me exactly what happened this morning."
"Certainly, officer," Gilbert replied. "I was sitting right here, at my desk. I had--"
"What time was this?"
"Oh. A few minutes after eight--we'd just opened. I was settling down to work on some of the month-end reports when I heard shouting out in the shop." He gestured behind him. "I turned to look and I saw Greg--that's Greg on the forklift--running away. I stood up, and I saw Kelly McCormick in the open doorway of the freight bay."
"The semi with the freight igloos in it wasn't backed up there at that time?"
"Almost. You see, Greg had been backing it in, in preparation for loading it. The plane leaves--"
"So Greg must have jumped down from the cab when he saw Kelly McCormick."
Gilbert didn't look as if he was accustomed to being interrupted. "Yes."
"And he ran because--?"
The postmaster's lips thinned. "He ran because he saw that son--because Mr. McCormick was carrying a rifle."
Liam looked out into the freight bay. It faced directly east. The door of the building was larger than the back of the igloo, and the morning sun poured in through the open space and formed a blinding frame of light. "You say you saw Mr. McCormick."
"Yes. Standing in the door of the freight bay."
"And he was
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