with her forearm resting along the top of a nearby dresser for support. Her pale blue pajama bottoms were clearly wet. She had had an accident. Diana held her mother’s free hand and placed an arm around her waist, concerned that the elderly, stroke-stricken woman might fall.
“Broom!” Dolores groaned, which both Diana and Gary knew to mean bathroom .
Dolores’ tired eyes lifted to meet her daughter’s, as a stream of drool slid down the left side of her permanently twisted mouth—a result of the stroke she suffered two years ago.
Diana’s eyes told Gary that she would take care of the problem. As she led her mother away, Gary sat up in bed and studied the mess of broken glass and water steaming its way along a floorboard. Down the hallway, he heard his wife offering instructions of what she was doing in a voice loud enough for her mother to hear. He turned to a seated position on the side of the bed and let his legs dangle. His feet almost touched the floor. His shoulders dropped, and his elbows rested on top of his knees.
“Damn you, Sean.”
Sunday
Chapter 13
G reen. Everything was as bright as day, and green—the sofa, the television set, Rocco . . . The old dachshund’s lifeless eyes looked like a pair of illuminant buttons on a control panel. The goggles Sean had found were night-vision goggles.
Sean had thought they might be when he had reached inside the bag in the middle of the storm. His Uncle Zed used to have a similar pair of goggles a couple of years ago. He’d picked them up at a flea market in Frisco, Colorado, and later traded them in town for some ammo. But these were different—much more serious and expensive-looking. Possibly military issue or some mock variety that could be ordered out of a cheesy survivalist magazine. They were made of an imposing black metal, fastened to an elaborate head mount of canvas straps to keep the rubber eyecups suctioned to the wearer’s head, leaving the wearer’s hands free. They looked almost brand new.
Sean lowered the complex gadget from his exhausted, stinging eyes and laid it back down carefully across the small wooden kitchen table in front of him. The table’s bad leg caused it to wobble. His hand found the back of his head and scratched at the persistent itch. A few more hours and the sun would be up and with it a new day, but he feared little light would be shed in the form of answers. In fact, his late night finding prompted more questions than anything.
Other than the goggles, the most notable item in the brief bag was a woven stocking cap, deep purple in color. The fluffy trim along the rim suggested that it was designed for women. There was no suicide note to be found and no forms of identification, just a well-used red ballpoint pen, an empty book of mailing stamps, and a handful of paperclips and binding clips. Not exactly the enlightening evidence he had hoped for.
But Sean was confident that the bag definitely belonged to that stranger on the bridge. Those wide red marks he saw under the dead man’s eyes were the tip-off. They were large and clear enough for a hungover drunk to see from forty yards away. They weren’t caused by large eyeglasses as Sean had initially thought. They were caused by the night-visions, and judging by their prominence, they had been worn by the stranger for quite some time prior to him sending a bullet through the back of his head.
The stranger had to have been the one who buried the bag in the forest, but Sean hadn’t a clue why. However, he did have a clue where the man had come from—Lakeland. It was the only explanation for that page of the newspaper that led Sean to discovering the bag. He had worked all throughout the area and had never seen it sold anywhere other than in the town itself. Judging by the way the stranger was dressed, he probably didn’t live there, but he had certainly come through that way.
Still, there was nothing concrete and certainly nothing that would convince Lumbergh.
“Broom!” Dolores groaned, which both Diana and Gary knew to mean bathroom .
Dolores’ tired eyes lifted to meet her daughter’s, as a stream of drool slid down the left side of her permanently twisted mouth—a result of the stroke she suffered two years ago.
Diana’s eyes told Gary that she would take care of the problem. As she led her mother away, Gary sat up in bed and studied the mess of broken glass and water steaming its way along a floorboard. Down the hallway, he heard his wife offering instructions of what she was doing in a voice loud enough for her mother to hear. He turned to a seated position on the side of the bed and let his legs dangle. His feet almost touched the floor. His shoulders dropped, and his elbows rested on top of his knees.
“Damn you, Sean.”
Sunday
Chapter 13
G reen. Everything was as bright as day, and green—the sofa, the television set, Rocco . . . The old dachshund’s lifeless eyes looked like a pair of illuminant buttons on a control panel. The goggles Sean had found were night-vision goggles.
Sean had thought they might be when he had reached inside the bag in the middle of the storm. His Uncle Zed used to have a similar pair of goggles a couple of years ago. He’d picked them up at a flea market in Frisco, Colorado, and later traded them in town for some ammo. But these were different—much more serious and expensive-looking. Possibly military issue or some mock variety that could be ordered out of a cheesy survivalist magazine. They were made of an imposing black metal, fastened to an elaborate head mount of canvas straps to keep the rubber eyecups suctioned to the wearer’s head, leaving the wearer’s hands free. They looked almost brand new.
Sean lowered the complex gadget from his exhausted, stinging eyes and laid it back down carefully across the small wooden kitchen table in front of him. The table’s bad leg caused it to wobble. His hand found the back of his head and scratched at the persistent itch. A few more hours and the sun would be up and with it a new day, but he feared little light would be shed in the form of answers. In fact, his late night finding prompted more questions than anything.
Other than the goggles, the most notable item in the brief bag was a woven stocking cap, deep purple in color. The fluffy trim along the rim suggested that it was designed for women. There was no suicide note to be found and no forms of identification, just a well-used red ballpoint pen, an empty book of mailing stamps, and a handful of paperclips and binding clips. Not exactly the enlightening evidence he had hoped for.
But Sean was confident that the bag definitely belonged to that stranger on the bridge. Those wide red marks he saw under the dead man’s eyes were the tip-off. They were large and clear enough for a hungover drunk to see from forty yards away. They weren’t caused by large eyeglasses as Sean had initially thought. They were caused by the night-visions, and judging by their prominence, they had been worn by the stranger for quite some time prior to him sending a bullet through the back of his head.
The stranger had to have been the one who buried the bag in the forest, but Sean hadn’t a clue why. However, he did have a clue where the man had come from—Lakeland. It was the only explanation for that page of the newspaper that led Sean to discovering the bag. He had worked all throughout the area and had never seen it sold anywhere other than in the town itself. Judging by the way the stranger was dressed, he probably didn’t live there, but he had certainly come through that way.
Still, there was nothing concrete and certainly nothing that would convince Lumbergh.
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