In the Moon of Red Ponies: A Novel by James Lee Burke Page A

Instead, he became a loving and brave and decent kid, with an enormous musical talent. As I watched him leaning against a post on the gallery, his hat cocked on his head, serene inside his youthful thoughts, I wished I’d killed Wyatt Dixon years ago, when I had the chance.
     
    THE NEXT MORNING, Wednesday, I saw Darrel McComb coming hard from the courthouse, crossing between cars to get to my office. I saw him glance behind him, almost getting hit by a truck in the bargain, then I heard him talking loudly in the reception area.
    I went up front to meet him. “What’s the problem?” I said.
    His face looked heated, the skin under his nose nicked by his razor.
    “Sorry, Billy Bob,” Hildy said.
    “It’s all right. Come on in, Darrel,” I said.
    He followed me into my office and closed the door.
    “Leave it open,” I said.
    “Screw you.”
    “What?”
    “You sent your wife down to Stevensville to question this woman Greta Lundstrum. Your wife told her I was following Lundstrum around. Lundstrum just called the sheriff and gave him hell over the phone.”
    “You deny you were in the woods above Romulus Finley’s house while Lundstrum was there?”
    “I was following Wyatt Dixon. I filed a report on that,” he said.
    “I bet you did.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    There were circles under his eyes and a raw odor in his clothes. His coat was open, and I could see the small leather clip-on holster he wore on his belt. I walked past him and opened the door. “I can respect your problems, Darrel. But you beat up Johnny American Horse with a sap and we both know why you did it,” I said. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
    His scalp glistened inside his crew cut. “I’ve seen Lundstrum before. I don’t know where,” he said, his brow knitting.
    Then I realized he was somewhere out on the frayed edges of his life. “I’ve got appointments all morning. How about we have a talk after lunch?” I said.
    “That’s out. I shouldn’t have come here. Tell your wife, no matter what you people think, I got a good record as a police officer and I don’t need a P.I. dragging my name in the dirt,” he said.
    Who “you people” referred to was anybody’s guess.
     
    BUT DARREL MCCOMB’S quest for personal vindication was not over. That afternoon he went to the home of Amber Finley. She was working in the garden, barefoot, wearing only a halter and shorts. There were sun freckles on her back, and when she sat up from her work to talk to him, her stomach creased above her exposed navel, causing him to fix his eyes intently on her face so as not to reveal the weakness he felt in his loins.
    “I just wanted to clear up why I was watching your house. This lady Ms. Lundstrum has gotten hold of a crazy idea and I thought maybe you had some false notions, too,” he said.
    “I know exactly why you were watching us,” she replied.
    He looked away in desperation, then knelt down so he could talk to her at eye level.
    “You’re making me uncomfortable,” she said.
    “Listen, the evidence against Johnny bothers me. The tennis shoes that matched the prints at the crime scene were under a bunch of other shoes and boots. But if Johnny had just worn them, why would they be under other shoes, unless someone wanted to disguise the fact they were placed there to be discovered? The Jiffy Lube receipt on the floor of the hospital room doesn’t flush, either. The killer was wearing hospital greens. So where was he carrying the receipt—in his underwear?”
    “The prosecution will say he had jeans on under his greens. Why are you doing this?” she said.
    “I want to let all that bad blood go. I’m sorry for what I did to Johnny.”
    “So tell it to Johnny and Billy Bob.”
    He got up and tried to brush the grass stain off the knee of his slacks. “If I acted disrespectfully to you, I apologize. I don’t mean to be a bad guy, but sometimes—” He didn’t finish.
    No, you’re just a geek, she