Glendenning said. “It’s the wrong time. I’ve interrupted your sleep.”
“What about coffee?” Cecil said.
Standing back to the fireplace, Dave said, “There’s a lot to talk about. You’re in deep trouble, Reverend.”
Glendenning looked sick. “I didn’t know anyone saw me.
“And heard you,” Dave said. “A close neighbor of Streeter’s, just across the patio—Lily Gernsbach. And a visiting friend, Sarah Winger.”
Did Glendenning hear? He looked stunned. At last, he said faintly to Cecil, “Yes, coffee, thank you,” and nodded. He turned Dave a look of weary surrender and walked toward the couch. Dave asked Cecil, “Shall I fix the coffee?”
“You talk,” Cecil said. “I’ll fix it.”
“I must have been literally blind with rage.” Glendenning dropped numbly onto the couch. He sat forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped, fingers knitted, head bowed. He might have been praying, only he seemed not up to it. “You read those expressions and you think you know what they mean, but you don’t.” He looked up wanly. “Not until it happens to you.”
Cecil went out and left the door to the courtyard open. The cool air that comes an hour before sunrise washed into the room. The canyon was still quiet. No cars passed along the main road below. The crickets had left off. So had the mockingbirds, those all-night singers. Distantly Dave heard the door of the cookshack open, heard Cecil work the hand pump for spring water and rattle the filled teakettle onto a burner of the mighty stove.
“Streeter’s windows were open,” Dave said to Glendenning. “And directly opposite, the windows of Gernsbach’s master bedroom were also open.”
“I went to kill him that day,” Glendenning said.
Dave sat on the raised stone hearth. “With what?”
“I’d written him a letter. I wish I had that letter back.”
“His papers were stolen by whoever killed him,” Dave said. “The police don’t have them.”
“They’ll get them,” Glendenning said cheerlessly. “And they’ll read my letter and know I threatened to kill him. He phoned and asked me to come see him so he could explain.” Glendenning’s laugh was brief and bitter. “As if he could explain away the wanton killing of an innocent young boy.”
“Streeter didn’t kill him. Wantonly or otherwise.”
Glendenning sat up, stiff with indignation. “He gave him wanton advice. Reckless, heedless, irresponsible. Rue trusted him. And he sent him off to be killed.”
“So you wrote the letter,” Dave said, “and Streeter asked you to come see him, and you went to kill him to avenge your son’s death—a life for a life. How were you going to do that? How were you going to kill him? With what?”
“My son’s gun. He’d bought it after Streeter advised him to go to Central America. If he wanted to get off to a running start as a foreign correspondent. To go where—”
“Where the action was,” Dave said.
“Rue was a gentle, quiet boy,” Glendenning said. “I don’t mean he wasn’t manly, but he didn’t believe in violence. If it hadn’t been for Adam Streeter, he’d never have dreamed of buying a firearm, something that could kill another human being.”
“Gentle, quiet, but ambitious, right?” Dave said. “In a hurry to make his mark in the world.”
A corner of Glendenning’s mouth twisted sadly. “I didn’t say he wasn’t young, did I? Aren’t we always in a hurry to leave childhood behind, get out on our own, prove ourselves strong and capable?”
“It was a Desert Eagle pistol, wasn’t it?” Dave said. “And that was what you fought over, there in Streeter’s workroom. And that was why the fight ended so abruptly. Because he was bigger and stronger and got it away from you.”
Glendenning bent forward again, hung his head again. “Yes,” he murmured. “It was easy for him. He laughed at me as if I were a little boy, opened a drawer, dropped the gun inside.”
“Where it stayed,” Dave
“What about coffee?” Cecil said.
Standing back to the fireplace, Dave said, “There’s a lot to talk about. You’re in deep trouble, Reverend.”
Glendenning looked sick. “I didn’t know anyone saw me.
“And heard you,” Dave said. “A close neighbor of Streeter’s, just across the patio—Lily Gernsbach. And a visiting friend, Sarah Winger.”
Did Glendenning hear? He looked stunned. At last, he said faintly to Cecil, “Yes, coffee, thank you,” and nodded. He turned Dave a look of weary surrender and walked toward the couch. Dave asked Cecil, “Shall I fix the coffee?”
“You talk,” Cecil said. “I’ll fix it.”
“I must have been literally blind with rage.” Glendenning dropped numbly onto the couch. He sat forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped, fingers knitted, head bowed. He might have been praying, only he seemed not up to it. “You read those expressions and you think you know what they mean, but you don’t.” He looked up wanly. “Not until it happens to you.”
Cecil went out and left the door to the courtyard open. The cool air that comes an hour before sunrise washed into the room. The canyon was still quiet. No cars passed along the main road below. The crickets had left off. So had the mockingbirds, those all-night singers. Distantly Dave heard the door of the cookshack open, heard Cecil work the hand pump for spring water and rattle the filled teakettle onto a burner of the mighty stove.
“Streeter’s windows were open,” Dave said to Glendenning. “And directly opposite, the windows of Gernsbach’s master bedroom were also open.”
“I went to kill him that day,” Glendenning said.
Dave sat on the raised stone hearth. “With what?”
“I’d written him a letter. I wish I had that letter back.”
“His papers were stolen by whoever killed him,” Dave said. “The police don’t have them.”
“They’ll get them,” Glendenning said cheerlessly. “And they’ll read my letter and know I threatened to kill him. He phoned and asked me to come see him so he could explain.” Glendenning’s laugh was brief and bitter. “As if he could explain away the wanton killing of an innocent young boy.”
“Streeter didn’t kill him. Wantonly or otherwise.”
Glendenning sat up, stiff with indignation. “He gave him wanton advice. Reckless, heedless, irresponsible. Rue trusted him. And he sent him off to be killed.”
“So you wrote the letter,” Dave said, “and Streeter asked you to come see him, and you went to kill him to avenge your son’s death—a life for a life. How were you going to do that? How were you going to kill him? With what?”
“My son’s gun. He’d bought it after Streeter advised him to go to Central America. If he wanted to get off to a running start as a foreign correspondent. To go where—”
“Where the action was,” Dave said.
“Rue was a gentle, quiet boy,” Glendenning said. “I don’t mean he wasn’t manly, but he didn’t believe in violence. If it hadn’t been for Adam Streeter, he’d never have dreamed of buying a firearm, something that could kill another human being.”
“Gentle, quiet, but ambitious, right?” Dave said. “In a hurry to make his mark in the world.”
A corner of Glendenning’s mouth twisted sadly. “I didn’t say he wasn’t young, did I? Aren’t we always in a hurry to leave childhood behind, get out on our own, prove ourselves strong and capable?”
“It was a Desert Eagle pistol, wasn’t it?” Dave said. “And that was what you fought over, there in Streeter’s workroom. And that was why the fight ended so abruptly. Because he was bigger and stronger and got it away from you.”
Glendenning bent forward again, hung his head again. “Yes,” he murmured. “It was easy for him. He laughed at me as if I were a little boy, opened a drawer, dropped the gun inside.”
“Where it stayed,” Dave
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