In the Season of Killing Bolts

Chapter 4

“Yeah, well, sure, I try to stay sharp. And that means a lot of time at the range—lot of time sighting paper targets. (laughter) I mean, I’m no Jingo Williams—you ever seen him? Jingo Williams? On TV, I mean? Him and that Oriental gal? Amazing. Amazing shootist. I saw him do a trick once where he—”

I switched off the ignition and sighed, rubbed the bridge of my nose. ‘Oriental.’ I got out and shut the door.

Oreo was already there, barking and slavering, his white paws on the fence. Greeting me as he greeted everyone, with a hail of yaps and spit.

I shook him by a jowl. “Whoos a good boy? Whoos a good boy?”

“Not that dog,” snapped Wilber, drawing my attention (to the porch, yes, but also to the fact that he was wearing nothing but saggy undershorts and a wifebeater). “Not one little bit. Bugger chewed up my lawn gnome. Just chewed it to pieces. Ate its head off! I mean, look at it.”

I looked to where he’d indicated; saw a plastic lawn gnome with—sure enough—its head chewed off. “Aw, no.” I clicked my heals, saluted smartly. “Wilber. For him the war is over.”

Wilber just looked at me. “You, ah, you out here on business, Chief? Or are you just out here to be cute?”

“Actually, Wilber,” I walked toward him and handed him the bag, which crinkled. “I’m here to tell you to take your medicine. Two a day: One before breakfast—one before dinner. Call Vicki with any questions.”

He stared at the bag, irritably, contemptuously. “Will it help me sleep?”

“Call Vicki with any questions.”

“Hmpf.” And he went back inside.

“You’re welcome,” I said; even as the wind blew and the screen door banged.

And then I looked across the street. At the long, open, swaying gate and the hideous, black, gothic-style arch. At Sandy Chain Community Cemetery with its towering cyclone fences and tombstones like ruined teeth; its brown, semi-frozen lawns; its crypts and sepulchers full of nothing.

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