Growth (14 page)

Everybody wanted to see the urn but nobody knew whether to call it a funeral or memorial or service or wake or what. Sheriff Hoyt finally had to run out to Bob Morton's farm and ask the farmer's new best buddy, Cochran. Of course, who the hell that guy actually was was a whole other question. Cochran himself was awfully vague on the subject, but you didn't have to be a goddamn rocket scientist to figure out that he was an Allagro company man, through and through.

Cochran said the morning service was open to the public, and therefore was to be referred to as a memorial to Bob Morton Jr. It certainly was not to be called a funeral. Not under any circumstance today. Cochran was awfully particular about that. He made sure that everyone in earshot understood that that particular solemn event would certainly not be open to the gawking eyes of the public. Absolutely not. That would be a different ceremony entirely, an utterly private affair, between Bob Jr.'s parents, the local reverend, and Bob Jr.'s employers.

Sheriff Hoyt relayed the information over the radio as he drove back through town, followed by Bob Morton's black sedan, the car Bob used when dealing with the bank or going to church. Cochran drove. Another state trooper police escort brought up the rear as Sheriff Hoyt led the small procession through town.

At least that obstinate chief and her dipshit deputy were stationed out on Main Street like he'd asked, directing traffic into the Stop 'n Save parking lot. He gave her a casual salute. She responded with an even more casual salute of her own and a mysterious half-smile as he rolled past. He couldn't figure out what she was thinking. That bothered him.

Sheriff Hoyt was a man who liked to know what everybody was thinking. In a place like Manchester County, it was pretty obvious damn near most of the time. If somebody was pissed, they didn't hold back. Same thing if they were happy. There wasn't a whole lot of psychology involved. Most everybody came out and said what was on their mind.

But this new chief of Parker's Mill, she wasn't somebody who played along, made her thoughts obvious. He couldn't figure her out. And wasn't it just like a woman to make simple things complicated? Shit, he'd kept her involved, hadn't he? He could've sent her out to keep on eye on speeders on 67 but since this little shindig was in her town, he'd thrown her a bone, kept her close to the action.

That little smirk chewed the shit out of him.

Last night hadn't helped. As if it wasn't bad enough that they couldn't find the stupid Einhorn wife's body, perky little Chief Chisel had to pop back up and ask if they'd seen the friggin' neighbor. She knew damn well they hadn't.

That made it . . . He ticked the names off in his head. Seven goddamned missing persons in less than twenty-four hours.

That kind of thing wasn't good for paperwork.

He'd worry about that later. This morning, at least he'd kept her clear of the memoriam or memorial or whatever the hell Cochran wanted to call it. He didn't give a shit what she was thinking. She wouldn't interfere with Bob Morton's affairs, that much was guaranteed.

 

 

Sandy was in the middle of Main Street trying to explain to Mrs. Perkins why this was not a good morning for shopping at the Stop 'n Save when Liz's steady, calm voice came out of her radio.

“Code ten-ten. Individual is calling from his cell phone. Says it is an emergency. Says he is being threatened with bodily harm. He is apparently unable to leave the vicinity of lower Access Road Fourteen. Requesting immediate assistance.”

Mrs. Perkins didn't give a damn about the call and said so. She was furious because she couldn't find any parking in the parking lot. Incredulous, she had driven back out to Main Street, straight to Sandy to complain. “Are you telling me that I, a taxpaying figure in this community, cannot shop in peace at her own grocery store?”

Mrs. Perkins was perhaps the fattest human being Sandy had ever seen in person. Sandy always saw the car in the drive-through lane at the fast food places around town. Mrs. Perkins was perhaps the target consumer of the town's only export, the cheap, starchy corn combined with fructose for a sweet syrup that the industry added to anything they could. Maybe Mrs. Perkins was angry because she had eaten out her entire supply and needed more. Today. Now.

Sandy said, “This'll all clear out before noon. I can't imagine you'll starve to death by then,” and winced inwardly as soon as the words escaped.

Mrs. Perkins rolled her eyes. Shook her chins. “You didn't . . .” She lowered her voice. “I don't know what kind of dirty shit you think you're pulling here, you bitch, but you better believe you will be hearing about this later. Oh, so help me God. You
will
hear about this.” Mrs. Perkins stomped on the gas for a block and then had to jolt to a stop for the town stoplight.

Sandy ignored her and got into her cruiser, clicking her radio. “Copy. This the place I think it is?”

“'Fraid so. Want me to contact the county boys?”

Liz got loud and jumped around a lot over things like the Rams' football games and margarita hour at the bar at the Parker's Mill Inn, but when it came to her job, she grew emotionless, stone-cold solid. Sandy could gauge the seriousness of the situation over how much feeling Liz removed from her voice. This time, she sounded like a damn robot.

“Not right now. Let them take care of the situation at the church. Let me get a feel for the situation first.”

“Ten-four.” The radio clicked off.

Sandy started the car, cranked up the lights and siren and tore off, heading west, toward the river. Access Road Fourteen was the location call for the Fitzgimmon farm. She shook her head. “Son of a
bitch
.”

One damn thing after another today.

 

 

Sheriff Hoyt turned right on Third Street and went south for a few blocks until they came to the First Baptist Church of Parker's Mill.

He'd put his best three men in charge of handling the media, and they'd corralled all the reporters and riffraff out on the southwest corner. He knew they wouldn't screw up and answer the wrong questions because they simply didn't know a damn thing. He slowly eased his cruiser through the knots of people and parked in the alley.

Ordinarily, he would have had a field day clearing out all the onlookers from the middle of the streets, but Cochran had made sure that everybody involved truly understood the enormous significance of the occasion. When Cochran explained it to him, it made Sheriff Hoyt's blood boil.

The terrorists had killed nothing less than one of America's very own farmers.

And Sheriff Hoyt would not stand for that kind of shit. From providing a dignified atmosphere to honor dead Americans to whatever else was required, Sheriff Hoyt was a man who would get the job done. He was a man the country could count on.

He removed his hat when he entered the church and took a seat near the back.

That way, he could keep an eye on everybody.

The reverend started things off with no surprises. “Ladies and gentlemen. Brothers and sisters. Let us be reflective in the presence of thine Lord and Savior.” Everybody had to straighten or shuffle into a different position for some reason before they became still and quiet.

After ten or fifteen seconds the reverend couldn't take not hearing the sound of his own voice anymore and started in about the eternal God and Father so Sheriff Hoyt tuned him out and scanned the faces of the men in the church instead. Cochran sat up front, in the pew behind Bob Morton. Every so often, he would lean forward and give Bob's shoulder a squeeze.

Sheriff Hoyt didn't trust the man. He was a lawyer, for one thing, which was more than enough, but there was something else, something hidden. Sheriff Hoyt had interrogated enough suspects to know when something else was going on behind their eyes. Cochran had a whole lot of something else going on in his head, that much was clear.

Eventually, the reverend turned the pulpit over to the mayor, who seized the opportunity to give his own speech, get his face in front of the cameras. As he was winding down, other men saw their own opportunity appear. They started lining up under the sun-dappled stained-glass windows in the east wall of the church.

Everybody used the pulpit as a platform, starting out talking about how great Bob Jr. was, and then they'd pitch their particular skill or cause. A high school buddy said, “I remember goofing off in class with him. Seemed like a good guy. Happy to see him get so far. We all go our different directions, I guess. Bob Jr. went his way. I went mine. Helping my dad out at the barbershop these days. Happy to see any of you fellas in there if you want to talk.”

Somebody else wrestled the mike away. “Thanks very much. As you can see, Bob Jr. had nothing but friends. And friends, let me tell you, whenever Bob Jr. was in town, he made sure to eat one hell of a dinner at my steakhouse. You come on by, tell that pretty little gal up front you're a friend of me and Bob Jr.'s, you get ten percent off your total bill.”

And on and on.

Eventually, Cochran took the mike. If anything, the line of men waiting to speak had gotten even longer. “I'm sure Bob and Belinda appreciate all these fine sentiments, and they know how much their son was loved by this community.”

That was his cue. Sheriff Hoyt stood, put his hat back on, and left the church as the reverend reclaimed his pulpit and started another prayer. Sheriff Hoyt propped the doors open and cleared a way down the crowded steps. He went out to the sedan and stood by the back door, waiting for Bob and Belinda to appear at the church doors. Everybody out on the street with a camera got ready.

When the Mortons did appear, it wasn't quite the impression Cochran was striving for. Sheriff Hoyt figured Cochran would want Bob Jr.'s parents stoic and dignified in the face of tragedy. Instead, they weaved and lurched down the steps, and Sheriff Hoyt thought it was almost embarrassing. Bob Sr. damn near had to carry his wife down the stone steps. Bob himself looked . . . bad. He kept a handkerchief up to his face and kept wiping at the corners of his mouth. He looked like he should be home in bed; he looked truly sick and moved like he'd been kicked in the nuts a few times. He had no business being out in public.

Maybe that wasn't fair. Sheriff Hoyt had never lost a son. He didn't even have a family, so he had no clear idea how it would feel. He looked at the concrete, a little ashamed. The man had just lost his son. Bob was having a hard enough time holding up his wife, who was clearly here under the influence of a bottle of wine and three or four Xanax. A little compassion was probably called for in this situation.

Sheriff Hoyt opened the back door of the sedan and waited patiently.

The radio on his shoulder erupted in a shrill squawk. “Attention, all units. Attention, all units. Multiple reports of shots fired, Pleasant Prairie Trailer Haven. Repeat, multiple reports of gunfire. Please respond.”

 

 

Kevin crawled through the tall weeds on his hands and knees until he saw Jerm's trailer. He could occasionally catch the faint squealing of a mindless, excitable studio audience for some daytime talk show coming from a TV inside, but he couldn't see anything moving, either inside or out. It looked like sheets or something had been hung over the windows.

He'd gotten up early, surprising the hell out of his mom, and played with Puffing Bill in the backyard for a while. Before he went outside, he had secretly swallowed another two ibuprofens. Any more, and Elliot would have been severely disappointed in him. Out in the backyard, part of him was worried about Mrs. Kobritz; she'd always been like a grandmother to him, but he was always thrilled to see her pit bull. Making the dog happy was almost enough to smooth away the churning in his guts. Pretty soon, it was time to gather his backpack and pretend to ride off to school. If he left any later, his mom would insist on giving him a ride.

Kevin had no intention of getting close to school this morning.

He'd ridden through town toward school, though, just in case his mom decided to follow him or something. He didn't think that would happen; he knew she had to help out with some big funeral or something in town. She'd said there would be a lot of news reporters around, so maybe they'd watch the news later tonight, see if she was on TV.

He hid out under the bleachers that overlooked the high school baseball field, watching the shadow of the old water tower crawl across the infield. It was quiet out there, and it gave him a chance to sort out his thoughts. He'd tried thinking things through last night, but the fears had crowded out everything else, making it impossible to think clearly, until he finally passed out from exhaustion. Now it was possible to lay everything out.

Kevin didn't think Jerm would take the gun to school. Jerm had to consider the possibility that Kevin had told his mom, and she would be waiting for him at school. If Jerm didn't have the gun on him, he would allow himself to be searched, then he could deny everything. At least, that's what Kevin would do.

He realized he had no idea what Jerm would actually do.

Jerm might be stupid enough to take the gun to school, just to show it off.

Of course, there was always the possibility he might bring the gun just to shoot Kevin. But Kevin didn't think that would happen. If Jerm had wanted, he could have shot Kevin back in the town dump, then claimed it was self-defense. No, Jerm was dumber than a bag of hammers when it came to most stuff related to school, but he was awfully cunning when it came to slipping out of trouble.

Kevin also knew that Jerm couldn't afford to miss many classes of summer school. Jerm sure as hell didn't want to get held back another year. That would mean he would be taken out of the regular school system and forced instead to take classes in the special education building out near the school district offices, where he would be sitting alongside the developmentally disabled students. Kevin figured Jerm had too much of a sense of pride to let that happen.