Dale almost ran into a barbed-wire fence, realized that he was behind the chicken coop, and ran to his left and then to his right again. The house became visible as a shape in the darkness. Dale threw a glance over his shoulder, but he could not see Congden in the gloom. Snow stuck to his eyelashes and threatened to blind him.
“Stewart, you pussy!” came the sheriff’s voice, but from Dale’s right somewhere in the dark, closer. “Don’t you want to know what happened?”
Dale thudded up the cement steps, threw open the door, slammed it behind him, locked the main lock, and threw the heavy bolt. His head throbbing, he turned slowly in the dark kitchen, listening for movement or breathing in the house. If there was any, he could not hear it over his own panting and the pounding of his heart.
He peered out the window, but even the sheriff’s car was lost to the gloom and the heavy snow. Jesus, that son of a bitch has a gun. And I don’t. And he’s crazier than I am.
Not turning on a light, Dale went down into the basement and felt along the wall near the crates of books. The big console radio was playing 1950s hits softly, its glowing dial the only light in the room. There it is. Dale hefted the Louisville Slugger and carried it back up to the kitchen. It was no match for the huge.45 Colt pistol Congden carried in his holster, but perhaps in the dark—
In the dark. Dale peered through the window, standing to one side so that he could not be seen himself. Suddenly he had the image of C.J. Congden’s face pressed against the glass less than an inch from his own, teeth yellow, skin yellow, tongue lolling.
Holy fuck, thought Dale, instinctively raising the bat. There was no face at the window. Congden wasn’t anywhere to be seen in the few feet he could see in the dark. Maybe he drove off when I was getting the bat and I didn’t hear the car.
And maybe he didn’t.
Maybe he’s already in the house with you.
Dale realized that he was shaking, his hands clutching the Louisville Slugger so tightly that his fingers were cramping. Jesus, God, I am losing it. I’m coming apart at the fucking seams.
Dale slid down the wall against the stove, still holding the bat as he sat on the old tile and pressed the side of his face against the cool metal of the stove itself. He felt the melted snow in his hair running down his temple and cheeks. The cold circle of the muzzle. Dale was glad that Presser hadn’t returned the Savage to him—he felt so low and frightened at the moment that pulling the trigger seemed almost a welcome escape. Would it fire this time? Dale thought, Yes.
There was a movement outside on the stoop just a foot away through the door. Snow dropping from the eaves? A stealthy footstep, those scuffed cowboy boots? Someone shifting an ax from his left hand to his right?
Sitting on the linoleum floor, face against the stove, Dale Stewart closed his eyes and slept.
The thing was banging the door inches from Dale, clawing to get in. Dale jerked awake, crawled on the linoleum still half asleep, found the baseball bat, and lifted it as he got to his feet.
Daylight streamed in through the curtains across the kitchen door. He had slept through the night. Someone knocked again, and Dale peered out at a sheriff’s green jacket, a badge, a Stetson. It wasn’t C.J. Congden. A newer Sheriff’s Department car idled in the turnaround. The snow was more than a foot deep, and the only break in it was from the parallel tracks of the sheriff’s tires.
This sheriff, a man in his thirties with a lean face, saw Dale and motioned for the door to be opened.
Dale blinked and set the baseball bat between the wall and the stove. It took him a few seconds to fumble the locks open. Cold air curled in when he opened the door and the man on the stoop—a smaller man than Congden, leaner and shorter than Dale—took a step back like a properly trained encyclopedia salesman, showing his deference to the homeowner.
“Professor Stewart?”
Dale rubbed his chin and nodded. He realized that his hair must be wild, and that he was still wearing the same soiled and wrinkled chinos, shirt, and sweater that he had put on for Christmas Eve dinner two days earlier.
“I’m Sheriff Bill McKown,” said the man in the sheriff’s jacket. “You mind if I come in?”
Dale shook his head and stepped aside. The man’s voice was deep and slow, his manner assured. Dale himself felt as if he was made of torn paper and broken glass and might cry at any second. He took a deep breath and tried to force calm into himself.
Sheriff McKown removed his Stetson, smiled, and seemed to glance around casually, but Dale saw that the man was taking everything in. “Everything all right here this morning, Professor Stewart?”
“Sure,” said Dale.
McKown smiled again. “Well, I just noticed that you answered the door with a baseball bat in your hands. And you seemed to be on the floor before that.”
Dale had no explanation, so he offered none. “You want some coffee, Sheriff?”
“If you’re making some for yourself.”
“I am. I haven’t had my morning coffee yet.” That was an understatement, thought Dale. “Have a seat while I make some,” he said aloud.
McKown watched silently while Dale fumbled out the Folgers can, filled the coffee pot with water, poured it into the coffeemaker, cleaned the filter under the tap, spooned out six servings, and got the thing percolated. Dale’s fingers felt swollen and clumsy, useless sausage balloons.
“That’s an interesting report you filed on Christmas,” said McKown, accepting his mug of coffee.
“Cream or sugar?” asked Dale.
McKown shook his head and sipped. “Good.” Dale tasted his and thought it tasted like cloudy bilge water.
“You feeling any better now?” asked the man with the sheriff’s badge.
“What do you mean?”
McKown nodded. “Your head. I hear you got nine stitches and maybe a light concussion. Any better?”
Dale touched his scalp and felt the crusted blood under the old bandage. “Yes,” he said. “The headache’s better this morning.” It was.
“You want to talk about the report? The woman you said went missing? The dogs? Anything?”
Dale sipped his coffee to gain time. Should he tell McKown about C.J. Congden’s visit?
No. Tell him nothing.
“I know how crazy the whole thing sounded,” Dale said at last. “It sounds crazy to me. I guess your deputy told you that I’ve been on some medication for depression. . .”
McKown nodded. “Did you get a chance to call the psychiatrist in Montana? What’s his name?”
Tell the truth.
“His name is Charles Hall. And no, I haven’t had time to call yet.”
McKown drank some coffee and set the mug down. “We called him, Professor Stewart. Just to check that you were a patient of his.”
Dale tried a smile, knowing how ghastly it must look. “Am I?”
“Not anymore,” said the sheriff. “I’ve got some bad news for you.”
Dale could only wait. He had no idea what the man was talking about.
“Dr. Charles Hall died on December nineteenth,” said McKown. “We talked to his answering service and then the doctor on call, Dr. Williams. That’s a woman, Dr. Williams.”
Dale stared. When he could speak, he said, “Was he murdered?”
McKown lifted his coffee mug but did not drink from it. “Why do you ask that, Professor Stewart?”
“I don’t know. The way things have been going. . . wait, you’re serious about this? Charles Hall is dead?”
“An auto accident on December nineteenth,” said Sheriff McKown. “Evidently he was on his way back from a long weekend skiing in Telluride, Colorado, when a drunk came across a center line.” McKown took a pink while-you-were-out slip from his stiffly ironed breast pocket and set the paper on the kitchen table. “This is Dr. Williams’s number. She wants you to call her as soon as you can so she can talk to you and make sure your prescription’s refillable—that sort of stuff.”