At least that prick Sheriff Hoyt hadn’t locked him in the backseat of his cruiser.
She’d heard enough on the radio driving into town to piece together most of what had happened. But she still couldn’t figure out how her son had been involved. There would be time enough for that later, time enough to sort through everything, but not right in the middle of a major crime scene. As soon as she arrived, she hustled Kevin into her own cruiser and a simple glare at the nearest trooper told the man that she was taking her child and no one was stopping her.
She’d switched off her radio, and when her cell phone rang, she turned it off and threw it at the floor. Kevin flinched, and she felt bad. She couldn’t take it anymore and whipped into the alley behind the Stop ’n Save. She shut off the engine and turned to her son, reaching out to stroke his hair.
He didn’t react to her touch, still wouldn’t look at her.
The line of bandages that stretched up his neck across his scalp chilled her. Tears welled up and she closed her eyes, trying to think of something, anything, to say. A simple, “What happened?” wouldn’t be enough, wouldn’t even begin to crack the surface. She blinked furiously, willing the tears to disappear.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, feeling the summer sun beat down into the cruiser. Finally, Sandy said, “We better go home and make sure Puffing Bill hasn’t destroyed the place.”
Kevin gave a slight shrug.
At least it was a response. She put the car in gear and neither of them spoke the rest of the way home.
Sheriff Hoyt was waiting for them. He’d parked in the driveway, forcing Sandy to park on the street. He stood, leaning against his rear bumper, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind mirrored aviator sunglasses.
Sandy told Kevin to go inside and let the dog out into the backyard. Sheriff Hoyt’s eyes never left her face. They stared at each other for a moment, and Sandy didn’t want to dance around the subject. She knew Kevin was a witness to a mass murder, but that didn’t explain the scrutiny, the way Sheriff Hoyt had treated him like a suspect. “What do you want?” she asked. “My son has been through enough hell today.”
“I don’t doubt it. Gonna leave a hell of scar, back of his head, there.”
Sandy put her hands on her hips and waited.
Sheriff Hoyt went to the driver’s seat and reached in through the open window. He grabbed a plastic evidence bag. Inside was the Model 686. “Know anything about this?”
Sandy recognized the handgun instantly. Ice flooded her veins. Her mouth went dry. “You know damn well I do. It’s mine.”
“Thought so. Any idea how it got into that little fucker’s hands? I’d like to hear all about that.”
“I don’t know.”
Sheriff Hoyt watched her for a moment, face impassive behind those mirrored sunglasses. He used his tongue to dislodge some piece of stringy meat stuck between his upper molars. Eventually, he said, “Maybe you don’t, maybe you do. Not sure it matters much, ’cause I’ll bet your boy knows. We gonna have to talk to him, down at the station, you understand that, don’t you?”
“He’s not going anywhere right now.”
Sheriff Hoyt considered this. “You do realize that four people are dead, ’cause of this.” He hefted the plastic evidence bag. “Slow news day, this’ll be front page on the national news. It’s bigger than both of us, bigger than this town, this county. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that you are hereby suspended without pay. The county police will take over your duties for the time being.” He turned the plastic bag over and over in his hands. “You and your son are in a heap-load of trouble. I hope you know this. Hell, I wanted to, I could take him in immediately, put him in a room, and sweat the truth out of him.”
“You could try.”
Sheriff Hoyt chuckled. He knew damn well Sandy wasn’t talking about his legal right to remove a suspect from his home and take him to the station for an interrogation.
She was talking about him making it out of the driveway alive.
He turned his gaze skyward and contemplated the branches of the elm trees that swayed gently above their heads. “Tell you what. You sleep on it. Get yourself lawyered up. And bring Kevin down to the courthouse tomorrow. We do need to speak with the young man, as I’m sure you are aware.” He nodded. “Okay. Tomorrow. Bring him down and we’ll get all this sorted out.”
He waited for Sandy to agree, or say something defiant, but she stood motionless, drilling him with her stare. He kept waiting, but when it became apparent Sandy had made herself perfectly clear and felt no reason to explain herself any further, he tipped his hat, curled his fingers around the bag, and got back into his cruiser.
She stepped out of the way as he backed down the driveway. When he drew level with her, he rolled down the passenger window and said, “Tomorrow morning. Nine sharp. Don’t be late.”
She didn’t respond. He rolled the window back up and left.
Sandy moved her own cruiser into the driveway and went inside. Kevin was out in the back, playing with the dog. She gave him a few more minutes and spent them pacing back and forth in the kitchen.
Her gun. Good Christ. Four people dead. Her gun.
She unplugged the house phone and made sure her cell was turned off, then went to the sliding glass back door and saw Kevin on his knees, petting the scarred pit bull. Puffing Bill seemed to know something was wrong, because he was leaning into the boy’s touch. Sandy watched for a while, and while she didn’t want to disturb them, she couldn’t put it off any longer.
She slid the door open and went out to the backyard. Part of her couldn’t help but notice the mounds of earth along the fence, covered with leaves. She’d been meaning to get out there and plant flowers in the spring, but had never found the chance. She tried to push that out of her mind, because the last thing she needed was something else to feel guilty about.
Kevin and Puffing Bill were aware of her presence, but neither moved. Puffing Bill seemed to know that the boy needed him, and stood stock still. His eyes found Sandy. She patted his head.
In the end, she didn’t have to say anything. She simply sat quietly, both of them petting the dog, and Kevin finally said, “Mom, I took it.” His voice quavered, but he didn’t cry. He didn’t cry as the whole story came pouring out, how he had taken the Smith & Wesson, and how Jerm had been tormenting him for months, how it had all gotten so twisted and awful, what Jerm had done with his lunch bag, all of it. When he got to how he had finally tried to crawl out of the trailer, and then woke up with Jerm’s mom laying on top of him, his voice finally cracked irrevocably, and there was no going back. Sobs erupted out of him and he gasped for breath.
Sandy could not process all of it right away. Part of her brain was still trying to put all the pieces together, but the mother instinct inside her, the part of her soul that recognized that her child was suffering, overrode everything else for that moment, and she took him into her arms and squeezed him tight. Tremors racked his thin body.
She held him for a long time.
“You feeling okay?” Cochran asked. He swiveled from Bob’s desk, steepled his fingers in concern on his chest.
Bob shut the door to the bathroom behind him and fixed his attack dog with a grim stare. “I lost my son. How do you think I feel?” He settled himself on the edge of the couch, eyes on the TV news.
“I can only imagine,” Cochran said.
Footage of the burning island appeared on the TV and Bob yelled, “Quiet,” and turned the sound up. But there was nothing new. Just that distant, grainy footage of the island on fire and a bunch of smug assholes arguing about what could have been done to prevent such a tragedy.