"I'll let myself out. Thanks for your time," I said.
"Sorry. It looks like the landscaper has you blocked in. I'll find him. He's out back somewhere."
So I had to wait ten minutes for the landscaper to move his vehicle. But at least the sounds from upstairs had stopped. As I turned around in front of the garage, Nicki Molinari came out the front door of the house barefoot and headed for my truck, gesturing at me to stop. His hair was wet on his shirt collar. "Say it," I said.
"Don't drive out of here with your nose in the air. You got the wrong idea about what's going on here."
"You were bopping the guy's wife while he was downstairs," I said.
"He's a marshmallow and a drunk. Besides, we didn't know he had come home."
"Take your hands off my truck, please."
"I checked you out, Mr. Holland. You killed your best friend. I knew your kind in 'Nam. A ROTC commission and a cause stuffed up your butt, except it's always other guys who get turned into chipped beef."
"You should have put your shoes on, Nicki," I said.
"What?"
"You stepped in dog poop."
He stared down at the brown smear his toes had left on the cement.
I drove away from the house and up on a rise above the river and got out of my truck and looked down at the cottonwoods below, the words of Nicki Molinari ringing in my ears. I wanted to go back to the Girards' house and kill Nicki Molinari, literally blow him all over the grass. In the old days I could have done it and sipped a cup of coffee while I reloaded. I wondered if L.Q.'s ghost would ever let me rest.
Chapter 18
The next morning I received a phone call from the sheriff.
"That kid, Terry Witherspoon, the one you think was watching Maisey Voss in her bathroom? He's in St. Pat's Hospital. Somebody tossed him out of a car," the sheriff said.
"Why are you telling me?"
"Maybe the girl would like to know. A crime victim's day don't always come in court," he replied.
"Who did it to him?"
"Maybe he'll tell you. He was wearing lipstick and rouge when the paramedics brought him in. Why would queer bait want to be looking at a young girl through a bathroom window?"
"I think Wyatt Dixon is AC/DC. Witherspoon is his boy."
"Our worst problem around here used to be pollution from tepee burners. We even had a whorehouse over in Wallace, Idaho. It's sure nice to have you new folks around, Mr. Holland," he said.
"How should I interpret that? You're really a cryptic man, Sheriff."
"Thank you," he said, and hung up.
When I entered Terry Witherspoon's room he was standing by his bed, putting on his shirt. His elbows and forehead were barked and one eye was clotted with blood.
His face jerked when he saw me, as though he feared I might be someone else.
"Wyatt was going to rape Maisey the other night, wasn't he?" I said.
He put on his glasses and crinkled his nose. A sun shower had burst on the hills rimming the valley and the hills were green and shining with light, but it was not a good day for Terry Witherspoon. His face was pinched with resentment and shame, like a child who had been unjustly punished.
"You did an honorable deed, Terry. It takes a standup guy to 'front a dude like Wyatt Dixon," I said.