Dark of the Moon (12 page)

But Virgil couldn’t find Judd’s name in any of them.

The Laymon files he’d already seen, but there was nothing to indicate that Margaret Laymon had had a romance with Judd. Garber, the alcoholic schoolteacher, had no file at all; to his surprise, neither did Betsy Carlson, Judd’s sister-in-law. Shouldn’t there be a story at the time of the sister-in-law’s death, since she was the witness? Or maybe, like Williamson had said, they only filed the most important names, and she just wasn’t important enough. Have to ask, but it seemed strange.

The Stryker files were large: Mark Stryker’s suicide was covered extensively, but most of the story detailed the family history before Mark. Laura Stryker was mentioned as working as an office manager at State Farm. Virgil checked files under “State Farm Insurance,” and found that the local agency was owned by Bill Judd Sr.

Huh. Nobody had mentioned that. No way to tell from the clips when she began working there, or when she left…

T
HE ROOM WAS
close and warm, and after a while, Virgil leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. Let Homer out: worked on a little fiction.

Virgil yawned and opened his eyes. Fiction. But a story was going there, beginning to feel like something—at least he was pulling the dead people together.

And then he thought, what if this wasn’t about the men? What if it was about the wives? What if Gloria Schmidt and Anna Gleason had been in bed with Judd, and now somebody was killing them, and the shooting of their husbands, through the eyes, was symbolic of some kind of blindness, or a looking-away…

What if Laura Stryker wasn’t the perpetrator, but was the next target?

H
E SAT
in the morgue for two hours, altogether, typing notes into his laptop, thinking. Every few minutes, the outer door would rattle, he’d hear change go into the coin box, and the door would close again. Once, there’d been no change, and he’d been tempted to peek and see who it was, stealing a newspaper; but he stayed with the clips.

When he was finished, he knew a lot more than when he’d started, but nothing that seemed to connect with the murders. Everybody in town may have known that Judd was sleeping with local women, and sometimes in a pile of them, but it never got into the newspaper.

He took ten minutes to get the clips back in their envelopes, close down his computer. He walked back through the newspaper office, picked up the note on the floor, taped it back on the window, and went to his truck.

Laura Stryker.

H
E CALLED
J
OAN:
“Did you hear about Roman Schmidt?”

“I did.” Her voice was hushed. “Virgil, this is god-awful. Completely aside from the fact that Jim is going to lose his job—it’s god-awful all on its own.”

“Well, if we catch the guy, Jim could still pull out of it,” Virgil said.

“Gotta be soon,” she said. “Do you have any ideas?”

“We were talking about going to Sioux Falls with your mom. Think I could take her right now?”

“I’ll call her. Do you want me to come?”

He hesitated, then: “If you want.”

“I’ll call her. I’ll get back to you in two minutes.”

L
AURA WAS
happy to go. Virgil drove to Joan’s house, rang the doorbell, and she waved him inside: “I just got here, I was out at the farm,” she said. “I have to change into something that doesn’t smell like dirt. Maybe take a really fast shower. I told Mom we’d be there in twenty minutes.”

“Happy to wash your back,” Virgil said.

“I need that,” she said. “There’s always that one spot right in the middle, it’s been dirty for eight years now.”

“What happened eight years ago?”

“That was the year before I got married,” she said.

S
HE WENT OFF
down the hall to the back bedroom, yelled, “There’s Coke in the refrigerator, there’s instant coffee, you could make it in the microwave.” He stirred around in the kitchen, looking it over, checking the refrigerator. She wasn’t a foodie, that was for sure. She had about three knives, and most of the stuff in the refrigerator looked like it had been there for weeks.

A door in back closed: the bathroom? He got a Coke, went into the living room. An open door led into what might have been a small dining room, or television room, now converted to an office, with a desk, computer, and file cabinets. He saw a wall of family photos, stepped into the room and looked at them: found the same thin man in plaid pants in two of them, thought it might be her father.

But she and Jim must take after Laura, because Mark Stryker really was a slight figure, except that he had the same white-blond hair of his son and daughter…

Slid open a drawer in a file cabinet, listening for her, for a footstep, looked at some tabs—business and taxes—and pushed it shut.

Just being snoopy now, he thought. No good could come of it. He eased back into the living room, heard a door open: “Hey. Are you going to wash my back, or what?”

A
LMOST STOPPED HIS HEART.

He put the Coke down and headed back down the hall; saw her damp face and hair at the end of it, and then she pulled back inside the bathroom. And by the time he’d gotten to the bathroom, she was back inside the shower.

He opened the shower door, and there she was, her back to him, as well as the third-greatest—he gave her an instant promotion—ass in Minnesota, and maybe on the entire Great Plains. “Oh, my God,” he said.

“Just the back.”

“Just the back, my sweet…”

“Just the back,” she said. “You offered, I’m accepting.”

“If you…”

“Don’t you get in this shower, Virgil Flowers,” she said. “You’ll get all wet and we have to be at my mom’s in fifteen minutes and she’ll know that we’ve been up here fooling around.”

“Gimme the soap and back up,” he said.

He washed her water-slick back, and the third-greatest ass, and then, squatting, her legs, one at a time, working upward, and by the time he was getting done, she was hanging on to the faucet handles, and when he
was
done, he snatched her out of the shower and turned her around and kissed her and said, “Fuck your mama.”

“Not my mama,” she said. “Not my mama.”

T
HEY WERE
twenty minutes late getting to Laura Stryker’s, driving over with all the truck windows down. Joan wanted to get the smell of sex off them, she said.

“Not as late as I might have hoped,” Joan said.

“You weren’t complaining twelve minutes ago,” Virgil said, “unless that was your way of screaming for help.”

“Don’t be too proud of yourself,” she said. “I’d been waiting for a long time. Bill Judd Junior could have gotten to me after all that time.”

Virgil leaned close to her: “The fact of the matter is, you’ve gotten hold of something far beyond your simple country experience.”

That made her laugh, and she pushed him away and said, “Next time, though, we’re going for the
slow
hand.”

W
HEN THEY GOT
out of the truck, Joan said, “Stay here, but leave the doors open. Mom might smell something if we don’t air it out a little more.”

“Jesus, Joanie, you’re an adult…”

“It’s my
mom
.”

So he left the doors open and the engine running, and stood out in the sunlight and worked up a little sweat while Joan collected Laura. In two or three minutes they were on the front porch, Laura carefully locking the door behind her.

Laura was a handsome woman for her age, slender as her daughter, with carefully cut and tinted hair. If you were checking out mothers to see what a daughter would look like in twenty-five years, you would have taken the daughter. She got into the backseat, said, “Pleased to meet you, Virgil,” and Joan hopped into the front passenger seat and said, “That’s the first time I ever saw you lock the front door.”

“Everybody’s locking doors now. If Janet came over after dark, and knocked, I might hide out and not answer, not until this killer’s caught,” she said.

Joan to Virgil: “Janet’s her best friend,” and to Laura: “I don’t think you have to worry about Janet.”

“The word is, the murdered people probably knew the killer. What do you think, Virgil?”

Virgil nodded. “I think that’s right.”

T
HEY RAN DOWN
to I-90, and up the ramp, heading west, and talked over the murders. Virgil filled them in on the Roman Schmidt killing, the killer’s tendency toward display.

“So what are they looking at?” Laura asked. “They must be looking at something.”

“Gleason was looking at his backyard and up the hill, Schmidt was looking straight down his driveway at the road. Nothing in particular,” Virgil said.

A minute later, Laura asked, “What direction were they facing? If he was facing down his driveway, Roman was facing east, and if Russell was looking up the hill, he was facing east. Would that be right?”

Virgil thought for a moment, orienting himself, and then said, “Yeah, that’s right.”

“They were killed at night—so maybe toward the sunrise,” Laura said.

Joan asked, “But what would that tell you? That you’re dealing with a religious nut?”

“That Feur person,” Laura said. “Jesus was resurrected at sunrise. Maybe that has something to do with it. And in the Bible, east is the most important direction.”

Virgil said, “Huh. Well, Judd was burned to death. What does that mean? Hellfire?”

“We’re talking about a crazy person,” Joan said. “I don’t think you’re gonna figure out anything from that kind of stuff. He’s doing it because he’s crazy.”

“Interesting to talk about, though,” Laura said.

They talked about the Laymons. The story was all over town five minutes after the first person picked up a newspaper. “Margaret Laymon. I didn’t know it was Bill that did it, but it doesn’t surprise me,” Laura said. “Margaret was a hell-raiser when she was young. Somebody was going to do it, sooner or later.”

“They didn’t have the pill yet?”

“Yes, but…I don’t know. Maybe she wanted to have a baby, and wanted Bill to be the daddy. Women get strange, sometimes.”

“You being one, I’ll take your word for it,” Virgil said. “I hadn’t noticed, myself.”

C
ROSSING THE BORDER
into South Dakota, Virgil asked, “Was Betsy Carlson prominent in any way? I mean, before she came here?”

“Oh, lord, yes. Her parents were very well-off early settlers, owned a good chunk of land along the railroad, one of the banks, at least for a while. Betsy was the life of the party when she was young,” Laura said. “Everybody was a little surprised when Bill Judd married her sister, instead of her.”

“There were rumors that he didn’t actually have to marry her, to get what he wanted,” Virgil said. “The old ‘Why buy the cow if you’re getting the milk for free?’”

“Could be some truth to that,” Laura said. “Back then, people tended to look the other way…Have you been talking to other people…mmm…related to Bill Judd?”

“A couple,” Virgil said. “Margaret Laymon, of course. A woman who now lives somewhere else—I’ve got a list I’m working down.”

“Well, cough up the names,” Joan said.

“Ah, you don’t want to know,” Virgil said. “Besides, I couldn’t tell you if I wanted. I scrawled them all down in my notebook, and it’s back at the motel. He apparently got around town, though.”

His eyes caught Laura’s in the rearview mirror. She was watching him with just a hint of a smile on her face.

Virgil added, “The question I was working up to, was, why wouldn’t there be any press clippings about Betsy Carlson? I was looking in the newspaper files today, and there’s not a single one.”

After a moment of silence, Laura said, “Well, that’s ridiculous. She was in every club in town, she was president of most of them, at one time or another. There should have been a hundred stories about her.”