The gun does, though.
But then they’re usually hard to miss.
She is almost completely out of breath, putting her hands on her knees for a moment before she looks back up at me.
“I heard—” She starts and then stops. Still out of breath. “I thought—”
Her cheeks are the same color as her prized roses. But now her eyes are fixed firmly on Burt’s Glock. I know EJ’s not afraid of guns, that she keeps one in the top drawer of her nightstand, a Smith &Wesson M&P Shield, for the simple reason that she’d been living alone, and for a long time, until I came back. She knows how to use that handgun, she’s assured me, but I always assure her right back that I hope she’ll never have the need.
“What in the world are you doing with that?” she asks, pointing at the gun.
“Practicing,” I say.
SIXTY-FOUR
I AM SEATED at a table in Scobee’s. EJ offered to cook me breakfast, but I passed, needlessly explaining to her that sometimes an overpowering need for an egg-and-cheddar sandwich comes over me. I’m waiting for my order when Burt Webb calls.
I’m about to tell him to hurry over here and join me when he cuts me off by saying, “Meet me at Corley Park.”
Before I can ask why, he says, “They took another girl.”
Burt told me where I can find him, out between the tennis courts and thick woods at the far end of Corley.
By the time I arrive, there is enough of a police presence, so many squad cars lined up in front of the courts and so many cops having set up a perimeter, that I find myself thinking this would be a good morning to rob the Bank of Appalachia over on Main Street, if not all of Main Street itself, if somebody had the time.
Burt is here. So is Helene Mayes. There’s already a crowd of lookie-loos outside the crime-scene tape. One TV truck, one cameraman, one reporter, a young woman I don’t recognize. A lot of thepeople in the crowd have their phones out and are using them to take pictures, even though there’s not much to see.
Burt is standing next to a road bike tipped over on its side, almost like he’s standing guard over it. I walk over to him after he’s yelled at one of the cops controlling the perimeter to let me pass.
Helene nods at me and then snaps, “Fucking fucks.”
Burt says, “Girl’s name is Lynette Coleman. Lives with her single mom in a small ranch just on the outskirts of downtown, north side. The girl likes to ride her bike some mornings over to Bagels and Bialys to get bagels for them. For her and her mom, I mean. Then she cuts back across the park and heads home.”
He stares down at the Culver bike. I had one like it in high school. EJ bought it for me one Christmas. Nice bike.
“Only she didn’t make it home this morning,” Burt says. “They took her and left the bike.” Then Burt Webb, who doesn’t normally cuss, didn’t even on a football field, adds, “The fucking fucks.”
I give him a moment. Right now he resembles a fighter who’s taken too many punches and needs one of those standing eight counts.
Helene has walked away and is talking to a couple of the county cops now under her command.
“How old?” I say softly to Burt.
He turns around, surprised, almost as if he’s forgotten that I’m standing right here.
“I’m sorry… what?”
“Lynette Coleman,” I say. “How old?”
“Fifteen.”
It’s as if the number falls out of the air before it can make it all the way to me.
“Where’s her mom right now?” I ask.
“I’ve got Katie Springer, one of my rookies, sitting with her at their home,” Burt says. “Just because there’s nothing for themom—Connie is her name—to do here. Or see.” He shakes his head. “Other than her daughter’s bike, I guess.”
“Witnesses?” I ask.
