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Nellie said, “Father would have done whatever he thought was best for Billy’s future.”
“Where do you suppose Billy is now?” Bell asked.
Edna said, “I suspect he enlisted, again, under a different name. But if he did, maybe the reason we’ve heard nothing since is he died fighting the Filipino guerrillas.”
“I doubt he died in the Philippines,” said Bell. It looked to him that Brigadier Mills had read his man wrong . . . “Could I ask you something?”
“Which one of us?” asked Nellie.
“Both. If this marksman Billy Jones is your brother, Billy Hock, could you imagine him turning his skill to murder?”
“Are you asking is our brother the assassin?”
“I am asking do you imagine he could be?”
“We haven’t seen him in years,” said Edna. “Who knows who he’s become?”
“Could the boy you remember become a murderer?”
“No,” said Edna.
“Yes,” said Nellie.
“Why do you say yes, Nellie?”
“I knew him better than Edna. Isn’t that true, Edna?”
Edna said, “Yes, you two grew very close.” To Bell she added, “So close that I was jealous sometimes.”
Bell asked again, “Nellie, why do you say yes?”
“He was afraid. He was always afraid. So when you ask can I imagine him turning his skill to murder, I have to imagine him lashing out—first out of fear, then because lashing out banished fear, and finally . . .”
“Finally what?” asked Bell.
Edna echoed, “Finally what, Nellie? How do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m just speculating.”
“But you just said you knew him well,” Bell pressed, convinced she was onto something.
Nellie shrugged. “What if finally lashing out banished fear? Then maybe lashing out could become . . . what? Pleasurable? Enjoyable? Something to aspire to.”
“We’re talking about murder,” said Edna.
“We were talking about our brother,” Nellie said sharply.
“But who could find murder enjoyable?”
“A madman,” said Isaac Bell.
“We were talking about our brother,” Nellie repeated. “We’re speculating about murder . . .” When she resumed speaking, she made an effort to lighten her tone, as if asking with a hopeful smile could eliminate the worst possibility. “What do you think, Isaac? You’re the detective. Is our brother the assassin?”
“I can’t sugarcoat it for you,” said Bell.
His sober tone stopped the conversation. Lost in private thoughts, they listened to the night sound of locusts singing in the heat. After a while, after mentally couching questions he knew that they could not answer, Bell rose abruptly. He found his hat and said good-bye.
“Where are you going?” asked Nellie.
