Driving home he kept a close rein on his thoughts. He pulled the Mercedes into the garage and waited while the garage door rumbled down and closed with a thunk. He retrieved the liquor bag from the trunk and clutched it against him as he opened the door that led into the kitchen. When he set down the bag, the bottles of Maker’s Mark and vodka made a satisfying clunk of glass on the granite countertop.
Carolyn had left a note he didn’t bother to read. She’d be reminding him of things that needed to be done or couldn’t be overlooked in her absence. “Leave the alarm system off Friday morning so Ella can come in and clean. She should be done by noon. Just make sure she hasn’t left any outside doors unlocked. Garbage goes out for pickup . . .” It was always like that, his wife directing events from afar.
He walked through the house, taking in the ordinary sights and smells. Carolyn had made an attempt to pick up after the kids in the minutes before they left, but it was still a house where unruly children lived—Fletcher’s cowboy boots on the stairs waiting to be taken up; Linnie’s jacket thrown over the newel post; shoes, doll clothes, coloring books on the floor. Carolyn had left her knitting in a heap on the side table near the couch, the same ugly afghan she’d worked on for years. He circled through the living room where she’d drawn the drapes, leaving the room in a golden gloom. He passed through the dining room with the round mahogany table and Chippendale chairs she’d inherited from an aunt.
He opened the china cabinet and removed an old-fashioned glass that was part of a set of Swarovski crystal he’d given Carolyn for their tenth anniversary. He went into the family room and crossed to the wet bar, where he opened the ice maker. He used the white plastic scoop to rattle ice into his glass. These were all sounds he loved, a prelude to the relief, the cessation of anxiety he knew was coming up. This was foreplay. He was setting the scene to maximize his pleasure. If he’d been into pornography, he couldn’t have exercised greater care or self-control, teasing himself with his preparations, building his anticipation.
Glass in hand, he returned to the kitchen, opened the Maker’s Mark, and poured himself a drink. By then a delayed reaction had set in. The mobile evidence van, police on the hill. His right hand started to shake so hard, the bottle banged against the rim of the glass. Carefully, he put both the bottle and the glass on the counter and leaned stiff-armed against the sink, hanging his head. Fear welled up like bile, and for a moment he thought he’d be sick. He took a deep breath, making a conscious effort to throw off his anxiety.
He reached for the wall phone and punched in Jon’s number.
Jon picked up on his end. “Yes.”
“It’s me.”
A brief, wary silence, and then Jon said, “Well, Walker. This is unexpected. What can I do for you?”
“You heard what’s going on?”
“What would that be?”
Walker could tell Jon was sorting through papers on his desk, reminding him that whatever Walker had to say, it was of less interest than the task right in front of him. “They’re digging up the hill off Alita Lane. Cops, cadaver dog, evidence van, the works.”
The paper rustling stopped. “Really. When was this?”
“I saw them just now, on my way home from work. I pulled over and chatted with a gal I knew. She said they thought a child was buried on the hill. They dug up the dog.”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t come up before. One way or another, something was bound to surface. There was always that risk.”
“Yes, but why now? Where’s this shit coming from?”
“I have no idea. I’m sure we’ll find out in due course. Are you all right?”
“So far. It’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Don’t be paranoid. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“So you’ve said, but here it is anyway.”
“Cool it, man. Would you do that? Be cool. This won’t blow back on us. I guarantee.”
“Why after all these years?”
“No clue. The cops don’t consult with me.”
“But what could have happened?”
“Walker, it doesn’t matter. It’s a dead end so drop it. Where’s Carolyn?”
“Up north. At her mother’s. She took the kids.”
“Until when?”
“Monday.”
“Good. Gives you time to simmer down and get your head on straight.”
“Take a chill pill,” Walker said, echoing Jon’s unspoken admonition from their teen years.