I‘ve decided to keep Red’s arrest “in house,” choosing to bring along only Rick and Bobcat for support, and foregoing any help from the State Police—at least for the present. I don’t expect there’ll be any trouble. More than likely, the ex-chief will come along quietly, especially when I tell him about the note his wife has written, which makes it appear that the girl’s death was an accident. The three-car convoy winds its way out of town, on its way to Buckner’s weather-beaten house up off of Bear Spring Mountain Road, with my old Wagoneer leading the parade. The crackle of the police radio is my only company, aside from my thoughts, which right now are focused on what I’ll say when I’m face-to-face with my predecessor.
Getting the warrant had been no trouble at all; Claire’s note had seen to that. Bill Bauer had taken one look at the writing scrawled on the piece of paper, and had immediately begun dictating to his secretary. In less than ten minutes, I had my warrant, and was headed back to town; no doubt leaving the DA salivating at the possibility of prosecuting the former Chief of Police of Roscoe. Apparently, Nancy wasn’t the only one who harbored bad feelings toward Red. Bill had virtually jumped at the opportunity to prepare the warrant. I didn’t bother to ask why he felt as he did, but had merely accepted the signed warrant with a handshake and my spoken appreciation.
Now, the document resides alongside me on the seat, its few well-constructed sentences spelling doom for a fellow law enforcement officer. This is not a happy day. Most in Roscoe will celebrate the arrest, especially Nancy, who has never held Red in very high esteem. But there will be a few—most notably those who know Red the longest—who will blame his wife for breaking the unwritten code of marital honor. Despite being less than two hours from the most sophisticated city in the country, Roscoe is first and foremost a country town. They’ve got cable TV and the Internet, but they’ve also got a tradition of self-preservation dating back to the early 1800s. Red’s roots go way back, too—just far enough to make him immune in some circles. It won’t be easy getting a conviction.
Inside the Buckner house, Claire sits quietly in front of the TV, absent-mindedly staring off into space, a half-knitted sweater on her lap. As usual, Red’s off somewhere. Since it’s a Saturday, Claire figures he’s probably over in Walton at a bar, watching a college football game, and no doubt getting drunk. It’s been three days since she mailed the letter, and she wonders how long it will be before they come to get her husband. She can’t stand the waiting. If they don’t come soon she’ll go out of her mind. She gets up, walks over to the window, and looks out, almost hoping to see a police car coming up the driveway. But, the only thing she sees on the gravel surface is the cat, carrying what appears to be a mouse in its jaws, a present for the lady of the house; it’s not exactly what she had in mind.
Claire sits back down, picks up her knitting project, then, with a sigh, drops it into her lap, and closes her eyes. There’s only one thought in her head. Sweet Jesus, forgive this sinner.