20

So, Wayne wanted to test him. Wayne wanted to get at his secret. Greg got another chill from another horrid thought: What if Wayne did know about the lake? That would be almost as bad as Torres knowing, maybe even worse. His panic was back, building up inside him, pressing at his ribs and squeezing organs and making him consider drastic measures. He drove onward into town. Gunnar had wanted to go along, but Greg said that wasn’t a good idea because he had some things to take care of; then Gunnar wanted to know how long he would be, but Greg said for as long as it took, so Gunnar made Greg a peanut butter sandwich in case Greg got hungry. Good kid.

Gunnar should have nothing to do with this. The less Gunnar was seen with him, the better. In town Greg cruised Callum Street, nice and slow, then back through the main drag again, eyeing every shop window. No Donny. No Wayne. Greg didn’t know Donny’s mobile number; Donny had never offered it. Not knowing what else to do, he entered city hall, which occupied the second floor of the Callum Building and was an insult to its grand exterior—all fake wood paneling and Formica like a set from The Rockford Files. It was pretty much vacant. He found the mayor’s office. An elderly secretary sat behind a dulling Plexiglas screen that she pushed open as if Greg had come to pay a bill. Greg asked if the mayor was in, not knowing what he was going to say to the man, just going with it. The mayor was on a fishing trip, the secretary said, wouldn’t be back for a week at least. Greg asked, was his son with him, “Wayne, was it?” The secretary snickered, said she doubted that very, very much, “Not unless Wayne was aiming to do him in.”

Down Callum Street he saw Tam in front of Tam’s, leaning on a broom almost like she was waiting for him. He asked her if she’d seen Wayne Carver. You might try his feed store, she said. Greg went over there. It was a 1960s prefab building just beyond one end of town, a big sign reading Carver Farm Supply mounted high on a thick pole as if it was meant to stand along a freeway. The front was dressed up like a chain store with colorful sale banners, but the lettering and phrases were outdated as if recycled year after year. The parking lot was empty. Closed sign on the door, not open on Tuesdays. Greg moved along the tractors for sale out front, using them as cover to eye the store windows. No lights on, no one inside. He even walked around the building, passed the loading dock out back. No one parked there, no pickup truck. Greg, calming down now, told himself this was all a good thing. He really did not know what he would have done if Wayne was here. If it were just him and Wayne, he could have gotten away with just about anything. But then so could have Wayne.

A Jaguar sedan, recent model. Greg had sensed a flash of champagne color in the corner of his eye, then jerked his head to see the parked car as he passed. He was cutting through a quaint old tree-lined block on the nice side of town, the houses set back and surrounded by mighty hedges from about a hundred years ago when Pineburg looked to be going places. The white house had ornate woodwork decorating the eaves and windows and manicured shrubs up to the windows. It had a white picket fence, recently painted. The Jaguar was parked inside the carriage house next to the home and the door was still open, the only reason Greg had a glimpse of that gleaming color. Cashmere, Gunnar said she called it.

He took his foot off the gas and coasted a few houses further, then turned at the next street and rolled to a stop, parked. Turned off the engine. He pulled on a hoody from the back seat that he hadn’t been seen wearing. He had a bucket hat and he put that on, and sunglasses.

Karen Callum. The only player he had not considered, not really.

The street had dissecting alleys open to backyards. Greg made his way down the alley, eyeing the houses. The first, second, and third looked dark and empty, and he imagined elderly people in them or that each was long vacant after an estate sale and one day would be turned into a bed and breakfast by some city-dwelling inheritor as soon as the area started to pick up. It was the same on the other side, with no toys in yards or signs of decay such as turkeys, pit bulls, and the requisite rusting fridge or car engine. This block was like a museum. The house he wanted had that picket fence out back as well, also newly painted, the back yard ringed by more manicured hedges and fruit trees. He stood in the lane, using a hedge for cover. The windows of this house looked dim too.

The fence had a gate. He stepped sideways over to it. He pushed it open, making sure it didn’t squeak.

He moved through the yard, acting natural, prepared to say he admired the house and wondered if it was for sale, even if he ran into Karen—what a coincidence.

Something flew by him, then another little something, buzzing and humming. A hummingbird floated before him, then two and three, and they zipped away one after the other. He couldn’t help smiling at that and noticed the porch had more than one hanging hummingbird feeder. He stepped around, eyeing the dim windows, and caught contours of a living room, a kitchen and, at one corner, what could be a den.

He stopped, frozen.

He’d seen shapes moving, like the color of that Jag but brighter, flushed, glowing.

Two people naked, on a chaise lounge. Kissing, caressing, laughing.

It was two women. Karen Callum was one. He couldn’t mistake her dark flowing hair, those curves. Her lover had clipped hair and was shorter, thicker, more bulk than curves. He couldn’t stop staring. His feet moved him to the side, just behind a hedge. Their lovemaking looked at first glance almost violent in its fury and pace, like flailing, but then he saw its purpose. Caring. Devotion. Tenderness. Like they were painting each other as murals. They turned his way. He ducked. When he peeked again, into a corner of the window, they had turned again, into another position. And he had the sense that they would not have seen him anyway, such was their blind passion.

He ran off.