‘Welcome, everyone!’ His amplified voice reverberated not quite simultaneously off the many brick fronts facing the square, as though several Mac Bassetts had returned to taunt those who’d felt relief at his death.
A few people thought to applaud. Most had simply gone silent, anxious to hear directly from the mud-caked, burned man who was supposed to be dead.
‘And an especially big welcome to you, Clamp Reems,’ Mac said, half turning to face the chief deputy. ‘I intend to make this the second most important day of your life.’
The killer stared into the crowd, impassive.
No matter. Mac would soon enliven him. He turned back to face the people on the lawn.
All stood frozen, waiting, except for one frail old man with a .35mm camera dangling on a cord around his neck. He was laboring forward through the crowd, stepping haltingly, apparently intent on getting to the front to take a picture. In spite of the heat, he wore a sweatshirt and a windbreaker two sizes too large. His sweat-stained canvas hat was pulled down tight to shield his face from the sun.
‘When I was elected just a few short months ago,’ Mac said, ‘I looked forward to this day as my first chance to address you as your mayor. I thought of the words I was going to say – words of thanks, words of optimism, words of hope about the future of this town.’
People were turning, distracted by the old man’s precarious progress. He’d paused for breath, teetering. The lower part of his face, clean-shaven, was sallow and unhealthy looking, as though it hadn’t felt the sun for years. His shoulder looked barely wide enough to support the strap of the small camera bag bouncing against his side.
‘I’ve decided …’ Mac said softly, ‘… to say none of that.’
Everyone looked back at the lectern. They’d heard something going bad in the way Mac lowered his voice.
‘Damn it, Bassett!’ someone yelled. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘You mean to these?’ he shouted, holding up his blistered hands. ‘Or to Betty Jo Dean’s head?’
A hundred people gasped. Mac smiled, faking a calm he didn’t feel, and pressed on. ‘Today we’re here to focus on Clamp Reems.’
A few people, confused, began to applaud that. They quickly stopped when no one else joined in. The others had heard the tension in Mac’s voice, and were straining to hear more.
Except for the old man. He’d started up again on his snail’s journey toward the dais.
‘Ah, but I can’t do Clamp justice,’ Mac said. ‘Let me yield to Luther Wiley.’ He held Jen’s voice recorder a foot from the microphone and switched it on.
‘Hell, yes, Clamp killed Betty Jo,’ Luther’s voice boomed from the speakers at the sides of the dais. ‘There isn’t a fool in this town doesn’t know that, or at least suspect it. I witnessed nothing firsthand, mind you, but my uncle, and Doc and Horace, and even that numb-nutted Randy White, were all there at the funeral home when they brought her in. Doc was taking too much time with the probe, trying not to disfigure her—’
The old man had tottered to the front row and was reaching into his camera bag when he stopped like he’d been struck by lightning. He was staring at Jen Jessup like she was a ghost.
‘—for viewing in an open casket,’ Luther’s voice went on. ‘That business about bloating and decomposition? There was none. He loved her, see? He’d kept her alive—’
Back on the dais, a chair scraped loudly and fell over; Clamp might have been lurching up. Mac didn’t turn; he was transfixed by the old man, now standing right below the dais. He’d pulled a revolver from his camera bag.
The beard was gone, but Mac knew the man. He stepped quickly from behind the lectern and threw up his arms. Someone yelled.
A gun fired once, and again.
He fell, wondering crazily if it had been him, shouting.