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more tonight, Mrs. Hatcher,” and then to me, “Show me the broken window.”
    I led him into the kitchen. He took in the damage in a couple of glances. Then, his boots crunching on the broken glass, he leaned down for a look at the rock, but he didn’t touch it. Even if he’d cared enough to take it with him as evidence, there was no point in it; that kind of rough surface does not take fingerprints. Straightening, he crossed to the window and leaned forward over the sink to peer out into the rear yard.
    â€œOkay,” he said when he turned. “I’ll go have a look at the shed. No need for you to come along.” He paused at the outer door. “Anything else I should know before I go?”
    â€œNot about this, no.”
    â€œIf there is, at any time during your stay in Mineral Springs, you be sure to look me up and tell me. Right?”
    Subtle warning. “Right,” I said, and meant it.
    But he wasn’t done yet. He said, “Cold tonight, and it’ll get a lot colder later on. Better put something over that broken window so you and Mrs. Hatcher don’t freeze before morning.”
    â€œI’ll do that,” I said. “But I’m not staying here. I have a room at the Goldtown Motel.”
    â€œOkay,” he said, and went on out.
    Cheryl was still sitting hunched on the sofa, now with a shawl draped around her shoulders. I had a foolish impulse to sit down next to her, offer her some comfort by putting an arm around her shoulders, but I didn’t give in to it. I had more questions for her, too, but none of them needed answering immediately. It was getting late and what we both needed was rest.
    I asked about hammer, nails, plywood or plastic sheeting, and she said everything of that sort was in the storage shed and told me where the door key was. Felix was already gone when I went out there. The shed’s interior was thick with the stench of kerosene and charred wood; I used my pocket flash to root around until I found what I needed to cover the broken window.
    Back in the kitchen I drew the dead bolt on the back door, tossed the rock out through the window gap, and then got to work. Cheryl came in while I was hammering nails and wordlessly began to sweep up the broken glass. She finished before I did, stood watching me until I was done.
    â€œI’d better be going now,” I said then. “The sheriff is probably right that nothing more will happen tonight, but you might want to stay with a friend just to be safe.”
    â€œNo, I’ll be all right here alone.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œI’m sure. My late husband was a hunter and I know how to use his rifle.”
    â€œGet it, load it, and keep it handy.”
    â€œYes. I will.”
    â€œOkay, then. We’ll talk again tomorrow. What’re your hours at the Lucky Strike, in case I need to see you during the day?”
    â€œEight until five weekdays.” At the front door she touched my arm briefly and said, “Thank you, Bill. No matter what happens … thank you.”
    I had that foolish comforting impulse again, and again didn’t give in to it. I managed a reassuring smile and said good night and went out to my car on the now empty street. And as I leaned down to unlock the driver’s door, anger flared up in me again.
    Even in the darkness I could see the long, jagged scratch where one of Cheryl’s fine, upstanding neighbors had keyed it during the earlier excitement.

 
    4
    As exhausted as I was I should have slept the night through, but I didn’t. Awake much of the time, my stomach upset from the tasteless meal I’d forced down to still the hunger rumblings on the way back to the motel; restless and dream-ridden when I did sleep. Come morning I felt logy and on edge. A long, hot-cold-hot shower took away most of the sluggish feeling but not the tight-drawn edginess. Wednesday’s weather, mostly cloudy and