Holy Ghost (Virgil Flowers #11)(31)

“I’ll take a look on my way out,” Virgil said.



* * *



—

Virgil took a look at the solar panels, but they resembled all the other solar panels he’d seen in his life so he didn’t linger more than three seconds. He was five or six blocks from the Vissers’, where he’d left his car, and was walking out toward the street when Ford stepped outside and called to him.

“I thought of something,” Ford said. “As everybody knows, that CZ has a twist rate of one in nine, which is not what you’d want for the best accuracy with a solid boattail bullet like you’d use in the military or with a target. That gun’s made for shooting varmints with light, high-speed bullets. If you’re shooting that big boattail at longer distances, you’d want a faster twist—you’d want a 1:8, or even a 1:6, to stabilize the bullet, especially if there’s any crosswind at all.”

“But how many people know as much about it as you do? I mean, he steals the gun, sees a box that says ‘Bullets,’ they fit the gun, and that’s it. He doesn’t know about boattails and twist rates,” Virgil said. “He’s shooting what Glen Andorra shot.”

Ford considered, then nodded. “I give you that one. But it baffles me. Guns are some of the most common tools in America, and most people don’t know any more about them than point and shoot.”

“They manage to kill their wives and kids at a pretty ferocious rate,” Virgil said.

“That’s unfair, but I won’t argue with you. Maybe we’ll get a beer someday. In the meantime, I’m gonna go by the church and take a look. There are all those trees along Main, he’s gotta be shooting through them or under them . . . It’s an interesting problem, shooting-wise.”

“Do that. I’ll tell Skinner or Holland to go with you so people won’t wonder why the best shot in town is lining up positions at the church,” Virgil said.

Ford nodded again, and said, “I’ll talk to Wardell. And if you see Rose . . . I saw her win a women’s turkey shoot up at Madelia.”

Virgil said, “Got it.”



* * *



—

The Vissers’ place wasn’t far, but a detour over to Skinner & Holland would only take five minutes. Virgil thought about the ice-cream cone that the priest, George Brice, had been eating that morning, realized he was hungry, and decided to stop.

On the way over, he called Sheriff Zimmer and told him he was going to visit the Nazis. “I ought to be there about one o’clock,” Virgil said.

“You know your way around out there?” Zimmer asked.

“More or less.”

“More or less won’t work—they’re back in the sticks,” Zimmer said. “I’ll have a guy out at the Wheatfield interchange on I-90 at one. You can follow him out.”

“Excellent.”

When he got to the store, a heavyset, sixtyish woman who had a strawberry beret perched atop her iron-gray hair was shouting at Skinner and Holland, who were standing behind the cash register. Three embarrassed patrons, including a nun in a black habit, were standing behind her at the counter, holding individual serving sacks of fried crap. As Virgil walked in, one of them wandered off, apparently to hide at the back of the store.

The woman turned away from Skinner and Holland, stormed toward the exit, where Virgil was standing. She snapped, “Out of the way, bum,” and steamed on past. Holland gave her the finger, which she didn’t see.

“What the heck was that?” Virgil asked Skinner.

“Holland’s mom,” Skinner said. “She told all her friends that they could come in and shoplift, and Wardell started asking them if they could pay for the stuff. A sack of Fritos here, a sack of Cheetos there—it adds up.”

“She told them they could shoplift?”

“Not exactly,” Holland said over Skinner’s shoulder. “She told them that her friends could eat free and that it was all right with me. It isn’t. She thinks it’s all right because she loaned us the money to buy the store.”

“Okay. Not saying I agree with her, but I can see her thinking,” Virgil said. “She does you a favor, you do her a favor.”

“She got us for nine percent interest,” Skinner said.

“Nine percent. So, basically, fuck her,” Holland said. His eyes flicked over to the nun. “Excuse the language, Sister.”

The nun said, “I can forgive the language. I’m not sure I can forgive your making an obscene gesture at your mother.”

“Ya gotta know her,” Holland said. “If you knew her, you’d give her the finger, too. Let me get those Fritos for you.”

As the nun’s Fritos were being rung up, Virgil asked, “If I buy a chicken potpie, can I use your microwave to heat it up?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Skinner said.

The nun, looking at her Fritos, said, “You’re lucky.”

Virgil got the chicken potpie from the freezer, paid for it, went in the back room, popped it in the microwave, and was waiting for it to heat up, when Holland came in. “Plastic forks and spoons in the drawer under the sink. You figure anything out?”

“Not much, except that your mom’s cafe sells sugar water as syrup.”