Holy Ghost (Virgil Flowers #11)(66)

“Never mind,” Baldwin said.



* * *



—

Virgil left them to process the house and drove down the street to Skinner & Holland. On the way, Shrake called to say that they’d located Andorra’s son, heir to the farm, and he had good alibis for two of the shootings: he worked at a truck dispatching company and had signed out on time-stamped loads. “He’s out,” Shrake said.

“Okay. Look, I need you guys back here. Change cars—find some old crack-and-dent sedans that you can get comfortable in. We’re talking surveillance mode.”

“You got a suspect?”

“Not yet, but I hope to get one.”



* * *



—

At Skinner & Holland, Skinner was behind the cash register, and Holland was in the back room, counting the daily take. When he saw Virgil, Skinner said, “Jennie’s back. She’s down at her house, and she’s okay. Except she hurts.”

“Good. I need to talk to you and Wardell.”

“I can’t leave the register.”

“Then one at a time . . . But let me get a potpie.”

Virgil carried the frozen potpie to the back—nasty, but he was starving, having had no real breakfast—and put it in the microwave. He told Holland what he was going to do and what Holland should say about it. “I need to explain it to Skinner as well, but I want to do the actual printing out in public.”

“I dunno, man. Frankly, this sounds a little stupid . . .”

“Send Skinner back here.”

When he’d told Skinner what he was planning, Virgil sent him back out front, then sat and ate the potpie. When he was finished, he went out the back door, around to his truck, got the fingerprint pad and a piece of white paper, and carried them into the store. He printed both Holland and Skinner, as three locals watched, then compared their prints to the print on his cell phone.

“I guess you guys are in the clear,” he said. “Neither of you have that big of a whorl.”

“You got it off a cartridge?” Holland asked. “Can I see it?”

“Not much to see,” Virgil said. He took the evidence bag out of his jacket pocket and dangled it in front of Holland’s nose. “The print’s clear enough. Now, I just have to find a match.”

He put the bag back in his pocket, turned to the locals—a fourth had joined the first three, and none were leaving—and asked, “Anybody else want to get cleared?”



* * *



—

Virgil’s last stop was back at his room, where he knocked on the connecting door between his room and the main part of the house. Danielle popped it open, and asked, “What’s up?”

“About the town blog . . . ?”

“Yes?”

“Could you put a news story up for me without saying where it came from?” Virgil asked.

“Depends on what it is.”

Virgil explained about the cartridge shell and the fingerprint. “I’d like to get the word out that I’m going around printing suspects, without it coming from me.”

“Hey, that’s a good story. I’ll put it at the top of my ‘Heard Around Town’ column.”

When she’d gone to post the news, Virgil locked the door, went out to his truck, got his armored vest and his iPad, and started reading all the news he’d neglected over the past few days. He checked a few wildlife forums and “The Online Photographer.”

He had nothing to do until news of the fingerprinting had percolated through the town and until Jenkins and Shrake got back.

How long would that take? In Wheatfield, everybody should have heard about it before nightfall, he thought. Jenkins and Shrake should be set up by then.

And finally he asked himself, how stupid is this?





18


Jenkins called from his car at 9 o’clock, and said, “We’re in place. I’m down the block from the front of the house, and Shrake will set up on the street behind you. You got your radio?”

“Yes.”

“Tac light?”

“Yes.” Virgil had a LED flashlight.

Jenkins: “You got your vest?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll probably shoot you in the head,” Jenkins said.

“Listen, you moron . . .”

“I’m not the moron, you’re the moron for even thinking this up,” Jenkins said. “If you’re going to do it anyway, set your radio so we’re all getting the same thing at the same time. Stay away from your fuckin’ window. I’m looking over that way, and I saw the shadow of your head on the window shade. It looked like a gourd sitting on a fence.”

“All right, I’ll watch it. But I want him to see me moving around inside,” Virgil said. “I’ll walk out to the truck every fifteen minutes or so until midnight. He won’t come after that because he’ll figure I’m asleep.”

“If he knows where your bed is, where it is in the room, he could try a blind shot,” Shrake said.

“I don’t think so. He has to wait until he sees me because shooting me won’t be enough. He’ll want to get that print and the cartridge. He’s got to shoot, then he’s got to watch what happens after that, to make sure he’s alone, and then he’s got to come in to get it. He’ll have to be close. You should see him before he gets here.”