“It’s because that bastard Savich kicked you so hard they had to cut you open and make repairs. Why’d you want to kill Savich so bad that first time when you saw him in the bank? I mean, he was lying there on the floor like the rest of the customers, right? He couldn’t hurt you.”
Lissy pulled out a slice of white bread and opened the jar of crunchy peanut butter. I’d seen him on TV, realized he was that big important FBI agent, and I had this great chance to kill him.
When I was with it enough to watch TV after the surgery, the news programs were still going on about how Savich had been some sort of hero, saved some worthless sods’ lives. I hate him. I want you to kill him, Victor. Hey, there’s sugar in this peanut butter. Why didn’t you get natural? You know that’s the only kind Mama ever bought.
“Peanut butter tastes better with sugar. Give me a slice, too, Lissy. And I want some of those Fritos and some bean dip.”
The only fresh thing you bought are those limp carrots, probably older than that old coot, Norm. You should have looked closer before you bought them, Victor. They look like they’ll taste nasty. And I don’t have a peeler. Hand me that water so I can at least give them a wash. Then give me your new Ka-Bar. I’ll scrape them down.
“Yeah, here’s the knife. Look, even if I’d shot that old guy at the grocery, his wife was there, too, and she saw me. People could have come in, could have seen me. I had to run. You would have, too.”
Me, run? You know better than that, Victor. Mama didn’t raise no lame-butt coward. Pop! Pop! And the problem’s solved. And you get the money in the cash register, and you wouldn’t have to drive all day long, so scared you were sweating bullets. Look at you, happy now you’re eating your peanut butter, with all that sugar on that poopy white bread.
Now they know who we are. You gotta be smart, no more making up things as you go along, like that stupid chocolate bar at the book festival, no more going cowboy. You could have got yourself caught, Victor. That agent, Sherlock, she got too close.
“How many times do I have to tell you? I followed them from Washington. They never saw me. I got this idea, thought I could get the kid. Why not? I would have gotten him if things had been different. How long are you going to rag on me about that, Lissy?”
All right, so you tried. Now we’ve got things to do, places to go. I’m thinking it’s time to get Buzz Riley, that security guard who killed my mama. I’ll never forget his name as long as I live. I want to shoot a bullet right up his nose, Victor. Okay?
“I’ll think about it, Lissy. I’ll buy you some natural peanut butter tomorrow.”
26
* * *
WILLICOTT, MARYLAND
SUNDAY EVENING
Savich and Sherlock sat across from Ty and Sala in a booth, three of them eating Congo’s famous meatloaf, Savich a corn-on-the-cob and three-bean salad, prepared for him by Congo himself. It was his granny’s recipe from before the big war in Europe, he’d said. Ty had wondered if Congo was a nickname or if his parents had given in to whimsy or visited Africa at the time of his conception. Since Sean was at his grandmother’s, Savich and Sherlock had wanted to come back to Willicott to touch base with Sala and Ty. And where they were touching base was at Bliss’s Diner, a local landmark, Ty had assured them.
Congo sauntered to their table again and beamed a hundred-watt smile. “Well, now, what do you think of my special salad for you, Agent Savich? The beans are fresh, right out of my own garden.”
Savich liked the good-looking older man with a crooked incisor and charming smile. “Nearly as good as my mom’s.”
“What can I say to that? A mom’s a mom.” As he poured iced tea into their glasses, Congo continued, “Did the chief tell you I was the one who found the first skull when I dived looking for poor Ms. Ryan? That was a shocker, I’ll tell you, a skull on the bottom of Lake Massey. I thought poor Albert would mess his pants when the chief here handed it to him. Any sugar or lemon for anybody? No? Imagine, some crazy serial killer living in or near Willicott, Maryland. I mean, everyone knows they exist, but you don’t expect it could be one of your neighbors down the street, right?”
Sherlock asked, “Is that what you think, Mr. Bliss? The serial killer lives in Willicott?”
“I was told that’s what Charlie thinks, and Charlie’s your right hand, Ty.” Congo shook his head. “Hard to swallow he’s risen so high in such a short time. I knew Charlie when he was a snot-nosed little dip, always blowing bubble gum, making a mess on his face. His mama—Lynn Corsica—was always peeling the stuff off, smacking his butt while she did. Smart lady, that Lynn, sees everything, knows everything, to be expected, I guess, being she runs the library.
“Anyway, I heard Charlie and Hanger Lewis and his boys hauled up a lot more bones in that creaky old pontoon boat of his. And more this morning when Charlie and Hanger went out again. I wonder why they haven’t found more skulls. The walleyes haul them away?” He shook his head. “Imagine finding that poor federal prosecutor down there with all those bones.”
The perils of a small town. Everyone knew everything about Octavia’s body being in the lake, right down to the number of bones they’d hauled up. At least she could hope anyone who’d heard or seen anything would come to her door. Would anyone come up and say something to Sala?
Congo gave them a salute and wandered to another table with his tea pitcher. Not three minutes later, he was back. “I heard the fancy folk at Quantico are looking at the bones. Chief, you gonna have Hanger take another run?”
She said, “Mayor Bobby and the council want to wait and see what the FBI is planning before they authorize more money for dragging the lake.” Actually, Mayor Bobby had said, “What do we need more bones for, Ty? It’s not like they can identify anybody from a skull like they do on the TV shows.” He’d given her his patented winsome smile that had charmed her when he’d interviewed her and gotten him elected four times. He’d leaned close, patted her shoulder. “I know you want to do your job, Chief, and track down this maniac. The council and I, we’ve got your back.” And what did that mean?
She smiled up at Congo. “Delicious meatloaf as usual, Congo. Look, Agent Sherlock and Agent Porto have nearly cleaned their plates, and hardly a bean left on Agent Savich’s plate. Now it’s on to your peach pie.”
When he returned with an entire pie to cut at the table, Ty said before he could start up again, “Congo, do you know of anyone who’s gone missing for, say, the last twenty years, and was never found or heard from again?”
Congo frowned as he meticulously cut the warm pie and served up the slices. Finally, he said, “Same question I’ve been hearing all day. There was Mr. Grover—went missing back in ninety-four, never heard from again. But he was old and had Alzheimer’s, so he probably wandered off, maybe fell into Lake Massey and drowned. Can’t think of anyone else myself. I’ll ask around.”
“Thank you. Guys, Congo’s known not only for his meatloaf but his peach pie. Dig in.”
Congo lightly laid his hand on Sala’s shoulder. “Everyone’s sorry about what happened to Ms. Ryan, and to you, Agent Porto. It was a horrible thing.”