“He needs to take his consequences. He scratched your car, you make him pay for it. Reckless driving. Sue him. Tell him you need a new bumper. Maybe a headlight, too. Thousand dollars, minimum. Dose of reality. Pay the piper.”
“Actually, that’s not why I’m here.”
Husband and wife both gave him blank looks.
“I’m investigating the incident that occurred down on the road the day before yesterday.”
There was a flash of interest in Nora’s eyes.
Her husband shook his head emphatically. “We don’t know anything about that.”
“But you know what I’m talking about, right?”
“The fact of it, is all. There was mention of it on the Harbane radio yesterday, something about a collision—maybe a road-rage thing? We weren’t hardly listening. Nothing we can tell you. If that’s what you come for, you’re wasting your time.”
The man’s position arose either from the all-too-common fear of anything that might involve the police, or from something else. Regardless, pursuing the matter with him right then would be a mistake.
“Does your son live here?”
“He does not.” Bert’s denial carried an edge.
“He has his own apartment in Harbane,” offered Nora with a defiant hint of pride, as though his apartment represented a significant achievement. “I can give you the address, if that would be helpful. You come to the house, and I’ll make a note of it for you.”
Her husband scowled at her, then turned and strode back to the wreckage of the woodpile.
Bert and Nora appeared to be one of those couples with a taste for litigating their disputes in the presence of strangers, as if points could be amassed toward some Pyrrhic victory in the ongoing battle of their marriage. Gurney suspected that offering him their son’s address was Nora’s way of drawing him aside to bolster her viewpoint in private. He followed her to the cabin.
She seemed disappointed that he chose to wait on the porch while she went inside. She came back out a minute later with a piece of paper with something written on it. A thin halo of frizzy hair surrounded the loosely gathered bun on the back of her head.
“Sir, I do want to apologize for Bert’s behavior. Shame you had to be exposed to that. But maybe it gives you some idea of what Colson’s been battered by his whole life. Bert believes there’s only two ways of doing anything, his way and the wrong way. The man’s got no sense of his own human frailty, you understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“Colson’s got potential. Talents. Smarts. But a boy needs the right kind of guidance, not getting cut down all the time by his own father.” Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. “Specially now that he’s come off the drugs. Any kind of stress right now . . . it could send him right back.”
She paused, looking down at the paper in her hand. “Which is why I put my phone number on here alongside Colson’s address. Whatever it costs to take care of that scratched bumper, I’d appreciate you letting me take care of it . . .” Her voice trailed off and she handed the paper to Gurney.
He slipped it in his pocket. “When I mentioned the incident I’m investigating—and your husband said neither of you knew anything about it—I got the impression you didn’t agree with that. Am I right?”
“I just know what I heard. Bert’s half deaf. But the problem’s not just his ears, it’s his pride. If he didn’t hear something, then it plain didn’t happen. Plenty of times Colson would tell him something, and Bert’d insist he never did. Call his own son a damn liar right to his face.”
“Regarding that incident on the road, Nora, what was it you heard?”
“Big
“Did you hear anything else?”
“The gunshots. On the farm back in Harbane my brothers had every kind of firearm, shooting the damn things morning, noon, and night. You get to know the sounds. What I heard was a pistol, big one, no twenty-two plinker.”
Gurney gave her an admiring smile. “Sounds like you have a very good ear.”
“Maybe God gave me that, knowing Bert’d have no ear at all.”
“Did it sound like both shots came from the same gun?”
“Most likely. Same caliber, anyway.”
“How about the timing between the shots?”
She paused, her lips pursed in concentration. “A minute. Two at the most.”
“How long after the crash did you hear the first shot?”
“I’d say that was about a minute also.”
“So, the first sound was the crash. A minute later, the first shot. And a minute or two after that, the second shot. Do I have that right?”
“Except the first sound wasn’t the crash. The first sound was the motorbike.”
“Motorbike?”
“The one that came up to the road through the woods.”
“You saw it?”
“I heard it.”
“When you say it came up to the road through the woods—”
