An older Ford F-150 was parked nose in at the front door; a bumper sticker said “I dream of an America where a chicken can cross the road without having its motives questioned.”
Maybe the Vissers had a sense of humor; or maybe they were sincere and deeply into fowl. He climbed the stoop and knocked. A woman opened the inner door, looked through the screen, and said, “You’d be Virgil. You desperately need a decent haircut, and, fortunately, I’m the gal to give it to you. You don’t need it a lot shorter, but it does need to be cleaned up. Get rid of those split ends.”
Virgil asked, “Miz Visser?”
“Yup, as in ‘real pisser,’ as my husband would say, if he were here,” she said. “Walk around back, I’ll go through the house and open the door for you. You can park your truck at the side, on the gravel.”
Virgil parked on a gravel strip, got his bag, flipped the switch on what he believed was the loudest car alarm in the world, locked the truck, and walked around to the back door, where Visser was waiting. Virgil got a better look at her without the screen between them: a Netherlander blonde with pale blue eyes and nearly invisible eyebrows, she might have been a workout queen on a free cable channel. She was wearing a tight mock turtleneck, black yoga pants, and flats. She was pretty, in an earnest, small-town way.
“We don’t serve food, but you’ve got a microwave, and a comfortable bed.”
“It’s fine,” Virgil said, looking around the room. A compact bathroom, straight out of Home Depot, opened off the back wall, with a toilet, sink, and shower. The room smelled of pine-scented deodorizer.
“Fifty dollars a day, and we take it any way you roll it—cash, check, or Visa. But if it’s credit card, you have to go charge it at Skinner and Holland, and it’ll be fifty-five, because the store adds a ten percent service charge.”
“Of course they do,” Virgil said. “I’ll pay cash.”
“Great. Now, about the haircut—that’ll be forty, and again, if you charge it at Skinner and Holland . . .”
“Listen, Danielle—it’s Danielle, right?—I’m not sure I need . . .”
“Virgil, you do need one,” she said. “In a position like yours, you have to look professional or people won’t respect you.”
In the end, Virgil caved. He’d never liked his Mankato barber especially, because in his heart the guy wanted to give Virgil a military buzz cut. Danielle guided him back through the house and into the front parlor, which had been set up as a hairdresser’s shop, with a chair, hair dryers, an oval mirror, and bottles of hair stuff.
She pushed him into the chair, and Virgil said, “Not too much off, right? Neaten it up, that’s all I want.”
“Correct,” she said, as she threw a nylon cape over his chest and pinned it tight around his neck. “Now, let me tell you what’s going on with these shootings, okay? We’ve got a lot of smart women in this town and they all sit right here, and we talk. I can boil down what they told me.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
She turned Virgil away from the mirror and started talking and cutting. The women of Wheatfield rejected all suspicion of outside interference. “Somebody we know is doing this. You know why?”
“If I knew why, I could break the case,” Virgil said.
“Then I’ll tell you why.” She leaned close to his ear, and said, “Money. One way or another, it’s money. Specifically, it’s going to be money that somebody isn’t getting that they think they should get.”
“It’s a theory,” Virgil said.
One of Visser’s breasts gave his right ear a brief massage, but the hair snipping never slowed. “You’re dismissing me. You shouldn’t. This whole town was doomed until we got the Marian apparitions. Not only was the town doomed, all of us residents were, too. Except for a couple of government people and teachers, we were all poor. Or getting that way. Now, all of a sudden, everything has changed. But . . . But . . .” She leaned close again. “Some people have been left out. They’re still poor. They’re still doomed. They hate that.”
He got the ear massage again, as though for emphasis. He said, “That’s an interesting idea. Somebody who’s been left out but still owns a good, accurate rifle.”
“Piffle,” she said. “Everybody in town owns a good, accurate rifle. Roy has a .308 that could knock the testicles off a chickadee at a hundred yards.”
As she said it, the front door banged open and then banged shut again. She shouted, “Isn’t that right, honey?”
Roy walked in. He looked like a Special Forces sergeant, arms like small tree trunks, a neck that went out to his ears, small waist. He was dressed in a gray work shirt and gray slacks with oil splotches.
“Isn’t what right?” He came over to get a kiss and then sat down in a customer chair at the side of the room. The odor of 10W-40 wafted through the room.
“This is Virgil. I told him you had a .308 that could knock the testicles off a chickadee at a hundred yards.”
“Only if it was bendin’ over,” Roy Visser said. He added, “You gotta stop this craziness, Virgil. It’s ruinin’ the town.”
Virgil asked for names of people who’d been left out of the gold rush and who might own a highly accurate .223.
“You know, not many people around here have .223s, because they’re pretty useless. All you can do with them is play army. I understand the Nazis got a couple, and they play army, and they’re left out and poor. I don’t know who else would. You could talk to Glen Andorra about that.”
“Who’s he?”
“Farmer. He’s got some rough land out west of here. He didn’t know what to do with it, and then he came up with the idea of starting a sportsman’s club. You know, rifle range, trap, skeet, sporting clays, pistols, archery. I believe the rifle range goes out to six hundred yards. He might have some ideas.”
“Does he live out there?”
“Yeah, he does. Hard to explain how to find his place, but I could show you on the computer,” Visser said. And, “Jeez, Danny, get your tit out of his ear.”
“He doesn’t mind,” Danielle said. “Do you, Virgil?”
“I’ll let you guys work it out,” Virgil said. Although it did feel good, and was beginning to have an effect.
When she was done cutting his hair, Danielle said, as she was putting her scissors away, “You sit right there, we’re not quite done yet. You’re entitled to a shoulder massage.”
“I don’t . . .”
“Take it,” Roy said.
Virgil took it. The massage lasted five minutes, and he could have used another five. He also decided not to tell Frankie about it. Danielle took the cape off and spun the chair around. Virgil checked himself, and said, “All right, I’ll drive down here for haircuts from now on. That’s the best one I’ve had in . . . maybe forever.”
“Got some hair down your neck, though,” Danielle said. “You might want to jump in the shower before you head out to Glen’s place.”
* * *
—
The day was working out, Virgil thought, as he showered. He had some ideas of where the bullets were coming from, a lead to a guy who might know about local shooters—Roy had shown him on a Google satellite photo of the gun range and the house where Glen Andorra lived—and he’d gotten an excellent haircut.
He left the Vissers’ house at 5 o’clock, still with more than three hours until sunset. At five-twenty, he pulled up to the gate that blocked the dirt track to the sportsman’s club. The gate needed a key card for entry, which he didn’t have. He climbed out of the truck to see what he could see, which wasn’t much because the range was behind a low ridge that began just beyond the gate.
He could hear the boom-boom of a heavy rifle being fired slowly. Aimed shots. He was about to turn around and go out to the main road and down to Andorra’s house when a pickup topped the ridge and rolled down toward him. He got back in his truck and, when the gate opened, drove through to the other side and flagged down the pickup.
The driver ran his window down, and asked, “Forget your card?”
“Don’t have one,” Virgil said. “I’m with the state police. I’m looking for Glen Andorra.”
“Haven’t seen him, he’s not out here. Maybe check his house.”
“I’ll do that,” Virgil said.
* * *