The Summer Man

Chapter TEN





Bob was pouring his fourth drink of the night when the phone rang. It was his employee, Nancy Biggs, and she was almost frantic with the news; there had been a multiple murder at Le Poisson. She’d gotten a call from her brother’s wife, Mary, who went to church with a Leticia Barker’s aunt in Port Angeles—it was a drive for her sister-in-law, but she liked the minister there, Nancy explained breathlessly—and Leticia worked at Le Poisson, and was still there with the police because someone had gone crazy and stabbed the owners. Mary had gotten a call from the aunt, who’d heard it from her sister, Leticia’s mother, and Mary had called Nancy because of Nancy’s connection to the press—and Bob was going to go down there, right? Because he had to, it was big news, a murder spree in little Port Isley!

He managed to get off the phone by promising to call her as soon as he learned more. After a second’s hesitation, he downed the shot of Old Crow—no hurt in getting himself fortified, at least a little—and was out the door in under three minutes, shoes to coat to keys.

The last dregs of sunset illuminated the sky, making everything orange and strange as he drove down the hill. A cluster of local police cars, marked and plain, were badly parked in front of the restaurant, effectively blocking traffic. Maybe twenty or thirty people were gathered by the doors, talking, clustering, trying to see inside. Most appeared to be summer people. Local cop Ian Henderson blocked their way, his expression unusually grim.

Bob parked two blocks away and hightailed it back, popping a mint as he walked, wondering how close the grapevine had gotten to the truth. Rick and Sadie Truman, stabbed? Good Christ, why? Granted, they were as well liked as any snobby rich couple in a small town. Rick was a blowhard and Sadie was uptight, but surely neither had inspired active hate.

Or maybe they did, he thought, moving into the gathered watchers, searching for a familiar face. As many a noted author had liked to point out, small towns were full of secrets, of grudges harbored and loves unrequited. Of course, what Nancy had relayed to him could be entirely wrong, or backward. The way gossip got garbled after three or four or ten tellings, maybe Sadie and Rick had stabbed a customer. Bob couldn’t help a smirk at the thought; that seemed more likely, somehow. Maybe someone complained about the food. Or tried to skip out on their tab.

He spotted a good source in the front line of the small crowd—Jason, talking on a cell phone—and edged toward him. Jamie owned the gas station by the high school, was a solid family man with a working brain, and he was also one hell of a gossip. Bits of conversation swirled around Bob as he started for Jamie; what he heard dried up the last of his smirk.

“—in an ambulance, one of the guys said he probably wouldn’t survive, but—”

“—you see him when they brought him out? There was so much blood on him, and that smile, it was just—”

“—like that thing in Seattle last year, with that one couple? They were swingers or something, and they picked up this man who—”

“—heard he killed one of the customers. And a policeman, I didn’t quite—”

“Hey,” Jamie said, putting away his cell phone as Bob approached, his face pale above the collar of his dark dress shirt. “Crazy, huh?”

“What have you heard?” Bob asked.

“Not a lot,” Jamie said. “I just got here a few minutes ago. Deanne and I had reservations for eight. Mom’s with the kids. Anniversary. I just told her not to come. I’ll have to pick up something on the way home…”

“Someone was killed?” Bob prompted him gently.

Jamie nodded. “Oh, yeah. Sadie Truman’s dead. And Annie Thomas.”

Bob felt his stomach go hollow. “Annie?”

Jamie nodded again, added something equally insane. “Rick did it.”

Bob was still trying to absorb the news when the door to the restaurant opened. John Hanover stepped out, his expression bleak, his shoulders hunched. He wore a shirt that was too big on him, someone else’s—he held a plastic bag in one hand, with what looked like his suit jacket stuffed inside—and he blinked and squinted, as though surprised at the time of day, or the people, or both. He looked terrible.

Bob excused himself from Jamie and went to him. John seemed lost and was entirely willing to let himself be led away from the group. Bob steered him toward the street with a hand on his arm—realizing, as they walked, that John smelled of blood.

More gossip, more whispering as they passed through the watchers, the hushed voices pointing John out as one of the customers, as a witness, as a doctor. John seemed oblivious, his expression blank and dazed.

The shadows were getting long, the evening starting to chill. Bob was about to ask John what he needed—a ride home, a drink, a willing ear—when John spoke, his voice soft and strained.

“Annie’s dead,” he said. “I ran into the kitchen when he started yelling, but it was already too late.”

“Who did it, John?” Bob asked. “Was it Rick?” He was more concerned for his friend than for getting the scoop—but he was still wanted the story, he couldn’t deny it in spite of the small measure of guilt that went with the admission. No matter that he was the only reporter on the scene, or that the fluff-filled Press was every two weeks; he’d worked as a journalist for most of his adult life. Wanting to know the five Ws became habit after a while.

John nodded, gazing out at the street. “She was trying to help the kid, I think. I’m not sure, but that’s what I think. Rick said leave him alone, that was what I heard, and we ran in and she was already down. Annie.”

John turned his haunted gaze to Bob but didn’t seem to see him. “I should have gone with her,” he said. “I wanted to.”

Bob was fitting the pieces together. “Annie went to talk to Rick, and he—stabbed her?”

John kept talking. “We—it was our first real date. And the waitress said he was acting—she said she was scared of him, and Annie told me that she could handle it. Talking to Rick, I mean. And I let her go.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Bob said.

John nodded, but his expression made it clear that he begged to differ. Bob thought about pushing the point, then let it slide. John would come to his own conclusions.

“You said she was trying to help the kid,” Bob said. “What kid?”

“Josh,” John said. “The waitress said his name was Josh, he worked at the deli. He was sleeping with Sadie, apparently. So, Rick chopped her up. Sadie…and he castrated Josh, but he was still alive, and I think Annie was just trying to, to—”

John’s face crumpled. He turned away from Bob, his jaw working, a low, strangled sound issuing from his throat. Bob waited it out, debating whether to lay a hand on his shoulder, to offer what limited comfort he could; he wanted to help but reflexively resisted the idea of intruding on another man’s grief. Before he could decide, John managed to pull himself back together. He took a deep, shuddery breath and turned to face Bob again, wiping at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Bob could see dark-red rinds of blood beneath John’s fingernails.

Probably Annie’s Bob thought, and felt cold.

“What a f*cking nightmare,” John said. He looked and sounded miserable, but the expression of blankness, of shock was finally gone. “Rick Truman had a psychotic break. Or maybe he was always borderline, and finding out about his wife was a stressor, I don’t know. Maybe he invented the whole thing. He killed Sadie, though, in the kitchen. And he was torturing her supposed lover to death when Annie walked in.”

“Christ.”

John nodded, his expression turning. He looked physically ill for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was throaty and quavering.

“There were—he was putting them in the food,” he said. “Annie found a fingernail in the bisque.”

Bob felt ill himself—but as before, he also felt guiltily energized by the news. Horrible, horrible of course…but Jesus, what a story! And on the tail of Ed Billings’s killing spree. The modern media machine was about to descend on little Port Isley, God help them all.

“What happened to Rick?” Bob asked.

“After he killed Annie, he went into some kind of catatonic state, just dropped the knife and laid down,” John said. “Somebody called the police. I tried to help Annie, me and this woman, but I—there was nothing we could do.”

He shook his head as if to clear it. “One of the other diners used to be a PA or something; he helped the kid. Might have saved him, I don’t know, he was in pretty bad shape. The EMTs showed up, they took the kid—Josh—and Rick away. Vincent and a couple of his people went with Rick. I don’t know if they Mirandized him or not, I didn’t really catch that part—I was talking to someone when they took him out…”

He stopped talking, as though he’d run out of words, and Bob could see that the reality of it all was still hitting him. He could see it in the dark anguish of John’s gaze, wet and confused. He decided that he would get anything else he needed from some other source.

And this week’s edition is already run, anyway, that selfish part reminded him. He told it to go f*ck itself.

“Do you need to stay here?” Bob asked. “To talk to the police?”

John shook his head. “I already talked to Vincent. I told him I needed a shower. He said I could come down to the station after…or he’d send someone to get my statement, I don’t…I don’t remember…”

“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” Bob said.

John took a shaking breath, then nodded. Bob patted his arm and motioned in the direction of his truck; they started walking, the evening’s first stars springing up far above.

Bob wondered when the reality of the situation would hit him—he’d known Rick and Sadie since his first day in Port Isley and had been half in love with Officer Annie, in a pleasantly hopeless way—and decided that he’d really rather not be sober for the awareness, when it came. He’d have to hope that reality would be kind in its generally dreadful timing.

Either that, or I can go on a bender until the autumn rains hit, until it’s too late to care as much. He knew better, knew that grief didn’t work that way…but strangely, the thought gave him some small comfort.





Tommy had finally found the bat handler and was trying decide whether to round up some people to run an instance to find another Hanzo sword when he got a whisper from Jeff. Private, not in the line of chat.

nother guy went craZ & kild wife, it said. dwntwn. rick trueman, ownd la poison.

When? Tommy typed, as quickly as he could.

2nite, 2-3 hrs ago.

Tommy started to ask how he’d found out about it but hadn’t finished when the next message came.

kild her, put her N soup, no shit. she was screwing ths guy & he chopt off guys dick 2 & did kill a cop.

No way, Tommy sent.

4real. Can U get out? Im going dwn.

Tommy automatically glanced toward his bedroom door, cracked open. He could hear clattering in the kitchen downstairs as his mom and Aunt Karen cleaned up from dinner and had their drinks of whatever. There were two older couples in the house, too, probably already in bed. They went to bed crazy early. It was almost ten thirty, which was usually when his mom expected him to brush his teeth and get settled, at least in the summer. He could stay up later if he had a good enough reason, a show he really wanted to watch or a quest he needed a few extra minutes on, but no way she’d let him leave the house at this hour, for any reason.

I could go anyway, he thought, and was guiltily thrilled by the idea, one he never would have had even, like, a year ago. Leave a note on the desk, saying he ran over to Jeff’s for a book or something, then out the front door. They’d never know. Port Isley was so small, and Aunt Karen only lived halfway up the hill; ten minutes to get downtown, tops. It was enticing…but only a little. He might get back before his mom realized how long he’d been gone, but she’d definitely find the note before he made it home. And she’d be super PO’d if he left without telling her.

And it’d be wrong, he thought, but the thought didn’t carry the same weight it once had, when he’d been younger. That realization was somehow more alarming than anything else.

Another moment’s pause, and he tapped out, can’t, doors blockd, his heart thumping. There was no way Jeff could find out he was lying. No way he could think of, anyway.

p-ssy, Jeff said, as if he’d intuited the lie, and then L8R, and he was gone, presumably off to see what he could of the new killings. They’d been up to the place in Kehoe Park a couple of times, seen the flowers and stuff, but Tommy had felt uncomfortable about it. Not like Jeff, or Jeff’s friends. They’d made a lot of jokes about ghosts, and about f*cking. They said f*ck a lot, way more than his friends at home. And they’d made a big deal of riding their bikes over the spot where the body was supposed to have been. Tommy hadn’t told his mom about any of that—and he decided he didn’t want to be the one to tell her about Le Poisson, either. If Jeff was right, it was just too creepy.

p-ssy, he told himself, but then put it out of his mind, returning to his game. It was too late to start a new quest, even a short one, but he could do some mining, get some money that way. Or maybe work up his fishing skill. He concentrated on the busywork, telling himself that it didn’t matter that he’d seriously considered leaving his room, leaving the safety of his family for the wide, dark summer outside, where things were happening.