Do I need to wipe my prints off the car? he wondered. He shook his head. Not enough time to do that. He had a long hike back to the house and then the girl to deal with. He started walking.
The sun had started to slide down the western sky. It was late afternoon, getting on close to three or four, and while Roger walked he thought about the day's events. He had killed a man, plain and simple. He had never meant to hurt anyone, and just thinking about the cop's death, the way his head exploded and went all over the walls, made the tears return to Roger's eyes. He felt sorry for the cop, even though he knew the cop had come to do him harm. To take the girl away. But it didn't change the fact that Roger felt bad, like someone innocent had come along and gotten mixed up in what was going on, and now that things were mixed up, they were going to get mixed up even more. One thing had led to another. First the cop, then the car.
And now the girl. His girl. His wife.
What was he going to do with her?
He had decided in the clearing that the girl had to go, that with the cop and whoever else coming near the house, it was simply too risky to keep her around. And he couldn't very well just turn her loose and hope she didn't tell on him. He knew she'd promise not to tell, but she'd end up doing it anyway. The police would talk to her and make her say where she'd been all that time, and when everything came out, the police would show up at his door and take him away. So there seemed only one way out of the mess.
But as he walked, he tried to convince himself that he overreacted in the clearing. Maybe, he thought, the footprints belonged to the cop. If that were the case, he had taken care of the problem, so long as the truck remained undiscovered for a while and then, when it was discovered, they didn't trace it back to Roger. Maybe he didn't have to get rid of the girl. Maybe it had been the clearing itself telling him to do that thing, but it didn't mean it was right. He wasn't sure if everything that came to him there was right or proper, although he wanted to think it was. He wanted to believe the clearing guided him in all things and wouldn't steer him wrong.
But the girl? Hadn't the clearing brought him the girl? Why would it want to take her away?
Roger was halfway home. He walked along the side of an empty field, and off in the distance stood a lonely and weathered barn that looked like it was about to collapse in on itself and shrink into the ground. The more he walked, the better he felt. He started to believe the girl could stay. He'd have to be more careful with her. He couldn't let her out of the ropes much at all, not for a very long time. He couldn't have a repeat of what happened earlier with her putting her foot through the window. But if he took care of her and watched her, maybe he could let her stay.
Maybe.
He heard the car approaching from behind him, but he didn't pay it any attention. He was lost in his own thoughts and looked forward to getting back to the girl. Maybe now, with the mess cleaned up—except for the bedroom wall, he couldn't forget that—their routine would begin. A lot of maybes, he knew, but lots of maybes were better than nothing.
The car came even with Roger and slowed.
"Excuse me?"
Roger looked. It was a cop car from Union Township. White with blue letters and blue lights on the top. Roger stopped walking and turned and stared. The cop was a young guy wearing mirrored sunglasses, and he leaned one arm out the window while the other held the wheel. He looked friendly enough, but Roger knew that could be a trick.
"Car break down?" the cop said.
Roger didn't respond. He thought of running off into the field, off toward the old barn, but he knew it was a ridiculous idea. The cop would find and catch him. He'd run the car right through the field and maybe run Roger over. He couldn't run.
"Sir?" the cop said.
Roger shook his head. "Just walking."
The cop nodded. "You haven't seen a guy out here in a black pick-up truck, a Ford F-150? He's twenty-two, shaved head. Tall. Have you seen anyone like that while you've been walking?"
"No, sir. I didn't see anybody."
"Do you have identification on you?"
Roger patted his back pocket. He hadn't brought his wallet. He drove the cop's truck without it, but it was okay now because he wasn't driving.
"I don't have it. It's at home." He pointed in the direction of the house but dropped his arm. What if the cop wanted to go there and get it with the girl upstairs and the broken window? And the blood?
"What's your name?"
Roger told him.
"And where do you live?"
Roger had no choice but to give the address. The nausea crept up the back of his throat. His tongue felt swollen and thick like a giant sponge. The cop looked Roger up and down. He was thinking about something, sizing Roger up, reaching a conclusion about him.
Roger's stomach felt nervous. He farted, but the cop didn't seem to notice or else didn't care.
"Why are you walking out here?" the cop said.
Roger hesitated. "I just like to walk. I like to get out and look around. I'm going hunting this weekend, and I wanted to see where I should go."