*
The blue dot has led him to a house that is small and brick, set far back from the street, and there’s Sammie’s car parked out front, the black car with the crack running through the left side of the windshield, he’d wanted to get it fixed but Sammie had said no, that it didn’t interfere with her line of sight, that she didn’t want to have to pay the deductible. He’s scared, his stomach is roiling in his gut but he still pulls right into the driveway and climbs out without bothering to turn off the car. The front door is unlocked and he pushes it open, expecting someone to greet him with a gun; he’ll be shot because he’s trespassing—This is private property, son, get out—and he wonders why the hell he’d rushed out of the house without bringing a weapon. Not that he owns a gun, but it would’ve been easy enough to bring a knife, or one of the golf clubs from the set Sammie had bought him a few years ago. He wishes he had something in his hands, anything, the weight would be comforting to hold, but the only thing he has with him is his wallet, and how could it possibly help, to clutch a square of leather in front of himself like a nervous woman holding a purse? In the end, Dean goes in with nothing but himself, and his fear.
But no one meets him at the door, except for the smell, it’s bad enough that he has to press the back of his hand over his nose to keep from being sick. He’s trying to keep his gag reflex under control so he doesn’t hear it at first, he doesn’t hear her, it’s Sammie. She’s crying, and she’s very close, just in the next room, and he runs down the hall and is so surprised by what’s going on in the living room that he’s frozen for a moment, there’s a man kneeling over Sammie, busy and not paying attention, and Dean’s not sure what to do, there’s so much blood and he’s not a violent man, he’s not prone to action, he’s a cubicle jockey who sits at a desk and types ninety words a minute. Not a man who knows how to deal with this.
But it turns out he doesn’t have to know how to deal with a situation like this, because instinct takes over and he grabs the floor lamp sitting by the door—it’s the kind of lamp old women seem to prefer, tarnished gold with a thick glass bubble halfway up, twinkling crystal droplets hanging from the shade—and he hefts it up like a baseball bat, the heavy bottom propped up on his shoulder. Dean went to college on a baseball scholarship, they called him Big D back then, and he swings the lamp easily enough, it’s much lighter than the old maple bats he used to practice with, practically flies through the air of its own accord. His muscles remember the familiar movement and slide easily against one another, even though it’s been years since he hit a ball. He swings that metal lamp hard enough that he feels something tear painfully inside his shoulder, and there’s a moment Dean will always remember, when time seems to slow down, to nearly stop, when the crystals that’ve come loose from the lampshade are turning end-over-end through the air, sparkling as they catch the light, and the base hits the man in the temple, right in the sweet spot. And then everything speeds up again, like a rubber band snapping into place, and the man is facedown on the floor, not moving.
The medical examiner’s verdict: Ethan Hobbs was dead before he hit the ground.
Dean’s old baseball coach would’ve been proud of that swing, he would’ve shouted and hollered if he saw it, he would’ve ripped his hat off his head and thrown it up in the air in celebration. Swing, batter-batter, swing, Dean thinks vaguely as he crumples to the ground, not far from his wife—it’s not only the pain that’s bringing him down but also the realization of what he’s done. Dean has kept his word to Sammie, that he would kill for her, if he had to.
HOSKINS
The car is registered to Glen and Ruby Wachowski. The vehicle hasn’t been reported stolen, but they’re an older couple, retired, no immediate family—exactly the type of people a criminal would target. Hoskins thinks of the pale, blurry face talking to Weber across the pumps at the gas station. That face could belong to the Secondhand Killer.
Hoskins and Loren ride together to the Wachowski place, in Loren’s car, just like old times. There are a few close calls, when Hoskins grabs the door handle and curses because Loren drives like a bat out of hell, he’s going to kill them both, but Loren throws back his head and laughs, calls him an old lady.