“Skeletal remains have been found, Mrs. Cobb. I believe they could be those of your son.” Her shoulders slumped visibly.

“Someone wil be phoning?”

“I’l cal you myself when we’re sure.”

She bal ed her fists, slipped them into the pockets of her sweater.

“Mrs. Cobb, may I ask one last question?”

She nodded.

“Why didn’t you share this information with those investigating your son’s disappearance?” She turned and regarded me with melancholy eyes.

“Charlie Senior said Charlie Junior’d probably gone off to San Francisco or somewhere so’s he could pursue his lifestyle. I believed him.”

“Did your son ever say anything to suggest he was considering a move?”

“No.”

She raised her mug to her lips, set it back down on the counter.

“Guess I believed what I wanted to believe.”

I rose. “I should be going.”

At the door, she asked one last question.

“You read much Scripture?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t.”

Her fingers bunched and rebunched the Kleenex.

“I can’t figure the world out.” Barely audible.

“Mrs. Cobb,” I said, “on my best days, I can’t figure myself out.”

Weaving through the whirligigs, I felt eyes on my back. Eyes fil ed with loss and sadness and confusion.

As I walked toward my car, something on the windshield caught my attention.

What the hel ?

Two paces more and the object grew focused.

I stopped in my tracks.

One hand flew to my mouth. My stomach rol ed over.

Swal owing hard, I took two steps closer. Three. Four.

Dear God.

Revolted, I closed my eyes.

An image crawled through my mind. Crosshairs on my chest.

My heartbeat shot into the stratosphere. My eyes flew open.

Did the Grim Reaper have me in his sights? Had I been fol owed?

I had to force myself to look at the macabre little form scarecrowed against my windshield.

Propped between the wiper blade and the glass was a squirrel. Eyes glazed, bel y slit, innards sprouting like mushrooms on a rotting log.

34

IWHIPPED AROUND.

The inner and aluminum doors were closed.

I scanned the block.

One jogger with a mongrel dog.

Had I been fol owed? I felt a chil spread through my gut.

Holding my breath, I lifted the wiper blade, took the squirrel by its tail, and tossed it into the trees. Though my hands were shaking, my mind was automatical y taking notes.

Stiff. Not freshly dead.

Digging Bojangles’ napkins from the glove compartment, I cleaned the glass and slid behind the wheel.

Use the adrenaline. Go with it.

Gunning the engine, I shot up the road.

The jogger and dog were rounding the corner. I turned with them.

The woman was thirtyish, and looked like she should jog more often. She wore a spandex bra and bicycle shorts, and headphones with a smal antenna framed a blonde ponytail. The dog was attached to one of those blue plastic leash feeders.

I rol ed down the window.