Frankie was skeptical. “Somebody got hurt when the Virgin Mary showed up? How?”

“Don’t know.”

“Something else you have to rethink,” she said. “You’re stuck on the idea that this whole thing goes back to the church and the apparitions and the change in the town. Maybe it has nothing to do with the town or the church or the Virgin Mary. Maybe it’s totally personal. Something completely off the wall.”

“That’s a thought,” Virgil said. “Maybe those people got shot because, you know, they were standing where the shooter could see them.”

—

No fooling around that night.

Virgil hadn’t been gone long enough for reunion sex, and Frankie’s stomach was still unsettled. Still, it was nice to be back in a familiar bed, and one that was long enough for him. The Vissers’ bed was too short, and he couldn’t stretch out his toes.

He was so comfortable that he wound up sleeping late, and then lingered over breakfast with Frankie, and it was 10 o’clock when he headed south again, Honus the yellow dog and the youngest kid, Sam, standing in the driveway to watch him go. When he crossed I-90, he called Jenkins, who said that he and Shrake had driven to Fairmont to get breakfast. “We can be back in twenty minutes, if there’s a problem.”

“Take your time,” Virgil said. “I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing.”

—

Five minutes later, Zimmer called.

“We got a situation,” Zimmer said. “Are you in Wheatfield?”

“I’m a mile north, in my truck.”

“I got a deputy heading your way, but she’s ten minutes out.”

“What happened?” Virgil asked, thinking, another one?

“It’s that damned Van Den Berg. The way I understand it, Janet Fischer went over to his house to get some clothes, and other personal stuff, and he caught her. He says there was a fight. He beat her up again, but he’s saying he caught her in the house, that she broke in, and that he wants her charged with breaking and entering.”

“I’m on my way,” Virgil said.

—

When he got to Van Den Berg’s house, the front door was standing open, and Virgil stuck his head inside. He could see straight through to the kitchen, where Fischer was sitting on the floor with her knees pulled up to her chin, weeping, and Van Den Berg was hovering over her, his fists balled up.

Virgil knocked once and pushed inside. “Did you hit her again?” he asked.

Van Den Berg pointed off to his side. “Look at my door. She trashed my door, getting in, and was stealing stuff.”

“It’s my stuff,” Fischer cried. “It’s my clothes.”

“She broke in!” Van Den Berg shouted.

Virgil, stepping into the kitchen, looked at the door and saw the broken glass. He asked, “Did she break it or did you break it so you could blame her?”