When they got out on the street, a sheriff’s car was coming, fast. It was Banning again; she pulled up to the house and climbed out, and said, “Did that fucker do it again?”

“Yeah, but there’s a complication this time,” Virgil said. He told her about the break-in problem and the broken glass above the back door lock. “I’ve spoken to Van Den Berg about it and I don’t think it will happen again.”

“You sure?”

“Fairly sure,” Virgil said. “It’d be nice if somebody could run Janet to a doctor. And while you’re there, take a few photos in case we need them later. “

“I can do that,” Banning said. “I’ll email them to you.”

Van Den Berg came to the door, still holding his throat. He saw Banning, made a strangled sound, turned back inside, and slammed the door. Banning nodded at Virgil, and said, “Thank you,” and, to Fischer, “Come on, honey, let’s go see the doc and get you cleaned up.”

—

Van Den Berg lay on his couch for a half hour, fantasizing about bringing assault charges against Flowers, but he wasn’t a stupid man and he knew they wouldn’t hold up, not with Fischer looking as though she’d fallen into a lawn mower. Everybody in town was against him . . .

His throat hurt bad, and he thought about finding a doctor, but as he lay on the couch the pain lessened, and he finally got up and got a can of Sanpellegrino Limonata from the refrigerator, and the bubbly water soothed his throat. He carried the can to the front window, and there, a half block away, and getting closer, came the shooter, eating an ice-cream cone.

Van Den Berg opened the door and stepped outside, and the shooter nodded at him, and said, “Larry, how you doing?”

Van Den Berg said, “You’re gonna drip.”

The shooter looked at the side of the cone, saw the liquid ice cream oozing down the far side, and said, “Thanks,” and licked it off the cone.

“If you got a minute, I need to talk to you,” Van Den Berg said. He looked up and down the short street. Nobody in sight. “It’s important.”

“Well, okay, I got a minute,” the shooter said. They weren’t friends. “What’s up?”

“Come on in,” Van Den Berg said.

“Well . . .”

Van Den Berg stepped back, and the shooter followed him inside.

—

I developed a major problem yesterday,” Van Den Berg said, backing into his living room. “I’d . . . come into possession . . . of a trailer full of Legos that turned out were stolen.”

“I saw it on ‘Wheatfield Talk,’” the shooter said. “Wheatfield Talk” was Danielle Visser’s town blog. “There was a story in the Des Moines Register this morning, and Danny put up a link.”