The shooter waited until well after dark before he left his house, which was four blocks down and one over from Van Den Berg’s house. He was carrying the rifle. The rifle didn’t have a sling, but he’d improvised with parachute cord, one loop around the narrowest part of the stock, at the grip, another loop around the barrel. He slung it over his shoulder, so that it hung straight down, and then pulled a hip-length coat over it.

No gloves yet. If anyone saw him, he wanted his bare hands visible . . . and empty.

Wheatfield mostly shut down at 8 o’clock, except when there was a service at St. Mary’s, but the church had been closed. By 9:30, it was dark and cool, and there were TV shows to watch. The shooter moved slowly and easily down the dark streets, unseen.

There were lights on at Van Den Berg’s. The shooter looked around, saw nothing moving, pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves, went to Van Den Berg’s front door, unslung the rifle, held it low but aimed at heart height, and pressed the doorbell.

Down in the basement, Van Den Berg turned his head at the sound of the bell. Who could that be? The shooter? Not Flowers . . . unless he’d hurt Janet worse than he thought.

He stood up, walked across the room to a cupboard, and took out a .357 Magnum.

No point in taking a chance.

—

The shooter heard him coming up the steps. Checked around again. The front door had a small window in it, at head height. He expected Van Den Berg to look out to see who’d come to the door. He was correct. He saw Van Den Berg coming and he pressed the muzzle of the gun against the door. Van Den Berg turned on the porch light, put his face to the window, saw the shooter’s face, unlocked the door, and pulled it open, and the muzzle of the gun was there, already aimed. He never had time even to flinch before the shooter pulled the trigger.

BANG!

The blast was fairly loud, if you were close to it, and sounded like nothing more than a gunshot. If you were more than a few dozen feet away and inside your own house, it would be hard to tell exactly what it was. There’d been no supersonic crack because the bullet had never traveled more than a few inches. The suppressor—the silencer—had taken care of the usual muzzle blast.

The shooter stepped inside, where Van Den Berg was sprawled on his back in the short entrance hall, a silver revolver by his side. The bullet had gone directly through his heart. The shooter turned off the porch light, closed the door, and waited for any sign that the gunshot had disturbed the town.

Nothing happened.