The house was dark, the only illumination visible coming from a security light near the closed garage doors. In front of them I could see Maddox’s dusty-rose-colored Lincoln and a gray Toyota Tercel.

Skipper was banging on the imposing solid oak door, the inmate beside him. I couldn’t be positive from this distance but something about the inmate reminded me of Anthony Thomas.

After a few more minutes of banging, Skipper and the inmate turned to leave. When they did, I saw that it was Anthony Thomas. He was walking like he was drunk.

Skipper helped him into the van and then jumped in himself. In another few moments they were gone.

My watch read 1:46 a.m. as I ran toward the Explorer.

It took me three minutes to reach the Explorer—far longer than Skipper needed to reach the end of the driveway.

I paused at the edge of the woods to see which way the van would turn, but it was already gone.

25

On Sunday morning, beneath a clear blue sky and sunny, hot day, I drove out to Dad’s secluded little five-acre farm to return his vehicle.

“Thanks for the use of the Explorer,” I said.

“How’d the date go? Come in for a minute. I need to talk to you.”

He led me down the short hallway to a great room with very little furniture in it. A large stacked-stone fireplace on the back wall had an unvarnished wood hearth that was filled with pictures and marksman trophies. Above the fireplace on the dark paneled wall, the head of a large elk was mounted.

He took a seat in an old gray recliner that was positioned in front of the TV. It creaked when he plopped down in it. The only other place to sit was a dark gray couch in front of the wall opposite the fireplace, but to sit there was to sit behind him, so I stood.

The house smelled as it always smelled—dusty, slightly mildewed, and like a pack of wild dogs lived there. The pack-of-wild-dogs smell came from Wallace, an Irish setter who was currently occupying the couch—another reason I stood.

Before he got to what he needed to talk to me about, I told him about what I had seen at Russ Maddox’s house last night—an account I had already given twice this morning, once to Daniels and once to Stone.

We talked about Ike Johnson’s death and the investigation and what Molly Thomas had told me and what else Skipper might be up to, but it didn’t amount to much more than me just keeping him informed about what was going on in the county where he was the chief law enforcement officer.

“What’d you need to talk to me about?” I said.

“It’s about your mother,” he said.