The Killing Moon: A Novel

He pulled on rubber-strapped goggles and went to work. He screwed open the chuck and inserted an old drill bit shank, one he could afford to dull or even snap, closing the three jaws tight around it. He pedaled the power and turned the drill rpm to 300 and wheeled the lever down for its first bite. The box screamed, again and again, and he kept at it, spraying sparks and hot filings. Old steel and many layers thick. It was nice to let himself go. The casing resisted so he reset the bit for another assault, and with a few whining thrusts finally pushed through. He drove again and again at the casing, wailing on it, widening his bore to spread the gap. So absorbed was he that he didn't even notice when Ripsbaugh exited the shop. Finally, by adjusting and readjusting his aim, he joined all the various holes, having chewed open a gash large enough to admit a man's hand.

He offered to keep going but the plainclothesman stopped him, shining a light down inside and then handing Kitner a pair of latex gloves. Kitner tested the hot wound, then reached inside, getting his fist in almost to the elbow. He felt around the cavity and pulled out a manila envelope.

The plainclothesman took it from him. Kitner saw the local cop looking on from the open front door.

"Tax returns," said the plainclothesman, inspecting the contents. "Canceled checks." He scanned a signed document with disgust. "Fucking health care proxy. Nothing."

"There's a drawer in the top," Kitner told him, so helpful. "On the bottom now. Feels thin, if you want me to get in there."

He did. Kitner twisted a longer bit into the chuck, working deeper into the existing hole. The safe gave up the drawer with almost no resistance. The plainclothesman handed Kitner his flashlight and a second pair of latex gloves.

The guy was getting impatient. "Is it a dagger?" he asked.

Kitner noticed that the local cop had moved inside the doors now. Kitner got his arm all the way in, pulling out a short stack of small, cream-colored envelopes tied together with a cherry red ribbon. Plainclothes held out his own gloved hands and Kitner served him the packet like a fancy slice of cake. Plainclothes lifted the letters to his nose—the perfume had a vanilla smell—then pulled at the tie, the bow knot yielding and falling limp, the envelopes undressed.

Kitner watched him open the top one, pulling out thread-flecked stationery folded into thirds. The handwriting was small and neat in red ink. Two sheets, though the handwriting on the second one ended halfway down. Below it were two pencil drawings that made Kitner go up on his toes, trying to see better over Plainclothes's shoulder.

The first sketch was of a woman's nude torso. One breast hung free, the other one cupped in her hand, mashed and raised in offering.

The second one below it showed the same woman but from shoulders to knees. She sat legs open, her right hand covering her pussy except for her middle finger, stuck deep inside.

Plainclothes pulled the letter to his chest like he was hiding a poker hand, and Kitner came down off his toes, wondering if maybe he had made a noise or something. The guy moved away, taking the rest of the envelopes with him.

Plainclothes summoned the local cop with a flick of his finger and showed him the first letter, including the drawings.

"'Love always, V,'" said the plainclothes cop, pointing out the signature. "Any ideas?"

The local cop's eyes clouded, and not because of the dirty pictures. He knew, all right. It cheered Kitner, a little, to think of somebody else eating trouble for a change.

28

MADDOX

MADDOX WAITED OUTSIDE the station, on the sidewalk at the end of the grassy slope, staying near the action while maintaining enough distance between himself and the state troopers. It was just after eight and his shift was over—Stokes and Ullard had already driven their patrol cars past him into the driveway—but Maddox lingered, pretending he was enjoying the morning heat and had nowhere better to go. Above him, the great flag rustled like a horse too lathered to lift its own head.

Stokes and red-eyed Ullard came out to see him. "They closed off rooms in there," Stokes said. "What's up? They get someone?"

Maddox pretended not to know who it was, liking how, when Bucky wasn't around, the other cops could be civil if they wanted something from him.

Three kids came biking across the iron bridge, two on banana-seat bikes and one on a taller ten-speed, turning past the station. The ten-speed was an old Schwinn, black with black electrical tape wound around the handlebars.

Maddox recognized the bike. He yelled, "Hey!" and took off suddenly down Main Street after them.

After a few more yells, they slowed for him, letting him come jogging up. They were scuzzy mill-house locals, still growing into themselves at thirteen. Maddox grabbed the arm of the kid on the ten-speed to hold him where he was.