21

The news of Ben Schuler’s murder had spread quickly through the crowd of mourners at the Gilbert house, quieting voices, sharpening senses, whispering an evil warning. The police might still be floundering, searching for the definitive thread that tied these murders together, but every man and woman in that house knew the truth. Someone was killing Jews.

Not one of them spoke this terrible thought aloud, but they stayed longer than they might have otherwise, huddled together in small groups, seeking the comfort of safety in numbers. It was full dark by the time they started to leave, and even then, they lingered at the door with long last condolences.

While the line of nice people made their way out the front door, Jack slipped out the back and disappeared into the shadows of the backyard.

There were plenty of obstacles on the way to the equipment shed behind the greenhouse, like blades of grass and sundry little bumps in the lawn, but Jack finally reached his destination with only a few scrapes and grass stains. At least he hoped they were grass stains, and that he hadn’t fallen on a frog.

He paused at the door and pressed his back against the rough wood, listening. It was very dark out here, and once you got past the raucous croaking of all the goddamned frogs in the yard, it was very quiet. The only things he could hear were the slamming of his heart against his chest and the scrape of splinters destroying the fine wool of his suit as he slid down to a crouch and put his head in his hands.

Jesus, he had to get a grip, had to relax, had to get a plan, and then, he had to get another drink.

He was unsteady on his feet when he finally stood and pushed the door open, cringing when the hinges squeaked. He stumbled into the center of the room and batted his hands around his head until he found the chain to the bare, overhead bulb.

Illuminated, the shed was as tidy as it had always been. He looked around at all the things that had scared him as a kid: the shovels with their knifelike edges, the gleaming clipper blades, the pointed trowels and garden rakes whose tines glinted like teeth in the swinging light. All monsters when Jack had been six, coming into the shed for the very first time after dark.

His father’s hand was big – fingers halfway down his tiny chest, thumb halfway down his back – but oddly weightless. Just warm and comforting.

‘Go on, Jackie. Go on in.’

A firm head shake. Six-year-old stubborn.

‘No? Ah. It looks different at night, doesn’t it?’

And then a little, jerky nod.

‘And all the tools, they look a little scary, am I right?’

Another nod, a little braver now that the scary part was out in the open.

‘Ha! You think I would let something hurt my son, my golden boy?’

And then there were strong arms scooping him up, lifting him high, holding him close against a scratchy wool shirt that smelled like sweat and soil and air. ‘Nothing here will hurt you. Nothing anywhere will ever hurt you. I won’t let it. You believe me, don’t you, Jackie?’

Jack didn’t realize he was crying until he heard the horrible, wrenching sounds of his own sobs. He clamped his hand over his mouth to muffle the noise and stumbled, half blind from the potent cocktail of bourbon and tears, over to the corner where bags of sheep manure were stacked on a pallet. It took him ten minutes to unload the heavy bags off to the side so he could pull the wooden pallet away from the wall, and by then the tears had stopped.

He found the crack in the cement floor right away, grabbed a trowel, and started to pry up the chunk of concrete, feeling beads of nervous sweat pearl up on his forehead.

The plastic bag was dark with oil, the rags inside slick and sweet smelling. Evil wrapped in swaddling clothes.

Jack stared down at the gun that felt so familiar in his hand, fascinated by the way the overhead light glinted off the barrel. He popped open the chamber and counted the bullets, and was about to pocket it when he heard the door squeak open behind him. Without thinking, he gripped the gun and spun around in a shooter’s stance. He knew how to do that very well.

One of the kids who worked at the nursery was standing in the doorway, his eyes the size of fried eggs and fixed on the gun. ‘Omigod omigod… Mr Gilbert? It’s me, Jeff Mongtomery? Please don’t shoot.’

Jack collapsed onto his butt and closed his eyes, feeling the tremors as the adrenaline tried to find a place to go. Jesus Christ, he’d almost shot the kid. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he mumbled, adrenaline gone, alcohol back, slurring his words. ‘I’m not gonna shoot you. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to sneak up on a guy with a gun?’

‘I… I… I didn’t know you had a gun? I just saw the light on and thought I’d better check it out?’

Jack lurched to his feet on jellied legs and saw the kid still frozen in the doorway, his eyes darting back and forth, looking like a rabbit about to run. It occurred to him then how bad this probably looked.

‘Listen, kid. This isn’t what it looks like. I fucking hate guns, but there’s some crazy son of a bitch running around shooting up the neighborhood, so I need this, understand?’

‘Yessir, yessir, I sure do. Uh… I think I’ll go now?’

‘No, no, wait a minute.’ Jack gestured wildly with the gun and the kid shrank back against the door, terrified. Jack looked from the kid’s eyes to the gun in his hand. ‘Oh, Christ, I’m sorry.’ He shoved the gun in his pocket and held out his open hands. ‘Don’t be afraid, kid… Jeff, isn’t it?’

The boy nodded cautiously.

‘Okay, Jeff, now listen. I’m really sorry I scared you, I’m just a little drunk, and pretty scared myself, and I’ve just got this gun to protect myself, see? But the thing is, it’s not exactly legal, you follow? So it wouldn’t be cool if anyone found out I had it. Especially Marty. For God’s sake don’t tell Marty, okay?’

‘Okay, sure, no problem, Mr Gilbert.’

‘Excellent. Just excellent.’ Jack clapped his hands together and the kid jumped. ‘So! Want to give me a hand stacking those bags back on the pallet?’

‘I sure do, Mr Gilbert.’

Jack gave him a wonderful smile. ‘You’re a good kid, Jeff.’

22

After the last of the mourners had left Lily’s, Marty found Jack slumped behind the wheel of his Mercedes, staring into the dark beyond the windshield, an empty silver flask dripping its last precious drops of bourbon on the buttery leather seat. Marty bent down to the open window and nearly passed out.

‘God, Jack, what the hell is that smell?’

Jack didn’t even look at him. ‘Sheep manure. You oughta air out the equipment shed, Marty. The place reeks.’ He sounded oddly sober for a man who had probably been drinking since sunrise.

‘What were you doing in the equipment shed?’

‘Just… taking a trip down memory lane, I guess. Pop used to take me out there when I was a kid. Let me hang out while he sharpened the tools. You know what? I think I’ve had a little too much to drink to actually start this thing, and I could really use a shower. Feel like driving me home, Marty?’

‘Not in that car.’

Twenty minutes later they were in Marty’s ’66 Chevy Malibu, top down to disperse the smell, heading west on the freeway past downtown Minneapolis. The traffic was light, the night air had an almost sexual warmth, and Jack was uncharacteristically quiet in the passenger seat.

Finally Marty said the words he’d thought would never come out of his mouth. ‘Okay, Jack. Start talking.’

‘No problem, buddy. Pick a subject.’

‘Let’s start with what you did to your mother.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Don’t give me that crap, Jack. You’ve got about as much interest in religion as a fern, and all of a sudden you’re filled with the spirit and decide to chuck the yarmulke and become a Christian? Bullshit. That stupid confirmation picture – and probably your marriage, too – was a direct shot at your folks.’