Page 30 of Sharp Force
“That was when he’d do his drinking,” she replies. “Always coming home after the boys were in bed. He was never drunk in front of them.”
“If he was intoxicated, might he have gotten out of control and decided to fire his gun?” I suggest, thinking of what Maggie accused him of. “Maybe shooting it into the air, maybe into the river? People lose their inhibitions, sometimes doing reckless things when they’ve had a lot to drink.”
“I can’t imagine him doing something dangerous like that,” Reba says. “All I can tell you is he was more paranoid about our safety and security. Because of what’s all over the news. That Slasher maniac who’s breaking into homes and killing women in their sleep. The nurses I work with are scared out of their wits. After the last murder, one of them quit and moved to Atlanta.”
“I can see why the murders would make your husband or anyone more security-minded,” I reply.
“I saw on the news about the killer going after Dana Diletti next. The phantom hologram or whatever it is appearing inside her house a little while ago,” Reba says. “Rowdy believes the Slasher uses technologies that are advanced way beyond the capabilities of most computer programmers.”
“Sounds like your husband was genuinely scared,” I answer as the cuckoo clock sounds, the wooden bird appearing from behind its small door.
“He was. And so am I.” She dabs her eyes. “I don’t know how anybody couldn’t be.”
I look at the security system’s display panel on the wall, noticing the cable running to it. Her husband was astute enough to install ahardwired system that can’t be disabled by signal jamming. Benton and I have taken the same precautions on our property. Lucy insists on it.
“Do you use your security system?” I ask Reba.
“We didn’t like we should until the Slasher murders started,” she says. “Then we began setting it every night and whenever we go out. This was about the same time Rowdy started carrying his revolver. At night he kept it next to the sofa bed with the trigger lock on.”
I hear Marino’s heavy footsteps in the hallway. Then he’s back inside the living room, towering over us near the coffee table.
“I told your two little dudes to chill in their room for a while so the grown-ups can talk,” he explains to their mother.
“Those two don’t chill. What are they doing?” Reba asks.
“PlayingMinecraft,busy building castles when I left.” Marino picks up his leather jacket from the chair where he left it.
“Their father designed video games in his software business. Or he used to,” she replies. “Playing them was something he and the boys did together.”
“They mentioned something interesting I’d like to ask you about, Reba,” Marino says. “Are you aware that your husband told the boys he was thinking about selling the house and moving to a different neighborhood far away from here?”
“Well, I know we can’t afford this place.” Anger sparks again. “Rowdy’s been talking about moving into something smaller and less expensive. He was obsessed with the Slasher murders and wanted us far away from here.”
“Why do you think he was obsessed?” Marino asks.
“Because the victims were involved in healthcare,” she says. “One of them was a nurse. Rowdy didn’t feel he could protect us, and he wanted to move to another state. Maybe to California. I wouldn’t hear of it. I love our house and my job at the hospital…” She chokes up.
Marino pulls out his wallet, finding one of his business cards. He places it on the coffee table as I get up from the sofa.
“My cell number’s on the back,” he says to her. “Don’t hesitate to call if you’ve got questions. Or if you have further information we should know about.”
“Something might come to you later,” I add.
She follows us back to the entryway, where I collect my coat, putting it on. I retrieve my briefcase, looping the strap over my shoulder.
“Please tell your boys it was nice meeting them,” I say to Reba as she sees us out. “I’m sorry it wasn’t under happier circumstances.”
She waits in the doorway as we pick our way down front steps that are treacherous. The iron railing is crusty with ice and too cold to grip with bare hands. Snow falls in small hard flakes that sandblast our faces, the accumulation at least five inches and glazed by freezing rain.
The white street in front is blank, the night silent, just the sound of trees rocking in the gusting wind and our boots crunching. We slip and slide, our breath smoking out as we quietly mutter expletives that hopefully Reba can’t hear from the porch. Thunder murmurs. Lightning veins the turbulent darkness.
“Thank you again,” she calls out. “Merry Christmas,” her joyless voice falters.
“And to you!” we shout, and it seems empty and ironic.
As we climb into Marino’s truck, she raises her hand in a listless wave.
Stepping back inside.
