The Postgame Kill

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1

"You could accuse us of having too much peace and quiet around here." Sheriff Robert Ings ran a hand down his face. The lines of his face didn't smooth out. He tilted his head a little and offered, in a fatherly tone: "Or maybe you've got the wrong town, Agent Rivers?"

Miles Rivers focused for a moment on just how meaty the old man's forehead was. Fat, or not fat?

"We have good reason to believe," the visitor began, gently, "that there's a bad guy in your New Norhill. Somebody who's probably past forty by now. He's left at least three bodies behind him. Maybe more."

Ings tensed for a second. But he didn't want to believe it.

"Maybe. Or maybe he went off to India and got stuck in some yoga pose. Listen, Rivers. We've got a quiet, dusty little island here. A thousand souls."

He squinted so hard that from a distance you'd have to guess which folds his eyes were hiding behind.

"Well — nine hundred ninety-nine. Old fool Evans died last Thursday. Even in dying he managed to spoil something. Lucky it was only the statistics. We don't have killers here. Even when a kid gets spanked around here, they stuff him with candy afterward."

Rivers nodded. The sheriff liked to talk. A good sign.

Miles started to lean on the desk, then stopped himself in time. He wondered: had the surface gone sticky from the dust, or had the dust stuck to something already sticky?

"I'm not saying he came here to kill," Miles said. "He just lives. Pays his taxes. Smiles at the neighbor. Once a month he digs clumps of his own hair out of the shower drain."

The agent paused.

"I wouldn't rule out that he's lived here the whole time."

"You believe that yourself?" Ings winced. He turned wearily toward the window.

The sheriff's chair creaked with age. Outside, spring had almost turned to summer. June was only a few days off.

Evening crept slowly into the room. The sheriff wanted tea and cookies. It seemed to him that this Black guy across the desk was talking nonsense.

"A doubting partner. Just what I need," the agent said. His voice was calm. It sounded like a verdict.

The sheriff's face turned to stone. He leaned forward and tapped a finger on the desk.

"Get this straight, young man. They handed you an old case to knock the big-city arrogance out of you."

Ings leaned back again. The chair creaked in warning.

"I didn't go gray to kiss up to some kid."

"Glad we understand each other," Miles said.

He stood and held the sheriff's gaze.

"If anything comes up, I'm staying—"

"I know where you're staying," Ings grunted. He opened the desk drawer to give his hands something to do.

"Perfect."

The agent made as if to head for the door, then froze.

"Tell me, Sheriff. In your whole career, was there ever a case you wouldn't be ashamed to tell your grandkids about? One you wouldn't be ashamed of in front of the badge?"

"Get this straight, Agent Rivers. Having no murders — that's the best thing about my career. I'm happier about that than I'd be catching the devil himself. Are we clear?"

"You're right. But—"

"What now?"

"Three people, Sheriff. What if he's sitting in an armchair a couple of blocks from here? Watching crime shows on Fox, pleased he's played us all for fools?"

The room felt smaller, as if a third person had joined them.

Rivers unzipped a folder and took out a photograph. He looked at it for a second, then turned it to face Rob Ings.

The sheriff's eyelid twitched. His left eye trembled. The old man said nothing.

Miles put the photo away and headed for the door.

"How did he kill them?" The sheriff's voice caught him right at the threshold.

The agent gave the faintest smile. The fish had taken the hook. Without turning, he tossed over his shoulder:

"With his feet."

Ings snorted. The sound came out dry.

"Kicked them?"

"In a manner of speaking." Rivers lowered his eyes to the floor, as if trying to picture the scene right there in the sheriff's office. "He jumped on them until they breathed their last. Then he jumped some more."

Their eyes met.

"I came here after him, Sheriff."

The old man was breathing now, feeling his rib cage rise. The happiness of having it intact — something he'd never given a thought to before.

Rivers gave a two-finger salute.

"I'll come by at nine in the morning."

He walked out and shut the door firmly behind him.