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there. I heard a click in his throat as he swallowed.
“Mr. Turcotte? Are you all right?”
“How do you know my name?” And then, without waiting for an answer: “It was Pete, wasn’t it?
The bartender in the Sleepy. He told you.”
“Yes. Now I’ve got a question for you. How long have you been following me? And why?”
He grinned humorlessly, revealing a pair of missing teeth. “That’s two questions.”
“Just answer them.”
“You act like”—he winced again, swallowed again, and leaned against the back wall of the garage
—“like you’re the one in charge.”
I gauged Turcotte’s pallor and distress. Mr. Keene might be a bastard with a streak of sadism, but I
thought that as a diagnostician he wasn’t too bad. After all, who’s more apt to know what’s going
around than the local druggist? I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to need the rest of the Kaopectate, but
Bill Turcotte might. Not to mention the continence pants, once that bug really went to work.
This could be very good or very bad, I thought. But that was bullshit. There was nothing good about
it.
Never mind. Keep him talking. And once the puking starts—assuming it does before he cuts my throat or
shoots me with my own gun—jump him.
“Just tell me,” I said. “I think I have a right to know, since I haven’t done anything to you.”
“It’s him you mean to do something to, that’s what I think. All that real estate stuff you’ve been
spouting around town—so much crap. You came here looking for him.” He nodded in the direction of
the house on the other side of the hedge. “I knew it the minute his name jumped out of your mouth.”
“How could you? This town is full of Dunnings, you said so yourself.”
“Yeah, but only one I care about.” He raised the hand holding the bayonet and wiped sweat off his
brow with his sleeve. I think I could have taken him right then, but I was afraid the sound of a scuffle
might attract attention. And if the gun went off, I’d probably be the one to take the bullet.
Also, I was curious.
“He must have done you a hell of a good turn somewhere along the way to turn you into his
guardian angel,” I said.
He voiced a humorless yap of a laugh. “That’s a hot one, bub, but in a way it’s true. I guess I am
sort of his guardian angel. At least for now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s mine, Amberson. That son of a bitch killed my little sister, and if anyone puts a bullet
in him . . . or a blade”—he brandished the bayonet in front of his pale, grim face—“it’s going to be
me.”
9
I stared at him with my mouth open. Somewhere in the distance there was a rattle of pops as some
Halloween miscreant set off a string of firecrackers. Kids were shouting their way up and down
Witcham Street. But here it was just the two of us. Christy and her fellow alcoholics called themselves
the Friends of Bill; we were the Enemies of Frank. A perfect team, you would say . . . except Bill “No
Suspenders” Turcotte didn’t look like much of a team player.
“You . . .” I stopped and shook my head. “Tell me.”
“If you’re half as bright as you think you are, you should be able to put it together for yourself. Or
didn’t Chazzy tell you enough?”