“We never heard of anybody called Frangles,” Byron said. “So, maybe sit back down and listen.” Byron pulled a snub-nosed .38 from the back of his pants.
“Why’d you bring that?” Lonnie asked.
“You take anything,” the old man threatened, “and you won’t be able to sell it. Dealers know what’s mine. Frangos knows that. And she should have told you it’s all going back where it belongs.”
“Shut it,” Byron said, brandishing the gun.
“How is this gonna work, since he wasn’t, like, supposed to be here?” Lonnie asked, holding his hands against the sides of his head.
Byron split his attention between the old man and his brother.
“You said it needs to look like we don’t know what we’re doing, but with him here it will look like we do—you know—know what we’re doing. And that’s what he’ll say,” Lonnie said.
The old man cleared his throat, yanking Byron’s manic attention back. “You two are obviously idiots,” the old man said, his eyes narrowing. “Get out of my house or I’m calling the police.” The old man reached for the phone.
Byron jabbed his gun toward him. “Dial and you’re dead.” The muzzle wavered, then became motionless. His eyes locked with the old man’s for an instant, then he turned to Lonnie. “Make yourself useful. I need to think.”
Lonnie browsed the study, picking things up and looking them over, which agitated the old man. Lonnie picked up a white pot the size of a cantaloupe. Inside was a red image of a face, something both alien and human, with round eyes and monstrous teeth.
“Put that down,” the old man directed. “It’s over five hundred years old.” He turned back to Byron. “You can tell Frangos the answer is no. It’s always going to be no. She can’t build a collection with money. You have to earn it. It takes a lifetime.”
Lonnie set down the pot and picked up an unbroken geode from the top of a filing cabinet. He tossed it in the air a couple of times to feel its weight. “How come you ain’t split it open?” he asked. “The good part is on the inside, like a Tootsie Pop.”
“Please, just put it down.” The man reached for the phone and started dialing. He had only punched a single number, when Lonnie swung the geode hard against the man’s temple, slamming him instantly to the desk. Blood jetted in an arc, startling Lonnie so much that he pressed down on the man’s head with the flat of his hand. “Oh jeez,” Lonnie said.
“What did you do?” Byron shouted. Lonnie put his other hand on top of the first. “What did you do?” Byron shouted again.
“I was thinking about what would happen if he called the cops. You got two strikes already, Byron.” Lonnie leaned on his hands to increase the pressure. Blood seeped through his fingers, and the old man didn’t move. “Two strikes. I didn’t want you to go back.”
“Come here,” Byron beckoned, his voice softening.
“I can’t,” Lonnie said, nodding toward his hands. Byron slipped the gun into his pants and walked toward his brother with his arms opened wide. Lonnie thought it was for a hug, but Byron grabbed him by the hair and pointed his head at the growing pool of blood on the desk. Lonnie flapped and fought against his brother, covering Byron’s shirt with red handprints.
“You reach in there and find out if he’s still alive,” Byron growled.
“How do I do that?”
“You check his pulse.”
“How do I do that?”
“You’ve seen it on TV. We all have. Just do it.”
Lonnie reached under the man’s neck and felt around. “I can’t find it,” he said.
Byron tightened his grip on his brother’s hair. “Keep trying.”
“He ain’t cold or anything.”
“Well, brother. Why would he be cold?” Byron let go of Lonnie, took the old man’s wrist, and looked at the ceiling while he tried to find a pulse. After a minute, he tossed the hand away. “Now you’ve done it,” he said. “Ain’t gonna be any money in this situation if it stays this way.”
“Is he dead?”
“Headed that direction.” Byron paced around the room while Lonnie stood dumbfounded, hands dangling at his sides, staring at the old man. Byron took out his phone and flipped it open.
“You’re gonna call him?”
“Of course I’m calling him.” He dialed the number and looked at the phone while it rang. When the line connected, he put the phone to his ear. “I know you said not to call, but the situation got away from us. Yeah . . . Lonnie put him down . . . That’s correct . . . All the way down,” he said, then he listened for a while. “It happened before we could . . .” he said. “No, we did not get to the list. Not yet.”
“Is he saying what to do?” Lonnie asked. “Ask him who this Frangles lady is.”
Byron dragged a finger across his neck. “Okay,” he said, “we can do that. It should help us cover our tracks. We’re on it. Thank you, sir.” He flipped the phone shut.
Lonnie looked at him and waited. “‘Sir’?”
“Shut up.” Byron thought for a second, then said, “Check to see if this guy has a shotgun somewhere.”
___
Sheriff Patrick Dalton opened his eyes and saw two people through the windshield of his cruiser staring back at him. One was an EMT he didn’t recognize, and the other was Chris Tanner, one of his deputies. The engine was off, but Dalton grabbed the steering wheel, which gave him the fleeting sensation that he was about to run them all down.
Tanner said something to the EMT, then tilted his head and pressed the button on his shoulder mic. “You want us to come back later?” came crackling through the radio. Dalton pulled the key from the ignition but didn’t get out. He looked around at the old pioneer home, the crisscrossed police tape, the ambulance, traffic cones, strip of brown lawn, dandelions, wrought-iron handrail, blue sky. Sunday stillness.
An hour ago, he was sitting in church, head bowed, when his phone buzzed. He turned it over and read the text banner. It was from Tanner: SORRY ABOUT THIS, BUT YOU NEED GET DOWN TO THE CLUFF HOME. WE’VE GOT A SITUATION WITH BRUCE. He turned the phone back over and looked around the chapel. The Sacrament was going around. If he left now, people would wonder. So he waited. In a few minutes, the phone buzzed again. All it said was 10-56.
This meant it was a suicide. He thumbed open the lock screen and typed: ON MY WAY.
Bruce Cluff was one of his dad’s oldest friends, and he was his mother’s prom date. When Dalton’s dad passed, Bruce shouldered the coffin. Bruce’s wife, Raylene, pulled his mother out of a depression that lasted most of a year. All of this went down while he was on his second tour in Afghanistan. Thinking about Bruce taking his own life yanked the breath out of him.
There was a knock on the cruiser’s hood. Tanner shrugged and lifted his eyebrows. Dalton unbuckled his seat belt and got out. As he stood he realized he wasn’t in uniform. His dark suit and white shirt stood out against Tanner’s khaki and the EMT’s white. He pulled his tie off and opened the trunk, taking out the sheriff’s department windbreaker he kept in back.