Page 27 of Everything You Want Me to Be
“No.” He was mighty quick to answer. “I already told you, she wouldn’t let me.”
Another pause, while the fact of it must have sunk in. “Someone... raped her?”
He seemed to have trouble with the word.
“Can’t say.”
“So my... stuff... won’t match and then you’ll clear me, right? That’ll take me off your list?”
“We’ll see.” I didn’t tell him that, apart from Gerald Jones, hewasthe list.
He was quiet for the rest of the morning, letting nurses lead him around like some overgrown pup. After dropping the kid off back home, I swung by the Erickson place again. Winifred’s Buick was in the garage and a Chevy pickup was parked out front. I banged on the screen door for what felt like ten minutes with no answer and then headed around to the outbuildings. Winifred leased most of her land to one of the big farming cooperatives and I’d never seen her set foot in the fields since the day she shot Lars, but she had to be here somewhere.
I poked around until I heard voices coming from the machinery shed.
“—don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“You’re not going to say a word, that’s what.” Came the reply. The first person was kind of muffled, but Winifred’s old, crackly voice carried clear as day.
“Can’t keep it a secret forever.”
“Can’t say nothing till you decide what you’re going to do.”
“We’re not talking about this.”
“You have to talk to someone and I know exactly what you’re feeling.”
“It’s murder.”
“Murder has its place, just like everything else. When I was—” Winifred’s voice cut off and there was a pause. Then a gunshot deafened me.
I threw myself against the side of the shed, my gun already drawn.
“God damn it, Winifred!”
“Who’s there? You better get the hell off my property before I let another one fly.”
“It’s Sheriff Goodman. I’m coming in there and if I don’t hear a gun hit the floor in five seconds, I’m going to come in shooting. Do you hear me?”
Silence.
“Winifred? I’m counting.”
There was a thud and a grunt. “Fine, then.”
I crept into the half-lit building, my aim trained on the two women by the right wall. Winifred was dressed in a checkered housedress. She had stringy, tight curls all over her head, a pipe in her mouth, and a put-out expression on her face. An old rifle lay by her feet. The woman next to her was at least forty years younger and drawn up into herself like a fetus perched on a stool. She had a blond ponytail and round, tear-streaked cheeks. Neither of them posed any threat, but I kept a bead on them just to make a point.
“You shooting at all your visitors now, Winifred?”
She crossed her arms and sniffed at me. “Sure, when they’re sneaking up on me and there’s a murderer on the loose.”
Sighing, I holstered my weapon and fixed a stare on the younger woman. Even though I didn’t recognize her right off, she seemed familiar.
“I got a few questions for you, Mrs. Erickson.” One of the most pressing ones was why these two had just been talking about murder, but I had a feeling I’d get more out of the younger one on her own.
“I’m in the middle of something.”
“No, no. I’ll go.” The woman uncurled herself and was trying to leave when I stepped in her path.
