Trane called Nancy Quill, who said that Darian S. Quill was Barth’s father. Krause had apparently stolen them from the house. Trane would have them evaluated the following week, and a Minneapolis coin dealer suggested they’d be worth around a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
* * *
—
On Sunday, the day after the chase and arrest, Virgil stopped at Regions and visited both with Quill and Terry Foster. Quill was still in shock, her face heavily bandaged. The first thing she said when Virgil walked in was, “They say I’ll be okay.”
“That’s what everybody tells me, too,” Virgil said. “In a couple of years, there’ll be no sign of a scar. You might have some scary psychological after-effects for a while, but, in my experience, those will fade away.”
“That Jerry . . . I guess he’s here in the hospital.”
“Yes. He’s hurt a lot worse than you are. And he’ll be going away to prison for years. Jerry’s psychotic.”
“He’s crazy.”
“Yeah. I would have seen it sooner, if I’d been around him more,” Virgil said. “I feel really stupid for not seeing the computer for what it was: a heavy-duty game machine. I kept thinking about what it might contain, the files, and about what your father might be doing on it.”
“I already miss Dad,” Quill said. She sniffed. “He was such a hard-ass. And our history . . . wasn’t good . . .”
“A hard-ass, but not a bad guy,” Virgil said. “A good guy, in fact.”
“All he thought about was medicine,” Quill said. “He was so into it. Now, I’ve been talking with the surgeon who put my face back together. It’s interesting. She’s interesting. She has some amazing stories.”
Virgil nodded. “Think about all of that. You’ve lost a couple of friends, but maybe when you spend some time thinking about it, you’ll find that they were less interesting than they seemed. You won’t believe me, but you’ve still got a lot of kid stuff to get out of your head. Sex is everywhere—that’s why there are seven billion people in the world. Sex isn’t hard, fooling around isn’t hard, experimenting with dope isn’t hard. Medicine is hard.”
“I will think about it,” she said. “I don’t have the grades for it right now, but I could get there. School isn’t hard, but I have to get to it if I’m going to do it.”
Virgil patted her foot. “Then get to it.”
* * *
—
When he visited Foster, the ex-soldier said, “Professor Green dropped in. You missed her by ten minutes. She told me. You got the guy.”
“He’s the guy who jumped you,” Virgil said. “A nutjob. He could come after you again, but you’ll be at least sixty by then.”
“Glad you got him,” Foster said. “For the explanation, as much as anything.”
Virgil asked, “What about you? You’re lying here thinking all day. Are you going to try the Army again?”
“We’ll see what happens. I’ll be in school for another year at least, that’ll get me to the all-but-the-thesis point with my Ph.D. I could finish it on active duty. But, uh, Katherine—Professor Green—gave me a little peck on the forehead when she left. She said she was looking forward to getting me back in class, volunteered to bring course work around to me as long as I’m in here.”
“Hmm.”
“You took the hmm right out of my mouth,” Foster said.
* * *
—
Between chores, Virgil spoke with Genevieve O’Hara and told her about the Surface Research arrests and that the company’s CEO might want to talk with her about seeing Boyd Nash in the library. “He’s trying to nail down every aspect of the case. The idea that Nash may have been involved in other activities would help make that point. I’m sure he’s going to be calling you.”
“I’ll still be there, in the library. And Virgil? Thank you.”
“For what?”
“I think you know for what.”
* * *
—
Virgil encountered Harry, the beer drinker, when he stayed over Saturday night. Virgil walked into the bar, and Harry asked, “You get him?”
“Yup.”
“Hey, congratulations.” He flagged down Alice, said, “Give him another bottle of cow piss. He got the killer.” To Virgil: “He was a kid, right? I want to hear the whole story.”
“No, he was a grown adult,” Virgil said.
“The way you said that makes me suspicious,” Harry said. “How old was he in years?”
“Not certain yet.”
“Was he going to high school or college?”
“Maybe,” Virgil said.
“Ha! He’s a kid,” Harry said to Alice. “I was right. Had you met him before?”
“Only briefly,” Virgil said. “Not really long enough to make much of an impression.”
“Ha! You did meet him. He was part of the cast, like I said,” Harry crowed. “With that kind of insight, I should have been a cop. Or a psychiatrist. Anything but a McDonald’s owner.”
“Maybe a bartender,” Virgil said. “You want another one? To celebrate your insight?”
“Sure.”
“That’d be five,” Alice said. “I dunno.”
Harry shook a finger at her. “‘There are strange things done in the midnight sun / By the men who moil for gold.’”
“Oh, no,” she said.
Virgil: “Go for it, man.”
* * *
—
The governor called Virgil early on Sunday morning. “I just heard from Bunny Quill, and she told me you got the killer. I wanted to thank you personally. I would even suggest you might apply for a spot on my personal protection detail.”
“Ah, thank you, but no, I have a farm to tend, Governor, and I . . .” He was tap-dancing at a ferocious rate and managed to stave the man off.
Dipshit.
When he got off the phone with the governor, he called Davenport, who was still in bed, and asked him to tip off his media connections about the chase and the arrest. “Emphasize that Margaret Trane shot Krause when he got out of the car with a knife and was about to attack her. Get some cameras over to her house.”