Chapter 11: Dutch's Kitchen

Jesse's POV

Birdie ran Rhett off the glass with a cast-iron skillet and the phrase "I'll call the sheriff and he'll bring a sandwich."

Rhett left.

I stood in her doorway and watched his taillight until it was gone.

Then I looked back at Hallie, asleep sitting up in the booth with her bandaged hand in her lap and Delaney's coat over her shoulders.

Delaney had given it to her without a word.

I told Birdie to lock up and keep the skillet close.

Then I drove to Dutch Maguire's house.

It was a big ranch house on forty acres off Mill Spur Road, with a porch swing and a flagpole and a lit window in every room.

His wife's flower beds ran the whole length of the drive.

I had eaten Thanksgiving there for eleven years.

I parked at the gate and walked up.

He opened the door before I knocked, in a flannel shirt and slippers, with his reading glasses pushed up on his head.

"Jesse," Dutch said. "It's late."

"I know."

"Come in, then. Keep your voice down. My wife's asleep."

I followed him through the front hall.

It smelled like pot roast and furniture polish.

There were photographs along the wall of every Fourth of July run since 1994, and I was in about half of them.

He took me into the kitchen and poured two coffees without asking.

I did not take mine.

"You've been busy," he said, and sat at the head of the table.

"I've been listening."

"To whom?"

"Delaney."

His hand didn't stop.

He stirred sugar into his cup in small slow circles, and the spoon made no noise.

"I thought she might get to somebody," he said at last. "I'd hoped it would be Birdie. Birdie's got sense."

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