From the window above the old-fashioned radiator in Turner’s room I could see my A-frame cottage clearly, despite the partial sheltering of trees. The radiator was hot and making hissing noises, complaining about its unexpected April workload; but at least it helped keep the frost off the window, which was a plus for Turner, as he was apparently using this window to watch me, to study my pattern. He no doubt used the same binoculars I was now using: I’d found them in his bottom dresser drawer, between a box of. 380 shells and the Browning they were used in.

A gunsmith had done some improvising on the automatic, because the original barrel was gone and replaced with a new one that had a built-in silencer. I didn’t see the point, as the length of the new barrel was practically the same as the old one would’ve been with silencer attached. So nothing in particular had been gained, and something had been lost: the ability to detach the silencer, which is nice to be able to do at times, as they aren’t always necessary and do make the weapon more bulky. But to each his own.

The room was orderly, though Wilma did not provide maid service. That is, unless the sixteen-year-old niece Turner was humping was playing housekeeper, too. There was just the one big room, with a double bed with maple headboard against the left side wall, and a living room area opposite, with sagging couch and a chair or two and a beat-up coffee table with a scuffed metallic portable TV on it.