I put the binoculars in the dresser, but stuck the Browning in my belt. I turned out the lights and went over to the couch to wait for Turner to come.

I didn’t let myself think. There was a lot to think about, a lot in my life that was threatened by all of this, not the least of which was my life itself, but I didn’t think. I didn’t let myself. There are times when it’s smart to sort through the things that have been happening to you, and figure out what it is they all mean, and there are times to clear all the shit out of your head, empty your head of everything but now, so you are ready, not edgy, but on edge, perched like an animal waiting for its prey to make a move. So I sat on the uncomfortable, spring-bulging couch, waiting for Turner to come.

In two hours and some odd minutes, I heard his voice. It was still grating, had that same sandpaper quality. He was standing outside his door, talking to somebody. And that could be a problem.

The other person spoke, and it was a girl, a young woman’s voice. Possibly the sixteen-year-old niece Wilma was worried about.

A key was working in the door, in the lock, and I ducked into the closet, to the rear of the couch.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he was saying. I heard the door close. I heard a thud, which I guessed to be the sound of his hunting jacket being tossed on the couch. “She works till two in the morning It ain’t even midnight. We got plenty of time.”

“If she finds us together,” the girl said, her voice sounding very young, “she’ll kill us.”

“Aw the hell with her. You going to let some fat old windbag run your fife?”

“She’s my aunt.”

“She can’t give you this.”

There followed considerable, moaning and groaning, most of it from the girl. In the background the radiator hissed.

“Here. Let me help you out of that stuff.”

“No… I’ll… I’ll do it.”