remembered to shift back to two-wheel drive and he was all right, he wasn’t shot, he was all right.
38
He did not stop, did not pull over to look at the truck.
He thought of calling 911 or even driving to the police station but he had a vision of getting out of the truck and finding nothing there, no bullet hole, and the cops wanting to see his ID and looking him up, Daniel Young—that Daniel Young? and as he thought through these scenarios, and others, he arrived, as if suddenly, at the farmhouse and he slowed down well before he reached the drive, because parked just before it on the side of the road was a car—his own headlights picking up the rear lenses first, then the barlights on the roof, and lastly shaping out the man who sat behind the wheel—and his first thought was that there had been some report, that already they knew about the shot in the park and the officer had been dispatched to meet him.
But that made no sense—and anyway why wouldn’t the officer pull into the drive and knock on the door?
Then he understood, and he knew that he should not pass the officer and pull into the drive himself, but should instead pull over behind the cruiser and put the truck in park, turn off his lights, and wait, just sit there and wait, and he did each of these things in turn and only then, after perhaps another full minute, did the door of the cruiser open and the man step out putting on his hat and begin his walk to the truck, and Danny knew him before he put on the hat and before he stepped out of the cruiser even.
The deputy carried no flashlight this time and he walked up to the truck with no caution at all, his hands loose at his sides, and when he reached the window he stood square to it and put his hands in his jacket pockets and he was already shaking his head before the window was down.
“I was hoping I had the wrong information,” he said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t pull in here tonight but had gone back to wherever you came from.”
“I’m just here to see my family, Deputy.”
“That’s Sheriff, buddy,” he said, tapping his badge.
It was an Iowa badge, Danny saw. “Have I done something wrong?”
“You mean other than coming back here? I don’t know. Have you?”
“No, sir. In fact I think someone just took a potshot at me.”
“A potshot? What do you mean a potshot?”
“It sounded like my truck got hit by a bullet.”
“Sounded like.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t get out and see?”
“No, sir. I didn’t want to get shot.”
“Where was it?”
“I think in the back there,” he said and thumbed toward the truckbed.
“I mean where did it happen.”
“In the park.”
“Henry Sibley Park?”
“Yes, sir.”
The deputy—sheriff—stared at him. Danny could see the smug look in his eye and he thought, Go ahead and say it, smart guy: What were you doing in there this time?
But Moran didn’t say it. He stopped himself, and said instead: “Did you have your cell phone on you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I wasn’t sure. I wanted to be sure about it first.”
Moran shook his head again. “Well, come on out of there and let’s get sure about it.” He stepped back and Danny got out and walked to the back of the truck looking, running his bare hand over the fender, over the tailgate, while Moran followed along with his Mini MagLite, roving the little spot here and there. When Danny got to the opposite side of the truckbed he found it right away—a neat quarter-size indentation in the rear fender just above the wheelwell, a hole at its center not quite big enough for the tip of his index finger.
Moran leaned in with his light. The paint had chipped away, leaving a clean ring of bare metal around the hole. He put his finger to it and felt around as if this would tell him something.
“That’s a potshot all right,” he said. “Looks like a .30-30, wouldn’t you say?”
Danny couldn’t say. The only gun he knew was Cousin Jer’s Remington 20-gauge, and the only load they used was birdshot.
“Deer rifle, I expect,” said Moran. He stood and put his thin beam into the truckbed. “Didn’t come through here.” He got down on one knee on the pavement and put the beam up under the truck. “No telling what it hit under there