“If I knew why, I could break the case,” Virgil said.

“Then I’ll tell you why.” She leaned close to his ear, and said, “Money. One way or another, it’s money. Specifically, it’s going to be money that somebody isn’t getting that they think they should get.”

“It’s a theory,” Virgil said.

One of Visser’s breasts gave his right ear a brief massage, but the hair snipping never slowed. “You’re dismissing me. You shouldn’t. This whole town was doomed until we got the Marian apparitions. Not only was the town doomed, all of us residents were, too. Except for a couple of government people and teachers, we were all poor. Or getting that way. Now, all of a sudden, everything has changed. But . . . But . . .” She leaned close again. “Some people have been left out. They’re still poor. They’re still doomed. They hate that.”

He got the ear massage again, as though for emphasis. He said, “That’s an interesting idea. Somebody who’s been left out but still owns a good, accurate rifle.”

“Piffle,” she said. “Everybody in town owns a good, accurate rifle. Roy has a .308 that could knock the testicles off a chickadee at a hundred yards.”

As she said it, the front door banged open and then banged shut again. She shouted, “Isn’t that right, honey?”

Roy walked in. He looked like a Special Forces sergeant, arms like small tree trunks, a neck that went out to his ears, small waist. He was dressed in a gray work shirt and gray slacks with oil splotches.

“Isn’t what right?” He came over to get a kiss and then sat down in a customer chair at the side of the room. The odor of 10W-40 wafted through the room.

“This is Virgil. I told him you had a .308 that could knock the testicles off a chickadee at a hundred yards.”

“Only if it was bendin’ over,” Roy Visser said. He added, “You gotta stop this craziness, Virgil. It’s ruinin’ the town.”

Virgil asked for names of people who’d been left out of the gold rush and who might own a highly accurate .223.

“You know, not many people around here have .223s, because they’re pretty useless. All you can do with them is play army. I understand the Nazis got a couple, and they play army, and they’re left out and poor. I don’t know who else would. You could talk to Glen Andorra about that.”

“Who’s he?”

“Farmer. He’s got some rough land out west of here. He didn’t know what to do with it, and then he came up with the idea of starting a sportsman’s club. You know, rifle range, trap, skeet, sporting clays, pistols, archery. I believe the rifle range goes out to six hundred yards. He might have some ideas.”

“Does he live out there?”

“Yeah, he does. Hard to explain how to find his place, but I could show you on the computer,” Visser said. And, “Jeez, Danny, get your tit out of his ear.”

“He doesn’t mind,” Danielle said. “Do you, Virgil?”

“I’ll let you guys work it out,” Virgil said. Although it did feel good, and was beginning to have an effect.

When she was done cutting his hair, Danielle said, as she was putting her scissors away, “You sit right there, we’re not quite done yet. You’re entitled to a shoulder massage.”

“I don’t . . .”

“Take it,” Roy said.

Virgil took it. The massage lasted five minutes, and he could have used another five. He also decided not to tell Frankie about it. Danielle took the cape off and spun the chair around. Virgil checked himself, and said, “All right, I’ll drive down here for haircuts from now on. That’s the best one I’ve had in . . . maybe forever.”

“Got some hair down your neck, though,” Danielle said. “You might want to jump in the shower before you head out to Glen’s place.”

* * *

—

The day was working out, Virgil thought, as he showered. He had some ideas of where the bullets were coming from, a lead to a guy who might know about local shooters—Roy had shown him on a Google satellite photo of the gun range and the house where Glen Andorra lived—and he’d gotten an excellent haircut.

He left the Vissers’ house at 5 o’clock, still with more than three hours until sunset. At five-twenty, he pulled up to the gate that blocked the dirt track to the sportsman’s club. The gate needed a key card for entry, which he didn’t have. He climbed out of the truck to see what he could see, which wasn’t much because the range was behind a low ridge that began just beyond the gate.

He could hear the boom-boom of a heavy rifle being fired slowly. Aimed shots. He was about to turn around and go out to the main road and down to Andorra’s house when a pickup topped the ridge and rolled down toward him. He got back in his truck and, when the gate opened, drove through to the other side and flagged down the pickup.

The driver ran his window down, and asked, “Forget your card?”

“Don’t have one,” Virgil said. “I’m with the state police. I’m looking for Glen Andorra.”

“Haven’t seen him, he’s not out here. Maybe check his house.”

“I’ll do that,” Virgil said.

* * *

—

Before going to Andorra’s, he drove over the ridge and down to the shooting area, which was a series of ranges based around a parking lot in the middle of a deep bowl, with a creek oxbowing at the bottom of the lot. The ranges weren’t fancy, mostly defined by a row of picnic-style tables and benches, with a roof overhead for shelter. The rifle range was in the deeper part of the bowl, and shooters fired at a series of bulldozer-built berms. To Virgil’s eye, the berms appeared to have been set at fifty, one hundred, one hundred and fifty, and two hundred yards, and then four more berms out to six hundred yards. A narrow dirt two-track ran down the length of the range, so shooters could drive down to check out their targets.

The shooting end of the range featured four benches with picnic table seats and a flagpole atop which a red flag fluttered in the breeze to make newcomers aware that shooting was going on.

Two men were sitting at one of the benches, one of them with a rifle snuggled on top of Army-green sandbags, the other looking downrange through a scope, his rifle lying on a case off to the side. The aimed rifle went boom, the shooter jerked with the recoil, and the scope man said something to him. Virgil got out of the truck, and called to them: “Hey! Excuse me.”

They were both wearing electronic earmuffs, which cut the sound of a muzzle blast but allowed them to hear normal speech. They both turned to look, and Virgil walked down and identified himself.