Van Den Berg gave it ten seconds, then said, “Get her the fuck out of here.”

Virgil stepped close to him, six inches away, and grabbed Van Den Berg’s throat while pinning his hip with his own, and Van Den Berg’s right arm with his left, and squeezed the man’s throat until his eyes bulged out, and Virgil said, in a near whisper, “If you ever, ever touch her again, I’ll arrest you for assault, and you will resist. Then I’ll beat the hell out of you, and I’ll charge you with resisting arrest with violence and attacking an officer of the law, and you will go to Stillwater prison. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Van Den Berg made a gurgling sound that might have meant “Yes,” and Virgil released him, brushed off the front of Van Den Berg’s shirt—hard—and said, “I’m extremely pissed off. Don’t give me a reason to beat the shit out of you now because I don’t know if I could stop.”

Van Den Berg held his throat with one hand and backed away, and Virgil reached down to take Fischer’s hand and helped her to her feet. “Get your stuff. We need to get you to a doctor.”

When they got out on the street, a sheriff’s car was coming, fast. It was Banning again; she pulled up to the house and climbed out, and said, “Did that fucker do it again?”

“Yeah, but there’s a complication this time,” Virgil said. He told her about the break-in problem and the broken glass above the back door lock. “I’ve spoken to Van Den Berg about it and I don’t think it will happen again.”

“You sure?”

“Fairly sure,” Virgil said. “It’d be nice if somebody could run Janet to a doctor. And while you’re there, take a few photos in case we need them later. “

“I can do that,” Banning said. “I’ll email them to you.”

Van Den Berg came to the door, still holding his throat. He saw Banning, made a strangled sound, turned back inside, and slammed the door. Banning nodded at Virgil, and said, “Thank you,” and, to Fischer, “Come on, honey, let’s go see the doc and get you cleaned up.”

* * *

—

Van Den Berg lay on his couch for a half hour, fantasizing about bringing assault charges against Flowers, but he wasn’t a stupid man and he knew they wouldn’t hold up, not with Fischer looking as though she’d fallen into a lawn mower. Everybody in town was against him . . .

His throat hurt bad, and he thought about finding a doctor, but as he lay on the couch the pain lessened, and he finally got up and got a can of Sanpellegrino Limonata from the refrigerator, and the bubbly water soothed his throat. He carried the can to the front window, and there, a half block away, and getting closer, came the shooter, eating an ice-cream cone.

Van Den Berg opened the door and stepped outside, and the shooter nodded at him, and said, “Larry, how you doing?”

Van Den Berg said, “You’re gonna drip.”

The shooter looked at the side of the cone, saw the liquid ice cream oozing down the far side, and said, “Thanks,” and licked it off the cone.

“If you got a minute, I need to talk to you,” Van Den Berg said. He looked up and down the short street. Nobody in sight. “It’s important.”

“Well, okay, I got a minute,” the shooter said. They weren’t friends. “What’s up?”

“Come on in,” Van Den Berg said.

“Well . . .”

Van Den Berg stepped back, and the shooter followed him inside.

* * *

—

I developed a major problem yesterday,” Van Den Berg said, backing into his living room. “I’d . . . come into possession . . . of a trailer full of Legos that turned out were stolen.”

“I saw it on ‘Wheatfield Talk,’” the shooter said. “Wheatfield Talk” was Danielle Visser’s town blog. “There was a story in the Des Moines Register this morning, and Danny put up a link.”

“You know what happened, then,” Van Den Berg said. “My problem is, I need about ten grand, up front, for the lawyer, and probably another ten later on. I was hoping you could help out, since I’m keeping my mouth shut about you being the Wheatfield shooter.”

“What!”

“Yeah, I figured it out,” Van Den Berg said. “I’m willing to keep my mouth shut. I’m taking a risk, because this might make me an accessory, but I gotta have that cash.”

“I got no idea what you’re talking about,” the shooter blustered. “I don’t know why you’d think . . .”

“Then let me explain,” Van Den Berg said. He did, and when he was finished, the shooter said, “That’s not right. You’re making a horrible mistake. Did you tell anybody else about this? I’m completely innocent, and I don’t need other people looking at me like . . . like . . . I’m some sort of maniac.”

“If you didn’t do it, why are you arguing instead of leaving?” Van Den Berg asked.

“I am leaving,” the shooter said. He turned and headed for the door, still holding the remnants of the ice-cream cone.

“You better think about it,” Van Den Berg called after him. “Because I know you’re the one.”

“You ever say anything like that to another person, I will sue you for every dime you’ve got,” the shooter shouted back. “I can’t even believe . . .”

“I’ll give you until tomorrow morning, and then I’m going to Flowers. I need ten thousand now, and another ten . . .”

“You’re insane!”

And the shooter walked away.

* * *

—

Van Den Berg had gotten little sleep the night before, in the Lewis County jail, so he made himself a peanut butter and onion sandwich, ate it, lowered the shades in the bedroom, and lay down on the bed. He thought about calling the dispatcher at the packing plant to see if he could get a load out of town in the next couple of days, thought briefly about whether he’d put the finger on the wrong man as the shooter . . . and then he passed out.

He woke at 6 o’clock, hungry again, made himself a fried egg sandwich with a side of link sausages, thought about what to do; there were a couple of hours of daylight left, but he couldn’t think where he might want to go. He eventually went down into his man cave, got online, and went to Pornhub and spent three straight hours, with two five-minute recreational breaks, watching a variety of videos.

* * *

—

   The shooter waited until well after dark before he left his house, which was four blocks down and one over from Van Den Berg’s house. He was carrying the rifle. The rifle didn’t have a sling, but he’d improvised with parachute cord, one loop around the narrowest part of the stock, at the grip, another loop around the barrel. He slung it over his shoulder, so that it hung straight down, and then pulled a hip-length coat over it.