"For what?" Danny asked his dad.
"Occasional incontinence, perhaps. Farting, certainly--not to mention talking in my sleep," the cook confided to his son.
"You should find a wife who's hard of hearing--like Ketchum," Danny suggested. They both laughed; the cowboy had to have heard their laughter.
"I was being serious, Daniel--you should at least have a regular girlfriend, a true companion," Dominic was saying, as they came up the stairs to the second-floor hall. Even from the third floor, Carl could have singled out the distinguishing sounds of the cook's limp on the stairs.
"I have women friends," Danny started to say.
"I'm not talking about groupies, Daniel."
"I don't have groupies, Pop--not anymore."
"Young fans, then. Remember, I've read your fan mail--"
"I don't answer those letters, Dad."
"Young--what are they called?--'editorial assistants,' maybe? Young booksellers, too, Daniel ... I've seen you with one or two. All those young people in publishing!"
"Young women are more likely to be unattached," Danny pointed out to his dad. "Most women my age are married, or they're widows."
"What's wrong with widows?" his father asked. (At that, they'd both laughed again--a shorter laugh this time.)
"I'm not looking for a permanent relationship," Danny said.
"I can see that. Why?" Dominic wanted to know. They were at opposite ends of the second-floor hall, at the doorways to their respective bedrooms. Their voices were raised; surely the cowboy could hear every word.
"I've had my opportunities, too, Pop," Danny told his dad.
"I just want all the best for you, Daniel," the cook told him.
"You've been a good father--the best," Danny said.
"You were a good
father, too, Daniel--"
"I could have done a better job," Danny quickly interjected.
"I love you!" Dominic said.
"I love you, too, Dad. Good night," Danny said; he went into his bedroom and quietly closed the door.
"Good night!" the cook called from the hall. It was such a heartfelt blessing; it's almost conceivable that the cowboy was tempted to wish them both a good night, too. But Carl lay unmoving above them, not making a sound.
Did the deputy wait as long as an hour after he'd heard them brush their teeth? Probably not. Did Danny once more dream about the windswept pine on Charlotte's island in Georgian Bay--specifically, the view of that hardy little tree from what had been his writing shack there? Probably. Did the cook, in his prayers, ask for more time? Probably not. Under the circumstances, and knowing Dominic Baciagalupo, the cook couldn't have asked for much--that is, if he'd prayed at all. At best, Dominic might have expressed the hope that his lonely son "find someone"--only that.
Did the floorboards above them creak under the fat cowboy's weight, once Carl decided to make his move? Not that they heard; or, if Danny heard anything at all, he might have happily imagined (in his sleep) that Joe was home from Colorado.
Not knowing how dark it might be in the house at night, the cowboy had tested those stairs from the third-floor writing room with his eyes closed; he'd counted the number of steps in the second-floor hall to the cook's bedroom door, too. And Carl knew where the light switch was--just inside the door, right next to the eight-inch cast-iron skillet.
As it turned out, Danny always left a light on--on the stairs from the kitchen to the second-floor hall, so there was plenty of light in the hall. The cowboy, slipping silently in his socks, padded down the hallway to the cook's bedroom and opened the door. "Surprise, Cookie!" Carl said, flicking on the light. "It's time for you to die."
Maybe Danny heard that; perhaps he didn't. But his dad sat up in bed--blinking his eyes in the sudden, white light--and the cook said, in a very loud voice, "What took you so long, you moron? You must be dumber than a dog turd, cowboy--just like Jane always said." (Without a doubt, Danny heard that.)
"You little shit, Cookie!" Carl cried. Danny heard that, too; he was already kneeling on the floor, pulling the Winchester out of the open case under his bed.
"Dumber than a dog turd, cowboy!" his dad was shouting.