Seven members of the town council had gathered in a restaurant on the corner that overlooked the town square. In fact the entire council was present except for its most volatile force, Carl Laumer. Coffee was the fare for the evening. Not beer, which made the moment even odder. These were men who liked their beer. Another thing that was odd was the silence that seemed to have fallen over the men. They sat at the long table with the checkered tablecloth and the swollen red glasses holding candles and said hardly a word to each other. Friends these long years. Men who shared a terrible secret unknown to the rest of the town. Hardly a word. Sheriff Wayman kept looking at his wrist watch and then at the clock over the cash register. As if there might be some discrepancy. As if the precise time were a big thing. Wayman glanced around the table, a sad smile on his lips. These days he had taken to noticing how old everybody was getting. Jowls and wrinkles, white hair and pale flesh, pot bellies and eyes that didn’t quite seem to focus.
