Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Part 1 Dark Sky

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part 2 Storm

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Part 3 The Rain Dogs

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Sean Doolittle

Preview of The Cleanup

Copyright Page

For
Esther,
Glenn,
Howard,
and Alberta

GIVE MY UMBRELLA TO THE RAIN DOGS
FOR I AM A RAIN DOG, TOO

—TOM WAITS

PROLOGUE

COLEMAN’S LANDING

The offices of Tyler & Tyler sat next to a taxidermy shop with a stuffed coyote in the window. The taxidermist had the bigger awning.

Standing curbside, Tom Coleman considered the attorneys he knew. None had a grip like George Tyler Jr.’s: blunt, callused, crusted with sun spots, knuckle hair like steel wool. He almost said uncle.

“You made it, Tom.”

“Sorry to drop in on you.” He was supposed to have arrived three days ago. Tom wasn’t completely sure what he was doing here now. Yesterday had been his daughter’s fifth birthday, and he’d spent it in a twenty-dollar motel room. Today he felt a dead coyote watching him through cloudy glass. “I should have called.”

“Never mind that, son. Glad you’re here. How was the drive?”

“Long,” Tom said. “But fine.”

“Any trouble finding the place?”

“No trouble.”

Tyler must have been pushing seventy, but he didn’t seem to notice. His weekday business attire appeared to run toward stiff dark blue jeans and Tony Lamas. Tom had caught him on the way out, zipping a windbreaker against the sunny March chill.

“Well, welcome to the Heart City.” Tyler nodded down the empty sidewalk, the quiet street. Downtown Valentine. “Don’t guess it’s quite the speed you’re used to in Chicago.”

As Tom started to respond, a big eighteen-wheeler rumbled past, heading for the highway junction at the end of Main. He started again and was defeated by a pickup pulling an empty horse trailer.

He gave up and nodded at the key ring on Tyler’s finger. “Is this a bad time? I can come back.”

“Do what? Nah. I was just headed down the street for a bite. You hungry?”

Tom wasn’t. Hungover. Getting thirsty. But not hungry.

“Hell, it’s early for lunch.” Tyler clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s go on in. We’ll get the boring stuff out of the way.”

It sounded like a plan.

There were papers to read and sign. Tom pretended to read them and signed.

They sat in Tyler’s office, one of three small rooms off a small reception area that smelled like new paint. Tyler had a scarred wooden desk cluttered with file folders, a bookcase of legal volumes, a few trout flies in shadow boxes on the walls. They had the place to themselves.

“I’ll have Judy get you copies. She comes in Thursdays.”

“No rush.”

“That one at the bottom.” Tyler pointed to another sheet. “There you go.”

Tom scribbled his signature one last time and slid the entire folder back across the desk. His grandfather’s executor took the folder up, tapped the spine on the desk, and set it aside.

“I wish he’d gotten a few more years,” he said. “Your granddad.”

“He wasn’t too old.” Tom felt like he should say something else, but he didn’t know what.

“Besides the trick pump, I don’t know anything would have killed him. He was a character.”

“Is that the legal term for cranky old bastard?”

Tyler barked a laugh. “Tough as a whip and half as personable, George Senior always said. But I liked him. He was a good man.”

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Tyler, I didn’t really know him all that well.”

As a kid, Tom had spent one summer out here, in the Sandhills, hours west of the Nebraska he knew. He’d earned an allowance doing chores on a cow/calf operation his grandfather had owned at the time. This was several years before his grandmother gave in early to the same cancer that killed Zevon and McQueen. He’d been eleven or twelve years old.

Beyond that summer, twenty-odd years ago, he’d only seen the man on a handful of occasions. Most of what he knew about Parker Coleman he’d gotten through stories from his dad and uncles. He hadn’t even attended the funeral.

“You could say this is unexpected.”

Tyler nodded. “That’s more or less the way your dad put it.”

“Oh?”

“We spoke a bit on the phone the other day.”

“I see.”

“Guess they were thinking of coming out to surprise you. Your mom thought you might use some help settling in.”

Tom sighed. It was a six-hour drive from Lincoln; he’d already told them not to bother. “I should have called.”

Tyler now wore a small, humane smile. Tom knew what was next.

“Son, I can’t say how sorry I was to hear about your little girl.”

“Thank you.”

“I have a niece in Dallas. She and her husband lost a boy the same way.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tom said. “I truly am.”

“It’s an awful thing.”

“Is there anything else I need to sign?”

Tyler lingered a moment and shook his head. “Nope, we’re done. One last thing.” He picked up a plain white envelope and handed it across. “Your granddad left instructions to pass this along when the time came. Guess that’s now.”

Tom held the sealed envelope to the light. He tore off an end and slipped a single sheet of lined notebook paper from inside. The paper still had an edge of fuzz where it had been ripped from a spiral binding. He unfolded the page and saw lines of spiky blue ink, one running bulk of a paragraph. The man had written it just over a year ago.

Thomas,

You’re burying your little one today. Expect your heart is broke and I’m goddamn sorry as hell. Like to say I wish I was there but I don’t. Older I get the less I can stand people. Guess this river is probably the best place for an old rain dog like me. Maybe you don’t want a goddamn thing to do with it. Anyway, you get the land and the buildings and the truck, do what you want. I’m in the ground either way. Don’t have much else to say. Good luck to you, boy.

PC

He read the note a couple of times. When he was finished, he didn’t know how he felt. He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel. He looked up and found George Tyler Jr. watching him.

Tom said, “Truck?”

“Sorry?”

“There’s a truck?”

“Your granddad’s pickup. Didn’t I mention it?”

Tom couldn’t remember if Tyler had or hadn’t.

“Well, there’s a truck. Can’t promise it’s much of a truck, but there’s a truck.”

“Oh.”

After a few moments of silence, the attorney rose. He opened a drawer, took out another ring of keys, and said, “Guess you’re probably anxious to go have a look at the place.”

There wasn’t much to look at for most of the drive.

Tom followed George Tyler Jr. almost twenty miles along the tar-patched stretch of highway leading east out of town. They finally turned south at a town called Sparks. Tom saw the sign, but he didn’t see the town.

Tyler took a county road through an open gate, bouncing over a handful of iron bars set parallel over a trench in the ground. Tom remembered his grandfather calling them autogates; they were designed to keep livestock from crossing. Ranchers installed them all over this area where fence lines paused for road.

The road turned to gravel, then bare dry sand, narrowing as it curled through pasture toward lower ground. Grazed scrub turned to taller grass.

Then trees. They entered a tunnel of elms and oaks and hackberries, all beginning to bud with new leaves. Within the next couple of miles, Tom saw paper birch growing next to tall fir and pine.

According to the brochure he’d taken from a wire rack in the front office of the motel, this leg of the Niobrara flowed twenty-eight miles through a state park and a federal wildlife refuge. Ecosystems jumbled in the river valley, from western to eastern forest and prairie between.

According to the brochure, if you liked getting away outdoors, the Scenic Niobrara River was for you. Wildlife abounded. Waterfalls cascaded. A child could navigate the diciest of the rapids between the put-in below Cornell Dam and his grandfather’s place at the end of the run.

The wildlife Tom had spotted from the car consisted of polled steers and a rabbit. A smashed turtle. A few birds. He hadn’t really been looking. Every mile or two now, they passed a weather-beaten shingle for one of the other outfitters along the bank.

Tyler took a cut off the main road, and they came to a pine rail arch. A big splintered sign welcomed them to Coleman’s Landing. An arrow labeled CAMPGROUND pointed toward a right fork; the arrow pointing left said ARRIVAL CENTER—CANOE/KAYAK/TUBE RENTAL * FIREWOOD * CONCESSIONS * GEAR & GIFTS.

Tom heard the river, and then he saw it, flat water tumbling over a ford of jagged bedrock and driftwood limbs. They followed a bend around a curtain of trees to a parking lot topped with crushed rock. Tom could smell the water when he got out of the car.

“I’ve never been here,” he said. “Pretty.”

“Water’s low,” Tyler said. “Awful drought, last few years. Folks were hoping for a big snow this winter. Didn’t get one.”

“Oh.”

“Not sure who belongs to that one.” Tyler indicated a third car parked in the lot: a rusted Subaru Brat with a camper shell and no hubcaps, IN TRANSIT tags instead of plates. The Sube sat near what appeared to be a mini school bus that had been painted silver, hitched to pull an aluminum trailer.

“Which one’s the truck?”

“Truck ain’t as nice as either of those.” Tyler nodded at the bus. “And that’s the only one belongs here. Take a load off if you want. I’ll go see what’s what.”

Tom didn’t feel like waiting around in the parking lot. He went with Tyler up a cedar chip path.

The main building sat back on a small rise overlooking the ford; it looked to Tom like a cross between a farmhouse and a ski lodge with a long covered deck added on. He saw a couple of sheds and what looked like a small bunkhouse farther back in the trees.

He also saw a row of canoes turned up on the ground outside one of the sheds, aluminum keels glinting in the sun. The shed’s sliding door had been rolled open; loud classic rock drifted from inside.

A guy in cutoffs emerged with a coil of rope in the crook of his elbow. He wore flip-flop sandals and a red bandana pirate-style on his head. He saw them coming and stopped what he was doing.

“Afternoon,” Tyler called.

The guy raised a hand. Up close, he aged a decade from Tom’s initial guess. His eyes looked pink, slightly shot.

“You work here, son?”

“Little as possible.” A grin. “What can I do for you guys?”

Tyler glanced at Tom. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“I’m Duane.”

“Duane who again?”

“Foster. If you’re looking for the owner, he’s not here right now. I just got here myself.”

“Just got here from where?”

Foster narrowed his eyes. “Omaha. Is there a problem?”

Tom didn’t know why he felt like he should jump in. “I’m Tom Coleman.”

“Hi.”

“Your boss was my grandfather.”

“Was?”

“Heart attack,” Tyler said. “Three weeks ago. I’m sorry, son, I thought Park’s employees had been notified.”

Foster looked at the loop of rope on his arm. He looked out at the river. He looked at Tom.

“Damn,” he said.

Before dark, Tom left Foster at the bunkhouse smoking a joint in a hammock strung between two old elms.

His new truck was an old F-150 with creaky suspension, rust holes in the fenders, and a red paint job long faded pink by the sun. They’d found it parked at one of the campgrounds, weeds already growing up around the tires. The truck looked like hell but seemed to run fine. At least it started on the first try.

He found a narrow stretch of old buckled pavement and kept to it, winding into the Sandhills. In the valleys, big dunes rose up around the cab, scrub-covered hulks that blotted the view of all but the road ahead.

Tom climbed to a high point and parked in the bunchgrass alongside the road. He pulled his flask and climbed up the bumper, onto the warm hood. He leaned back against the windshield and looked at the darkening sky.

It felt like nothing but sky here. No buildings, hardly a tree—just a kingdom of grass in all directions, a world of sky meeting the low horizon all around.

He still remembered the feeling he’d had here as a kid. A vague terror somewhere in his blood.

He remembered a summer rainstorm that rolled in late one afternoon. He’d been out on the range fixing fences with his grandfather, miles from anything, when massive black thunderheads the size of continents seemed to rise out of the prairie and cover them over fast. He’d felt the dark sky lowering as if to crush them; he’d cowered reflexively, grinding his teeth and gripping his elbows as they’d waited out the pounding storm in the truck. Tom remembered his grandfather smoking Winstons and humming to himself as the thunder rumbled over them.

On clear days, blue sky towered like an ocean. Tom remembered that he used to avoid looking up; he remembered the irrational, overwhelming sense that he might float up, untethered and helpless, until he disappeared into the clouds.

Somehow, back amongst these strange rolling dunes, looking up into this sky for the first time since that summer as a boy, the idea of floating away didn’t seem so bad.

He thought about Melissa. She’d already been to the cemetery before he’d left town; he’d recognized the fresh clutch of white Gerber daisies she’d left on the grave. He wondered how she’d spent the rest of the day.

He’d finally called, from a filling station on the Iowa side of the Quad Cities, just because he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should. He’d left the number to his grandfather’s place on her machine, but he doubted she’d use it.

Tom wondered what he’d tell her if she did. Found a great job. The sky’s the limit.

Stars begin to flicker in the purple nothing above. His dad always said they were better out here. Tom tipped the flask and watched, knowing the truth.

They were the same here as anywhere. He was just in a different spot.

If she called, he guessed he’d tell her he’d moved.

PART
1

DARK SKY

ONE

His first year at the paper, the best lead Tom wrote went like this:

If Warren Giles had taken his coffee black on the morning of November 12, the .45-caliber ricochet that killed him might have ruined the Starbucks sugar counter instead of his aorta.

The best editor he’d ever had sent that story back after rewriting the first sentence this way:

If Tom Coleman hadn’t dreamed of writing sappy features, he might have made an okay cop reporter.

Translation: The story is what happened. Not what might have happened if.

In explaining a thing or two about good writing to a newsman from the cold type days, Tom had managed to argue his way out of his first byline. It hadn’t seemed fair at the time.

Joyce Coleman hit the Coleman’s Landing like a Pine-Sol tornado the first week in May.

Tom walked down the hill to meet his folks when he heard their car roll in. At the foot of the cedar chip path, his mother doffed her carryall, pulled him down by the neck, and squeezed the breath out of him.

“Hi, Mom.”

“My son the river rat.”

He stood there, bent. “You’re crushing my windpipe.”

She pushed back to arm’s length. “Let me see you.”

Tom nodded to his dad, who brought up the rear a few steps behind. His mother touched a warm palm to his stubble.

“You should shave,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“And shower.” She patted his cheek.

Then she was off.

Within the half hour, she’d thrown open every window and started emptying cupboards. Tom walked back down the hill with his dad to bring up luggage.

“Let her get it out of her system,” his dad said. “She’s been waiting a month for you to let her come help.”

“I know.” Tom couldn’t explain why it had taken him so long. So far the weeks had passed like the river itself, flowing around him.

At the steps to the deck, Jack Coleman stopped and put down his suitcase. He put his hands on his hips and looked out at the river. He looked at Tom.

“She’s worried about you.”

“I know.”

They both turned toward a sudden racket near one of the sheds, where Duane Foster pounded a piece of scrap metal with a hammer for some reason or other.

“See you’ve already got help.”

“That’s just Duane,” Tom said. “He came with the place.”

Foster said he’d answered a job ad in the Omaha World-Herald three summers ago. According to Foster, Tom’s grandfather had paid him room, board, and minimum wage—in cash and off the books—from a few weeks before the tourist season started until a few weeks after it ended. Duane maintained the equipment and the vehicles, did whatever odd work around the place Tom’s grandfather told him to do, and ran customers and gear back and forth in the silver bus until the weather turned cold. He migrated back to Omaha for winter.

Tom hadn’t seen the point in firing the guy. He hadn’t hired him in the first place. Foster claimed to have no other prospects, and Tom didn’t know the first thing about the canoe business. His dad shook his head as though he’d finally seen everything.

“You’re going to live here,” he said. “Run this place.”

“Until I figure out what else.”

“Any ideas?”

“Money’s good for a while.”

“I wasn’t asking about money.”

“I don’t know, Dad. Write a novel. Maybe sell the place. See what happens.”

His dad put his hand on the split-cedar railing, gave it a wiggle, seemed to find it sturdy. Directly above them, Tom’s mother leaned out a window.

“Are you two going to stand around down there with your mouths open?”

His dad grinned at him then, the way he did, a quick twitch at the corner of his mouth.

They hauled the luggage upstairs, fell in, and followed orders. By nightfall, the three of them had turned over his grandfather’s spare living quarters above the arrival center from top to bottom.

After every corner had been cleared of its cobwebs, every layer of dust taken up, every inch of pinewood mopped with oil soap and every rug shaken outside, Joyce Coleman put one arm around her husband, the other around Tom, surveyed her lemon-scented handiwork, and nodded.

“Livable,” she said.

Later, while Melissa had been carrying Grace, Tom had worked a slot on the investigative team that picked up a Renner Award and a few cordial death threats for a series on police graft.

The best editor he’d ever had, retired to Hilton Head by then, sent him another note:

You’re a slow learner, Coleman, but you do come around.

TWO

He’d just finished making coffee when Duane came into the shop, brimming with news. The clock above the candy rack said half past eight.

“That was quick.”

“Yeah. Get this.”

Duane was back from shuttling a young couple to the put-in at Fort Niobrara. At least that was where he was supposed to have left them. He also was supposed to have picked up a trio of game, giggle-prone older ladies who decided they’d had enough paddling the previous day. The women had called by satellite phone an hour ago from their camp-over spot at Smith Falls.

From his stool behind the counter, Tom could see the honeymooners through the big front windows, getting Cokes from the vending machine on the deck. He didn’t see the golden girls anywhere.

“State fuzz stopped us at the bridge,” Foster said. “They’re keeping people off up top.”

Duane glanced at Tom’s dad, who leaned against the other side of the counter, sipping his coffee, seeming amused.

“I mean, state cop. No offense, Mr. Coleman.”

“I told you yesterday, you can call me Jack.”

“No offense, Jack.”

“None taken, Duane.”

Tom’s sigh must have been audible.

“County deputy blew past us on the way back,” Foster said. “Doing about ninety.”

“What happened?”

“Some kind of explosion. One of the fishing cabins up there.”

From the corner of his eye, Tom picked up the subtle change in his dad’s body language: the set of the jaw, the square of the shoulders. Forty-two years on the force, ten in command, all in a change of posture.

“Where?”

“Saw a Game and Parks truck and a town cop turn off around the thirteen-mile marker.”

“When?”

“Dunno. Statie said LifeNet choppered somebody to Lincoln already.”

Jack Coleman sipped his coffee quietly. Foster nodded toward the couple out on the deck. “What do you want me to do with those two?”

Hell if Tom knew. “What would the old man do with them?”

“Your gramps? Probably give them some money back or something.”

“So I guess we’ll give them some money back or something.”

“You could see if they’d want to put in at the falls,” his dad suggested. “Float the bottom today.”

Tom shrugged. “Tell them we’ll comp it.”

“Got it, boss.”

Tom didn’t like it when Duane Foster called him boss. He’d asked him to knock it off. “You’re on your way there anyway, right?”

Foster just looked at him.

“Smith Falls.” Tom waited for it to sink in. “The Lauterbach party?”

“Shit.”

“Relax. They’re not going anywhere.”

Duane gave a sigh and hustled back outside.

When they were alone again, Tom said, “It’s okay. You can go see if you want.”

“Hm?”

“What the hell, I’ll go with you.”

Things weren’t exactly hopping at the Landing. According to Duane, it was early in the season.

“No sense closing the place up,” his dad said.

“Duane can handle things.”

“Anyway. None of my business anymore. Local boys don’t need us poking our beaks in.”

“Suit yourself.” Tom figured he’d give it a minute. It took about half that long.

“Guess I could make a call or two. See if I can find out what’s going on. You sure you don’t mind?”

“I said it’s fine. We’d just be standing around here anyway.” His mom had driven into Valentine to spend the day with a friend she knew from Audubon, Nebraska; they were planning a chapter trip to the Dry Tortugas. “We’ll go be bystanders.”

Jack finished the last of his coffee and put the empty mug on the counter. He glanced at the lidded travel mug in front of Tom. If he’d guessed it contained anything other than coffee, he hadn’t mentioned it yet. Tom waited.

“I’ll do the driving.”

Tom reached under the counter and tossed him the keys. Neither of them said anything else for a bit.

His dad finally nodded. “Guess we should go, if we’re going.”

They went.

They found the fishing camp, or what was left of it, a little over fifteen miles upriver.

They’d crossed the county line back into Cherry; Tom’s dad estimated their position to be right along the eastern boundary of the refuge. Tom didn’t see what difference it made, but that was his dad. Some retired men did the crossword; Major John P. Coleman figured jurisdiction in his head.

Tom paid more attention to the charred bones of the small cabin twenty yards off the north bank.

They reached the spot in a tree-ringed clearing by a winding, rutted sand track. His dad pulled in behind a white Expedition with a gold Cherry County Sheriff shield on the door. Tom counted two dark blue state cruisers, a county prowler, and a Game and Parks half-ton, all crowded together in fender-high grass. The shorter grass in the clearing had curled black almost to the tree line. The air still had a smoky, doused campfire smell.

“Looks like the party’s over.”

“We’ll just stay a minute.”

Near the gutted skeleton of the cabin, Tom saw the Game and Parks man chatting with the man Tom took to be the sheriff. A deputy in the same brown uniform as the sheriff poked around the edges of the blackened lumber and ankle-deep ash.

The two state troopers leaning against the trunk of the nearest cruiser watched Tom and his dad park. The larger of the two put on his hat and strolled over. Tom’s dad switched off the ignition and got out to meet him.

Tom waited in the truck. He watched the trooper loosen his stance and shake his dad’s hand. The two of them chatted a bit. When the trooper pointed toward the sheriff, Jack Coleman walked in that direction. The trooper looked at the pickup, raised a wave in Tom’s direction.

Tom decided he was already tired of sitting there.

He got out and stretched his legs while his dad talked to the sheriff and the Game and Parks officer. He watched his dad wander over to the remains of the cabin and stand with his hands on his hips. Another handshake with the deputy there.

While Tom waited, he noticed a charred piece of litter in the bromegrass near his feet. He nudged the scrap with his shoe.

When he looked up, he saw his father moving back toward the truck, cell phone to his ear. Tom walked back and met him just as he folded the phone shut.

“Was that Mom?”

A nod. “Lost the signal. We’ll meet her at the hospital in town.”

“What’s going on?”

“Don’t know much,” he said. “Hop in, we’ll get moving. She’ll be waiting for us.”

Tom shrugged and got back in. He was curious, but the suspense wasn’t exactly killing him. And he knew his dad.

He’d hear about it on the way.

According to Sheriff Roy Hilliard, three local teens had spent the night at the cabin, drinking beer and fishing, mostly drinking beer. The cabin had an old propane stove that vented out the center of the roof. Apparently, the stove had a leaky seal somewhere in the line.

Two of the boys had been inside when the stove blew. The third boy, oldest of the trio, had been down the bank taking a leak. The cabin was already burning by the time he made it back; he’d pushed into the flames and the smoke and dragged the others outside to the water. He’d had a cell phone with him but couldn’t get a signal, called for help using the CB radio in his pickup.

He’d then raced back and forth with five-gallon buckets of river water while one of the other boys, injured but apparently able, pitched in with a twenty-pound fire extinguisher from the tool bed of the truck. They’d kept at the edges of the blaze until grass rigs from the volunteer fire department arrived from town.

Tom said, “You know the kids?”

“Ry Wheeler’s boys, two of them.”

Tom didn’t know Ry Wheeler or his boys. His dad didn’t offer anything on the third kid. Tom didn’t ask.

“How bad?”

“Pretty bad, one of them. Ryland’s youngest, Morgan. That’s who they took to Lincoln.”

Tom decided he might as well throw it out. “I wonder if he had sinus trouble.”

“What makes you wonder that?”

“Found an empty Sudafed box in the grass,” he said. “Burned black on one side. Figure it came from the cabin.”

Jack didn’t say anything for a moment, and Tom didn’t take the comment any further. No need.

“Well, Roy Hilliard’s a good man. He’ll know what’s what.”

They rode along.

A couple miles from town, his dad said, “Just so you know, Scott Greer was out there, too.”

“Who?”

There came another pause then, the kind you learned to sit through while Jack Coleman decided what he wanted to say.

He finally said, “Worked the last couple summers for your grampa.”

Tom said, “Oh.”

When they got to the county hospital on the edge of Valentine, Tom saw his mother waiting for them out front. They parked in the center circle and got out of the truck. She hurried over, slinging her purse over a shoulder, her face pinched with concern.

“Poor Abby,” she said.

THREE

Greer.

The name hadn’t registered in the truck. Tom glanced at his dad, who only shrugged. Didn’t see the point in making a drama out of it. As they hustled down an antiseptic hallway, following the directions a nurse had given, his mother frowned at him.

“Don’t play dense.”

He could feel his mother watching him. He wasn’t trying to be difficult; he just didn’t know what she wanted him to say. He’d expected the subject to come up at some point during the visit, but not like this. He wasn’t ready. And he was hung up on the math.

“How does Abby have a teenage son?”

“Scott’s her stepson,” his dad said. “The fellow she married had two boys.”

“Dan Greer,” his mother said. “Honestly, Tom. You know this.”

“Is he here?”

He saw his parents exchange looks. They thought he was a basket case, he realized.

“Honey, he died two years ago. I sent you the obituary.”

She had. Somehow he’d let it slip.

“How?”

“How what?”

“Her husband.”

“Haying,” his dad said. “Bailer caught him.”

“Christ.”

His mom said, “Thomas. Please.”

He suddenly wanted to put on the brakes.

They hurried on.

She sat in a folding chair outside a closed door, hands twisted in her lap. She looked exhausted. Like a stranger. She looked like Abby.

Tom hung back a few paces with his dad. As his mom went straight to her, Abby stood up from the chair and said, “Joyce?”

“Honey.”

She wore her hair longer these days. Almost to her shoulders. Tom saw straw-colored streaks amidst the brown and knew she’d been spending time in the sun. It seemed like an asinine thing to notice.

“What are you doing here?” Hugs.

“Visiting,” his mom told her. “Scott, how is he?”

“He’s okay.” Abby took a deep breath. “He’s got a bad burn on his arm. And he breathed in a lot of smoke.”

“Oh, sweetie.”

“Trevor Wheeler threw him in the river.” Tom noticed the look on her face as she said it, but he didn’t know what it meant. “I guess he saved him.”

“Thank God.”

“They took Morgan to Lincoln. He’s hurt. Pretty bad.”

“I know, honey, we heard. You must be out of your head. What can we do? Where’s Hannah?”

“Dan’s mom drove out to the house this morning.” Abby finally shook her head and gave a tired smile. “Good grief, Joyce, it’s so good to see you. This is such a surprise.” She saw Tom’s dad and said, “Jack, hi. Hi. How are you?”

“I’m just fine,” his dad said. “Let us know what you need, kiddo.”

As she reached out for Jack’s hand, Abby seemed to notice Tom for the first time. They stood there in the hall with the folding chair between them and looked at each other for a long, strange minute.

“Hey,” she said.

Tom felt something in his gut. He wished he’d stayed in the truck.

He finally said, “Hey.”

Within a few minutes, a young deputy with a blond crew cut came out of the room. Abby exchanged quiet words with him. When they finished speaking to each other, she hugged Tom’s mother again, excused herself, and went in. The deputy nodded to the three of them and moseyed down the hall.

Jack Coleman waited a minute and then led them in the same direction. They rounded the nearest corner, moving toward the sound of another voice. They didn’t need to walk far. Cherry County Hospital wasn’t a labyrinth.

Tom couldn’t tell if the man in the hall was delivering a lecture or a pep talk. He stood over a broad-shouldered kid sitting on the edge of a gurney parked outside a set of green curtains. The man wore a golf shirt, tan trousers, and ostrich boots. The kid wore a hospital smock, a plastic admission bracelet, and soot-covered shitkickers. He had his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The man made a fist, then opened it. He scrubbed the back of the kid’s head roughly with his palm.

“Mind your manners,” Tom’s mother whispered.

When the man saw them coming, he straightened his back and took his hand from the kid’s sunburned neck. When he recognized Tom’s dad, his eyes flickered.

“Johnny Coleman,” he said.

“Ry.”

The kid on the gurney looked up. Tom guessed eighteen, maybe nineteen. A hard, handsome face. Judging by the resemblance between the two, it was a face that would be hardening past handsome in the years ahead.

Jack said, “Hey there, Trevor. How you doing?”

Trevor looked past him. “Okay.”

“Rough morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man in the fancy boots crossed his arms. “Cory’s waiting on you. Go on and tell him what you need to tell him.”

“I told him.”

“Then tell him again. And don’t give him any shit, hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He ain’t your cousin today. You show him some respect.”

Trevor hopped off the gurney and stalked through the curtains without looking at any of them. Tom could hear the receding echo of boot heels on hospital tile. He wondered if they’d run out of booties to go with the smocks. Somewhere behind the curtain, a door closed, and the echo faded.

The man Tom had now matched with the name Ryland Wheeler scratched his scalp with thick, scarred fingers. He sighed heavily, shook his head, glanced at Tom’s dad.

“Goddamn rough morning, you said it.” He nodded toward Tom’s mother. “Joyce. It’s been, what, years now.”

“How is Morgan? We heard they took him to St. E’s.”

“He’s sixteen years old and burned head to goddamned toe,” Wheeler said. “Lois is following. Expect we’ll hear more after she gets there.”

“Ry, we’re so sorry. We’re heading back to Lincoln. When you talk to Lois, tell her she can stay with us. Both of you.”

“Good of you, Joyce. But there’s no need for it. We’ll put up somewhere.”

“You’ll put up with us. Tell Lois when you talk to her, Ryland. We’ll go straight to the hospital and see her there.” Tom’s mom gave her husband the same look she gave Ryland Wheeler. The issue wasn’t open for debate. “I’m going to check on Abby. Ry, your family is in our prayers.”

When she was gone, Ryland Wheeler said, “Same as ever, ain’t she?”

“About.”

“This must be yours?”

“This is Tom.”

“The big-city newspaperman,” Wheeler said. “You look about as whipped as I feel, son.”

Tom didn’t have anything to say to that. He shook Wheeler’s hand.

His dad said, “That’s your sister’s Cory?”

“One and only. In brown now, if you can imagine.”

“Saw that. We ran into him down the hall. Last time I saw Cory, he must have been about yea high.”

“Still about yea bright.”

Jack Coleman’s mouth twitched. “Looks like Trev’s doing okay.”

“He’ll get by if I don’t kill him.”

“He did good, Ry. Dry as it is. Fire like that could have been worse.”

“Hell, they’re all good boys. Don’t care what Abby Greer has to say. They just haven’t got the boy out of ’em yet.”

Tom’s dad nodded along, letting the Abby comment fade.

Wheeler had more to say. “That Scotty ain’t the tender soul she thinks he is, either. Hell of a worker, but he plays as hard as mine.”

“Well. They know what they’re doing down there in Lincoln. They’ll take care of Morgan.”

“Appreciate that, Jack.” Wheeler looked at Tom again. “I hear you’re running your grampa’s place. That right?”

“Right into the ground.”

Wheeler chuckled a little. “Jack, I don’t know if we sent a card. Sorry about the old man.”

“Bullshit.”

Tom raised an eyebrow to that, but Ryland Wheeler only smiled. The two of them seemed to arrive at some kind of understanding. His dad said, “Got a minute?”

Wheeler put his hands in the back pockets of his slacks. It appeared that he had a minute.

Tom was curious, but he’d had enough. In fact, he wasn’t even all that curious. He just wanted out of the hospital.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I hope your son is all right.”

Wheeler nodded but didn’t look at him. “Good luck out there on the river, Chicago.”

Tom figured that was his cue.

He saw how he looked in the men’s room mirror, so he stopped looking.

Down the next hall, a sign pointed left, toward a side exit. Tom pushed out of the sterile cool, into warm sun and the smell of freshly mowed grass. He didn’t exactly have anywhere to go, but he needed air.

He left the sidewalk and set off across the lawn, passing in front of the ground-floor windows of a half dozen patient rooms. Most of the blinds were opened or raised, and most of the rooms appeared to be empty.

In the third window, a little girl watched him. She held a stuffed zebra in both arms. Where he walked, along the edge of the shade line near the building, Tom could see a plastic tag from Henry Doorly Zoo still clipped to the zebra’s shaggy black mane. He could almost count the tiny yellow flowers on the little girl’s gown. He was so close that he probably could have reached out and touched her, if not for the heavy glass between them. He gave her a small wave. She just watched him walk past.

When he finally came around the entrance of the building, Tom stopped and stood for a moment. He almost turned around and went back the other way.

Abby sat alone on a bench out front, near the flagpole. She faced the other direction, smoking a cigarette. Tom wondered when she’d taken them up. He considered walking behind her, back into the hospital.

He went over and sat down beside her instead.

“Those things are bad for you.”

For a long moment, she just looked at him.

“I heard we were sort of neighbors,” she finally said. “I thought about calling to see if you knew what you were doing out there.”

“I don’t.”

She smiled a little.

“Been a long time, Ab.”

“It has.”

They sat, each waiting for the other to think of the next thing to say. The flag curled above their heads in the lazy breeze, rope tapping against hollow metal, sending thin echoes up and down the length of the pole. Abby got tired of waiting first.

“Your mom and I still talk,” she said. “Christmas cards. She calls on my birthday. Sends newspaper clippings once in a while. Yours, some of them.”

Tom hadn’t known, but he wasn’t surprised. “She’s good with the newspaper clippings.”

“I kind of thought . . .” She paused. “I guess I was hoping to hear from you.”

He didn’t look at her. “I’ve been settling in.”

“I was surprised,” she said. “Hearing you were around.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Shocked is more like it.”

“That makes two of us.”

She smiled again. All at once, she said, “Emily Grace.”

His own daughter’s name caught him off guard; he was still wondering about the little girl in the window. That was Abby. No filter.

“It’s a beautiful name.”

“It fit.”

“I’m so sorry, Tom.” When she looked directly at him, the sunlight picked up the flaw in her left iris, a tiny hook of white in the brown. You wouldn’t see it if you didn’t know it was there. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She had faint lines around her mouth that hadn’t existed the last time he’d seen her, but the eyes hadn’t changed. Looking at her, sitting there in a western blouse and faded Wranglers, Tom finally bought her out here. He hadn’t been able to fathom it, but he could see it now.

He said, “I’m sorry for yours.”

Nobody else came into the hospital. Nobody else came out. No cars or pickups passed by on the street. For the moment, it was just the two of them.

He said, “Scott?”

She nodded.

“Sounds like he’s okay?”

He thought she nodded again.

“You?”

Abby finished her cigarette, reached for the ash can on her side of the bench, and stubbed out the butt in the sand.

“He won’t even speak to me. I only came out here because he told me to leave.” She dropped her hands in her lap. “He just sat there in pain with that gel thing wrapped up his arm and told me to leave him alone.”

“How old is he?”

“Fifteen. Sixteen in October.”

“We crapped on our parents when we were fifteen, Ab. Don’t take it to heart.”

He was trying to help. He saw the look on her face and decided to stop helping.

“He’s been so angry since his dad died,” she said. “His mom left when the boys were young, never even tried to keep in touch. Now Dan’s gone. His older brother Jason’s off in Lincoln, at college. And Scott just walks around leaking acid all over everything.” She shook her head. “He used to be so sweet with Hannah. He was right here with us the day she was born. Now he looks at her like . . . Jesus, she’s only four years old. I swear, lately, some days I hardly recognize him.”

“Tough age.” Tom heard how he sounded, wondered why he kept opening his mouth.

“He only has his learner’s, and this is the second time in two weeks he’s snuck my car to go out drinking with the Wheeler boys. Those three . . .” She stopped. “Just being boys, Ryland says. Boys. Morgan is hurt so badly they don’t even know if he’ll live.”

Tom suspected that Scott Greer and the Wheeler boys had probably been up to something a little more creative than drinking beer. He was pretty sure that this was what his dad had stayed to talk about with Ryland Wheeler. Probably with the sheriff’s deputy as well.

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he reached out and took one of her hands. It was such an automatic move that he didn’t realize he’d made it until he felt her return a fierce squeeze. After all these years, it felt strange that it didn’t feel strange.

“I’m trying, Tom,” she said. “But I really think I’m losing him.”

Tom couldn’t think of much to offer to that.

Suddenly, she said, “Whatever that is on your breath, I could use some of it.”

He raised a hip, pulled the flask, handed it over. Abby held it for a minute, but didn’t screw off the cap. She finally handed it back.

“Never mind. If I do that, I swear, I’ll fall to pieces.”

Tom shrugged and put the flask back in his pocket.

They sat without speaking until Abby said, “Tom?”

“Yeah.”

“I know how it sounds. But I’m glad you’re here.”

He sat and thought about how to reply to that for what seemed like a long time.

FOUR

Ten miles from Sparks, Jack Coleman lifted an index finger toward a pickup in the oncoming lane. The other driver did the same. Neither man’s wrist ever left the twelve-noon position on the steering wheel during the exchange, and as the other truck rambled past, Tom couldn’t help being amused. Put his dad in a Buick, anywhere else, he was all seat belts and ten-and-two. Put him back here, behind the wheel of a pickup truck with bad springs, and pretty soon you’d catch him driving like he was on his way home from the feed store.

“Retirement must be treating you right,” Tom said.

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m just surprised. I’d have thought you’d have more to say.”

“About what?”

“About what. The same thing I’ve been thinking.”

“You’re going to have to narrow that one down. What have you been thinking?”

“For starters?” From the passenger seat, Tom could see the twin smoky blanks of his father’s aviators reflected in the rearview mirror. As a teenager, he used to wonder what it would have been like to be pulled over by Trooper Coleman in the early days. “If those kids were cooking out there, shouldn’t there be a haz mat working the place over? Instead of a county cop poking things around with a stick?”

“I’d think they’d need a cleanup. Lab that close to public water wouldn’t help.”

“Well, there. That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

“If those three were cooking meth in Roy Hilliard’s county, he’d have put it together pretty quick.”

Tom had his thoughts about that, too. “I saw you talking to Cousin Cory at the hospital.”

“Cory Severs?” Jack Coleman clucked his tongue. It was a sound you generally heard for one of two reasons: Your story had holes in it, or it beat the band. “You know, I told your mother, I don’t know which is harder to believe. You out here running canoes, or a tin star on Cory Severs.”

“I was just curious what he had to say.”

“He’s got an app in with the Patrol, I guess. Been bounced a couple times, thought he’d try his luck again. He caught up when I was leaving to look for you and Mom, wanted to know if I could put in a word for him.”

Tom suddenly felt like they were having different conversations. “Did Deputy Fife have any thoughts about the little crankhouse on the prairie?”

Tom saw the corner of his dad’s mouth twitch.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” his dad said. “You just reminded me of your grandpa for a second. I never noticed it before.”

Tom had no idea what to make of that comment. He didn’t work on it very hard.

“Little fatherly advice?”

“Sure.”

“People out here have a pretty keen sense for when they’re being looked down on.”

“What does that mean?”

“Just something to keep in mind. You carry yourself a certain way, you’ll be about as popular as the old man was around here. And he was from around here.”

“Thanks. I’ll die if I don’t get an invitation to the Cattlemen’s Ball.”

His dad chuckled, raised his index finger to another car. “Better to make friends than enemies, that’s all I’m saying. You never know what you might need out here. Or who you’ll need it from.”

“Interesting advice.”

“No charge.”

“As long as we’re on the subject, what was with you and that guy Wheeler back there?”

“Ah.”

“Just curious.”

“We go back a few years. That’s all.”

“He struck me as the kind of guy who has a position in life.”

“Ryland?” Another chuckle. “He probably doesn’t own more than fifty thousand acres anymore. And the car dealership in town. Don’t know if he’s still on the bank board.”

“And his nephew works for the sheriff.”

“Sheriff Hilliard’s not the type to let it bother him too much whose nephew Cory Severs is.”

Tom said, “He gets elected, doesn’t he?”

His dad didn’t argue the point. After another mile, he said, “Want to know what I think?”

“Sure.”

“I think I’m doing a better job giving up the cop business than you’re doing giving up the reporter business.”

Tom returned to the view out the passenger window. “I doubt that very much.”

They turned off the highway and took the county road back to the Landing. When they reached the parking lot, Tom noticed that the silver bus was nowhere in sight. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was after four in the afternoon.

As he walked with his dad up the path to the shop, Tom saw somebody waiting at one of the tables on the deck. He saw a duffel bag and a couple of hard-shell equipment cases.

“Shit.”

“What’s the matter?”

The guy on the deck looked up from the magazine he was reading. “Afternoon.”

Tom climbed the steps. “Larry. Jesus. You haven’t been waiting around here all day.”

“Only the last couple hours. Couple hours this morning.”

Tom sighed. Larry Salinger had a day’s worth of stubble and a few days’ of worth of tan. Tom could see a pale outline around the eyes where Salinger had been wearing his sunglasses out on the water. Today he wore clean khaki pants and a photographer’s vest that had more pockets than all of Tom’s clothes combined.

Besides the newlyweds and the Lauterbach party, he was the only customer this week. Salinger had been the only one using the campground, and Tom had forgotten all about him. He could see the note he’d left for Duane this morning still tacked to the frame of the screen door.

“I came down around nine,” Salinger said. “There wasn’t anybody here.”

“Yeah, Larry, we had a little drama,” Tom said. “Didn’t Duane come back?”

“Who?”

“The guy with the bus?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Sorry.” Tom nodded toward Salinger’s bags. “I’d offer to make it up to you, but it looks a little late for that.”

Salinger said, “What kind of drama?”

“I’d better get our stuff together,” Jack Coleman said. “Your mom’ll want to get going.”

While his dad went on inside, Tom hung back with Salinger. The two of them had chatted once or twice, and Tom liked the guy well enough. They had a profession in common, sort of: Salinger was a freelance nature writer on assignment for one of the national outdoor magazines. He was here from Boulder working on a piece for some kind of series on the U.S. Wild and Scenic River System. Tom didn’t mind giving a quick rundown of the incident at the fishing cabin. It took about ten seconds.

“Sounds like I missed some excitement,” Salinger said. “Hope nobody was hurt.”

“There’s another place about six miles up,” Tom told him. “I can call them for you if you want. Help you load up your stuff. Again. Sorry.”

Salinger smiled. “Hadn’t actually broken camp yet. Just packed up the cameras.”

“If you want to stay, I’ll comp you the week.”

Jack Coleman, already on his way back out the door with a suitcase in each hand, grinned at Tom and said, “Might be easier if you quit charging people. That way you wouldn’t have to keep giving them their money back.”

Duane Foster returned with one canoe and three frazzled grandmothers around dusk.

“Piece of shit bus,” he said.

Tom didn’t even ask.

His folks hit the road back to Lincoln just before suppertime. He’d been out on the deck ever since, sipping his own supper from one of the chipped white coffee mugs he’d inherited. At some point, Larry Salinger wandered back from the campground and joined him.

They put the bottle on the weathered table between them and watched the river, listening to the water foam as it hit the ford. For a while they chatted about nothing in particular, then about nothing at all. It was the first time Tom had felt at ease all day.

He felt a little guilty, looking at the Lauterbach party.

“I don’t suppose you could suggest a place nearby,” the talker among them said, “where three girls could go remind each other how old they are? And maybe sleep in a bed?”

Tom thought her name was Maggie, but he couldn’t remember. He remembered the floppy hat. Since yesterday, she’d acquired a number of knobby bug bites, a bright band of sunburn across her knees, and some sort of nasty-looking rash just beginning to creep up her wrist. All three women looked like they’d been flogged with tree branches. He was starting to have trouble imagining why anybody would pay for this.

“Actually, I just stayed at a great little B and B not too far from here,” Larry Salinger said. “Very comfy. You can see for miles. And the owner’s about as nice as they come.”

The woman glanced at her travel mates and said, “Where?”

Salinger pulled out his wallet and rummaged around. “South of Valentine. Twenty miles?” He produced a business card and handed it to Tom.

Tom looked the card over before passing it along. He saw a zero bisected by a diagonal line. The text above the logo read: Circle Slash Ranch. Below, an address and phone numbers, a Web site, an e-mail address. He stopped when he saw the proprietor’s name and thought: You can’t be serious.

“Say.” Salinger nodded toward Maggie’s arm. “I’ve got some stuff for poison ivy in my tent. Be happy to get it for you.”

She gave him the most grateful smile Tom had seen in a long time. “You boys look comfortable. I wouldn’t want to bother you.”

“No bother at all.”

“You sweet person. I’m ready to climb out of my skin.”

“Don’t scratch,” Salinger said. “I’ll be back.”

As Larry descended the steps and set off on a somewhat veering line down the cedar chip path, Tom excused himself, leaving Duane on the deck with the Lauterbach party. He took the business card with him inside.

FIVE

Standing behind the counter in the gathering dark, Tom held the phone against his ear and learned something new about his sad little mind.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Go ahead and send them down.”

“Ab, let me put them up in a motel or something. It’s late. You don’t need it.”

“What? Paying customers?”

“The hassle.”

“Send them on. I need to be doing something with myself anyway.”

Tom didn’t know what else to say.

“Tom?”

“I’m still here.”

“Stop thinking about it so hard.”

He wondered what she thought he was thinking. Abby sighed into the phone.

“You’re thinking how did we end up forty miles from each other after all this time, out here in the middle of nowhere, what does it all mean, blah.”

She was rusty. He’d already asked himself those questions. The truth was that he’d finally begun to consider the pathetic likelihood that he’d been kidding himself all along.

Don’t play dense. Jesus. Even his mother had been able to see it.

“Something like that,” he said.

“God, Tom. Three old ladies I can handle. You with the heavy silence is too much right now. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll have a place ready for them when they get here.”

After a pause, she hung up the phone.

He listened to the dial tone for a minute and did the same.

SIX

At some point before he shut down completely, Tom added it up.

If you counted fifth grade, and tossed out a breakup the summer before college, this year was a watershed of sorts. Impossible as it seemed, as of right now, he and Abby had still been together longer than they’d been apart.

He woke up thinking about her in the morning. It was the first time he’d woken up thinking about anything in as long as he could remember, and Tom couldn’t decide if it felt good or bad. It made him restless.

By the time he cracked the seal of the day’s first bottle, he understood what he needed to do.

Nothing.

Because it wasn’t even remotely his business. The accident. Abby’s stepson. Abby. None of it had a goddamned thing to do with him, nor the other way around. For the first time in six pointless weeks on this river, Tom allowed himself to admit the truth:

Coming here had been a mistake. He should have stayed in Chicago, signed his grandfather’s papers by mail, hired a broker, and sold the place to the highest bidder. To the first bidder. He should have given it away.

He should have moved forward, or at least stayed put. He’d taken a step back instead.

Midmorning, he left the pickup for Duane at the Landing and took his own car to Valentine anyway. Tom figured he had almost thirty miles to decide what the hell he thought he was trying to accomplish.

He wasted all of them.

There was a sheet of paper taped to the end of the wall in a stairwell of the county courthouse. Printed on the page, in bold font, were the words SHERIFF’S OFFICE. You followed the hand-drawn arrow around the corner, down a steep narrow string of steps, and into a wood-paneled cave with low ceilings and tight corners.

It used to be a bomb shelter, Tom learned from the dispatcher. Her name was Sandy. She sat low behind a tall counter, wearing a white sweatshirt with cats and yarn on it, fielding traffic off the stairwell from an overcrowded bunker lined with cluttered bulletin boards.

“Six feet of concrete all around,” she told him.

“Wow.” Tom saw pictures of what he assumed to be grandkids taped along the edge of Sandy’s counter, her computer monitor, the dispatch radio, even the 911 switchboard.

A new voice behind him said, “Makes you feel safe, don’t it?”

He turned to the voice, smiled, and said, “Actually, I was thinking it was funny I’ve lived this long without realizing I was claustrophobic.”

Sheriff Roy Hilliard smiled back and shook Tom’s hand. “It’s a little cozy, but we make do.”

“Nice to meet you,” Tom said. “I’m Tom Coleman.”

“Hell, I know who you are. Come on back and tell me what I can do for Jack Coleman’s boy.”

Hilliard had an easy stride and a casual manner that suggested a man who didn’t let the hustle and bustle of life in Cherry County get him down. He pointed to some pipes running a few inches below the ceiling, told Tom to watch his head, and led the way back to his office as if they’d known each other years. Tom sat in a hard chair, facing the sheriff across a gray metal desk.

“It’s not really my business,” he told him. “I’m just an old friend of Scott Greer’s mother. Stepmother.”

“Abby,” Hilliard said. “Sure.”

“I didn’t bring it up with her.”

“Tell me again what you saw? In the grass, you said.”

“An empty box of decongestant.”

“Right.”

“It just reminded me of a couple things I covered back in Chicago,” Tom said. “I guess I thought I should speak up.”

“Sure.” Hilliard kept a fistful of pens in a white mug with a big red N on it. He fished a pen out of the mug and pulled over a scratch pad. “This cold medicine. What brand did you say?”

“I don’t . . . the brand isn’t really important.” Tom tried to give Hilliard the benefit of the doubt, but he was beginning to lose his optimism. Could you be a podunk sheriff in this day and age and not get the picture? Apparently so. “It’s the active ingredient. Different brands have it.”

“You mentioned that. Pseudo whatsit.”

“Pseudoephedrine.”

Hilliard smiled. “I’m no doctor.”

“Well, me either,” Tom said. “You get it over the counter. Everything else you need you can get at a hardware store. As long as you don’t blow yourself up or choke to death on fumes in the process, you’re pretty much in the methamphetamine business.”

“Sounds complicated,” Hilliard said.

“I’ve been to arraignments for guys who couldn’t bake cookies.”

“Now you’re talking.” Hilliard patted the side of his belly, which sounded solid as a sandbag. “I could go for a cookie. You want me to see if Sandy can scare us up something to go with this coffee?”

Tom sat in the chair, not sure what to say next. This had obviously been a waste of time.

Hilliard smiled at him.

“Just pulling your leg, bud. We’re familiar with the concept. I hear on the news it’s the hick heroin. Or the redneck crack, I forget.”

Tom saw a playful glint in Hilliard’s eyes that he hadn’t noticed before. He began to run the conversation back in his head, hearing how he sounded. Covered me a bust or two back in the big city, Sheriff.

He let out a breath and smiled back. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to condescend.”

“I’m sure that’s true.”

“I only know what I saw in Chicago,” Tom said. “Do you see much out here?”

When Hilliard leaned back, his chair groaned like an animal caught in a rusty hinge. He laced his fingers over his middle. Tom noticed a button missing from the sheriff’s shirt just below his wedding ring.

“Let me put it to you this way,” he said. “This county goes six thousand square miles, corner to corner. Population-wise, we’ve got about six thousand folks, about half of them here in town. That figures out to a taxpayer and thirty steers per section, give or take. I’ve got four sworn deputies on the payroll.”

“A lot of ground to cover.”

“There you go. So you understand, we don’t necessarily see everything even when we go around looking.”

“I understand.”

“But we see a little,” Hilliard said. “River brings in a little more during tourist season. If it makes you feel any better, all my guys logged narcotics retraining down in North Platte last year. Twenty hours apiece. County’s still paying for it, too.”

“Sheriff, I wasn’t implying that you didn’t know your job. I really wasn’t.”

“Sure you were. That’s all right, I don’t get offended too easy. Just didn’t want you starting off with the wrong impression.”

“Point taken,” Tom said.

“So now I’ve busted your balls a little, let’s talk about Scotty Greer.”

Tom no longer felt like talking about Scotty Greer. “Like I told you, Sheriff, it’s not really any of my business. Apologies. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Now, don’t take me the wrong way. You’re concerned, and that’s all right.”

“I don’t know if concerned is the word.”

“Bet you made a handy reporter, though.”

“Sorry?”

“Shame you didn’t go into law enforcement. Got your old man’s nose for it.”

Tom didn’t pretend to follow.

“I never said you were wrong, bud.” Hilliard shook his head. “Box of cold medicine, hell. Carl DeBoer over at the IGA told me those boys walked out with a sackful day before yesterday. Cleaned out the book matches, too. Figure that’s how they planned to get their phosphorus. This is off the record now.”

“There’s no record.”

“Just making sure we understand each other.” Hilliard looked over Tom’s shoulder and raised his voice toward the door. “You need something, Cory?”

From the narrow hallway behind him, Tom heard a voice say, “Nope.” He craned his neck and saw the deputy from the hospital lingering a few feet outside the sheriff’s door.

“Well, then, quit nosing around out there, goddammit. You got things to do, pick one and go do it.”

Hilliard turned back to Tom and said, “Sorry. What was I saying?”

“I think you were saying you had a meth lab blow up on the river yesterday.”

“Don’t remember saying that. We had an old propane stove blow up on the river yesterday.”

Tom said nothing. He’d stopped feeling sheepish. Maybe he’d sold Hilliard short coming in. But he’d come in with good intentions, and he’d already apologized. He was pretty sure he could find better things to do than sit here getting jerked around by Sheriff Good Ol’ Boy.

“I think I know what you’re thinking, bud, so let me set you straight,” Hilliard said. “The bad news is, we had some kids get stupid and get hurt. The good news, if you want to look at it like that, is they probably would have gotten hurt one of these times anyway. That junker stove they had out there was bad news waiting to happen. They were done before they got started.”

“If that’s what they told you, I guess there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Those boys didn’t tell me shit. State lab crew came and went already by the time you and your dad stopped by. First people we called, after medical.”

“I see.”

“What we had was a clean site. Three dumb kids who decided they were bored drinking beer and shooting up road signs every night, got themselves some crap off the Internet. And a fire that would have been a real whore if Trev and Scotty hadn’t pissed on it for half an hour.”

Tom held up his hands. “Good enough for me.”

“Well, not for me.” Hilliard sat up. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “We might do things a little different around here than what you’re used to in Chicago, but don’t get the idea we don’t take care of business. Trev and Morgan, Scotty, they’re good kids. Dumb and full of cum, but they’re good kids. I had a long talk with Abby Greer. Ry and Lois Wheeler, too, if that’s what you’re wondering. I know that’s the big thing Abby had on her mind when she called in here an hour ago.”

“I wasn’t aware she’d called,” Tom said. “I didn’t tell her I was coming to talk to you.”

“Well, long as you’re here, I’ll tell you what I told her,” Hilliard said. “Ryland draws a lot of water here, that’s no secret. Wheeler family always has. Personal level, he’s a friend of mine. No big secret there, either. We still go fly-fish the Snake every couple years, we get time.” He put the pen back in the mug. “Hell, him and your dad and me, we all go back to grade school. Doesn’t mean I give the Wheelers any more consideration than I give Abby Greer. Or their boys. Or you.”

“Loud and clear, Sheriff.”

“Ain’t meant to be loud,” Hilliard said. “But I hope it’s coming through clear. Those kids screwed up. Could have been worse, but the fact is they’ve been screwing up pretty regular here lately, all three of ’em. The way this ended up, I’m willing to keep things a little loose. Give these young guys a chance to get their heads on straight. They screw up like this again, though, I’ll hand their asses to ’em. You can believe that.”

Tom put his empty cup on the edge of the desk. He nodded and stood up. Hilliard followed with his eyes.

“There’s more coffee. Not trying to run you out.”

“I should get back to the shop. Thanks for your time, Sheriff.”

“Door’s always open.”

Tom paused at Sheriff Roy Hilliard’s always-open door. He said, “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Don’t see why I would.”

“Yesterday. When you talked to my dad. You told him all of this? Everything you just told me?”

Hilliard leaned back in his chair again. He seemed to consider it.

“Come to think of it, bud, I don’t believe your old man even asked.”

“I see.”

Hilliard smiled. “Anything else on your mind?”

Tom had plenty, but he elected not to share. “Have a nice day, Sheriff.”

“You drive safe, now,” Sheriff Hilliard said.

SEVEN

Three miles outside of town, Tom glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a car coming on like a rocket sled. He noticed the light bar on the roof about the time it started flashing.

As the grille of the Crown Vic grew larger in the mirror, he thought of Hilliard sitting behind his desk, all easygoing smiles. Just wanting to be sure they understood each other. Telling him to drive safe.

The prowler rode his bumper a quarter mile before tapping the siren one time. Yeah, you. Tom blew out a breath and eased off the gas. He pulled to the shoulder, parked the transmission, and ran the window down. He sat and drummed the wheel with his thumbs, watching the mirror. Waiting.

A deputy in Cherry County brown finally got out of the prowler. He checked the road both ways, then walked up on the car with the stocky, loose-hipped saunter Tom had seen on certain types of cops before. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised when Cory Severs appeared in the side view.

“Morning.”

“Morning,” Tom said.

“In a hurry today?”

Tom didn’t think he’d been in the neighborhood of any land speed records. “Not really,” he said. “I guess I didn’t realize I was over the limit.”

Deputy Severs planted his feet shoulder-width and hitched his thumbs in his belt. He didn’t wear his hat; ruddy scalp shone through his crew cut in the sunlight. He did wear a pair of expensive-looking Oakley sunglasses with sharp angles and fiery orange lenses. Tom thought of a kid dressed up like a cop but wanting to be a superhero.

“Let’s go ahead and have a look at your license and registration.”

Oh, let’s. Tom dug out his wallet and handed it over. He pulled down his visor and found the registration slip, held it out the window until his arm got tired. He finally looked and saw Deputy Severs standing there, thumbs back at his belt, still holding the wallet. Watching Tom.

Tom rested his arm on the door.

“So you’re it.”

“Sorry?”

“The great Jack Coleman’s kid.”

Jesus.

“You’re the great Ryland Wheeler’s nephew,” Tom said. “How fast was I going?”

The deputy checked the road behind him again. “Go ahead and step out of the car for me.”

“Is there a problem?”

“You tell me. Is there a problem, sir?”

Had the deputy waited for him at the edge of town, or had he followed all the way from the sheriff’s office? Tom exhaled slowly, yanked the brake, and got out of the car.

Severs watched him all the way. He took the registration slip out of Tom’s hand without looking at it. He checked the road one more time. Tom couldn’t help but notice the way he kept doing that. He was beginning to doubt that Sheriff Hilliard had anything to do with this stop.

The deputy finally smiled. “So I heard Scotty Greer lost a bet to my dumb-ass cousin Trevor yesterday. You hear about that?”

Tom leaned against the car and played along. “I hadn’t. What was the bet?”

“Guess they got to talkin’ trash. Couple weeks after you took over your grampa’s place.”

“I didn’t realize that was the kind of thing that made the news around here.”

“What’s that?”

“Me taking over my grandfather’s place.”

“How much news you think there is around here?”

“Point taken.”

“So I can finish telling my story?”

“Sorry,” Tom said. “By all means.”

“Well, the way I hear it started is, I guess Trev was giving Scotty a whole ration of shit about you. How he heard you used to put it to Scotty’s stepmom.”

“Pardon me?”

“You know, the way guys are, out working. Telling the kid he’d probably have a new daddy before too long, just being an asshole. Bet him a case of Bud you’d be throwing old Abby a bone before winter.”

Tom felt the back of his neck getting hot. He knew he was being baited. He didn’t know why it was working. He said nothing.

“’Course, you know Scotty wasn’t going to let that bet lay.” Severs adjusted his thumbs on either side of his belt buckle. “So now Trev’s little brother’s in the burn ward down in Lincoln. And your new stepkid owes him a case of beer. Ironic, ain’t it?”

Tom decided not to take the time to explain to Cory Severs the difference between irony, coincidence, and circumstances which had absolutely no relationship to one another.

He looked at the deputy, still standing there with his thumbs in his gun belt. Little prick was probably twelve when Tom graduated J-school. Seemed to be enjoying himself, dressing down the great Jack Coleman’s kid on the side of the road.

“Not that it’s anybody’s business,” Tom said, “but you can tell your cousin the bet’s still on.”

“That right?”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Don’t make any difference to me. I’m just telling it how I heard it.”

“Tell me something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like, does your boss know you’re out here harassing a resident of the next county over for no apparent reason?”

When the deputy settled in on him, Tom could see warped twins of himself in the kid’s glossy orange lenses. They stood that way for a minute.

“For one thing,” the deputy said slowly, “we ain’t in the next county over.”

Again, he had a point.

“Way back there.” Severs pointed past Tom’s shoulder, east down the highway—the direction Tom would still be headed if he weren’t standing here. “Way back there’s where you crossed the line.”

Tom said nothing. The deputy rested his wrist on the butt of his revolver.

“Far as my boss . . . sure. He heard I pulled over the great Jack Coleman’s kid, I guess he’d want to know I had a reason.” Severs raised his chin. “You think I need a reason?”

Now, Tom thought, would be about the time a sensible person would keep his mouth shut.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe you’d better figure out your story, kid. I’m not very good about taking hints sometimes. Ask the great Jack Coleman, he’ll tell you.”

Severs looked at him for a long time. Tom crossed his arms and let him look.

Eventually, the deputy took a step forward. He made a show of leaning in, sniffing the air in front of Tom’s face. “Been drinking this morning, sir?”

“I had coffee with your boss. You were there.”

The deputy stepped back, unholstered his baton, and raked a long straight mark in the sand alongside the road.

“Shouldn’t have any trouble walking this for me, then.” He pointed with the baton. “Heels and toes. When you get to the end, turn where you stop and come on back the same way. Balance with your arms if you need to. Don’t know why you’d need to, since you ain’t been drinking.”

Tom noticed the scuff marks up and down the business end of the deputy’s club. He didn’t doubt that he was meant to notice. The highway stretched to the horizon, bone white in the sun, empty in both directions as far as Tom could see.

“Didn’t figure you were over the limit, I guess.”

“Tell you what.” Tom nodded toward the deputy’s car. “You carry a PBT kit in the cruiser, right? I’ll breathe into that and you can tell me whether I’m over the limit or not.”

“Are you refusing to take a field sobriety test, sir?”

Nice try. “I’m volunteering, Officer.” Tom knew he’d blow dirty, but he had no intention of performing on the side of the road for Deputy Severs.

“Sir, keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Sorry?”

“Hands!”

“Jesus, my hands are right here.”

He held them out, open, realizing what a sucker he was about the time Severs stepped forward and brought the baton down. Tom heard a whistle, felt hardwood crack his knuckles. His fingers went numb. He saw Deputy Severs smile.

Then the ground came up and punched the air out of his lungs. First, Tom saw sky, then asphalt. He coughed on gravel and flour-fine sand.

Now his cheek burned against the weather-cracked surface of the road. He felt a knee in his back, a wrenching pain in his shoulder. Cuffs rattled. A snap and a ratchet later, cool metal bit his wrists to the bone.

Severs dragged him up by the elbows. “Not very smart, are you?”

Tom steadied his balance, hands behind his back. He could feel the gravel ground into the side of his face, and he still hadn’t gotten his wind. He felt like he’d been dumped and roped like a rodeo calf.

“I think I’m getting smarter by the minute.”

Ryland Wheeler’s nephew gave him a shove. “I got your PBT, smart guy. You can blow it in the car.”

EIGHT

The holding cell was a cream-colored hole in the bowels of the sheriff’s department. The door was heavy steel, perforated at eye level with a few round holes. There was a sink and a shower, two iron cots bolted to cinder-block walls, and a stainless-steel toilet. Stainless steel was a misnomer.

At least he had the place to himself.

Tom sat on one of the cots with his eyes closed, back against the wall, indulging acid flights of imagination while he waited for Deputy Severs to come back and let him try Duane at the Landing again. Most of the fantasies involved himself, Deputy Severs, and variations on a sequence of crippling martial arts maneuvers that he suddenly knew in his daydreams.

He’d smelled shit the minute Severs appeared in his rearview mirror. He tried to remember the Tom who would have smelled blood. The guy who would have been looking at a guy like Severs, a department like Hilliard’s, the way a starved dog looked at raw meat.

Sitting there, punked and aching, Tom accepted what he should have known before he’d gotten in the car this morning.

After an hour or so, he stopped noticing the smell of custodial deodorizing compound he imagined they used to sweep up boozy puke on Saturday nights. He remembered noticing that he’d stopped noticing.

“Rise and shine, partner.”

The voice came from a murky distance.

“Your ride’s here.”

Tom blinked up at the deputy standing over him. Not Cory Severs.

“Attaboy.”

This one had an average build, a sparse bristle of mustache, early salt and pepper around the temples. R. Pavel, according to the nameplate pinned opposite the badge.

Check that: Chief Deputy R. Pavel.

Tom’s spine creaked and resisted as he sat up. “My ride?”

“Sheriff hit the redial a couple times for you.” The deputy winked and tossed a heavy brown envelope in Tom’s lap. “You looked peaceful.”

Tom couldn’t be sure, but he thought that Pavel was the deputy he’d seen with Hilliard at the cabin site yesterday. Inside the envelope he found his watch and wallet, his car keys and flask.

“How long was I out?”

“Couple three hours.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Feeling better?”

“Than what?”

Deputy Pavel grinned. “Your car’s still on the highway. Figure you can probably drive it the rest of the way home by now.” He nodded toward the flask. “Might want to hold off on that ’till you get there.”

“Thanks.”

The deputy handed him a folder.

“What’s this?”

“Boss says you can go ahead and take that with you. Said to tell you the first one’s free.”

Tom opened the folder. Inside, he found his booking sheet with the official Breathalyzer printout stapled to the back.

“Also said to let you know the limit’s point-oh-eight in Nebraska now,” Pavel said. “In case you weren’t aware.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Tom debated with himself for a moment before he asked, “Is the sheriff around?”

“Just heard him go ten eight over the radio. Means in-service.”

Tom knew what ten eight meant.

“Sounded like he should be back in a bit, if you wanted to wait for him. I wouldn’t.”

“No?”

“No. But that’s me. You can do what you want.”

“What about Deputy Severs?”

“What about him?”

Tom thought about it. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry about that little pissant. How’s your hand?”

Tom looked at the oblong bruise beginning to darken across the thin bones above his knuckles. He turned his hand over and looked at the traces of black ink still caught in the grooves of his fingerprints. He flexed his fingers. They seemed to work.

“Just between you, me, and the drain hole, did you really make a grab for him?”

Tom looked up. “A grab?”

“A grab.”

“Not that I remember.”

“I sorta had my doubts.”

“But then, I’d been drinking.” Tom suddenly had a bad taste in his mouth. “Is that it?”

“Is that what?”

“How things go around here?”

Chief Deputy Pavel seemed to take the question in stride. He stood with a thoughtful look, as though considering how best to respond.

“Sheriff’s got a saying,” he finally said. “Always says if it wasn’t for dumb-ass rookies, nothing’d ever get done around here.”

“I think I’ve heard that one.”

“Then again, he’s also got a needlepoint on the wall of his office says, ‘Age and treachery beat youth and skill every time.’ ”

Tom said, “A needlepoint, huh?”

“Used to be a Xerox. My wife made a needlepoint out of it for Christmas one year. Don’t know if he really liked it as much as he said, but he hung it on the wall.”

“No offense, but I don’t know what that means.”

“Put it to you this way,” Pavel said, “Somebody happened to come on shift this morning with his ass out of joint, Sheriff’ll be more than happy to kick it back in for him. Far as that goes, I don’t mind helping out.”

Tom sat on the cracked vinyl cot roll and thought it over. There didn’t seem to be much to think about. What did he want?

“Come on,” Pavel said. He tipped his head toward the open cell door. “Smells like barf in here.”

Out front, Duane Foster leaned on the counter, chatting with Sandy the dispatcher. When Tom emerged, Foster straightened and smiled. “Hey, boss.”

Tom nodded to Deputy Pavel. The R stood for Ron, he’d learned. “Thanks.”

“Didn’t do anything.” Ron Pavel stuck out a hand. “You take care.”

Tom shook. Sandy shuffled some papers. That was pretty much that.

Outside, Duane got in behind the wheel. He’d come in the pickup. Tom got in the passenger side and shut the door.

“Dude. What happened?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

Duane shrugged and dropped the truck into gear.

They rode in silence all the way back to Tom’s car. Duane waited on the shoulder until Tom turned over the ignition, then stuck a wave out the window and went on ahead. Tom checked his mirror, pulled back onto the highway, and followed.

They made it nearly all the way home without incident.

Things seemed to be looking up.

A hundred yards from the Landing, Tom rounded the dogleg and saw a rust-pocked tailgate coming toward him fast.

Duane. Hauling ass in reverse for some reason, back around the last bend and up the hill.

Tom stood on the brakes. Duane slammed his. They both skidded in sand, stopping in a cloud of scouring dust, bumpers just short of touching.

After some finagling, Duane turned the truck around and pulled alongside the car.

“Jesus,” Tom said.

“Sorry, boss.”

“What the hell?”

Duane leaned out his window. “Can you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Jeep down there in the lot belongs to a buddy of mine. Harlan. Big Indian?”

Tom’s heart still thudded in his chest. “What’s the problem?”

“No problem. Just tell him you gave me the day off or something. Haven’t seen me.”

By Tom’s count, Foster had checked the rearview mirror three times since pulling up. Now four.

Jesus, but this day got better and better. What was next? Tom felt tired in his bones.

“A buddy of yours?”

“Huh?”

He raised his voice over the idling engines. “You usually avoid your friends?”

“Only when I owe ’em money.” Duane grinned. “Cover for me? Just this once, I swear.”

Tom sighed and ran the window back up. Through the narrowing gap, he heard Foster say, “Owe you one, man.”

He guessed that put him next in line behind the guy he found leaning against the rear fender of a dusty Jeep Renegade in the lot. Tall. Long black ponytail. Lean muscular arms exposed by a western shirt with no sleeves. Tom pulled in and parked, walked toward the Jeep.

“You’re Harlan?”

The guy crossed his arms and nodded toward the tree line. “What’s with Duane?”

So he’d seen the truck. Tom assumed he had Duane’s permission to edit the Day Off story.

But he wasn’t in the mood. He’d had enough of other people’s problems for today. He’d had enough today for today. He only wanted to get back upstairs, pour a tall glass, and pretend he’d never left in the first place.

“I don’t think he has your money.”

“Huh?”

“He gets paid on Friday. I’d talk to him then.”

Tom walked on without stopping, past the Jeep, toward the path back to the shop. He could feel Duane’s buddy Harlan watching him.

If the guy had come here to collect a debt, he didn’t appear to know it. Or maybe Tom’s knack for hearing what people didn’t say had already begun to rust out here in the river air.

Halfway up the hill, he heard a crack and a bright shattering sound. When he turned, he saw Harlan with a tire iron in his fist, walking away from Duane’s Subaru. The rear window of Duane’s camper shell lay in glittering nuggets amidst the parking lot rock.

Harlan nodded in Tom’s direction and tossed the iron into the back of the Jeep with a ringing clang.

“Left him a note,” he called.

Jesus.

Tom called back, “He’ll know who it’s from?”

Without answering, Duane’s buddy Harlan hoisted himself up by the roll bars and dropped himself in behind the wheel.

The engine gurgled and spat, then cleared its throat. Tom watched the Jeep bounce out of the lot, up the track, and around the tree line, Harlan’s ponytail flowing in the breeze.

Even after an afternoon in a jail cell, it felt strangely emasculating, standing there doing nothing. For that moment, Tom felt what he hadn’t felt in the jail cell earlier. Just a taste. One brief flicker of the old urge to find the story.

The feeling passed.

NINE

He remembered the curtains, for some reason.

The flower pattern had faded to a ghost of itself. They’d been washed so many times over the years that you could see through the thin cotton like gauze. But they were the same curtains; Tom remembered them hanging in his grandmother’s house on the old ranch. He watched them lift away from the open windows on the fragrant night breeze, ripples of white in the dark.

The worn springs of his grandfather’s couch sank almost to the pine floor beneath his weight. Tom stayed in his spot as if he’d grown from it. He poured another and watched the curtains, listening to the distant whisper of the river washing over the ford.

The first time he dialed, Melissa let the answering machine pick up. He didn’t leave a message. The second time, she answered. Tom almost hung up. He convinced himself that he wasn’t that pathetic.

“Hey.”

He listened to the sound of her breathing.

“It’s me.”

“It’s late,” Melissa said.

“It’s early somewhere.”

Tom heard a yawn. He heard sheets rustle. He heard something clatter in the background.

“Four-oh-two?” The area code. He pictured her looking at it on her caller ID. “Where are you?”

“Still in Nebraska.”

She made a sound he couldn’t interpret.

“Since March. I called a few weeks ago.”

“Jesus,” she said. “I thought you were kidding.”

He heard a male voice. It sounded sleepy. Melissa must have taken the phone away from her ear; he could hear her speaking, but he couldn’t hear what she said. He wondered who the other voice belonged to. Maybe that guy from her office party a couple of years ago. Maybe she’d met somebody new.

When she came back on, he said, “Sorry, Miss. I didn’t mean to wake everybody up.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Call you what?”

“Miss. I never liked it.”

You learned something new every day. Tom held the phone against his ear with his shoulder, refilled the mug, tucked the bottle back down between the cushions of the couch.

“You’re drinking.”

“Hard day at the office.”

Silence.

“You still there?”

“What do you want, Tom?”

“Gee, it’s nice to hear your voice, too. I just wondered how you were doing.”

“I’m doing fine.”

He waited for her to ask the same in return, but she didn’t. He said, “I’m glad.”

Melissa held her end for a long time. She finally said, “Tom, I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“I’m tired.”

He got the impression that she wasn’t talking about the hour, but he could have been reading too much into it. With Melissa, it was hard to know. He sipped from the mug and said, “Me, too.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. Try sleeping it off.”

“Jesus.”

She sighed, a long cool surrender in his ear. “I don’t want to fight.”

The silence on the line became a standoff. Tom tried to remember what he’d been thinking when he’d called. He tipped the mug back until he saw the bottom and said, “Fine. Tell me one thing before I let you go.”

“Don’t.”

“When did you start blaming me?”

“Stop it,” she said.

“I want to know. I mean, we didn’t make it. Okay. You hate my guts, okay. But Jesus, Miss, I never blamed you for anything. When did you start blaming me?”

If he hadn’t been able to hear her breathing, he wouldn’t have known she was still there. She held the line so long that he didn’t think she was going to speak again.

“I don’t blame you,” she said. “I don’t hate you. Believe whatever you need to believe. But I don’t.”

“Then what?”

“We had one beautiful thing between us.”

She didn’t say only, but it was there. Only one thing.

Maybe it was the truth. He didn’t know why they should start telling each other the truth now, after all this time.

“Whatever you’re looking for back there,” she said, “I hope you find it. I do.”

“I’m not looking for anything.”

“Well, I am. Please don’t call anymore.”

He heard the click, then the dial tone.

Tom sat with the phone in the dark and watched the curtains swirl around the windows. The receiver produced a seashell effect; he could hear his pulse in the earpiece. Before long, he couldn’t tell the difference between the dial tone, the sound of the river outside, and the echo of his own blood in his ear.

TEN

I saw your eyes open.”

He blinked, tried to focus. The room came together slowly, a layer at a time.

Abby looked down at him, head tilted. She smiled. “It’s alive.”

Tom held tight, not sure that he was awake. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth; somebody had driven nails into his head.

“Everything okay down there?”

He sat up slowly. “What time is it?”

“I ate lunch an hour ago, but that’s me.”

She wore her hair pulled back today. Plain white T-shirt, faded blue jeans, sport hikers. He could see sand burrs caught in the laces of the hiking shoes.

“Duane let me up,” she said.

“Did he?”

“He seemed a little aggravated. Says he hasn’t seen you in two days.”

Tom rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “If Duane’s so aggravated, he can go back to Omaha and pay rent like everybody else.”

“My. Still not a morning person.”

An empty bottle rolled off the cushion by his hip, hit the pine floor with a thud, and clanked against another empty near his feet.

“Keep this up, that’s what your liver’s going to sound like when it falls out.”

“Ab?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you, but you wouldn’t answer your phone.” She extended a glass of water. “I heard you had a little trouble in town the other day.”

“A little trouble in town?” Tom reached and took the glass. “You sound like a John Ford movie.”

“I heard you got thrown in the drunk tank.”

“The law’s agin’ me.”

“Drink your water.”

As the first sip cooled his scum-coated mouth, Tom realized he was badly dehydrated. He drank the whole glass down.

Mistake. He hadn’t eaten in a day or more, and the water hit his empty stomach like a liquid fist. His head began to buzz and spin.

“Uh-oh.”

“I’m okay.”

“Are you going to throw up?”

He sat with his hands flat on the cushions. When the worst of it passed, he shook his head.

“Let me know if I need to move out of the way.” Abby pulled the chair from over by the woodstove and sat down on it. They sat there and looked at each other.

Boring. He said, “How’s Scott?”

“Mad at the world. And exploring better living through chemistry now, as I understand it.” She moved a strand of hair away from one eye. “I heard you had a talk with Sheriff Hilliard.”

He stood and shambled toward the kitchen. “You want some coffee?”

“You should eat something.”

“Yes, Mother. Coffee or not?”

“Coffee.”

She got up and followed him. The kitchen was exactly large enough to accommodate a cast-iron sink with holes in the enamel, a short stretch of scarred butcher-block counter, an old HotPoint refrigerator with a frost-caked freezer compartment, and an even older gas range. There was enough space left for two rail-back chairs and a narrow, rickety wooden table, all shoved up against one cracked plaster wall. While Tom rummaged around in the cupboards, Abby took one of the chairs.

“Listen,” she said. “I was wondering if you’d be willing to do something for me.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t want to know what it is before you agree?”

“What is it?”

“I’m not really sure how to ask.”

“Just ask, Ab.” He dumped a pile of coffee into the filter basket, filled the machine with tap water that smelled like eggs.

“Duane actually suggested it the other night. Sort of. When he brought those ladies out to the ranch. If you hate it, blame him.”

He looked out the window and saw Duane down below, hands on his hips, looking at the riding mower. The mower was up on cinder blocks.

“I was wondering if you’d think about taking Scott back on for the summer,” she said. “I know it’d be a little . . . weird.”

She’d pulled up one knee to her chest, the knobby tread of one heel resting on the edge of the seat. She fiddled with her shoelace. He saw her wince, stick her index finger in her mouth. Sand burr.

“Yeah,” he said.

“You will?”

“I meant yeah, that would be a little weird.”

She sighed. “I know. Believe me, I wouldn’t ask if I had any other ideas.”

Tom didn’t know what to tell her. They waited for the coffee to brew.

Abby said, “So is that a no?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I see the look on your face.”

“It’s not . . . I didn’t even know he’d worked for the old man before the other day.”

“You didn’t?”

“Not really.”

She seemed genuinely surprised. “Weekends, mostly. He sold candy and firewood on Saturdays, helped wash the equipment, cut grass, that kind of thing.”

She wanted to know if there was enough room at the bunkhouse that he could bring Scott on full time. It seemed she’d given it some thought.

“Just for the summer,” she said. “Until school starts again.”

“Look, I’ll be honest,” he told her. “Duane pretty much runs the place. He was here when I got here, and I guess he didn’t have anything better to do. And he’s gotten used to living free seven months out of the year.”

“All the more reason for help, right?”

“We’re not exactly fending off customers.”

“It’s early,” she said. “You’ll see things pick up by the Fourth of July.”

“That’s what Duane says.”

“Like I said, he brought it up. We were chatting, and he sort of mentioned he was worried about handling the busy season with . . .” She paused. “With just the two of you.”

Tom wondered how Duane had actually phrased it.

“He says Scott’s a good worker. And Scott always liked it here. I told Duane I’d talk to you about it.”

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t want to have him.” He was thinking it, but he wasn’t saying it. He still hadn’t quite absorbed the fact that he was talking kids with Abby in his dead grandfather’s kitchen. “I just don’t see how we could pay him a decent wage.”

“Not an issue,” she said. “I have money to give you, enough for you to pay him what he’s been earning. At least until the end of the summer.”

“You want to give me money.”

“I wouldn’t want him to know about it,” she said. “But yeah. I’ve got some left in the bank from Dan. It’s going to Scott eventually anyway, I figure I might as well give him part of it now. He needs to feel like he’s earning. Call it an investment.”

Tom poured two mugs and put the less chipped of the two in front of her. He leaned back against the sink. His head was starting to pound. Caffeine wasn’t the eye-opener he needed.

He thought he could live with it for now. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”

Abby sat up and slid her mug across the rough surface of the table. She blew the steam into swirls.

“I don’t want Scott and Trev Wheeler spending all day every day together for the rest of the summer. That’s pretty much it. I’ve already discussed it with Lois, and she agrees with me.”

“You’re going to have to back up,” Tom said.

“Sorry. Scott’s been working at the Double Deuce since he turned fourteen.”

“Strip club?”

She smirked. “Double Deuce Cattle Company. Ry Wheeler’s place.”

“Ah.”

“After Dan died, Ryland bought some of our land: I kept some pasture to rent out. Ry raises a few calves for us every year. That, plus the pasture contracts, plus the little bit we do with the B and B in the summer and during hunting season, all of that together keeps enough coming in. So whatever Scott earns working for Ry or your grandfather, he gets to keep.”

“Okay.”

“He’s got big plans,” she said. “He thinks I don’t know anything. But one of the guys from the Deuce was telling me how all Scott talks about lately is how he’s saving this much money, how he’ll have this much saved when he turns sixteen, how he’s going to drop out of school and go to California.”

“What’s he going to do in California?”

“He’s fifteen years old, Tom. He’s never been anywhere. You tell me what he thinks he’s going to do in California.” She shook her head. “He’s just sad and pumped full of hormones and convinced that everything good must be somewhere else.”

Tom checked the window. Duane had disappeared. The mower still sat there, abandoned.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think this is about the last place Scott would want to work.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Seems like we’re not exactly a secret around here. You and me.”

She nodded. “And?”

“I guess it’s big talk over at the . . . Double what?”

“Deuce. Big talk about what?”

“About how soon I’ll be moving in at your place.” It might have been funny if his head didn’t feel as though it were about to split open. The throb was beginning to make him queasy again.

“Jesus,” she said. “You’re kidding me.”

“I hear there’s a running bet.”

“That goddamn Trevor.” She shook her head. “The shit. Sometimes I’d like to wring his bull neck.”

“Anyway. Even if I could hire him, I doubt Scott would be too thrilled about the idea of working here now.”

Abby stared at her coffee for a while. She finally said, “He’ll cop an attitude, but he does like it here. And you could be good for him.”

“Please.”

“I mean it.”

“Ab, if you’re looking for a role model . . . come on.”

“I’m just saying that you lived in a big city. You’ve seen all kinds of things he wants to see.”

“Right. And here I am.”

“Well.”

He nodded and looked out the window at the stranded lawn mower. He thought he understood Abby’s chain of logic.

“So you’re thinking it could be instructive for him. Reality check? Something like that?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Okay.”

After a long stretch of silence, she said, “I know it’s shocking, but believe it or not, this isn’t about you.” There was an edge to her voice now. “I’m not asking you to be an example. Or a father figure, if that’s what you’re thinking. Goddammit.”

“Ab.”

“Forget it.”

Tom stood there a minute. He finally went over to the table and took the other chair.

“Sorry.”

“It’s not you. I said forget it. I shouldn’t have come out here and bothered you. It was thoughtless.”

Tom slipped his hands around the mug, vision warping with the clockwork thud in his head.

“I guess I thought . . .” She sighed. “I don’t know what I thought.”

He almost wondered if he was still passed out on the couch, dreaming.

He must have been. He heard himself start speaking, but it didn’t sound like anything he would actually say.

PART
2

STORM

ELEVEN

One of the first stories he’d filed the year he’d gotten the bump from night cops involved a hit-and-run in a residential neighborhood.

A seven-year-old girl had been doodling away a bright summer morning with purple chalk on the sidewalk in front of her house. Early June.

They’d found her body inside out, three houses down. The driver who jumped the curb was two days out of jail on his eighth DUI, hadn’t held a valid license since 1989. Him they’d found later, at a bar in Schaumberg. He thought he’d hit a dog.

Last spring, Tom ran into the girl’s mother at the grief counseling group he’d agreed to attend to show Melissa how serious about healing he’d been. He didn’t remember the woman’s name, but he remembered her face very well.

The group met once a week at a failed Episcopal church downtown; the building had been purchased by a not-for-profit and converted into a meeting facility. People signed up to bring cookies and crumb cakes to go with the coffee and juice. The organization had won an award, picked up some local press, and the ranks had swelled.

It worked like this:

After a general assembly and testimonials, the moderator divided the attendance neatly into smaller groups: violent deaths in one room, SIDS in another, suicides in the basement, illnesses in the main hall. Each group had a therapist equipped with board certification in the appropriate specialty.

After group, everybody reconvened. My kid was raped and murdered, yours got sick, but hey, it’s not a contest. Let’s have a cookie together.

Tom remembered feeling as though he needed to apologize for the fact that his daughter only died of leukemia. He’d lasted exactly one week. Even loaded, he’d barely lasted that long.

The little girl’s mother ran the main meeting. It had been six years since she’d lost her daughter; his hadn’t even been born the first time their paths had crossed. She didn’t recognize him, and he didn’t introduce himself.

Seeing her, Tom understood that he was weak. It came as a surprise.

Later, finishing the bottle while Melissa slept upstairs, he’d realized that his marriage was over. He remembered wishing that he felt one way or another about that.

The truth was easier: If it hadn’t been for a one-percent failure rate, Melissa’s Catholicism, and Joyce Coleman’s latent fingerprints on his own conscience, the two of them probably never would have lasted past the tearing-off-clothes-in-crazy-places phase.

The truth, probably, was that Tom hadn’t even begun to fall in love with her until Grace.

He could have told Abby that the day he’d learned his daughter’s own blood had turned against her, a bomb had gone off in his heart. The shreds rained down for the next nine months, and by the end he was too busy watching his little girl grow tubes to pay attention to where the pieces fell.

It had taken Tom a long time to get why Abby had pulled the plug on their relationship. Why she’d decided to stay in Nebraska to finish her teaching certificate instead of moving with him to Chicago when he got the job. By the time he got over being hurt, then past being angry, he realized that he’d been the one who left, not the other way around. Abby only let him go.

Tom told himself none of this had anything to do with giving her dead husband’s kid a summer job.

Scott Greer showed up sullen and stormy the week his bandages came off. He came to the Landing, that last day of May, with a scowl on his face and patchy sheets of tender pink skin from shoulder to wrist.

He’d had a rough couple of years and a low few weeks. On top of everything, he’d been submarined by adults; he had big plans and all summer to earn, and the best-paying job he could get now was working for the guy who’d been there before his dad.

He wasn’t a boy, wasn’t a man. Just broadening shoulders, bundles of ropy young muscle, and angry frustration with no valve.

On some level, Tom felt for the kid. He did.

For Abby’s sake, he honestly wished he liked the little prick.

“I predict a long summer.”

Tom sipped from his mug and listened to the water on the ford. “It’ll be fine.”

“Easy for you to say. You didn’t have to give up half your space.”

“Now you complain.”

Duane chuckled, looked around, took a furtive hit from the joint cupped in his palm. It was a habit Tom found amusing. Who did the guy think was going to catch him?

“Said we needed help.” Foster croaked the words, holding the smoke in his lungs. “Never said I wanted a roomie.”

They’d gotten into this routine: sitting out on the deck at the end of the day, watching the river, taking turns handling whatever customers wandered in from the campground needing supplies. Tom had gotten so he didn’t mind. Foster talked too much, but he wasn’t bad company.

Now it seemed absurd, sitting with Duane in the long amber light while the kid sulked in the bunkhouse. Ever since Monday morning, when Abby had dropped off Scott and a surplus Army duffel bag, Tom felt as though Coleman’s Landing had become a bad made-for-cable movie: Worlds collide when two liberal burnouts from the city adopt a troubled teenage cowhand.

“Try not to think of it as you having a roommate,” Tom said. “Try to think of it as me having extra workman’s comp liability.”

“In that case, you don’t even want to know where I found him yesterday.”

“Where did you find him yesterday?”

“On the roof. Not sure how he got up there without a ladder, but he got up there.”

“What was he doing on the roof?”

“Fixing the OnSat. Took him like ten minutes.”

Duane’s approach, from what Tom had seen, involved throwing rocks at the dish when the reception went out.

“Gotta give it to him, though,” Foster said. “Kid does work. Laid in like two cords of firewood on the north camp today.”

“He’ll blow your curve.”

Foster chuckled again, dipped his head. He hit the jay and leaned back, closing his eyes.

“Do me a favor. Kill that.”

Duane opened his eyes, coughed smoke. He looked at Tom.

Tom nodded toward the bunkhouse; Scott headed toward them, up the slope. He’d traded his work clothes for jeans and a T-shirt, a Husker Blackshirts ball cap in place of the battered straw Stetson he wore in the sun during the day.

Duane shrugged, licked his fingers. He pinched the cherry off the end of the joint and dropped the roach in his shirt pocket. He looked at the Gilbey’s on Tom’s side of the table. “How come you don’t have to hide yours?”

“I own the place.”

Scott disappeared from view for a moment. They listened as he climbed the steps up to the deck, appearing again up top.

“Hey, dude,” Foster said. “What’s shaking?”

Scott slouched over and leaned against the railing. He was a tall kid when he straightened, already clearing Tom by a couple inches, Duane by half a foot. His stubble was just beginning to come in. Tom winced when he looked at the kid’s right arm.

“Jesus.”

Scott looked away. “It’s fine.”

From a short distance, his arm looked like raw meat next to soft leather. The newly healed skin, now sunburned, raged against the rest of his tan, scorched so red it looked purple in places. Tom saw clusters of seeping yellow blisters.

Foster whistled. “Damn, dude, I told you to smear on some Aloe Gator.” He looked at Scott’s arm, looked at Tom. “I gave him a tube from the shop.”

Tom leaned forward, put out his palm, felt the heat radiating off the sunburn. Scott flinched, then pretended he hadn’t. Tom leaned back. “Looks like it hurts.”

“Not really.”

“Look, you should at least wear sleeves. You’re getting fried out there.”

“I know how to work outside.”

Tom let it go. Scott mumbled something, but Tom couldn’t make out what he said.

“Borrow the truck?” Scott repeated.

“What for?”

“Meet some guys in town. Shoot some pool.”

Tom hadn’t asked because it mattered. He was just curious. “Sorry. Probably not a good idea.”

Scott looked him in the face for the first time today. “It’s Friday night. Why not?”

“You don’t have a driver’s license, for one thing.”

“Been driving since I was eight,” Scott said. “Think I got the hang of it.”

“I’m not saying you don’t know how to drive. I’m saying you’re not legal.”

Scott took his weight off the railing. “What’s your problem? I worked my ass off all week.”

“You got paid, didn’t you?”

Scott put his hands on his hips, shook his head. He looked off to the trees.

“I know you’re doing a good job,” Tom told him. “It isn’t about that. You’re not covered on the insurance. Besides, your mom’d kill me.”

“Abby’s not my mom.”

Tom didn’t want to get into all that. He sipped from his mug.

Scott looked at Duane. “Borrow your car?”

“Um . . . I was actually gonna head up and hit the tables.” He went most weekends, taking his paycheck to the South Dakota line, a few miles north of Valentine, to the casino on the edge of the Rosebud Indian Reservation. He offered Scott a shrug. “You can come if you want. Be kinda boring. Since you can’t play, I mean.”

Scott eyeballed Tom again. He dug a cell phone out of the front pocket of his jeans, made a show of flipping it open, dialing a number. He waited, then spoke.

“Trev. Yeah. Hell no, asshole won’t give me the keys.” Pause. “Cool. Hurry up.”

He folded the phone and jammed it back into his pocket. He gave Tom a defiant look.

Tom shrugged. “Have fun.”

“Plan on it. You can’t stop me.”

“Kid, I’m not your babysitter.”

“Bet you’ll call Abby and tell her the minute I’m gone.”

“If she calls and asks for you, I’ll tell her you’re not here. Otherwise I’m not planning to file reports.”

Scott smirked at that.

“Just be here in the morning if you want to get paid. Duane’s starting the runs at seven.”

Foster watched the exchange like he wished he were someplace else. Scott made a noise and slouched back toward the steps.

Just before he reached them, Tom said, “By the way, that’s not an employee fridge behind the counter. Just so you know.”

Scott stopped. “What fridge?”

“The one you’ve been scoring beers out of all week.”

“Bullshit.” He said something else under his breath. It sounded like: Probably drank ’em yourself. Tom didn’t respond. He’d said what he wanted to say.

Scott disappeared down the stairs. He emerged again from under the deck, heading back down the slope to the bunkhouse. They watched him go.

When he was gone, Duane chuckled to himself. Tom said nothing.

“Scary,” Foster said.

“What’s scary?”

“How much like your gramps you are sometimes. I got a little chill just now.”

Tom bought himself another drink. “I wish I could tell you how fucking tired I am of hearing you say that all the time.”

Duane shook his head, fished the joint out of his pocket, sparked it up. He leaned back as he inhaled, closing his eyes.

“Long summer,” he said.

Scott got better about hiding his empties. Tom let the beers disappear for another week.

When cash started disappearing from the till, he came a short walk down the hill from sending the kid packing. He made himself wait a few days to make sure.

Each day, the money going into the register from the lockbox beneath the counter came up just short of the amount that had gone into the box the night before. At the end of the week, Tom figured the skim to be around three bucks a day in singles and change.

He spent some time thinking of the best way to tell Abby to come get the little white-collar redneck.

Then, one night, killing a bottle with Larry Salinger out on the deck, he got a better idea.

After Larry stumbled back to the campground in the dewy chill before dawn, Tom took the last of the bottle with him into the shop.

He got the lockbox from under the counter and laid out the money in the register drawer as usual. Then he used the cash Abby had given him for Scott’s wages to fill the box again.

He put the key back on the nail, returned the cash box to its place, and took the register drawer with him upstairs. He thought: Knock yourself out.

Abby called a couple days after that, just to check in. Tom told her they were getting along fine.

TWELVE

There had been a man named Sparks, according to the old guy who ran the store.

A hundred years ago, the railroad was supposed to come through this way. It didn’t. The first time Tom tried to find the place, he’d driven by the town three times before he realized he’d been driving by the town.

Sparks turned out to be a quarter mile of planted windbreak surrounding five homes, a one-room church with a weedy ball field, and a general store with a post office inside. The old guy’s name was Burt; arthritis had gnarled his hands a decade ago. The collie, who answered to Edgar, thumped what was left of his tail to incoming customers from a hair-matted pillow near the register. Edgar had lost a hind foot to a muskrat trap, an eye to barbed wire, and most of the tail to a blizzard.

Every couple days, Tom took the truck, had a cup of coffee with Burt, rang up a case of beer and whatever supplies Duane told him they needed at the Landing, scratched the crippled dog behind the ears, and picked up the mail.

The third week in June, he found an envelope from Tom Paradiso buried in with the rest. Inside the envelope was a check for a little over four thousand dollars and a note printed on Trib letterhead:

Tom #2,

Proceeds from the Everything Coleman Must Go Bonanza enclosed herewith. I kept the Bose cubes as a broker fee. Marla from Features is very happy with her new bedroom set (gave her a great break but have yet to be offered the tour).

E-mailed you a few weeks ago. Maybe they don’t have the Internet in Nebraska.

Hope all is well.

Do let a buddy know you haven’t offed yourself,

Tom #1

p.s.

still metrodesk, now clover

They sent out four tubes, six canoes, and one of the two-seater kayaks before lunch. After they’d put the last group of the morning on the river, Tom went upstairs and dug out the laptop.

He hadn’t even turned it on since he’d left Chicago. He set up now at the table in the kitchen, disconnecting the phone on the wall and running the line into the laptop’s modem. He configured for long distance and dialed up the server at the paper using the log-in “metrodesk,” password “clover.” The modem squawked for half a minute and put him through.

Nothing from Paradiso, but that made sense. Judging by the date of the last e-mail he’d received, his personal Hotmail account had overloaded back in May. Paradiso’s would have bounced.

Tom scrolled through the ones that hadn’t.

A handful of well-wishes from former colleagues. A tip from an old source who had the private address but not, apparently, the news that Tom had quit. A couple hundred Act Now offers for porn sites, home equity loans, and herbal X.

And one other. Top of the box, last one in under the wire. Tom gazed at the name in the “From” column for a long while.

He was just about to tap the message open when he heard the gunshots somewhere out in the trees.

In a clearing, a couple hundred yards behind the arrival center, he found Scott Greer with a handgun.

From a distance, all Tom could tell was that the gun was some kind of autoloader. Black matte. It didn’t look right in Scott’s hand.

Tom tried to make plenty of noise as he approached. Scott stood hunched, bracing the weapon against his thigh, trying to work the slide. Twenty feet away, against a cutout in a root-threaded bank, he’d set up a line of milk jugs and beer cans on a dead log. He pretended he didn’t notice Tom.

Which was ridiculous, considering how Tom was wheezing by the time he made the clearing. He’d had a long, gradual climb through pine needles and dry leaf litter, and there was no way around the fact that he was in the worst physical condition of his life.

The sun was high and hot, and the air was like breathing steam. As Tom stood there, sucking wind, he tried to evaluate the situation. There was probably an appropriate way to handle it. He slapped a mosquito.

“I think it’s jammed.”

Scott ignored him, kept wrangling the gun.

“Nice little range you’ve got set up here. Didn’t know you packed heat.”

Scott gave up for a minute. “Won it off a guy.”

“You won it off a guy?”

“Straight flush over a boat.” Scott straightened and looked at Tom, always with the same expression: What you gonna do about it?

“Congratulations,” Tom said. “Listen, I don’t want to rain on your parade, but I can’t say I’m all that crazy about the idea of bullets flying around out here.”

“Ain’t shooting at anybody.”

“That’s a comfort.”

Scott went back to fiddling with the gun. Tom finally walked over and held out his hand. Scott just looked at it.

“Let me see.”

“It’s mine.”

“Jesus, kid.”

Scott looked beyond him, into the trees. Tom waited. His shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat. He slapped another bug.

Finally—reluctantly—Scott raised his heavy hand. The gun’s muzzle pointed somewhere in the vicinity of Tom’s right lung.

Tom carefully curled his fingers over the top of the frame and took the gun. It was a Browning Mark III, .40-caliber with combat sights. He tried a little clearing trick a vice cop had showed him years ago.

Scott watched closely as the brass kicked out and tumbled to the grass between them. Tom stooped and picked up the cartridge, saw that the rim was bent. He put the damaged round in his pocket and handed the gun back to Scott. Grip first, chamber open.

Scott took the gun and looked at it.

“I was raised by a cop,” Tom said. “Don’t look so surprised.”

He didn’t mention that he used to teach refreshers in firearm terminology to colleagues at the paper. He didn’t go into his philosophy about responsible journalism on the topic of guns. He didn’t talk about his professional pet peeves about seeing the words “automatic weapon” applied to semiautos, the words “assault rifle” to anything with a shoulder strap.

He didn’t mention that for his first three months on night cops, he’d made a point of going to a range to see what it was like to actually fire the specific weapon a perp had used. He didn’t mention that he didn’t like guns even a little bit.

Scott didn’t seem to miss the information. He was too busy trying to act like he knew what he was doing.

When he found the thumb latch, the force of the slide dropping forward almost tipped the gun out of his hand. He glanced at Tom, transferred the piece from his left to his right, and addressed the line of targets on the log.

Tom watched as Scott stood with his feet too wide and raised the gun too high. He held it sideways, like he’d seen on TV, wrist peaked like a barn roof, muzzle angled down.

He jerked off seven rounds one after another and didn’t hit a goddamned thing. Chips of bark flew. Puffs of dirt leapt off the bank behind the log. Tom’s ears rang. That was about it.

He couldn’t resist. “At least the milk jugs aren’t shooting back.”

Scott looked like he wanted to throw the gun as far as he could. He looked at the beer in Tom’s hand and snorted. “Like to see you do better.”

Tom said nothing to that. Scott sat down on the ground and crossed his legs, pulled over a box of rounds. He looked the gun over and found the magazine release.

Tom drained the can and put it on a stump as Scott began prying cartridges out of the plastic sleeve, pressing them into the clip one by one. He was awkward at it and had to pick a round out of the grass for every round he fed into the magazine. Tom didn’t offer any advice.

“What’s a guy like you need a gun like that for, anyway?” He almost said kid your age, caught himself.

“Never know.” Scott slapped the clip back into the base of the grip.

Tom nodded, held out his hand. Chiggers chewed his ankles through his socks.

“Why not,” he said. “I’m as curious as you are.”

Scott got a look on his face that Tom couldn’t read. He smirked a little, stood up, brushed dead leaves off his ass with his free hand. “Can’t wait to see this.”

This time, when he handed the gun over, he locked the slide back the way he’d seen Tom do it. Tom hefted the gun a moment. He looked at the log, found the jug closest to the center.

He finally chambered a round and took a modified Weaver stance, imagined a ten ring on the fat part of the jug. He blinked sweat, raised the gun to eye level. He steadied and squeezed off one round.

Puff of dirt. He heard a scoff over his shoulder. He steadied and raised the weapon again.

His next shot nicked the cap and sent it spinning off in pieces. Water splashed and dribbled over the mouth of the jug.

Tom put the next one high and left, near the handle. A neat round hole appeared in the plastic, clean through. The jug wobbled a little and settled where it sat. Water spouted until the level fell below the holes, trickling off with a patter in the leaves.

Tom lowered the gun. His left ear rang loudly now. Scott scowled and looked away.

Tom shrugged and thumbed the safety. He handed the gun back with the muzzle pointed downrange. He said, “You ever hunt pheasants?”

Scott rolled his eyes.

“When a bird gets up in front of you, what do you look at? The sights? Or the bird?”

“Bird,” Scott said, like it was obvious. Then he thought about it and said, “I dunno. Both.”

“Well, there you go.”

“Yeah. That’s a shotgun. Not exactly the same thing.”

“Yeah, you wouldn’t think.” Tom pointed. “Stand like I did. Put a little tension on your gun hand with your other hand. Don’t cock your head like last time or bunch up your shoulders, just stand there straight. Line up the dots and look over the front sight at the place you want to put the bullet. And when you fire, squeeze the trigger. Don’t yank it.”

“I know how to pull a trigger.”

“Obviously.”

“Look, just because you got off a lucky-ass shot doesn’t mean you’re some expert,” Scott said. “I just never shot anything but a twenty-two revolver before. And the sights are screwed up on this anyway.”

“The sights.” Tom nodded slowly. “Tell you what, you’re a gambling man. We’ll both fire a full clip. Jugs score one, cans two. High score wins.”

Scott didn’t want the bet; Tom could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t sure why he’d even said it, what he was trying to prove. He felt macho, ridiculous. The kid just got to him for some reason.

Just then they heard underbrush crunching heavily behind them. Duane Foster hustled up the slope, into the clearing.

He was baked, eyes red as the fading sunburn on Scott’s arm. He looked worried. He saw Tom, saw Scott. Saw the log. He let out a long wheeze of his own.

“Goddamn,” he said. “What’s up?”

Scott took one look at Duane and testosterone took over. He looked at Tom. “Shit. Name your bet.”

Tom thought about it. He hadn’t actually had a stake in mind. All at once, it came to him.

Two clips and twenty rounds later, Tom and Duane made their way back through the trees together. The pants Tom wore had baggy cargo pockets; he carried the gun in one of the pockets, his empty beer can and what remained of the ammo in the other. The pockets banged heavy against his sweat-slicked legs.

Scott had stalked off a few minutes ahead of them. Tom stayed back in the clearing long enough to collect the spent brass from the ground where they’d been standing. Empty casings jingled in his pants while they walked.

They found easier going along a barbed-wire fence line. At one point, Duane stopped and looked at something, shielding the sun with the back of his hand. First he appeared fascinated. Soon he started chuckling.

“What?”

Duane nodded ahead. Tom followed his eyes.

In the fence, he saw something he’d never seen before.

Two sets of antlers, locked together. One set was still connected to a skull, a jagged oblong pocked with insect holes, bleached white by the sun. A section of spine trailed almost to the ground, still partially intact. Tom saw blades of pelvis in a stand of weeds, smaller bones littered around the spot.

Whitetail deer, most likely. Two bucks. They’d been sorting out something primal, gotten tangled in the fence, and hung there until they’d died. Eventually their carcasses had rotted off the bone, devoured by time and whatever else. The sight gave Tom a strange little chill in the heat.

Duane just laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Foster said.

“Go ahead.”

“I was just thinking those two reminded me of somebody.”

Tom shook his head, walked on.

After a minute, he heard Duane, still chuckling quietly, following along.

THIRTEEN

From: Circle Slash Bed & Breakfast

To: Coleman’s Landing

Sent: Fri 5/12 12:04 A.M.

Subject: 12-Year Reunion

Tom,

I asked your mom for your address. She gave me this but didn’t know if it was still good. I guess we’ll see.

To recap, twelve years = husband for me, wife for you, four kids between us. I told you not to think about it too hard. I guess it’s easier to give advice than take it :)

I don’t know if you want to do this or not. I tried this morning, but I chickened out. So maybe we can be pen pals. Kind of like when we used to pass notes in the hallway between periods. How goofy is that?

Ask me something,

Abby

In all their years together, going back to junior high, he’d never known Abby to stay up past ten-thirty. She either kept later hours these days, or she hadn’t been able to sleep the night she’d dropped Scott at the Landing.

Pen pals.

How goofy is that?

Tom held the cursor over the Delete button. He sat that way for quite a while before he moved the cursor and clicked Reply.

From: Tom Coleman

To: Circle Slash Bed & Breakfast

Sent: Wed 6/23 10:32 A.M.

Subject: RE: 12-Year Reunion

>Ask me something

Circle Slash?

T

From: Circle Slash Bed & Breakfast

To: Coleman’s Landing

Sent: Wed 6/23 4:57 P.M.

Subject: RE: took you long enough

>Circle Slash?

Private joke of Dan’s.

He was a biologist, not a rancher. He was from Gordon originally but went to school in northern Washington. Then he went to Alaska, worked for the fish and wildlife department there for ten years. Decided he was tired of glaciers, bought this place from a high school buddy who was giving up the cattle biz.

The brand means “zero.” That’s how he wrote zeros: a circle with a line through it. Naming the ranch was his way of not taking himself too seriously, I think. I don’t think his first wife thought it was funny.

He was kind of a spectacle around here, to be honest. But most people liked him. Some of the other ranchers had a beef over one thing or another (so to speak), but even so he could generally find help when he needed it. He was certainly the first guy to volunteer on somebody else’s place. He just loved the land here and enjoyed hard work and wanted Jason and Scott to grow up the way he did.

He liked your grandfather very much, by the way.

Abby

From: Tom Coleman

To: Circle Slash Bed & Breakfast

Sent: Thurs 6/24 2:05 A.M.

Subject: RE: took you long enough

> He liked your grandfather very much

????

From: Circle Slash Bed & Breakfast

To: Coleman’s Landing

Sent: Thurs 6/24 7:35 A.M.

Subject: RE: took you long enough

>????

Some writer.

They were on a committee that blocked Lloyd Wheeler (Ryland’s dad) from drilling wells once. Something to do with marshland, endangered habitat, like that. I wasn’t around then. Dan also lobbied in favor of the federal designation for the river. Parker thought highly of that I think. More so than certain members of the cattlemen’s association but I guess you can’t please everybody. :)

You and I were in that apartment on G Street when Dan and your grandfather were going to river council meetings together. Think about that for a minute.

Anyway. Dan came to Lincoln a few years ago to talk to my freshman Earth Science classes about the aquifer. That’s how we met. He’d just call around to schools like that, volunteering his time.

Like you said, small world.

Abby

p.s.

The crazy thing is, I always liked it here. Ever since that time we came out with your parents for your grandmother’s funeral. You thought I was cracked when I told you that. Funny how life goes I guess.

p.p.s.

I get to ask you something now.

Parker Coleman.

Tom sat on the couch, watching the curtains billow around the windows, and drank to the old geezer.

At some point, you had to hand it to him.

From: Tom Coleman

To: Circle Slash Bed & Breakfast

Sent: Thurs 6/24 11:31 P.M.

Subject: RE: took you long enough

>I get to ask you something now

Have at it.

T

From: Circle Slash Bed & Breakfast

To: Coleman’s Landing

Sent: Fri 6/25 7:42 A.M.

Subject: RE: took you long enough

>Have at it.

Tell me about Emily?

Ab

FOURTEEN

It was nearly July before Tom understood that Scott Greer had two bosses at the Landing.

Once it finally dawned on him, weeks worth of small things began to make sense. He understood that Scott had probably been Duane Foster’s employee first.

He knew he would have seen it sooner if he’d been paying attention. Looking back, Tom sometimes wondered if paying attention would have changed anything.

He woke to pulses of red in the dark.

Tom sat up suddenly, not sure where he was or what had roused him. Sodden fabric clung to his crotch, the inside of his leg. Groggy shame pressed in.

He’d passed out, he realized. He’d passed out and pissed himself. It had come to this.

Then he looked down, saw the bottle tipped on his lap, soaking his pants. Tom shoved the bottle down into the cushion beside him. He sensed motion.

Over by the woodstove, a shadow moved. His heart skipped a beat.

“Sorry,” the shadow said.

Tom strained his eyes. Through the open windows, he heard distant voices, somewhere outside, below. The curtains flickered red.

“Larry?”

“You’ve got cops,” Larry Salinger said. “Thought I’d better come get you.”

The prowler sat skewed on the access track at the base of the slope, bars and spotlight hot. The spot flooded the bunkhouse with hard white light.

Outside, the day’s heat lingered, unstirred. Almost immediately, Tom broke out in a sticky sweat. The muggy night stuck to his skin, trapped his own fumes around his head in a cloud.

He couldn’t get himself together. He tripped on the stairs and almost went down end-over-end. Larry caught him by the arm, propped him up. Down the slope, a few feet from the prowler, a flashlight beam cut the dark: in the beam, Tom saw four people standing in a row, squinting.

Duane Foster was barefoot, wearing cutoffs and a Headbanger’s Ball T-shirt with the sleeves hacked off. He saw them coming.

The flashlight beam swung their way. Tom blinked; beside him, Larry raised the back of his hand in front of his eyes.

“What’s going on?”

Darkness again. Through the colored spots dancing in his vision, Tom recognized the cop wielding the flashlight. His head began to clear.

“Guess you’ve got a little problem,” Cory Severs said.

Tom followed the beam of the flashlight. Duane Foster smirked, shaking his head. Scott sagged, looking unsteady on his feet. He was wasted. Next to Scott, Trevor Wheeler swayed in place, smoking a cigarette. Also wasted. Tom was wasted himself, and even he could tell.

Harlan Pack stood next to Trevor.

Tom said, “What kind of problem?”

The flashlight beam arced down to a black heavy-duty garbage bag at Duane’s feet.

“Looks like your man here has some explaining to do.”

“Me? You ever hear of the Fourth Amendment, man? Illegal search and seizure? This is bullshit.”

The light zipped back to Duane’s face. Duane winced, turned his eyes. Severs chased them with the light. “You ever hear of possession with intent?”

“Bullshit. That’s my personal stash.”

“You got five pounds of grass in that sack there, Slick. Tell me another one.”

Duane threw up his hands, looked at Tom. “It’s gotta last me awhile, okay?”

Scott snorted, got the giggles. He sat down on the ground and lay back, draping an arm over his face. Trevor Wheeler watched him, still swaying. Harlan Pack stood quietly.

He dealt blackjack at the Rosebud, Tom had learned. Pack had been by the Landing to pick up Duane a couple of times since that day Tom had met him in the parking lot. Tom assumed Duane must have squared up. Pals again.

He left Larry where he stood and walked over to Severs. Severs held up a palm without looking at him. “You’re fine where you are.”

Tom stopped. “I don’t care who explains what.” He intended to put a little authority in his voice, but he could hear himself slurring his words. He tried to focus.

“Look, boss.” Duane. “I got a little poker game together. No big thing. I let the kid drink too much, but I figure he’s not going anywhere, right? So we’re having a few laughs and minding our business when this asshole shows up and starts busting balls.”

Severs was in uniform, wearing his cap tonight, bill pulled low over his eyes. He had a thumb in his gun belt, holding the long black Maglite high in his other hand. The radio in the cruiser chirped; voices crackled over static, went quiet. Crickets answered in the tall grass by the water.

Tom said, “You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you, Cory?”

“Wasn’t out on business,” Severs said. “Until I find Mr. Fourth Amendment here and these other geniuses passing around a doob the size of a Swisher Sweet.”

On the ground, Scott went off again. Trevor Wheeler flicked his butt and fumbled out another. Tom walked over, picked the butt out of the grass.

“And they litter.”

“I’ll make a note on that if you want.”

“What brings you by, Deputy?”

The flashlight beam moved to Trevor. Trevor didn’t seem to notice. He wore a thousand-yard stare, straight ahead, all the way out to the river.

“Looking for this idiot,” Severs said. “Family favor.”

Trevor held up his middle finger.

“Save it, tough guy. Your folks are looking for you.”

“Found me.”

Severs moved the light away. “Your brother’s got trouble.”

Trevor snapped to attention.

“Your mom’s probably in Lincoln already by now. Had to drive herself so your dad could wait here on you. You too fucked-up to drive?”

“What’s wrong with Morg?”

“I asked if you can drive.”

“I can drive.”

“Get home, then. Don’t get your dumb ass in a wreck.”

Trevor took a look at Scott on the ground. He glanced at Duane. He even glanced at Tom for a moment.

Then he hustled off. When he hit the cedar chip path, he broke into a jog.

Tom wasn’t especially surprised by the deputy’s selective enforcement of the law as it pertained to driving under the influence. He felt a hand pat his shoulder. Larry whispered, “Good luck.”

Severs didn’t pay either of them any attention. Larry headed off in the direction of the campground, hands in his pockets. Tom watched him disappear into the darkness.

He finally sighed and looked at the deputy. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What’s the situation here, exactly?”

“Gee, I dunno.” Severs rolled his shoulders. “Guess I’d better give Slick and the Chief here a ride down to Ainsworth. Let Brown County figure it out.”

“Aw, come on, man.” Duane. “Gimme a break.”

“You’re out of your primary.” Tom resisted the urge to jerk a thumb over his shoulder: Way back there’s where you crossed the line. “And this is private property.”

Severs put the light in his eyes. “What’s that?”

“I said you’ve got authority problems.” Tom wasn’t slurring his words anymore. “You want to do something official, call Brown County up here.”

“Piece of advice. You don’t know as much as you think you do.”

“Quiz me.”

“If that’s the way you want it, you can go ahead and take my authority up with Sheriff Hilliard.” Severs ran the light up and down. “You’ll be in the box on obstruction in the morning when he comes in. Nice and convenient for you.”

In the lot, an engine roared to life. Headlights pierced the night and swung across them as Trevor Wheeler turned his big Ram pickup around. Tom heard gravel spit from under the back dual tires. He saw taillights pulse. He saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

Harlan Pack. Running.

“Hey!”

When Severs shouted at his back, Pack poured on the Wheaties. He made Wheeler’s truck as it fishtailed out of the lot, vaulting himself over the tailgate, into the bed. Brake lights pulsed again; as the truck stopped, Pack slapped the roof of the cab with his palm, yelled something through the open rear sliding window.

Tires spun, and the truck barreled on. Over his shoulder, Pack shouted, “Toksa ake, white.”

The truck bounced over washboards in the sandy track and disappeared around the edge of the trees. Tom listened as the growling engine dug up the hill.

Duane said, “I think that means ‘See you later, asshole.’ ”

“Don’t worry.” Severs seemed out of breath from the yelling; Tom couldn’t help noting that he hadn’t exactly given chase. “He will.”

Scott snickered on the ground. Severs shined the light on him. Then he shook his head, turned his attention back to Duane. Tom watched him reach to his belt. He heard cuffs rattle.

Severs tossed the bracelets forward. They landed on top of the garbage bag with a steely clatter, slid off between Duane’s feet.

“I get the feeling a guy like you knows how those work,” the deputy said.

Ten minutes later, watching the prowler round the trees with Duane cuffed behind the cage, Tom evaluated priorities.

First: Do something with the kid.

Next: Call Roy Hilliard.

He fell down twice trying to haul Scott to his feet. The kid just mumbled and lolled, a hundred and eighty pounds of incoherent deadweight. Tom finally gave up and collapsed on his back in the grass a few feet away.

The summer sky yawned above them, deep and black, thick with stars. The moon glowed silver behind the tops of the trees.

Silence fell over the Landing. In the quiet, gnats buzzed. Frogs and locusts croaked in rhythm. Something nocturnal moved in the trees, snapping twigs and rustling grass. Water babbled over the ford.

Fuck it, Tom thought. Let him sleep it off outside.

When he woke, the sun was climbing.

The morning was already heating up, and his clothes were damp against the ground. Blue sky soared over the trees.

Tom sat up slowly. Scott was gone.

Three feet away, he saw an oval of matted grass where the kid had been last Tom saw him. His head pounded so hard that his teeth hurt. He eased onto his back again.

Above him, a hawk circled. Or maybe it was one of the golden eagles Salinger said he’d spotted. Or a buzzard.

Tom watched the bird ride the thermals, ascending, a single dark jot against the bright pale blue. Thin clouds hung, high and still, as high up as Tom could see. Up the bird climbed.

He felt the floating sensation, closed his eyes.

FIFTEEN

There were customers waiting on the deck. Tom left them waiting there.

He checked the bunkhouse and all the sheds. No Scott.

He hiked up the hill to the makeshift pistol range in the clearing; based on the empty beer cans he’d picked up there a few days ago, he’d suspected it had become the place Scott went when he wanted to be alone.

No Scott. Tom made his way back through the trees, head still pounding, sweating like a horse.

Back at the shop, an overdressed mother smeared heavy white lotion on a pair of small boys. Nearby, Dad checked his rubberized all-terrain wristwatch. The Davises.

Tom checked his own watch. He wasn’t wearing it. A college-age group goofed around the bottom of the steps with Super Soakers. He counted three hard guys with Greek on their tank tops, three pale girls in bikini tops and denim shorts.

One of the guys saw him coming. “Rough night, huh?”

The other guys laughed. They all pattered applause at Tom’s arrival. One of the girls swatted the arm of one of the guys. You’re so terrible. The guy blasted her with the water gun; she squealed and scooted under the deck.

Tom moved through them, up the stairs.

Davis intercepted him at the top. Tom felt a hand on his arm as Davis moved him toward the soda machines, away from his brood. The man was dressed like he’d come straight from Cabela’s. He smelled like cologne.

“You know, I’m here with my kids,” he said quietly. “I don’t appreciate this.”

The feeling was mutual. In a clear voice, Tom said, “Take your hand off my arm, Mr. Davis.”

Down below, the frat boys stopped blasting each other. One of them said, “Ooh. Game on.” The others snickered.

Mrs. Davis looked up quickly. She corralled the youngsters and moved them around the corner; the kids didn’t seem to notice anything. They were busy with Game Boys connected to each other by a bright purple cable.

Davis removed his hand and straightened, flinching at Tom’s breath. Tom didn’t blame him. His mouth was a sour furnace.

“Thank you,” Tom said. “You don’t appreciate what?”

“Cars tearing in and out all hours of the night. Finding the owner passed out drunk on the ground at nine o’clock in the morning.”

“I can see how that would be troubling,” Tom said. “To the kids.”

Davis looked like he wanted to throw a punch. “I want my money refunded. We’ll be giving somebody else our business.”

“I’m sure somebody else will be happy to have you. Excuse me, please.”

Upstairs, he ran a glass of water. He rinsed and spat, then sipped a little. It went down okay.

For a few minutes, he stood at the sink and tried to decide which problem to handle first. Scott. Davis and his refund. Duane Foster. The party tube contingent.

He finally decided to take them in order. He’d just picked up the phone to call Abby when he heard the bus and the trailer come rambling into the lot.

It was the first time he realized that he hadn’t thought to check the vehicles.

Scott carried a snarl of bungee cords over his shoulder. Tom met him coming up the path. He must have had a look about him. It was the only time he’d ever seen the momentary expression that flashed across Scott’s face: fear.

“Where did you go?”

Scott stopped. His expression flickered, and he shrugged. Ambivalence now, trying not to look like he was trying. “Eight o’clock run.”

“You took people out by yourself?”

“Somebody had to.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Tried,” Scott said.

Tom blew out a breath.

“Shit, take it easy,” Scott said. “No problems. I got it covered.”

Tom looked at his watch. He still wasn’t wearing it.

“About nine-thirty,” Scott said.

Tom looked at Scott. Scott looked away. They stood there.

“So how . . . I mean, what happened?”

“What happened when?”

“Last night. With Duane.”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “I haven’t had time to find out. I wake up, and you’re gone, and I’ve got people standing around.”

“You gonna go pick him up?”

“Have to deal with all this first.” He swept a hand behind him. “When I get a minute, yeah. I’ll find out what’s going on.”

“I can handle it,” Scott said. “Here, I mean. Until you get back.”

For once, he spoke without the usual pissy bravado. He almost seemed to be asking.

Tom looked at Scott. Scott met his eyes and held this time.

Tom decided to leave the truck at the Landing and take the car for the air-conditioning. In the lot, he said, “You have a cell phone, right?”

Scott nodded.

“Can I borrow it?”

“Um . . . yeah. Sure. Hang on.”

As Scott hustled away toward the bunkhouse, Tom stood in the sun and waited. He leaned against the top of the open car door and tried not to think about how irresponsible it was to leave the kid in charge alone.

The fact that Scott had been working the Landing two summers longer than Tom himself didn’t make it any less stupid an idea. For some reason, the fact that the kid had done nothing to earn Tom’s trust so far didn’t make it seem any less stupid, either.

He told himself it boiled down to owing Duane Foster a ride home from jail.

A visit, at least, depending on the situation. Scott returned, slightly out of breath. He handed Tom the phone.

“I won’t be gone more than a couple hours. Just give Davis his money.” He thought about it and added, “Out of the till, not the cash box.”

“No problem.”

“Tell everybody else we’ll make a run at noon.”

“I can make another run.”

“I know you can.” Scott could probably handle the damned bus better than Tom. “But I want you to wait until I get back. Stay near a phone in case I need to get in touch.”

Scott rolled his eyes. Looking at him, Tom suddenly had doubts. He reconsidered leaving. Scott seemed to sense it. He tensed.

“Wait for me,” Tom said. “And call your cell if you have any trouble. Any trouble.”

“I said I can handle it.”

“If you tell Abby I left you here alone, I’ll fire your ass.”

Scott smirked but didn’t say anything.

Tom got in the car and shut the door. He started the engine and got a hot blast in the face from the vents. He turned off the air. Through his window, he could see Scott still standing there, looking like he had something to say. Tom ran the window down.

“You sure you’re okay here?”

“No sweat. Yeah.” He paused a moment and said, “Hey.”

Tom waited. Scott put his hands in his pockets. He kicked a rock and watched it skip across the lot.

He finally said, “Severs.”

“What about him?”

“That guy’s an asshole. Seriously.”

Tom wasn’t exactly sure what Scott was looking for. “We finally agree about something.”

As he ran the window back up, he thought he saw a faint trace of something else he couldn’t remember seeing on Scott’s face before:

A smile.

“I hear you talking, bud.” Over the phone, Sheriff Hilliard sounded genuine. It could have been the bad connection. “Hell, you don’t have to tell me the kid’s got a chip on his shoulder.”

“A chip?” Tom held the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he handled the wheel. “More like a two-by-four.”

Hilliard chuckled in his ear. “Young guy, big plans, sure he’s on his way somewhere. Gets a little wound up trying to prove himself time to time.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“You can put it how you want. Fact is, Cory does a pretty fair job overall. Still learning, ’course, and he fucks up his share. Not saying he doesn’t.”

No, Tom thought. Of course you’re not.

“But he’s got a knack for the job. Attitude aside, have to say, sounds to me like he was doing it.”

Tom watched the road.

“Not closing rank on you, bud. Just giving it to you flat out.”

“So let me make sure I understand,” Tom said. “The fact that he’s doing his job in a county where he’s not employed doesn’t bother you.”

“Well, that’s the thing. Not that you should have known, but just so you do, technically, we’ve got joint agency with Brown County.”

“Joint agency?”

“Least until Lenny Korber figures out how to pass his written.”

“Sheriff, you’re losing me.”

“Kind of a unique situation,” Hilliard said. “Old Lenny’s held his seat out there for years. Folks love him. Hell, he’s a good . . .”

The connection crackled. Tom switched the phone to his other ear just as Hilliard’s voice came back full-strength.

“. . . landslide. Only the state upped the requirements on him. Don’t misunderstand, I know Lenny Korber from way back. Man knows how to keep the peace, he’s fair and about as tough as they come. But nobody’d accuse him of being what you’d call book smart.” Hilliard chuckled again. “Boils down to is, he can’t seem to pass the new certification exam. Flunked it the first time, county got him a tutor, and the dumb sonofabitch still flunked it again. Citizenship wouldn’t recall him if you bought everybody lunch at the polls. Like I said, he’s got popularity on his side. Besides that, I can tell you from experience, nobody wants his job anyway.”

“Forgive me, Sheriff, but what does all that mean?”

“Means Lenny Korber’s the fair elected sheriff, but until he stops flunking the cert, he can’t even write a traffic ticket by himself.”

“You’re kidding.”

“True story,” Hilliard said.

Tom thought back to his first encounter with Cory Severs on the side of the highway. We’re not in the next county over. He realized the little prick had been jerking him around even while he’d been jerking him around. Staying a step ahead.

Piece of advice. You don’t know as much as you think you do.

“So as far as Duane.” Tom had told Hilliard about Foster’s joint, but not about the garbage bag. “I guess you’re telling me that filing kidnapping charges on Deputy Severs would be a waste of time.”

Hilliard laughed. “If it happened like you told me, this one sounds pretty square.” He paused a beat and said, “For what it’s worth, bud, can’t say it surprises me all that much.”

“What doesn’t surprise you?”

“Your boy Foster,” Hilliard said. “We’ve run into him a few times, if you didn’t know.”

Tom didn’t. He suddenly thought of Duane chatting away with Sandy the dispatcher that day he’d given Tom a ride. He said, “You’ve run into him in what way?”

“In the drunk-and-disorderly way, mostly. Spent a night or two out here in the past.”

“Oh?”

“Got his head busted open by a long-hauler outside the Peppermill one time a couple summers back. Nobody said the trucker started it.” Hilliard bit into something crunchy and chewed in Tom’s ear. Maybe it was a cookie. “I always figured that one must have cured him a little. Old Duane kept his nose pretty low next summer he was out. Far as I know, anyway. But you could say his presence is known.”

Tom drifted into thought.

Sheriff Hilliard let a long pause go by before he said, “You didn’t ask for advice. Can I give you some anyway?”

“I’d love it,” Tom said.

“Out here, sometimes a little bad blood gets started, it tends to keep running on down the line.”

“Bad blood?”

“You could say it gets inherited.”

Tom thought he understood the general meaning behind the way the sheriff enunciated the last word. Inherited. He didn’t ask for specifics. He really didn’t care about specifics.

“Point is, I know you and Cory got off a little rough,” Hilliard said. “And yeah, bud, I know that wasn’t entirely your fault. Truth is it might not even have all that much to do with you. Either way, it’s been discussed.”

Tom debated whether to say something to that.

“But you two might as well learn to play nice. The way things are, you and Cory, you’re pretty much stuck with each other.”

“Is this where I say he started it?”

Hilliard chuckled. “Long as I don’t have to end it. Comes to that, somebody always ends up crying.”

Tom slowed, stopped. He turned right at the sign for Keller Park, Long Pine, and Ainsworth, headed south on U.S. 183. “Thanks for the advice, Sheriff.”

“No need to thank me,” Hilliard said. “Like I told you. Door’s always open.”

The phone had beeped twice while he was on with Hilliard. When he hung up, Tom saw two missed calls listed on the screen: names, numbers, times.

The first was from Abby. The second was from Trevor Wheeler. The screen told him which button to press to listen to the messages.

Tom didn’t press it. Instead, he dialed information and got the number for Tyler & Tyler. He figured Duane would probably need a lawyer.

He left a message for George Junior on the answering machine. He didn’t get into specific detail about his reason for calling. He realized he didn’t know Scott’s cell number, so he left the number for the Landing instead.

He was folding the phone closed when an oncoming car leaned on the horn. Tom looked up quickly, realized he was riding the line. He corrected, drifting back into the middle of his own lane as a jacked-up Jimmy with South Dakota plates roared past. Onrushing wind buffeted the side windows.

In the wake of the passing 4 5 4, Tom saw a guy trudging along the opposite shoulder of the highway. He’d had his thumb out for the Jimmy but let it drop when the truck blew by.

It was the bandana that made Tom look closer. He craned his neck, then switched to the rearview. He thought, You can’t be serious.

Tom braked to the shoulder, came to a rolling stop. He checked both ways, up and down the highway, then swung a U-turn in the middle of the road. He headed back in the other direction.

As he closed on the hitchhiker, Tom braked again, slowed, ran down the window, and rolled alongside.

“What are you doing?”

Duane raised his head as he walked.

He looked like hammered shit. He had dirt on his face, brown grass caught in the knot of his bandana. His shoulders sagged as if weighted. When he saw that it was Tom, his eyes flooded with gratitude.

Tom stopped the car. Duane stopped walking.

“Morning,” he said.

“Jesus. Get in.”

Tom pulled ahead to the shoulder. Duane caught up, opened the door. He eased himself gingerly into the bucket seat. Meaty B.O. filled the car.

As Tom ran down both windows, he saw that Duane’s feet were covered in sandy dust. Still no shoes. He looked closer and saw that both feet were bleeding.

“Man, am I glad to see you.”

Tom looked up from Duane’s battered feet. “What the hell happened?”

Duane closed his eyes, rested his head back against the seat, and let out a long, weary sigh.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

SIXTEEN

George Tyler Junior had called. Tom called him back to say never mind. Then he made the noon run with Scott while Duane showered and took care of his feet.

When they got back to the Landing, Tom checked the bunkhouse, saw that Foster had eaten some food and was taking a nap. They could have used him, being a Saturday. Tom let him sleep.

Business had picked up steadily with each week that passed into summer. Now they were coming up on the Fourth of July, and up and down the river, everybody’s books for next weekend were full in advance.

So Tom waited. Between meeting sunburned customers at the take-out above the ford, making repairs to any equipment that needed repairing, and generally gearing up for the holiday weekend, he and Scott had plenty to keep them hopping until dark.

Duane finally emerged from hibernation around half past nine.

The last of the day’s light had all but faded. From the shed down the hill, Tom could just see Foster through the purple gloom. Duane moved to the edge of the concrete pad that served as the foundation for the bunkhouse. He stretched and yawned, scratched his ass, looked around. He wore socks with his flip-flops and seemed to be stepping along with some care.

The air was stifling back inside the shed, where they’d just finished fixing the trailer hitch on the bus. Tom wiped the sweat on his forehead with the sweat on his arm. He nodded at Scott and said, “Good job today.”

Scott took that with a shrug. He packed up the toolbox and killed the work light, started winding up the extension cord.

“Grab a beer from the shop after you get that stuff put away. If you want one.”

This got his attention.

“One,” Tom said.

Scott grinned a little. “How about two?”

“One,” Tom said. “And take it with you. I need to talk to Mr. Fourth Amendment for a minute.”

It was the first comfortable night they’d had in several days. A breeze rustled the tops of the trees and circulated the heavy air. Tom could smell the river, the pines along the other side of the bank. He caught the distant smoky scent of campfires trailing over from the grounds up the road. The moon hung bright over the trees.

“Look, I fucked up,” Foster said. “Sorry. I know.”

“I wasn’t asking for an apology. I just want the story.”

Duane never made it to the sheriff’s office in Ainsworth. Tom had gotten that much before they’d moved up to the deck.

According to Duane, Cory Severs had driven him all the way to the junction before changing his tune. Instead of turning him over to Brown County, Severs had turned him out on the side of the road and left him there. Foster claimed he’d slept a few hours in the campground at Long Pine State Park. A ranger had rousted him around sunrise, and he’d started walking.

Between Duane, Scott, and himself, Tom thought absently, not one of them had slept indoors last night. Quite a crew.

He wondered if Sheriff Hilliard had been in touch with Brown County yet. He doubted very seriously that Brown County knew anything about any of this. He wondered what kind of story Severs had given Hilliard after Tom had called in. He wondered if Hilliard had even asked.

When Tom asked Duane why he’d headed north up 183 instead of walking five miles west on Highway 20—toward Ainsworth and a telephone—Duane told him he’d expected to catch a ride.

“So much for midwestern hospitality,” he said.

“At least you didn’t have that heavy sack to carry.”

Duane chuckled. There wasn’t a lot of humor in it. “There’s that.”

“Severs forget to give it back?”

Lightning bugs signaled every so often, floating pulses of green in the dark near the trees. Tom could hear coyotes yipping somewhere in the distance.

“Look, boss. You don’t need to worry about it. I know cops like Severs.”

“I know cops like Severs, too.” Tom refilled both of their mugs from the bottle on the table. “What did it cost you?”

“You mean besides the last of my glaucoma medicine?”

When Tom didn’t respond, Foster took a sip from his mug and said, “Looks like I’ll be paying a little rent this summer after all. No big thing. Probably cheaper than a lawyer in the end.”

“And what’s the weed? First month down?”

“More like a security deposit.”

“How does that work?”

“Ass backwards, man. I get behind, he gives me a refund.”

“You mean he plants it and runs you in for real.”

“Something like that.”

They sat and drank for a while.

“So what are you going to do?”

“There’s a choice?”

Tom shrugged. “You could cut your losses.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, if it’s costing you either way, why not pack up and go home?”

“Are you telling me I’m out of a job?”

“No,” Tom said. “I’m asking why you’d want to pay off some local cop for the privilege of staying around here.”

Actually, he was wondering what would make Cory Severs expect Duane to stay around so that the deputy would be able to collect. He didn’t ask it that way.

“The truth?”

“Always appreciated.”

Duane leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You could say I’m coming off a down year.”

The light in the shed went off. In a few moments, Scott emerged, slid the door shut behind him, and started up the hill. In the silver moonlight, Tom saw him raise his arm, tip his head back, then toss the empty beer can toward one of the trash barrels as he passed by the bunkhouse. The can hit the rim and clattered in.

Tom heard the muted fizz of another pull tab as Scott walked on toward the trees. To the clearing, he presumed.

He said, “A down year.”

“Financially speaking.”

“How down?”

“Took a bath on my tech stocks.”

Tom waited.

“Look,” Duane said. “I basically try to live pretty low-key, okay? What can I tell you, I like my winters off. I save enough out here in seven months to get by the rest of the year.”

“What happened this year?”

“Man, what didn’t?” Duane scratched his head. “Okay, yeah, I probably spent a little too much time on the boats. I can admit that. Flops didn’t go my way, tried to ride it out, got a couple months behind.” He started counting off on his fingers. “Then I had this tooth that was murdering me, right at Christmas. Ended up having to pay for a root canal, that was two months’ rent right there. You should think about offering dental, by the way.”

“And vision.”

Duane looked at him.

Tom gestured around his eyes. “The glaucoma.”

Foster grinned a little. “I’m not a well person, what can I tell you. Anyway, top it all off, my car takes a dump the week I’m supposed to come out here. So I drained the last of my bank, bought that Sube from a guy. Just kinda let the apartment go. Figured I’d kick back on the river, fill the coffers, start over after the season.”

Tom said nothing.

“I gotta be honest,” Duane said. “When you first showed up out here and said the old man was gone, I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do. You pretty much saved my ass, keeping me around.”

“The coffers can’t fill up very fast on what I’m paying you.”

“It’s only June.” Duane’s grin faded slowly. “Look. Letting Scotty get all spun out like that, that was fucked up. I’m really sorry. Won’t happen again. At least not because of me.”

“I’m not talking about Scott.”

“Yeah, I know.” Duane leaned back in his chair and rested the mug on his belly. “I can handle Supercop’s little bullshit tax. I’m still better off out here. Assuming everything’s . . . you know. Still cool. On your end. With me, I mean.”

Tom waited for Duane to stop talking and then sat for a few minutes, listening to the river.

“One question.”

“You name it.”

“Are you dealing to the customers or not?”

Foster chuckled. “If I was smoking up the customers, would I bust my ass around this dump after I lost all my merchandise?”

“What I’m hoping,” Tom said, “is that I can take that as a no.”

“No is what I meant to say.”

Tom reached across the table and topped off the mugs.

Later, long after Duane staggered down the slope toward the bunkhouse, it occurred to Tom that he’d never returned Scott’s cell phone.

Scott hadn’t asked for it. He’d had the bus loaded and waiting when Tom got back to the Landing with Duane, and they’d stayed busy for the rest of the day.

He took the bottle with him down the path. At the lot, he realized he didn’t have his keys, tried the door, and found that he hadn’t locked it anyway. Tom couldn’t think of a time in twelve years he’d walked away from an unlocked car in Chicago. He wondered when he’d lost the habit.

He wondered, had Grace lived to be Scott’s age, if he would have turned into the kind of parent who eavesdropped, went through her things, spied through gaps in the curtains and hung out in her chat rooms when he knew she was online.

Maybe so.

He took a pull from the bottle and listened to Abby’s message first. She’d just wanted to check in, told Scott she had news about Morgan, asked him to call when he could.

Since this morning, Trevor Wheeler had called in twice more. Tom punched up the first of the messages.

I’m in Lincoln. We gotta talk. Call me back.

He sounded a touch on edge.

In the next, he sounded pissed. Asshole, you getting this or what? Harlan’s on the warpath. Call me.

Finally, around seven-thirty P.M., Morgan’s older brother sounded out of patience. He sounded, Tom thought, quite a bit like Tom remembered Ryland Wheeler sounding at the hospital.

Duane’s going to fuck us, he said.

SEVENTEEN

The next day, Tom left the truck, took the car, and merged with the Sunday-afternoon exodus off the Landing.

He made one stop on the edge of Valentine, at the gas station on the corner of Highway 20 and Main.

When he pulled in, he saw Chief Deputy Pavel topping off his prowler at the other end of the pumps. Ron Pavel noticed him and held up a hand. Tom nodded back as he unscrewed the cap.

For a few minutes, he considered changing his plans, walking over there, and having a chat with Pavel instead.

When the pump went off, he paid for his gas and got back in the car.

A couple bad turns later, he found 83 out of town and drove for the border.

Rosebud Casino and Quality Inn sat alone in the open as though dropped there from the sky.

Northwest out of Valentine, toward South Dakota, the highway cut through big bluffs and chalky cliffs. Tall pines cast long shadows over craggy ground in the late-afternoon light. Then the road climbed up to flat open plain, nothing but sky and horizon in every direction, where steady wind raked the ground and hit like a bulldozer, rocking the car on its springs.

Tom finally crested a rise and saw the place, shimmering and blinking, ten feet over the state line: a big building next to a big new hotel on an asphalt slab in the middle of nothing for miles around.

He pulled straight into the lot off the highway and parked beside an RV on the hotel side. He battled the wind to hold the front door for a Korean couple wearing Mount Rushmore sun visors. He followed them in through the lobby.

It wasn’t the Bellagio, but he imagined it got the job done.

The entire gaming floor consisted of one large room taken up mostly with slot machines. Tom came in from the side, past a cavernous bingo room, into a wall of conditioned air that smelled faintly like a chilled ashtray. He hung around the periphery, moving through the clang of bells and the sound of tokens hitting tin.

No bar.

He found a bar cart that served beer and wine only, and they were out of beer until eight. So he got a plastic cup of wine that came out of a box, then found a spot by the nickel slots where he could scan most of the floor.

Tom counted four blackjack tables, all in one pit near a bank of windows with one-way glass. He didn’t see Harlan Pack.

He got another cup of wine and wandered awhile. He bought a roll of tokens and played the slots for an hour before he busted. Dealers changed at the tables. No Pack.

Tom bought another refill on the wine and headed toward a pink neon sign that said Poker Room. He stood in the smoke and watched a few hands, smart enough to know he was watching some variation of Hold’em, too dumb to really follow the game. When he got bored, he stopped back at the bar cart and checked the tables again.

Still no Pack, but one of the tables seemed to be opening gradually. Tom checked every so often. When he finally saw four empty chairs, he took one, changed a twenty, and dealt in.

The dealer was a young woman with a pretty smile, black hair pulled back in a silver clasp. The name badge clipped to her red silk shirt said Louise. When she dealt the cards, Tom saw a cloudy green home tattoo in the webbing between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. It was either a cross or an X. He couldn’t tell.

He busted three hands in a row and got beat by the house on the fourth. He must have turned the table. After the next round, the old guy at the end snorted and moved one table over.

“Some tipper,” Louise said. “Sits there winning all night, and that’s the thanks I get.”

Tom slid a short stack of chips across the felt. Five or six singles. “My fault. I chased him away.”

Louise took the chips and gave him another smile. “Cutie, you’re on my good side now. Maybe your luck’ll turn.”

“Let’s try it out.”

She beat him the next two hands.

“Damn,” he said.

She laughed. He changed another twenty and tipped her five.

“Some guys don’t know when to quit.”

“I’m a glutton,” he told her. “Hey, where’s Harlan, anyway? He doesn’t work Sundays?”

“Harlan?” She dealt a new round. “I heard he called in sick. You know him?”

“Friend of a friend,” Tom said. “Friend of a guy who works for me, actually. Just thought I’d say hey.”

“Eleven,” she told him.

“Double that.”

He placed his chips and glanced up as she went to the shoe. Something in her smile had faded.

And she caught him looking. When their eyes met, Tom grinned and looked at his cards. He tried to play it like a flirt.

“You live around here? I’ve never seen you in before.”

“Not much of a gambler,” Tom said. “Obviously.”

Louise dealt his last card. He sighed. He looked up and she smiled again.

“Busted,” she said.

When he came out of the men’s room, he saw that the bar cart had finally been restocked. Also, Louise stood in the corner by one of the fire exits, talking on a pay phone.

She hung up quickly and hustled back onto the floor.

Tom got a beer and decided to check out the bingo room.

“Hey, big winner.”

He felt a light hand on his shoulder. Tom tapped the Spin button and looked up from his change bucket.

Louise smiled. She’d changed out of her red silk shirt and black skirt. Tight jeans now, with a black T-shirt that hugged her waist. Small purse on her shoulder.

“I guess your luck’s still down,” she said. “You just missed Harlan.”

He’d killed six beers in the last hour, waiting, and he’d caught the front edge of a fizzy buzz. “He was in?”

“Yeah, just now. Grabbed his check.”

“Damn.” Tom put on a smile. So much for his surveillance skills. “I owed him a beer. Glad he’s feeling okay.”

Louise looked over her shoulder, dropped a wink. “Brown bottle flu. Shh.”

Tom nodded along. “Next time, maybe.”

“You know, he might still be around. Walk me out, I’ll show you his Jeep. You can leave him a note or something.”

She could have been hitting on him.

That was how she made it sound, touching his arm, slipping a grin. Tom was half drunk, but he wasn’t gullible. The sad thing was, he’d only wanted to talk to the guy. The setup wasn’t necessary.

“Wait for me to cash out?”

“You know it, cutie. I’ll be out front.”

He took his bucket to the window and got back four bucks and change. He’d started with another twenty. Louise was right: His luck was crap. A smarter guy might have taken it as a sign.

She waited for him at the doors like she’d said she would. “How’d you do?”

“Don’t ask.”

She laughed and slipped her arm around his elbow. They went out into the warm dark night.

“He parks around back. This way.”

The parking lot still radiated heat. She led him away from the lights and the glittering signs. Tom allowed himself to be led. He heard alarm bells, but they mixed with the residual noise of slot machines in his head. As they walked along, around the corner of the building, his eyes adjusted to the dark. He tried to keep them wide open.

This was silly. He began to smell rotten garbage a few feet from the next corner. When they rounded it, he saw overflowing Dumpsters in a tight, fenced-off area. Broken glass crunched under his shoes. He saw that the motion spots above them had been broken out. He didn’t see any place for a Jeep to park.

“So you know Duane?”

Her arm slipped from his as she said it. Tom glanced over his shoulder, scanning the shadows.

Light flared in his head. The dark got darker fast.

EIGHTEEN

He must not have gone out completely, because he was still standing when his vision cleared. He saw orange swirls. They turned into purple swirls, then dark suns. The suns rose.

He’d been wedged in the angle where the nearest Dumpster met the back wall of the casino. He must have thrown his arms out for balance; he now braced himself with one hand against the wall, one over the rim of the Dumpster. His right hand rested in something wet and grainy. He took stock of his immediate surroundings, saw that he was about as cornered as he could be.

Harlan Pack stood half in shadow. “Welcome to the rez.”

Tom’s head pounded. The back of his neck throbbed. He leaned forward and closed his eyes. “What did you hit me with?”

“My dick.”

Tom straightened and cupped his neck with his palm. He could feel the muscles stiffening, tightening the headache he already had. “Et tu, Louise?”

She stood a couple of feet behind Pack, holding her elbows. “What?”

Pack moved quickly. Tom felt a tug, heard a bright rip of fabric. He felt warm air on his torso as Pack stepped back. Pack swiped his arm, shaking a shred of Tom’s shirt free of the knife in his hand.

If Tom had been writing the story, he would have described it as a hunting knife. The folding kind with a wood grip and a big locking blade. The blade was wide and slightly upcurved, with a gut hook behind the tip.

“Don’t talk to her. You’re talking to me, now.”

Tom held up his hands and noticed Pack’s face for the first time. The light was bad, but he could see well enough.

Pack looked like he’d been in a motorcycle accident. His lips were pulpy and swollen, the side of his jaw scraped raw. He had a massive purple knob above his left eye. Tom could see that his nose had been broken, leaking dark moons under both eyes. Plugs of dried blood sealed his nostrils, glossy black in the low light.

“Jesus,” Tom said.

“That piece-of-shit white cop did it to him,” Louise said. The pretty smile was a memory now. To Harlan, she said, “You should have gone to the hospital.” To Tom: “Bet Duane didn’t get put in the hospital, huh?”

“Go home,” Pack told her. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Bullshit. I told you he was no good. Always talking. Mr. Slick. I told you not to get in with him.”

“I said go home.”

“I’ll bet you anything he cut a deal with that cop. I’ll bet you he even told the piece of shit where to find you.”

“Inila!”

Louisa gripped her elbows a little tighter. “You don’t tell me to shut up.”

But she stopped talking, looked at the ground.

Tom said, “Severs did that?”

“Waited for me outside the Diamond last night. Followed me outta town.”

“What happened?”

“Caught me with that stick.”

Tom looked away from Pack’s face. It was a little bit hard to take.

Pack stepped closer and placed the tip of the knife in the soft hollow at the base of Tom’s throat. “Then my cousin calls and tells me some other white dude’s looking for me. Says he’s a friend of Duane.”

“I just wanted to talk to you. That’s all.”

“Ain’t a big fan of white today.”

Tom nodded.

“Ain’t a big fan of Duane today.”

“I’ll tell him that.”

Pack stepped away. He turned and said something quietly to Louise. She didn’t respond.

But she left them. She moved quietly, purse on her shoulder, still gripping her elbows as though she were cold. She walked through the scatter of broken glass, around the corner, and back through the shadows the way they’d come. She didn’t look at Tom when she passed him.

Tom got a feeling in the pit of his stomach, heavy and feather light at the same time.

Time slowed down and Pack stepped forward. He raised the knife and held the tip an inch from Tom’s left eye.

“You want to tell him something?”

Tom didn’t dare nod. “Sure.”

“Tell him he’d better keep his shit together. Or that cop’s the least of his problems.”

Tom said nothing. He began to get light-headed, realized he was holding his breath.

Pack stepped away. He tipped the knife toward Tom a couple of times.

Then he folded it, put it in his back pocket, and left Tom leaning against the Dumpster.

Tom’s heart didn’t begin to pound until after Harlan Pack had disappeared around the corner of the building. Then, all at once, he could feel his pulse thudding in his neck. He could hear himself breathing.

He waited there in the dark and the clinging stink of garbage for a minute or two.

When all the fight-or-flight business finally calmed down, and he realized what a bunch of empty bullshit back-alley posturing Pack’s little threat display had actually been, Tom straightened up, stepped away from the wall, and puked on his shoes.

NINETEEN

Morgan Wheeler had a full-thickness burn that covered his chest and stomach and snaked around his waist on one side.

He’d been standing nearest the stove in the fishing shack and essentially caught a fireball with his body. The cloud of burning gas had blown the door off the stove and pulped out its sides, displacing enough superheated air to knock Wheeler off his feet.

He’d scorched his windpipe and lungs inhaling, and he’d been in the process of suffocating by the time paramedics made it from town. They’d trached him on the riverbank, stabilizing en route to the airfield in Ainsworth, where the medevac chopper lifted him out.

Wheeler started his summer vacation in the burn unit at St. Elizabeth Regional Medical Center in Lincoln. But according to his doctors, Morgan’s burns weren’t his worst problem now.

After almost eight weeks on a ventilator, he’d developed pneumonia, infection kicking his inflammatory responses into overdrive. After all these weeks, he was in the process of suffocating again.

Tom got the message late Sunday night. It was the first thing he heard when he got back from the casino and the last thing he heard that day.

He managed to set an alarm clark before passing out on the couch.

Monday morning, before dawn, he drove Scott home to the Circle Slash.

It was forty miles by highway to Abby’s place. She wanted to get on the road early, hoping to make Lincoln by late afternoon before hospital hours ended for the day.

Scott sat in the passenger seat and looked out the window for most of the drive. Tom watched the road. Neither of them said much of anything.

A few miles south of Valentine, the sun rose over the Sandhills, casting the grass-bound dunes in warm early light. Tom saw a lone windmill atop a gentle rise, silhouetted against the lightening sky. Sunlight flickered through the turning blades, triggering a thought.

“Hey.” He looked at Scott. “What’s the aquifer?”

“Huh?”

“The aquifer.”

Sleeping off last night’s cocktail of beer and box wine and adrenaline had left him a strange hangover. He couldn’t seem to focus his thoughts. One minute, he was locked on Harlan Pack. Cory Severs. Duane. The next, he was thinking about some story he’d covered. Or the busted coin slot on the vending machine at the shop. The strange-looking bird on the fence post they’d just passed. He kept free-associating, wandering, finding his way back.

“Your mom,” he said. “I mean Abby.”

“What about her?”

“She told me that’s how she met your dad. Said he came out to one of her school classes to talk about the aquifer.”

“Ask Abby if you want to know about my dad.”

They rode the next ten miles in stiff silence. Tom wished he hadn’t opened his mouth.

At one point, Scott said, “There.”

Tom looked where he pointed, ahead on the right beyond a four-wire fence line. In a dip at the end of a long, ridgelike dune, he saw a few head of beef cattle standing around a small, irregular basin. Wind kicked up ripples along the surface of a shallow, murky water puddle. Sunlight glinted on the ripples. Cattle stood and blinked.

“There what?”

“There’s your aquifer.”

The cattle watched them shoot past. One roan steer lifted his tail and took a shit where he stood. Tom glanced at Scott and sighed.

“Thanks.”

“You asked.”

After another few miles, Scott pointed out the window again. “See the mile marker coming up?”

Tom saw it.

“Turn there.”

The driveway wound a quarter mile off the highway, taking them around the base of a massive dune, through pasture lined by split-rail fence on both sides, finally up to a plateau. The main house sat here, nestled in a windbreak.

A modern house, with flower beds and landscaping and a domed wood-shake roof. Tom saw a horse barn and corral, a few smaller outbuildings, a four-wheel ATV parked down the hill. All the buildings looked painted within the past couple of years. The fences were iron or wood rail all around.

The front door of the house opened as soon as they got out of the car. As Tom went around to the trunk, he heard a small voice, high on energy.

“Scotty!”

A little girl with big bunches of wheat-colored hair came tearing down the sidewalk and across the rock, pint-sized sneakers kicking up dust.

Over the trunk lid, Tom watched Scott. The kid sighed. A look of annoyance passed over his face.

But it was bullshit. When the girl launched herself at his legs, Scott cracked a smile and scooped her up with his left arm.

“Hey, Scotty Potty.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

Hannah giggled and yanked his hair. “Scotty Potty. Your arm got tan.”

He held up his right arm. “It’s all better.”

“I missed you.”

“Didn’t either.”

“I did too.”

Scott poked her in the stomach and she giggled again.

Hannah saw Tom watching them. “Who are you?”

“That’s Mommy’s friend,” Abby said. She came along behind, crunching across the rock toward the car. “His name is Tom.”

“Oh. Hi, Tom.”

When Abby’s little girl smiled at him, Tom felt something sharp in his chest. He could feel Abby watching.

“Hiya, Hannah.” He tried to smile and couldn’t quite make it. He winked instead. He shut the trunk and walked over, handed Scott the overnight bag he’d loaned for the trip.

Scott took the bag and let Hannah down. She sucked in close and peeked at Tom around Scott’s leg. Abby came up to Scott and smiled, smoothed the back of his hair.

“Hi, honey.”

“Hey.”

“Your arm’s looking good.”

“It’s fine.”

Abby glanced at Tom, and he could see that she had something on her mind. To Scott, she said, “Take squirt in and get her things. We’ll get going.”

Without a word, Scott slung the overnight bag over his shoulder and headed for the house. Hannah ran along in front of him.

When they’d disappeared inside, Tom said, “How old is she?”

“She turned four in April.”

He nodded, suddenly wanting a drink. Bad.

“You okay?”

He finally looked at her. The faint lines around her mouth looked like furrows this morning. He said, “What’s the matter?”

“I need to talk to you.”

There was a garden area in back of the house with a brick patio and a little outdoor bistro set. They sat there. Behind the horse barn, the Sandhills rolled all the way to the horizon. A warm breeze blew.

“Duane got in a little trouble,” he told her. “A couple days ago. I didn’t want you to worry. What did you hear about it?”

“I didn’t hear anything about it.” She set her mouth. “Tom, I have to tell you something. I almost called yesterday, then I decided I was being crazy. But the more I think about it, the more worried I get.”

“What is it?”

“The guy who stayed here,” she said. “The photographer?”

“Larry?”

She nodded. “Is he still at your place?”

“He comes and goes,” Tom said. “But he’s paid up through the summer. A season in the life of the Scenic Niobrara, something like that. Why?”

“I had two guys here over the weekend. They acted . . . well, they acted like a couple. On vacation.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“But they wanted the big room,” she said. “The one with two beds. And I could tell they used both of them. I don’t think they were sleeping together.”

“Spat?”

“They asked a lot of questions,” she said. “Stuff about the area. I didn’t think anything about it then. They said they were thinking about taking one of the canoe trips they’d heard about, asked me if I could recommend a place. I told them my stepson worked for you and they brightened up, asked me how old he was, how long he’d been working there, things like that. They seemed like a couple nice guys who like to have a conversation. But I keep thinking back to things they said. . . .”

“Why did you ask about Larry Salinger?”

“Because I saw him in town yesterday,” she said. “Hannah was hungry, so we stopped in at McDonald’s. The three of them were there having lunch together.”

“Larry and your guys?”

She nodded.

Tom wasn’t sure where to go with that.

“They were looking for an outfitter,” he said. “Larry probably looks about like he’s been living in a tent. Maybe they just got talking.”

“They asked about Scott again when they checked out last night,” Abby said. “And one of them . . . one of them was wearing a jacket. Like a sport jacket. You know what I mean?”

“A sport jacket, yeah.”

“When he bent down to pick up his bag, I thought . . . I don’t know.”

“You thought what?”

She shook her head, dropped her voice. “Tom, I swear he was wearing a gun.”

Tom sat for a minute, watching a windmill spin. He thought it was a mile away until he realized it was only a few feet high, built low to the ground. A trick of perspective.

He thought about Duane Foster. He thought about Harlan Pack and his busted face, about Scott showing up at the Landing with a gun of his own. He thought about Morgan Wheeler in the hospital.

He didn’t know what he thought and what he didn’t. He didn’t know what to tell Abby, what not to tell her. He thought about Hannah, running into the house.

Scott yelled down from a sliding door in back. “We going or what?”

Abby said she’d be inside in a minute. Tom looked at her across the table. She looked back at him. Her eyes still seemed a touch manic, but she forced a grin.

“Sorry, you’re right. I’m probably being crazy.”

“Probably,” he said.

He grinned back, thoughts spinning like the blades of the stubby little windmill in the near distance.

TWENTY

He found a note from Duane when he got back to the shop. They’d only had enough people for one run, which Foster was apparently still making. Two parties of two putting in kayaks at the refuge, a family putting in a tube at the Falls.

Larry Salinger drove a new Ford Escape with a small two-wheeled sport trailer; sometimes he unhitched the trailer and left it at the campground, sometimes he took it along with him. Today he must have taken it along.

Tom was glad that Larry wasn’t around. He was glad Duane wasn’t around. He was grateful for the quiet.

He had a drug dealer working at the Landing, but that wasn’t what bothered him most. All his instincts told him that Duane Foster was into something more than a few pounds of grass; whatever it was, he’d managed to get on Harlan Pack’s bad side. Scott was involved. Trevor Wheeler was involved. Cory Severs was not only involved; Tom suspected he was now running the show.

He thought about Larry Salinger.

Abby was right to be worried. She had a right to know whatever he could tell her. He’d dummied up, told her nothing. He still wasn’t sure why.

Even after weeks of willful oblivion, Tom wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t see a story brewing under his nose. One that probably meant trouble for somebody he’d cared about. For the first time in his ex-career, he knew that what might happen from here mattered more than whatever had happened so far.

Yet whenever he closed his eyes, he saw only one thing.

He tried to shake it. For the first time in a long time, he had other people to think about. He honestly tried.

He started by pouring himself a drink.

He didn’t stop drinking it for almost two days.

From: Tom Coleman

To: Circle Slash Bed & Breakfast

Sent: Wed 7/02 4:35 A.M.

Subject: RE: took you long enough

>Tell me about Emily?

Grace. That’s what we called her.

I don’t remember why. I guess we liked the way the names sounded together, but Melissa liked Grace better for everyday.

I remember the first few times her nurses called for “Emily.” It always took them a couple tries to get our attention. We’d be sitting there in the waiting area, playing with the lizard magnets or whatever they had for toys, while the nurse is standing there saying, “Emily? Emily Coleman?”

Even at the end it still threw me. Emily. I never completely got used to the fact that they were talking about my kid.

He’d never written about her before, he realized.

Nothing in his adult life had ever seemed real until he’d written the story, and he’d never written about her. He’d never even tried.

Once he started, it poured out in a flood.

She was the only kid in the nursery with her eyes open. All the others were sleeping, or squalling, eyes puckered shut like they wished they could go back inside and stay there. And there was mine, wrapped up like a little bean, blinking. Taking it all in. I didn’t see her born. Wasn’t even there. Deadline.

Melissa was in recovery from the C-section by the time I got to the hospital, found my way up to the delivery ward, found the one with my last name. They shoved her at me, and it was either hold her or drop her.

That was the first time she looked at me. If you told me there was a pill that would take away all the pain of losing her, but I’d lose the memory of my kid looking me in the eyes for the first time, I wouldn’t take it.

I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know what I’d do.

When he finished the bottle, he cracked a new one.

He was losing ground fast now. He still hadn’t told the story. It occurred to him that he could stop any time.

She was a happy kid. Sweet as pie. And stubborn as hell from day one. Between me and Melissa, she got that coming and going.

But it was the little things I always worried about. Watching the way she absorbed everything, seeing things about ourselves we hadn’t even recognized until we saw them in her, I always wondered how many little ways I was screwing the poor kid up.

That, and how I’d handle it when guys started coming around in tricked-out cars.

We thought she had asthma. She had this cough. Sometimes she’d lose her wind if she played too hard.

So we finally take her in and they do a bunch of tests. It’s nothing, nothing, nope, nothing, good news, she doesn’t have this, she doesn’t have that.

Then they x-ray her chest. It turns out it’s not nothing. It turns out there’s this mass crawling all over in there, trying to choke her out.

They gave us brochures.

I guess we were grateful for any information we could get our hands on then. All the literature led with statistics: Don’t worry, we’ve got numbers on this. Our people are all over it. You think your kid’s the only one dying around here?

I’ve covered some awful shit, Ab. Murders. Crack houses. Shit you dream about later. But the most depressing place I’ve ever been is a children’s hospital at Christmas.

Kids in her age range are supposed to respond best to treatment; statistically, girls tend to come out better than boys. I remember looking at all those other little kids, and their parents, and feeling guilty for being so grateful that it was going to be okay for us.

I guess she was stubborn. But she went through all of it smiling. All the needles and the machines, drugs that just made her sag and want to be held all day. That goddamn kid smiled even when she couldn’t lift her head.

I saw your little girl yesterday. She’s gorgeous, Ab. And I stood there and watched you put her in her car seat and I hated you both for the rest of the day.

That’s what I learned about myself yesterday. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what I’d do anywhere else. I don’t know why I can’t move on from this, and I don’t know why I should want to. All I know is that my own daughter is buried in Chicago, and I just fucking left her there.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself on the floor. He’d propped himself up against the woodstove, bottle still clutched in one hand. At some point, he became aware of weight in the other.

He looked down and saw that he’d been to the closet. The one in the back room, above the laundry, where he’d stowed his luggage the day he first got here.

Tom didn’t remember reloading the Browning he’d taken from Scott. He didn’t remember racking the slide. But when he saw the hammer locked back in the firing position, he remembered what he’d been wondering.

He was curious.

It was as if he suddenly pulled out of the moment and saw himself: sitting on his ass on his grandfather’s pine floor, legs splayed, leaning against the iron stove. He had a gun on his lap in one hand, a bottle in the other.

When he pulled back in, he sat and considered how he felt about what he’d just seen. He realized that he didn’t feel anything at all.

He raised his hand and pressed the muzzle to his head to see what it felt like. He put his finger on the trigger to see what that felt like. He applied a little pressure. It didn’t feel like anything.

He looked up at the curtains swirling in the dark. Just then, something hot and sudden bubbled up, up and out before he could stop it, and as his shoulders began to heave he understood that he was weak.

It wasn’t a surprise anymore.

TWENTY-ONE

The kitchen faced east and sunlight came in through the windows there until noon. Dust floated in the golden beams. Based on the spot the beams touched the floorboards, he knew it was early, probably not long after dawn.

He was still drunk. From where he lay—still on the floor, still leaning against the woodstove—Tom could see into the kitchen. He could see Abby sitting at the table, hunched over the computer.

He couldn’t remember if he’d left it on but didn’t remember turning it off. He couldn’t remember if he’d gone back and hit Send, or gone back and hit Delete, or if he’d gone back at all.

When he moved, she heard his shoe scrape the floor. She straightened quickly, closed the laptop, quietly latched the screen. She wiped her eyes and stood up from the table.

After a moment, she came in with a glass of water, pretended to be surprised that he was awake.

“Hey, great. I thought I was going to have to throw this in your face.”

Tom pulled himself up and sat for a minute, forearm across a knee. He’d relaxed his grip on the bottle at some point; it had rolled away, trailing gin to the rag rug in front of the stove. The rug had absorbed what his liver hadn’t. It seemed like a waste.

“How was Lincoln?”

“The trip was fine,” she said. “Morgan isn’t doing very well.”

Tom rubbed his face, nodded.

“He seemed a little more alert yesterday. I don’t know, it’s so hard to tell. They keep him out of it so he won’t fight the machine so much. Seeing Scott seemed to do him some good.”

Tom leaned his head back against the stove. “He’s here?”

“Scott? Yes, we just got here. I thought you’d probably need him early.”

She held out the water. He shook his head.

“You’ve got a couple people waiting downstairs. I think he and Duane are loading up the bus.”

Tom looked around. The place was a wreck. Beer cans. Empty bottles. Stink.

Over in front of the couch, he saw curled photographs spread out on the empty cable spool his grandfather had salvaged for a coffee table. The photos also came from the luggage-and-gun closet. A box on the top shelf. He didn’t remember digging them out, getting into them. He wanted to pick them all up and put them back.

“Duane let you up?”

“I just came up.” She pulled over a chair with one hand and sat down. “He’s a little mad, FYI.”

“Good for him.”

They sat for a few moments—him on the floor, head against the stove, Abby on the chair, still holding the water he’d refused.

“It’s probably not the best thing,” he finally said.

“What’s not the best thing?”

“Having him around here.” He hauled himself to his feet. “Scott.”

“I’m not worried about Scott anymore.”

When he looked at her, she offered the water again. Tom held her eyes for a moment, gave up. He took the glass with him into the kitchen.

On the way past the table, he noticed the laptop’s standby light blinking. He put the water on the counter and started making coffee. Abby followed him in.

“The truth is, I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time. I can’t remember how long.”

She smiled at his expression.

“He doesn’t act like it. I know that. But I know him. It’s been good for him out here, I can tell.”

“It’s a wholesome environment.”

“I told you.” He could feel her watching him. “I’m not worried.”

Tom dumped the old grounds, got down the can and a new filter. His hands weren’t working together smoothly yet, and he spilled new grind all over the counter. Abby took a seat at the table.

“You seemed worried the other day.”

“I know. I know. I was . . . stressed. I guess.”

He put the coffee on and leaned against the counter.

She said, “Jason came to the hospital from campus Tuesday morning, and my folks. And yours. They only let a couple people in the room at a time, and it’s this whole production, you have to sterilize and put on scrubs. So Scott went up with Lois to see Morgan one more time before we had to get on the road.”

“Mom and Dad came up?”

“For a couple hours, yeah,” she said. “I called them and told them we were there.”

“Oh.”

“So we went down to get coffee. We were standing around in this family area, just chatting. You know what I saw?”

Tom waited.

“Guy wearing a sport jacket. With a bulge under it.” She shrugged. “His bulge started ringing.”

Tom felt his mouth twitch. “What happened then?”

“He answered it.”

“Answered his gun, huh?”

“Just a cell phone.” She gave a wan smile. “In a little plastic holster thing on his belt.”

When the coffee finished brewing, Tom got down two mugs and filled them. He put one down in front of her and took the other chair. She sat with her finger through the thick ceramic handle and blew the steam into swirls. He saw her glance at the laptop. She saw him see her do it. Neither of them said anything.

In a few minutes, Tom heard the bus growl to life outside. He heard the trailer clatter over the washboards on the way out. He heard the growl deepen as the bus rounded the trees.

When she’d finished her coffee, Abby got up and picked up the knit shoulder bag she carried for a purse. It had a picture of a Parisian cabaret dancer on it.

“I’d better get back to the house. Dan’s mother has Hannah. She’s got to get going soon.”

“Okay.”

She turned to go.

“Hey,” he said.

Abby stopped, turned back.

“When you came in.” He looked toward the sink as he sipped his coffee. For the first time it occurred to him that he didn’t know where he’d left Scott’s gun. “Was I holding a cell phone?”

She didn’t say anything.

He looked up, saw her arm over her purse, holding it close against her ribs. Her expression remained neutral. He looked at her and waited.

“I don’t remember seeing one,” she said.

TWENTY-TWO

They heard it was coming on the noon news.

They spent Wednesday afternoon preparing for the onslaught anyway, working through lunch and past supper, into the evening.

Tom did the books. When he was finished, he went out and mowed the main grounds—partly because they needed it, mostly because he wanted to sit on the mower in the punishing sun and think and be left the hell alone.

Duane and Scott handled the few customers who lingered from the weekend or showed up for an early start on the Fourth of July holiday. Otherwise, Duane worked on the bus. Scott picked up trash and stocked the shop. Tom finished mowing and helped Scott haul firewood until after dark.

Late in the afternoon, a breeze picked up. The temperature suddenly dipped, then hung. Flies grew thick on the screen doors and around the garbage cans. By nightfall, the breeze had stiffened and picked up a moist earthy scent.

Around ten P.M., Tom made a dozen bologna sandwiches. He grabbed a six-pack for the three of them from the fridge, a couple bags of chips from the shop. They ate on the deck. After, they sat around like stuffed furniture, all three of them grubby and beat.

Nobody spoke. Even Duane seemed to be out of things to say. It was dark over the river: no stars tonight, no moon. The breeze stirred the treetops and cooled their necks.

Soon the air turned rich and wet all around. Soon after that, they heard rain whispering in the trees.

According to the weather, the big system out of the Rockies was still developing, getting ready to move.

“Twenty bucks it misses us to the south,” Duane said.

Scott sipped his beer. “I’ll take that action.”

Light showers for now.

They hadn’t had a drop in weeks, and Tom had forgotten how a Nebraska summer could wear you down. So they sat on the deck and sipped their beers and listened to the sound of rain on the river, a hollow patter on the tin roofs of the buildings and over their heads.

Thursday morning broke to a hard gray sky.

Tom came downstairs early. He could hear Duane and Scott clanking around outside. He stepped out on the deck with a cup of coffee and saw them hauling canoes out of the big shed, laying them out on the soggy ground.

The cool air smelled fresh and mossy, laced with clay mud and the bright tang of wet cedar. From where he stood, Tom could see a blue heron fishing on the ford. He saw the bird stab at the water with its long beak, come up empty.

He went back inside.

The clock above the candy rack said six-thirty. If anybody had ridden out the night without heading for town, nobody had shaken off the water and made their way in from the campground yet.

As he went around to the register to lay in the cash for the day, something caught his eye. A book rested on the counter, slightly askew, as though it had been tossed there. He hadn’t noticed it on the way out.

Tom picked it up now, looked it over. He looked out the big front windows. He looked back at the book.

It was a slim digest with a cheap glossy cover that bowed away from the pages like wings. The art was a grainy, badly reproduced black-and-white photo of rolling prairie under a low-hanging sky. Thin laminate coating had begun to peel back from the corners in yellowed curls. The whole volume contained about forty staple-bound pages and looked like it had been read and reread to death.

Hidden Treasure: The Ogallala Aquifer

Not exactly a grabber, but the author’s heart had clearly been behind it.

Daniel B. Greer. Circle Slash Publications.

Tom held the book in his hands. Through the deck railing, he caught a glimpse of Scott’s yellow poncho down by the shed.

As he opened the book and read the first few paragraphs, heavy footfalls climbed the stairs outside. In a moment, the bell jingled. The screen door creaked, then banged. Tom looked up.

When he saw who it was, he closed the book and put it aside. His plan changed.

“Morning,” Larry Salinger said.

Tom sipped his coffee. “Back again.”

Larry chuckled and worked his feet, wiping what looked like a new pair of hiking boots on the bristle mat inside the door. “Glad I remembered to waterproof my tent.”

TWENTY-THREE

By the morning of the biggest day on the river, the campground at Coleman’s Landing had all but cleared. None of the new reservations showed up. A few people called in but most didn’t bother.

Even Larry Salinger finally surrendered and came in for shelter. Around midmorning, Tom looked up from his reading and saw the small SUV round the tree line, wipers beating, tires caked with wet sand.

On the deck, Salinger shook water off his hands. He wore a cap with an Ilford logo stitched on the front, water dripping from the bill. He took off the cap and wiped his face and said, “Nice day.”

“If you’re a duck. Want coffee?”

“Pretty please.”

Tom stood from the table, closing the book over a finger, turning the cover from view. He took it with him inside.

Duane and Scott came up from the bunkhouse for lunch. The four of them spent the rest of the afternoon on the deck, playing cards and shooting bull. The rain came down beyond the edge of the roof like a string curtain beaded with glass.

During a lull, Scott wandered down to the river. He stood on the bank above the ford, hands on his hips, studying the sky.

Duane Foster took the opportunity to spark up a joint. It must have been a straggler from the old stash. Foster offered a hit to Larry, but Larry declined. Tom had already switched from coffee; he raised his mug and shook his head. Foster just smiled, leaned back, and took another hit for himself.

When Scott came back up, he said, “Looks like it’s coming.”

Salinger looked at the bright plastic poncho like it might unfold itself and attack.

“Are you serious?”

“That Ford has four-wheel drive, right?”

Larry nodded skeptically.

Tom grinned and held up the new bottle of Gilbey’s he’d brought down from upstairs. “It’ll be something. I promise.”

“Can I take your word for it?”

From the table, Duane and Scott watched the exchange over their cards with curious expressions.

“Hey, boss?”

Tom could see what was coming by the look on Foster’s face. “Tell me I remind you of anybody and you’re fired.”

Duane glanced at Scott and rolled his eyes, made a curlicue around his temple with an index finger.

“Hey, seriously, it’s gonna hit hard,” Scott said. “You guys might want to, like, not be in it.”

“Don’t worry, we’re journalists. We’ll be fine.” Tom shook out one of the ponchos and bagged himself in it. He tossed the other into Salinger’s lap. “Come on, we’re going to miss the whole thing.”

In the midst of all the water from above, he’d been learning about a freshwater sea underground.

Not a sea, precisely. More a heavy-laden sponge with great ancient pockets and stores. According to the capable reportage of Daniel B. Greer, this was the Ogallala Aquifer, spanning more than a quarter million square miles beneath the High Plains.

From South Dakota to Texas, the formation’s three-billion-plus acre feet comprised the largest groundwater system in North America. If you could squeeze the sponge dry, you could fill Lake Huron and have enough water left over to flood a town.

The sponge was thickest here, beneath the Sandhills. The region itself—all twenty thousand square miles of porous, grass-stabilized sand—served as one giant charging unit for the aquifer. In turn, the aquifer charged the river and created marshes, seeped to the surface in the form of puddles and temporary ponds.

There was an ecosystem to consider. Wildlife habitats. There were millions of dollars in domestic food and textile production to which the aquifer contributed annually. According to Dan Greer, without wise stewardship the whole thing could be depleted in a matter of decades. On the bright side, it wouldn’t take more than a few thousand years to replenish it again.

For now, even beneath an area crippled by drought, water still hid everywhere.

As Tom read about it, he thought of the slop hole Scott had pointed out the other morning on the way to Abby’s. It turned out the kid hadn’t been jerking him around after all. He’d simply been pointing out a spot where the surface had eroded to the water table beneath.

Mostly, as he sat and read, listening to the rain tattoo the roof over the deck, Tom thought about all that water, trickling down and collecting.

He thought about years of rains and melts, trapped in subterranean layers, waiting to bubble up.

By the time they pulled to the shoulder, the sky hung so low over the road that it made Tom want to duck his head. Mean thunderheads piled up on each other as far as they could see. It was late afternoon and dark as dusk.

“Jesus.”

“Puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?”

Larry took a swallow from the bottle and passed it back. He pulled himself forward by the steering wheel and craned a little, peering out under the edge of the windshield.

“Anyway,” Tom said, “what’s the Fourth without fireworks?”

“If I feel my hair start tingling, I’m driving like a bat out of hell.”

Tom laughed and Larry broke down; they passed the bottle and sat in their rain slickers giggling like idiot kids. Lightning strobed in the cloudbank above them, muted flashes behind bruise-colored pockets and smoky whorls. Thunder rumbled continuously now, still distant but louder than before.

“Hey, don’t let me forget. I have some stuff to give you.”

“Stuff?”

“For your story,” Tom said. “I found this great book about the aquifer.”

“Yeah?”

“Thought you might want it.”

In the driver’s seat, Larry tipped the bottle and nodded along. “Sure, great. Thanks.”

“You probably have more than you need already.”

“Hey, you know. Another source never hurts anything.”

“I’m trying to think of the name. It’s . . . Jesus. Help me out.”

“Huh?”

“The aquifer. It’s the title of the book. I’m blanking.”

Larry tapped the wheel with his thumbs. He furrowed his brow. He finally broke out laughing again. “I’m loaded. I can’t think.”

“Culligan,” Tom said. “That’s it. History of the Culligan Aquifer.”

Larry didn’t correct him. He snapped his fingers. “There you go. Like the water guy. Christ, don’t tell my editor I didn’t know that. She’ll pull my expense account.”

Tom sang it from the old commercial. “Hey, Culligan Man . . .”

They snickered and hit the gin. Tom noticed Larry Salinger blocked the mouth of the bottle with his tongue every other turn or so. He noticed because he’d been doing the same thing. He wondered if Larry noticed, too.

The thunder rumbled over them.

Tom looked out the window and studied what his grandfather used to call a blowout—a spot where erosion had exploited a chink in the grass cover, carving out a bowl of bare sand. The dune sat just beyond the fence on his side like a ball of ice cream with a scoop taken out. Wildflowers grew in the shelter of the blowout.

Above them, purple clouds began to shift and boil.

Thunder rumbled and grew louder.

All at once, night flashed day. The dunes stood in negative relief for a moment; a splintering crack like a falling tree split the sky.

The rain came down.

It came in a sudden torrent, drops big as quarters. Inside the car, it sounded as though they were being showered with ball bearings. Lightning flashed with the thunder now, a cannon boom this time. Larry jumped in his seat.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said. “Maybe we should get out of this.”

“Couldn’t see to drive anyway. Not much to do now but ride it out.”

Yellow plastic crinkled as Larry reached for the bottle. He gave a nervous chuckle and tipped the bottle back. Tom saw his Adam’s apple bob. Down the hatch.

No shame in that. Tom opened the hatch, too.

In Chicago, he’d once been on-site at a standoff outside a branch bank on North Kedzie. After an hour, the guy inside started shooting. Tom had heard a bullet shatter a parking meter five feet from the SWAT van he’d been crouching behind.

He’d been scared shitless that day, but nothing in his experience quite compared to being caught on the open range in a storm, even in a warm dry vehicle. This was primal fear, naked and quaking, black mountains moving above you and thunder in your bones.

You are here.

You are alone.

Boom.

“Jesus.”

“God bless America,” Tom said.

Larry chuckled, jumping again with the next whipcrack of thunder.

They sat and passed the bottle as the wind came like a train, driving the rain sideways into the SUV, rocking them gently. Salinger slouched behind the wheel. Through the downpour, Tom could no longer see the flowers in the blowout ten feet away; he imagined them beaten steadily flat.

It came like that for half an hour.

Eventually, after one last scream and a wheeze, the worst passed. The rain subsided to a steady labor. As the white noise inside the truck subsided with it, Tom heard a steady labor beside him.

He looked over and saw Larry hunched against the door, mouth open, bottle between his legs.

Salinger began to snore. Tom reached over and took the bottle. Larry’s hand fell limp. Tom nudged him hard. Deadweight.

Amateur.

He took a nip and pulled down the visor above his head. Tom looked at the pink registration slip. He opened the glove box. While Salinger slept, he looked at the things he found in there.

Later, after the rain, he did something he couldn’t remember doing since he’d been a teenager. Tom wasn’t completely sure he remembered doing it even then.

He called the great Jack Coleman and asked for help.

PART
3

THE RAIN DOGS

TWENTY-FOUR

Morgan Wheeler died early Monday morning in the burn ICU at St. Elizabeth’s.

Weakened by new infection, his lungs had saturated and finally foundered. Even with the ventilator at max operation, his blood oxygen levels continued to fall. Machines could pump it in, but Morgan’s drowning tissues couldn’t make use of it.

In the end, fluid finished what fire started. His kidneys went first, sometime Sunday afternoon. Emergency dialysis failed to interrupt what amounted to a systemic domino effect, and after weeks of slow progress in the burn center, bad momentum brought the works crashing down in a matter of hours.

Abby picked Scott up at the Landing. Scott’s older brother, Jason, rode out from Lincoln with Tom’s folks.

The Wheelers had a family plot going back to Morgan’s great-great-grandparents. They buried him there Wednesday morning under a blue cathedral sky.

“It’s a shame,” Larry Salinger said. “Kid was how old?”

Tom sipped his coffee. “Sixteen.”

“I guess he and Scott were pretty close.”

“I guess they were.”

The river flowed right along today, churning into foamy white breakers as it passed over the ford. The rains had cooled things for a day or two, but today the breeze was gone, the sun was back, and the morning air clung to everything like a steamy towel. Tom could smell dead fish on the bank.

“I’m surprised Duane didn’t go,” Salinger said. “I got the impression he knew the kid, too.”

They could see Foster down the hill, on the roof of the big shed. He was busy nailing down corners of tin the weekend winds had lifted. He’d returned from the put-in at Berry Bridge a half hour ago.

“I don’t think he had anything to wear.”

Larry chuckled. “You know, I think those two this morning kind of liked what he was wearing. The big one especially.”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t think?”

“Didn’t notice, I guess.”

“I think the little one noticed.” Salinger chuckled again. “Meow. Long day in a canoe for those two.”

They’d arrived together late last night: two men, no reservation, decked top to bottom in stiff new L.L. Beanerie. On an anniversary vacation, they said, trying new things. They said Coleman’s Landing came highly recommended. They also laughed and told Tom not to be surprised if they called in for a rescue after paddling a mile.

Tom hadn’t asked what anniversary they were celebrating. He normally made no assumptions based on appearances, but he would have bet whatever was left in his 401(k) on these two. Combined, he guessed they were approximately as homosexual as Ryland Wheeler. He doubted it was a coincidence that this morning’s funeral on the Wheeler ranch happened to be a ten-minute drive southwest of Berry Bridge.

Tom wondered where the phony lovebirds had stashed their second vehicle. He wondered why they’d started from here in the first place.

“Scott seems like a decent kid.” Larry shook his head. “And his mother. She seems like a strong person to me.”

“She is.”

“Makes you wonder what got into him.”

Tom sipped his coffee, watched the river. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

When the phone in the shop started ringing, Tom left Salinger on the deck and went in to answer it. A minute later, he came back out and called Foster up from the shed.

It took Duane a few minutes to climb down off the roof and make his way up the slope. When he got there, his bandana was soaked, arms slick. A bead of sweat dripped off the end of his nose.

“I need you to run into town for me.”

Duane wiped his chin with the back of a wet hand. “Yeah? What for?”

“Make a deposit. Bank just called. I guess I messed up the books again.”

“Yeah? How high they bouncing this time?”

“High enough.” Tom handed him the check Paradiso had sent back in June. He’d been looking at it in the cupboard so long he’d forgotten it was there. “This ought to cover us.”

Foster looked at the amount and whistled. “What’s my fee?”

“You get lunch.”

“Dude, I always get lunch.”

“Extra bag of chips.”

“Guess I’m your man.”

After Duane retrieved the truck keys from the nail inside the shop and headed down the path, Salinger shook his head and said, “That guy kills me. What’s his story, anyway?”

“About what you’d expect.”

“He ever actually say anything, or does he just bullshit all the time?”

“Pretty much full of shit,” Tom said. “He fits right in around here.”

Larry chuckled at that. He drew in a breath and looked out at the river like he’d rather be no other place on earth.

But something subtle changed in the air between them. Tom felt it. When Salinger raised his mug and took a sip, Tom saw tension in his shoulders he hadn’t seen before.

Ten minutes after Duane left in the pickup, Tom heard engines approaching. At least two vehicles. He heard the leader kick down into a lower gear along the steepest part of the track.

In another minute, Roy Hilliard’s white-and-gold Expedition rounded the trees. His dad’s silver Buick followed ten yards behind.

Salinger watched. His eyes flickered to Tom, back to his coffee. He covered with another chuckle.

“Man. That was fast.”

“What was fast?”

“Remind me not to pass any bad checks around these parts.”

The heron was back this morning. Tom watched the big bird fish the ford. Down in the lot, he heard car doors slam. Men’s voices.

The voices fell away. Footsteps approached, scuffing along through the cedar chips. In another minute, heavy shoes hit the steps, climbed, stopped at the top.

“Morning up there.”

The heron spread its gray-blue wings and lumbered downriver. Tom looked up. “Morning, Sheriff.”

“Hot one.”

“How was the service?”

“Goddamn heartbreaker.”

Hilliard wore a bad tie and a plaid button-down shirt. Behind him, Ron Pavel leaned against the railing in a wrinkled brown suit. Jack Coleman must have left his jacket in the car. He waited at the bottom of the stairs in shirtsleeves and suspenders, loosening his tie.

“Well.” Hilliard patted his hard tire of a belly. “You boys ready?”

Tom nodded.

Salinger looked up at Hilliard. “We boys?”

“Got a little room back at the office where we can all sit,” Hilliard said. “Has a nice big table. We can pull up around that. Have a chat.”

Tom got up. He could feel Larry watching as he moved around Hilliard, past the chief deputy.

On his way down the stairs, he met his dad’s eye. Jack Coleman nodded, didn’t smile. Tom noticed how gray his father’s hair looked in the sun. He hadn’t noticed it before.

Behind him:

“Um, guys? Anybody want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Tell you what, bud. We can go or we can do this here. But it’s goddamn hot out and nobody’s in a particularly cheerful mood as it is.”

“I get that impression. Sheriff, is it?”

“You can play this until old Duane gets back if you want,” Hilliard told him. “We all don’t have anywhere to be.”

Tom heard a long minute of silence up on the deck. Eventually, he heard a sigh.

“Motherfuck,” Larry said.

TWENTY-FIVE

They sat around an oblong table in a small paneled conference room behind the dispatch center.

The room had low, water-stained ceiling tiles and file cabinets crowded all around. Every few seconds, an oscillating fan rustled the corners of a county land grid taped to the wall. The air-conditioning in the county courthouse had conked; below ground level, the sheriff’s department felt like a root cellar and smelled like wet iron.

The DEA agent formerly known as Larry Salinger slid a file folder across the table. His real name was Terry Farmer. He wasn’t from Boulder.

“Duane Foster worked on the shipping dock from 1998 until they canned him for missing shifts three years ago.”

“Midwest Partners Inc.,” Hilliard said. “Fine. Get to the goddamn point, bud.”

“Midwest Partners is a pharmaceutical repackager based in Lincoln,” Farmer said. “Five months ago, they posted short on a bulk shipment of OTC ephedrine tablets meant to be packaged and sold as diet pills.”

“Don’t remember seeing that in the papers.”

“It hasn’t been reported in the papers. Take my word for it, Sheriff, it’s been a priority keeping it that way.”

“Well, congratulations.”

Farmer pointed to the folder. “We reviewed Midwest’s employee records back to their first year of operation. We flagged anybody with a jacket. Red flags on drug charges.”

“Foster got a red flag,” one of the gay canoeists in the corner said.

His name was Rice. He was built like a fullback and stood a head taller than the other one, Larson. Farmer had called them in from the field.

“Thanks.” Hilliard looked at Agent Rice. “Don’t know if I’d have figured that one out on my own.”

Tom gave both agents credit: They hadn’t been lying when they’d claimed to be partners. He thought they made a cute couple, lurking there in the corner, each holding up one side of a dented vertical file. Both of them still wore the spiffy new shorts and hiking shoes they’d had on earlier this morning. Until seeing them in this light, Tom hadn’t noticed that Agent Larson must have had a cleft palate as a child. The sandy beard wasn’t part of his disguise; he wore it to cover the surgical scar that pinched his upper lip.

Farmer shot Rice and Larson a glance and took back the reins.

“Foster’s been strictly a misdemeanor possession kind of guy. We were checking him off the list at first.”

“Still waiting, bud.”

“Turned out his landlord was looking for him, too. Foster’s mail started piling up around the end of February. Same week the missing shipment should have been logged.”

Farmer found a wrinkled sheet of paper and slid that across. Tom caught a glimpse of letterhead he recognized: Tyler & Tyler.

Duane’s severance letter. He’d been telling the truth when he claimed he hadn’t gotten it.

“We’re still not a hundred percent on all the nuts and bolts,” Farmer said. “What we do know is that Midwest Partners doesn’t have the tightest operation record in the game.”

“Drug company with drug offenders on the payroll, I guess they don’t,” Hilliard said.

“And they haven’t changed their operations much since the federal regs changed.”

“Regs.”

“We’ve been tracking these shipments since ’93, Sheriff, as I’m sure you know, so when one doesn’t get where it’s going, we tend to notice. Even one this size.”

“What I want to goddamn know,” Hilliard said, voice suddenly booming, “is when the federal government started running undercover without alerting local goddamn agencies.”

For a moment, the whir and click of the fan in the corner was the only sound in the room. Tom glanced across the table toward his dad. Jack Coleman sat quietly, head down, arms folded. Listening.

Farmer said, “Sheriff, your situation here isn’t exactly standard.”

“My situation?”

“We needed to get a bead on Foster while our people sorted out whose jurisdiction was whose in the area. Under the circumstances, it was deemed prudent to the investigation to notify the minimum necessary local officials.”

“Horseshit,” Hilliard said. “Why don’t you go ahead and say what you mean to say?”

“I believe I’m saying what I mean to say. Our intention was to position our investigation. And notify necessary local officials at such time as that determination was made.”

“And I say horseshit. Necessary local officials. Only one reason to keep anybody here out of the loop.”

Across the table, Tom’s dad raised his head and watched Farmer closely.

“With all due respect, Sheriff,” Farmer said, “I wasn’t here three days before a lab went up fifteen miles from my guy. Turns out one of your guys is related to two of the kids involved.”

“Bang-up investigating. And?”

“And what was the closure on that?”

“The closure?” A vein raised along Hilliard’s jaw-line. “Well, let’s see. We put one of ’em in the goddamn ground today. That enough closure for you?”

“I’m only giving this to you from our perspective. Which, at the time, was a meth shack going sky-high. And no arrests.”

“If you’d been interested in communicating facts, you’d know we had support from the state on that.”

Farmer glanced at Tom’s dad.

“We’ve been working with appropriate divisions of the State Patrol from day one,” he said. “We found it coincidental that the former head of Investigative Services happened to be in the area on the day in question. Happened to be on-site. Happens to be a personal friend of yours.”

Hilliard looked at Tom’s dad. “Jack?”

Jack Coleman shook his head. “I knew as much as you did.”

“I’m not making accusations,” Farmer said. “I’m explaining decisions. Decisions that were made based on our evaluation of circumstances using the information available to us at that time.”

“You got a real solid vocabulary, Agent. We’re all impressed. Let’s pretend I’m as dumb as you think I am and get back to those accusations you’re not making.”

“All right, Sheriff. Let’s speak plainly.”

Outside the closed door, down the hall, they all heard Sandy the dispatcher raise her voice. She said, “Ryland, I mean it. Sheriff can’t see you right now.”

Jack Coleman straightened in his chair. Farmer looked toward Larson and Rice.

“Goddamn hell,” Hilliard said.

He pushed away from the table and headed for the door faster than Tom might have imagined him able.

Outside, in the hall, Tom heard Hilliard say, “We’re looking at it. No need for you to be here now.”

He heard Ryland Wheeler say, “That Johnny Coleman’s car outside? He helping you look?”

Hilliard’s voice, fading: “For God’s sake, Ry. Get on back home to Lois and Trev. That’s where you’re needed. It sure as hell ain’t here.”

Outside the conference room, the voices drifted down the hall. Tom couldn’t hear what they said after that.

Inside the conference room, the fan whirred. The clock ticked on the wall. Nobody looked at anybody else. Nobody said anything.

After a few minutes, Chief Deputy Ron Pavel leaned forward and spoke for the first time all morning.

“Got us all figured out, is that right?”

“Ron,” Jack Coleman said. “Take it easy.”

“I been taking it easy all morning. But I hear what this asshole’s saying.” He looked at Farmer. “Let me tell you something. Wasn’t all that long ago, people still talked about Sandhills law around here.”

Farmer nodded. “I grew up in Montana, Deputy. My father had your job in Custer County.”

“Three cheers for you and him.”

“I’m saying you can spare the lecture.” Farmer touched a spot behind his head. “When I was a kid, my dad used to let me feel the shot pellets in his neck. He got them stepping in on a range dispute. I’m familiar with the dynamic out in these communities.”

“Familiar with the dynamic? How long since you been in Montana, boy?”

“Not long enough. Boy.”

Pavel’s chair banged the wall when he stood. Farmer was on his feet waiting for him. Agents Rice and Larson stirred in the corner. Jack put his hand on Deputy Pavel’s elbow.

“Ron.” He spoke in the same voice he used to chat about the weather or the Kansas City Royals.

Pavel’s eyes flashed at Farmer across the table. When he looked at Tom’s dad, his shoulders loosened. He looked toward the wall and took a moment. When he sat down, Farmer sat down.

“Point is, you don’t hear those stories in Cherry County. Not since Sheriff’s been sheriff.”

“He seems to have his own way of doing things.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe your daddy had my job instead of his, he wouldn’t have caught that load of shot in his head.”

The door opened then. Sheriff Hilliard came in and slammed it shut. He said, “You two finished comparing dicks? I can hear you all the way down the goddamn hall.”

Pavel looked at the wall.

Farmer said, “That was Mr. Wheeler, I take it.”

“It was.”

“What does he know?”

“You mean is your cover busted yet? DEA’s still outfoxing the hicks, don’t worry.” Hilliard glanced at Jack as he took his chair again. “Ry got it out of Cory that maybe Morgan and Trevor got mixed up with someone up north. Wanted to know what I was doing about it.”

“By up north,” Farmer said, “I take it you mean the reservation.”

“Yeah, bud, that’s what I mean.”

“That’d be Harlan Pack.” Farmer looked at Rice and Larson. “We’re aware of him. Where is Deputy Severs now, Sheriff?”

“Guess I have my own way of doing things, but I gave him the day off.” Hilliard leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. His shirt had acquired dark circles in the pits. “I expect he’s still with those relatives of his.”

Farmer nodded. After a moment, he produced another folder and laid it out.

“Here’s what we think, and what we know.”

TWENTY-SIX

The way Tom understood it, the DEA’s going theory went something like this:

After a couple of seasons at Coleman’s Landing, Duane Foster believed he’d found the perfect place to a) hide a big batch of hijacked pharmaceuticals, b) set up a low-profile manufacturing plan, and c) spend the summer using three handpicked local recruits to cook his stash for him a little at a time.

He had miles of open space, with access to far corners of it through the Wheeler brothers, whom he’d met working at the Landing with Scott Greer.

Trevor and Morgan had ears near local law enforcement. Rural industry provided access to quantities of precursor chemicals within driving distance, but not too close to home base. Through Harlan Pack, whom he’d met patronizing the casino, Duane had distribution away from the immediate area. And he had a big finish.

“This winner got one of our other red flags.” Farmer pulled a photocopy of a booking sheet and a mug shot, which he handed across to Hilliard. “Vince Magruder.”

“Cute tattoos.”

“He’s a sweetheart,” Farmer said. “Magruder worked on the dock crew at Midwest for six months in ’98. Same time frame as Foster. Since ’99 he’s been chopping Harleys in Garden City, Kansas. He’s been on our screens since 2001.”

Sheriff Hilliard handed Magruder to Ron Pavel, who handed him to Jack Coleman.

“Through phone records, we know that Foster contacted Magruder at least as early as last year,” Farmer said. “We know that Foster used a debit card in Garden City in January. And we know that he made contact from Mr. Coleman’s establishment once in May.”

Tom noted that he’d become Mr. Coleman now. The great Jack Coleman’s boy was moving up in the world.

Friday night, when he’d called his father, he’d borrowed Scott’s cell phone and walked up to the clearing to do it. Now he knew that his gut instinct had been accurate. The phone lines at the Landing had been tapped since early May, just like the ones at Abby’s place and at the Double Deuce Cattle Company.

“Based on that call, we know that Magruder intends to pass through this area in August.”

“Yeah, well. We get all kinds through here around then.”

“Sturgis,” Rice offered from the corner, referring to the annual Harley-Davidson rally in the South Dakota badlands.

Hilliard looked over. “Thanks again.”

“We believe that Magruder provided Foster with start-up capital for an agreement on a share of the product,” Farmer said. “We think that Foster arranged some kind of percentage on his share with Harlan Pack. We know that Foster already handles a small amount of Pack’s grass trade, so there’s an existing partnership there. With a nice potential customer base on the reservation for new product.”

Jack Coleman said, “How much product are we talking about?”

“Being generous?” Farmer sat back in his chair. “Assuming Foster could manage a reasonable yield from the reduction, depending on market price . . . if I were writing the press release, I’d estimate total street value anywhere from two to five hundred.”

“Thousand?” Pavel leaned back and gave a low whistle.

“Bud, I lost track of how many ways this doesn’t make sense,” Hilliard said. “Starting with Scotty and Morgan and Trev.”

“We believe the accident you had down there was a test batch,” Farmer said. “Foster wanted to make sure they could handle the job.”

“Knowing the federal government tracks what he wanted to steal.”

“Nobody said we were dealing with a mastermind. Foster’s a small-timer with back bills and gambling debts who thought he had a bright idea.”

“And your boy Magruder thought it was a bright idea to hitch his wagon to this genius, I guess.”

“Magruder thinks he’s off the radar. Letting Foster take all the risk. His only known association with Foster was years ago, and then only for a short time. And he’s not in jail for the shit he’s been into since, so he thinks we’re stupid.”

“Sounds mighty goddamn thin to me.”

“Like I said, some of this is theory,” Farmer said. “Recorded fact is the call Foster placed to Magruder from Mr. Coleman’s establishment after the lab accident.”

“Plan B,” Rice said.

Hilliard didn’t look over this time. “And you believe Plan B to be what, exactly?”

“We believe that after the accident, Foster planned to cut his risk, sit on the stash until August, and make a straight transaction with Magruder. Raw drugs for cash. Magruder figures, Foster makes it all summer without getting busted, the coast is clear. Duane figures he and Pack split a straight lump profit, no overhead. Assuming Pack even knows about Magruder. Always possible Duane’s playing both sides from the middle.”

Hilliard sat and looked at the table for a long minute, arms folded across the top of his belly. He finally said, “Hell. Anything else you people don’t know?”

“We don’t know where Foster hid the ephedrine,” Farmer said. “He wouldn’t need a lot of room for it. And you’ve got a lot of room for it out here. We haven’t caught anybody visiting so far.”

Pavel snorted. Hilliard kept his eyes on Farmer.

“Let’s talk about Deputy Severs,” Farmer said.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Studying his reflection in the men’s room mirror, Tom heard the snick of cigarette lighters outside.

Near the urinals, a steel-framed window with reinforced glass had been propped open with a dowel. He heard a slightly nasal voice below the window.

He kept quiet in there.

Tom heard Farmer’s voice answer. He’s not much of a talker.

Tom assumed that made the first voice Agent Larson, the only one of the three who hadn’t spoken back in the room. He went over to the window, stood to the side, and listened.

Rice. Maybe he knows more than he’s giving up.

Maybe. Farmer. But I doubt it. The guy’s a mess.

Larson. He managed to finger you, didn’t he? Larry?

Rice, chuckling.

Farmer. You assholes try drinking with him sometime.

Tom reached toward the nearest urinal and yanked the flush handle. Water flooded the bowl. Pipes rattled in the wall.

Outside: sudden silence.

To the empty bathroom, he said, “Bottoms up, guys.”

Below the window, somebody sighed.

Piss, Terry Farmer said.

When Tom had been younger than Scott Greer, maybe ten years old, he remembered his father coming home to supper one night after working a highway accident all afternoon. Tom only knew about the accident because he’d caught a glimpse of his dad talking to a reporter on the six o’clock news.

Jack Coleman had risen from the table and turned off the kitchen television before Tom had heard how bad the crash had been. He remembered opening his mouth to ask and catching a small shake of the head from his mom.

He remembered that she’d made goulash that night. Mostly, he remembered the look on his dad’s face when he finally gave up, put down his fork, apologized across the table with his eyes, and nudged his plate away with the back of one hand.

By late afternoon, Sheriff Roy Hilliard looked like he’d spent the day working the same accident. And found a relative twisted up in the wreckage.

“Tell you, Jack. Sometimes I think I already lived too goddamn long.”

He’d taken a fifth of Jim Beam from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured three fingers each into three foam cups. Tom couldn’t remember ever seeing his father drink anything stronger than a beer.

“The ones on the open market fight the ones playing contracts. Folks make it along through another tough drought. And the minute prices get moving up, they find Mad Cow or some such thing and the bottom drops out under everybody.”

“I know.”

“Ted goddamn Turner comes along and buys out the hobblers, turns the whole place back to the buffalo.”

Jack Coleman nodded along.

“Even if these younger ones wanted to stay around here, which hardly any of ’em do, half these old ranches can’t support ’em much longer anyway.” Hilliard sipped from his cup. “Now somethin’ like this.”

“I know, Roy.”

Roy Hilliard’s eyes snapped up. “Well goddamn it, Jack, what do you know about it after all? Way I remember, you lit out like your ass was on fire soon as you could.”

Tom’s dad sipped from his cup and said nothing.

Tom sat in the corner, rolling his own cup in his hands. Something dawned on him in that moment, watching his dad, watching Hilliard.

He loved his father. He admired him. On some level, despite all his efforts to grow out of it, he’d always felt a baseline pride in being known as Jack Coleman’s boy.

But he’d never felt they shared anything fundamental in common. Not personally. Somehow it had never occurred to him that the great Jack Coleman, as a young man, had been as eager to pry himself apart from his upbringing as Tom had been. It struck him now.

“Goddammit, Jack, I apologize. No call for that.”

“No apologies. It’s been a long day.”

Hilliard sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Say that again.”

A fan whirred somewhere outside the office. The dispatch radio crackled down the hall. Tom had already drained his cup, and he’d emptied the flask two hours ago. He didn’t feel like bellying up to the desk and asking Hilliard to keep it coming. He didn’t belong here in the first place.

“What’s your thought on Cory?”

Hilliard shook his head. “I’ll be goddamned if I know.”

“I was thinking,” Tom’s dad said. “You know he’s bucking for Patrol.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“He asked me to put in a word.”

“He don’t give up easy, got to give him that.”

“I told him I didn’t think I’d be able to do much for him.”

Hilliard said, “Let’s have it, Johnny. I’m listening.”

“Well, maybe he got wind of all this out of Trev. Foster’s big ephedrine deal. A bust like that would be about the biggest thing to come along around here.”

“No question there.”

“So maybe Cory thinks he’s got his big chance here, Roy. Keep this to himself, then be a hero, make his mark. Write his own ticket somewhere.”

“Hell.” Hilliard thought about it, shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe he’s tired of waiting,” Tom said.

His dad looked over, eyebrows raised. The sheriff’s chair groaned when he swiveled in Tom’s direction. “Here I was starting to think you lost your voice, bud.”

Tom put his empty cup on the floor beside his chair. “I didn’t tell you everything when I called you the other morning. After Severs picked up Duane out at my place.”

“Well, now’s about as good a time.”

Tom spent a few minutes talking. Sheriff Hilliard listened behind the desk, while Jack Coleman sat quietly in the same chair Tom had taken the first day he’d come to see Hilliard here.

He told them about the garbage bag Severs had confiscated. He told them that Harlan Pack had been at the Landing with Trevor and Scott that night, told them about his own visit to the casino two nights later. He left out the sliced shirt and the part where he lost his guts all over himself.

His dad still didn’t appear pleased with the story. “You went looking for the guy? Tom?”

“Pack caught a beating,” Tom said. “Pretty good one. He said Severs did it.”

Hilliard looked unimpressed. “Said that, did he?”

“The circumstances of our conversation being what they were, I’m not sure he would have felt any special motivation to lie.”

The way his dad looked at him, Tom expected he’d be asked about the circumstances later.

He didn’t expect Sheriff Hilliard to say, “Like to hear what you think about it, Tom.”

Tom thought about the day he’d come home from this office to find Harlan Pack waiting for Duane in the parking lot. The message behind the busted window seemed clearer to him now.

“I think what Farmer thinks,” he said. “Duane dealt a little grass for Pack on the side. He likes the blackjack tables up there, plays the poker tournaments, but I think he pretty much loses what he wins.” He shrugged. “August probably seemed like a long haul without a little supplemental cash flow.”

“Well, that sounds all right,” Hilliard said. “Unless your dad here’s on the right track about Cory. Big picture, wouldn’t make any sense to come down on old Duane for keeping the stoners in reefer out there on the river.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Tom said. “Not if that was the big picture he was looking at.”

“Well, what else? Protection, I guess you’re thinking.”

“In that case, it wouldn’t make sense to take away the supply.” Tom chose his next words. “Unless you were interested in the market.”

Hilliard knocked back his cup and placed it on his desk blotter. He folded his arms. Tom noticed the sheriff’s funeral shirt had the same button missing as his duty shirt. It must have been a stress point.

“Sheriff, I don’t know. I get the feeling Duane thinks he’s got things under control. He wouldn’t be hanging around if he didn’t. Maybe Severs knows about a big ephedrine deal, maybe he doesn’t. I think he probably just horned in on Harlan’s pot business and now he’s in over his head.”

“Roy told me Cory ran you in a few weeks ago,” his dad said. “Knowing what we know, sounds like he was backing you off, Tom.”

“Maybe. And maybe he was just bent out of shape because you didn’t vouch for him.” Tom shrugged again. “All I know is that Harlan Pack didn’t look like a guy paying protection. He looked to me like the competition.”

Hilliard sat without moving for a long time. Eventually, he let out a long sigh. His chair squealed as he reached out and poured a little more bourbon into his cup. Hilliard looked over the bottle, across the table to Tom’s dad. Jack Coleman shook his head.

Down the hall, the dispatch radio crackled. They heard Cory Severs come over the static. They heard Sandy come back.

Hilliard threw back his shot, crumpled the cup in his fist, and tossed it into the trash can by the desk.

“I goddamn hate doing this today.”

Tom’s dad said, “Probably help if we weren’t here when he gets in.”

“Guess probably so.”

Jack nodded and stood. He put his cup on Hilliard’s desk without finishing it.

Hilliard looked at Tom. “Something else on your mind?”

Tom took his eyes off the wall, shook his head. “I was just admiring your needlepoint.”

Sheriff Hilliard looked where Tom had been looking: a small frame hanging by a string from a nail. A square of white cotton fabric had been stretched over the frame, fancy script lettering stitched in brown and orange silk.

Age and treachery beat youth and skill every time.

The sheriff’s eyes grew distant. After a moment, he said, “Needlepoint, huh? Hell. I always thought that was a cross-stitch.”

Tom got up and joined his dad. They left Hilliard sitting behind his desk, out of uniform, still studying the writing on his wall.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Agent Terry Farmer’s master plan began with an immediate return to business as usual.

The DEA had several cases of over-the-counter ephedrine tablets to locate in an area roughly the size of Connecticut and Rhode Island combined. All things being equal, Farmer’s bosses were less interested in finding the ephedrine than in finding the ephedrine and Vince Magruder in each other’s company.

This Farmer expected to accomplish, with Tom’s cooperation, in just over four weeks’ time.

Until then, Tom was to run his business. He was to treat Scott Greer the way he’d always treated him. He was to treat Duane Foster the same. He was to keep his ears open and his eyes peeled, to steer clear of Cory Severs and Harlan Pack. He was to report anything that seemed like it ought to be reported.

Scott came back to work the morning after Morgan Wheeler’s funeral. Abby tried to coax him into taking the rest of the week off, but he didn’t want to hear it, and she didn’t want to force the issue. She wasn’t convinced that keeping busy wouldn’t be the best thing for him anyway.

So Tom sent Duane to her place in the truck, and Scott was back on the Landing in time for the first morning run.

Tom’s parents stayed the night at the Circle Slash and left for Lincoln after breakfast. Jason Greer carried twelve summer hours and needed to be back on campus first thing Friday for a bio exam.

Joyce Coleman didn’t know why they couldn’t drop Scott off themselves on the way. She wanted to stop at the Landing anyway; she wanted to see Tom before they went back.

Jack Coleman drove south to North Platte instead and took the interstate home.

Tom was glad.

While Duane was gone, Terry Farmer came down from the campground and briefed him one last time.

“Nothing changes.” He smiled. “As long as you don’t screw up and call me Terry, we should be fine.”

“You should have picked a fake name that doesn’t rhyme with your real name.”

“Yeah, I know.” Farmer put an imaginary gun to his head and pulled the trigger. “By the time I thought of that, though, I’d already lived with it too long. I just sort of felt like a Larry.”

“I guess you wouldn’t have wanted to learn a whole new character.”

“Don’t let anybody tell you acting’s not work.” Farmer put his imaginary gun in an imaginary shoulder holster. “You want to talk commitment to craft? I’ve got mosquito bites on my fucking mosquito bites.”

“Hope you don’t get West Nile.”

Farmer chuckled. He looked at his watch, checked the clock above the candy rack. “Duane ought to be back pretty soon. You’re all set?”

“Mind if I ask you one thing?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you guys even know the stuff is still out here? I mean, for sure?” Tom looked at Farmer across the counter. “You can’t watch everybody all the time.”

“We haven’t located the material, obviously.”

“You’re operating partly on theory.” Tom nodded. “Sorry. I remember you saying that now.”

Farmer stood with that for a moment, then said, “I’ve never seen your liver, but you’re still alive. So based on theory, I figure it must be in there somewhere.”

“Milk thistle,” Tom said. “Works miracles.”

“Yeah? My mom swears by bee pollen for hay fever. I just take a multi, myself.”

“Well,” Tom said. “This has been nice.”

“Foster called a pay phone in Garden City last night,” Farmer told him. He cracked a grin, shook his head. “But he called from here. We’ve got a hard date now.”

Tom sighed.

“So the theory is holding up pretty well so far. If I do say so.”

“You win.”

“Four weeks,” Farmer said. “As long as Foster is here, going about his business, acting like everything’s peachy-keen, this operation is on the rails.”

“Go team.”

“I know you’re pissed off, Tom. If you want the truth, personally, I don’t blame you.”

“You know, I like it better when you do that.”

“When I do what?”

“Let me know when you’re getting ready to tell me the truth. I can get ready for it that way.”

Farmer gave him a disappointed look. “The point is, I don’t want you to think that your help isn’t appreciated.”

Tom sipped his coffee.

“Four weeks,” Farmer said. “When Magruder shows up, we’ll get this done.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Tom said.

Four weeks.

Tom gave Agent Farmer his due. The plan hung together nearly forty-eight hours before it fell apart.

To be fair, it wasn’t the theory so much as the variables. But then, if Farmer had asked for Tom’s help preparing the character of Larry Salinger in the first place, Tom could have passed along what his old editor once said about hanging your hat on might and if.

It all went to hell on payday.

TWENTY-NINE

Duane said it best the first week Scott Greer arrived at the Landing:

The kid knew how to work.

Tom sometimes had to remind himself that Scott was only fifteen. On a normal day, he shouldered his load and half of Duane’s. He slouched around, but he never complained. He had a knack for fixing things, an eye for the best way to get a job done. When some problem came up around the place, Tom often found himself evaluating Duane’s opinion based on whether Scott backed him up or disagreed.

When it came to the river itself, Scott was far and away the savviest of the three of them. He let the novice customers know when they had too much gear, when they didn’t have enough. He tipped them where to look for wildlife and how to paddle Fritz’s Narrows without taking a bath.

Even when he was being an asshole, which was more often than not, Scott rarely slacked off. And even when he slacked off, he never did a job halfway.

That was a normal day.

The day after Morgan Wheeler’s funeral, Scott dropped into another gear entirely. He started when he stepped out of the truck Thursday morning and didn’t stop until after dark. Friday morning, Tom heard him clanging around outside before sunrise. Scott started over and did it again.

He stocked and loaded and organized. He combed the campgrounds picking up trash. He spent half a morning lubing and sharpening the sickle attachment for the riding mower; when he was done with that, he took the mower up and down the tall grass along the access road. When he was done with that, he inspected all the gear and split a cord of firewood they didn’t need.

For two days, Scott scourged himself with labor. He stayed out under the sun. He didn’t come in for meals, and Tom barely heard him say a word.

He worked himself blistered, bloodied, and burned. If you didn’t know better, you’d have thought the kid was trying to prove something.

Tom got the feeling he was just afraid to stop.

Friday night, after the last of the campers had settled in, Duane and Scott came up to the shop to collect their cash.

Scott clomped in first, still wearing his work clothes. He had rings of dust under his eyes and crescents of grease under his nails. Streaks of dried sweat stood like veins against the dust on his arms. Duane had already showered and put on his lucky shirt.

He said, “Damn, dude, you gotta learn to pace. You got this whole work-yourself-into-an-early-grave thing going on.”

Scott stood at the end of the counter and didn’t say anything. Duane glanced at Tom. It seemed to dawn on him that perhaps it was an unfortunate week to joke about early graves. He gave a little wince. Oops.

Tom paid him out of the register as usual. As usual, Duane took out a dull silver money clip and folded the bills into it. As usual, he kissed the clip. “Work for Daddy.”

“You should look into a mutual fund,” Tom said.

“You kidding? Have to be crazy to take those odds.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t get caught counting cards.”

Duane put a hand on his chest. “I’m a professional.”

Looking back, Tom realized that his next move was probably the beginning of the end. He didn’t know why he reached under the counter. Normally, he paid Scott out of the register and reimbursed from the cash box later, when he did the books.

Maybe it was because he’d been preoccupied ever since walking out of Sheriff Hilliard’s office late Wednesday afternoon. His mind felt cluttered, attention span short. Maybe, in his distraction, his brain just skipped a step.

Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that he hadn’t had a drink yet today. Tom had been feeling anxious since lunch. Now he felt cold and sweaty at the same time. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, and his right hand shook. He’d told himself he’d hold off until the end of the day, just to prove that he still could, and he’d been straining toward the mark for hours. Now that the hour was near, every task seemed to take on urgency.

Whatever the reason, Tom knew something was wrong the moment he lifted the box. He heard the hollow sound the box made when he set it down on the counter. He glanced at Scott.

“What?”

Tom slipped his fingers between the end of the counter and the wall. He fished out the key, pushed it into the lock on the lid, and stood there for a moment.

“What’s the matter?” Scott said.

Tom knew what was the matter before he opened the box.

Even before he twisted the key, he told himself that Scott was coming off a hell of a week. He told himself he could cover two days’ work out of the register and talk to Abby about it later. It wasn’t his responsibility. It hadn’t even been his idea. He had bigger things to worry about.

But opening the lid and seeing it for himself—four bare corners and an empty bottom waiting there—made something flare in Tom’s gut.

He was coming off a hell of a week, too. He was coming off a hell of a year. He wanted a goddamn drink and he wasn’t in the fucking mood.

So he shut the empty box and tossed it under the counter with an empty steel clatter. He pushed the register drawer shut with his fist.

He looked at Scott’s confused expression. “What are you waiting for?”

“Um, my pay?”

“Nice try.”

“I put in two days.”

“Life sucks, I know. Get used to it.”

“Dude, what’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” Tom said. “Abby covered your salary before you started. On payday, that’s what I pay you.”

“I know that.”

Tom looked at him.

“She told me yesterday. You’re paying me out of my trust.” Scott bit a hangnail off the side of his thumb and spat it out. “Whatever. I don’t give a shit where it comes from. Long as I get paid.”

Tom didn’t know why he was so pissed off. It wasn’t like the kid was stealing from him personally. It was Scott’s money in the first place. He wanted a drink so bad it was starting to hurt.

“Look,” he said. “Your mom gave me enough to last the summer. If it doesn’t last the summer, that’s not my problem. It’s yours.”

“Abby’s not my mom.”

This again.

“News flash. She’s the closest thing to a mom you’ve got, and she loves you more than anybody you know. You should do yourself a favor and wake the fuck up to that.”

Scott’s face twisted into something ugly then. Tom could hear himself talking. He didn’t kid himself. He wasn’t trying to help. He wasn’t being tough on Scott for any special reason. He was a grown man with alcoholic tremors slapping down a fifteen-year-old kid. And he couldn’t seem to stop.

“It’s your money. It’s been right there in the box.” He shrugged. “Should have counted it as you went. It might have held out a little longer that way.”

“Bullshit!”

For a brief moment, Scott’s expression relaxed and turned helpless. There was a pleading quality in his eyes.

Tom shrugged again.

Scott’s voice shot up a register. “I didn’t take shit!”

Tom was about to respond when he saw the look on Duane Foster’s face.

Everything stopped then. Tom looked at Duane. He looked at Scott. He looked back at Duane and saw the whole thing. All at once, the anger drained out of him. Something sick and sad filled the space.

“Jesus,” he said. “You can’t be serious.”

Scott turned on Foster, eyes blazing now. Duane raised his hands.

“I can explain.”

“You took my money?”

“Listen, dude.”

Scott was moving before Tom had absorbed the depressing truth. Duane didn’t even have time to put down his hands before he went flying.

Scott Greer was a big kid, and he was strong as hell. One shove, both hands, all his weight behind it, and Duane’s feet left the floor.

Foster crashed into the candy rack, pulled it down with him in a multicolored rain. Before he recovered, Scott was on him again, tossing the empty rack aside, hauling Duane up by his lucky shirt.

“Piece of shit.”

Scott shoved him again, back across the room. Duane hit the Mr. Coffee; the machine toppled off the table and hit the floor with a crack of plastic and a shatter of glass.

Duane got his balance and straightened, held up his hands one last time. “Don’t. Please.”

Scott was already coming.

With no room to maneuver, Duane took a small step forward and dropped him with a straight right hand.

Tom heard the meaty smack of fist on flesh. Scott’s head snapped back, and his knees buckled. He did an awkward backstep, couldn’t get his feet beneath him, and hit the floor on his ass.

Scott’s hand went to his mouth. After a moment, blood squeezed through his fingers. After that he just sat there, bleeding, surrounded by a litter of candy bars and beef jerky and packs of gum.

“Shit,” Duane said.

Tom hadn’t even lifted his palms from the counter. It was over before he’d had time to react.

Duane stepped forward and held out his hand. “Sorry, man. Come on, this is stupid.”

Scott slapped the hand away. He took his other hand away from his mouth, looked at the smears of red on his fingers. He ran his tongue around the insides of his lips and spat blood. Tom didn’t see any teeth hit the floor.

Without looking at anybody, Scott scrambled to his feet and bolted out the door.

Duane sighed. Scott pounded down the stairs outside. Duane flexed his hand. He sucked a spot of blood from a gouge on the middle knuckle.

“Sorry,” he said again. “Goddamn.”

Tom couldn’t summon a response. He didn’t know what to say.

“Listen,” Duane said. “I was going to pay it back. In the morning. I swear to God.”

“Jesus, Duane.”

“You never do the books until Sunday. I was gonna have it back. No problem.”

“There had to be three grand left in there.”

“It’s that fucking cop!” Duane looked exasperated. “He’s already on my ass. He was here Wednesday already, while you were off wherever the hell you went all day. Pissed off about his cousin, all emotional. He doubled the juice on me and I didn’t have shit to pay him.”

Tom stood with his hands on the counter. He tried to get as angry at Duane as he’d been at Scott just now. He tried to feel something.

“Plus that weed he took was Harlan’s, man. And Harlan’s pissed.” Duane raised his hands to Tom the same way he’d raised them to Scott a minute ago. “You don’t want Harlan pissed at you too long. Let’s just put it that way.”

“So your big plan was what?” Tom looked at him. “Fucking cards?”

“Dude, I’m in the groove. You gotta trust me on that. I can’t lose.”

Tom shook his head.

“Don’t look at me like that. I can print money when it gets like this. I’m telling you.”

“You can’t lose.”

“Seriously.”

“But you’re still broke. Am I getting that right? How does that work?”

“Look,” Duane said. “I figured I’d simmer Harlan down, keep that cop off my ass for a few weeks, make it back at the tables.”

“Bullshit.” Tom understood so much now. “You’ve been dipping since the kid got here.”

Duane shook his head and looked at the counter, but he didn’t deny it. He looked at the clock on the wall, finally gave out one more sigh. He seemed to be full of air tonight.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe I got a little pissed off for a while there. I’m human, okay? Not saying I’m proud of it.”

“This I definitely want to hear.”

“Gimme a break, huh? I’m the one who brings the kid in, and already the first week you’re paying him more than me?” Duane lapped a new puddle of blood from his knuckle. “I figured you owed me at least a few extra shekels a week. I didn’t know Abby had you hooked up already.”

“Surprise.”

Outside, work boots banged back up the stairs. They sounded heavier as they crossed the deck now. Tom heard a thud. When the bell jingled, and the screen door slammed open, he saw the top of Scott’s duffel bag leaning against the frame.

Scott stalked in without looking at them. His eyes were red and moist-looking. He’d cried.

He wasn’t crying now. He breathed through his mouth, and his teeth were still bloody.

“Dude, you’re gonna get it back,” Duane said. “You know that. Come on. You know that.”

Tom heard the message in the way Duane repeated the sentence. You know that. He was telling Scott to chill out. Think it through. Remember the big picture.

Utterly clueless. Tom almost felt sorry for him.

Scott reached around the corner and grabbed the truck keys from their place on the nail. He spat a bloody stringer on the floor and let the door bang behind him on his way out again.

“Shit.” Tom came around the counter, kicking through the piles of candy in his path. The bell jingled over his head as he went out the door.

“Scott,” he said.

No answer.

“Hey.”

Scott was already most of the way down the path toward the lot, bag over his shoulder, a shadow blending into the dark.

Tom got down there just in time to get clipped by the side mirror as the truck roared out of the lot. The force knocked him off balance. The truck bounced over the washboards, growled and rattled, disappearing around the trees.

As Tom stood there watching, gripping his shoulder and grinding his teeth, he couldn’t help thinking that getting hit by a truck probably wouldn’t have hurt so bad if he hadn’t been stone cold sober.

Burt and Edgar kept the store open until midnight during tourist season.

When Tom walked in, Edgar thumped his pillow with his stump of a tail. Burt turned down the radio behind the counter and raised a twisted hand.

“Ho, Tom.”

“Burt. Who’s up?”

“Twins by a mile. KC’s got no damn pitching.” He looked Tom over. “You’re runnin’ around late.”

“Phones are down at my place.” Tom stooped and scratched Edgar behind the ears. The dog nuzzled the inside of his forearm. “Be okay if I used yours?”

Burt reached down between his knees and brought up a grimy old margarine tub with no lid. He tossed the tub onto the counter. Loose coins chattered.

“Use them ones.”

Tom picked up the tub and saw a handful of blank slugs in the bottom.

“Thanks, Burt. Appreciate it.”

“That’s all right.”

Tom took the tub outside to the pay phone on the front porch. He dug Abby’s card out of his shirt pocket and dialed the first number printed there.

Three rings. When Abby picked up, he could hear Hannah playing in the background.

“Hello?”

“It’s Tom. Check your e-mail after I hang up.”

“What?”

“Check your e-mail. Okay?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Everything’s fine. Just check your e-mail.”

He hung up before she could say anything more.

When the line was clear, he dropped two more slugs, dialed information, and found Ron Pavel’s number at home.

THIRTY

From: Circle Slash Bed & Breakfast

To: Coleman’s Landing

Sent: Sat 7/12 3:04 A.M.

Subject: RE: heads up

>Scott and Duane got into a thing.
>Scott’s fine. Just wanted to let you
>know to keep an eye out for him. He
>took off in the truck. Probably on his
>way home.

He’s still not here. And he’s not answering his phone. What happened???

>Do me a favor. Don’t call me at the
>Landing. Check in with e-mail for now.

?????!

A

From: Tom Coleman

To: Circle Slash Bed & Breakfast

Sent: Sat 7/12 3:06 A.M.

Subject: RE: heads up

>?????!

We’ll talk in the morning. Don’t call me.

T

He slept too late and woke with a crippling hangover. The worst in months. He needed an eye-opener just to see straight.

Downstairs, the shop was already bustling. Tom could hear Saturday-morning noise through the floor. He checked e-mail, then went down with a mug of coffee and relieved Duane from register duty. For once, Duane didn’t complain.

Customers did. By the time Tom made it down they were already an hour behind schedule. Duane hustled outside and started loading the bus while Tom sold snacks and bug spray, sunscreen and maps.

It was almost noon by the time he could get away. The last reservation of the weekend—a church youth group from O’Neill—arrived at a quarter past eleven. Duane took the last busload to the put-in below Cornell Dam.

While he was gone, Tom went upstairs and checked e-mail again. He tapped a quick reply, then logged off and shut the computer down.

He took a jolt, topped off the flask, and went back downstairs. He left a note for Duane on the counter.

On your own until I get back.

Then he walked down to the lot and took his car to Abby’s place.

She met him out front on the sidewalk. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Still no word from Scott?”

“Nothing. I’m going out of my mind. Where have you been?”

“Shorthanded,” he said.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

It was better than telling her he’d made up for lost time with the gin, passed out, and slept half the morning. Tom could tell by looking at her that she hadn’t slept much, if at all. Abby crossed her arms and stood squinting in the sun. Waiting.

“Maybe he went to Wheeler’s,” he said. “I’ll drive out there and talk to Trevor.”

“I talked to Lois this morning. Trevor’s gone, too.”

“She knows he’s actually gone?”

“What do you mean, does she know he’s actually gone?”

“He didn’t just go somewhere?”

“His bags are gone,” she said. “His truck is gone. He was supposed to help doctor calves this morning and nobody at the Deuce has seen him since last night.”

Tom sighed. He’d had a bad feeling last night, but then, he’d also had the shakes. Both had gone away when he’d finally cracked the bottle.

“Did you talk to Lois on the phone?”

“You’re scaring the shit out of me. What is going on?”

“Just answer the question. You talked to her on the phone?”

“Yes! I talked to her on the phone! Goddammit, Tom.”

So they wouldn’t be the only ones looking. Tom tried to think. He stood in the heat and looked over Abby’s shoulder at the open front door.

“Is Hannah here?”

“Dan’s mom picked her up this morning. I can’t deal with her and this both.”

“Okay,” he said. “Have you talked to anybody else?”

“I called Sheriff Hilliard. He said you’d already called Ron. Last night.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t say okay. I want to know what you’re not telling me. Right now.”

He was about to suggest they go indoors when her phone began to ring inside the house. Abby closed her eyes, turned quickly, and hustled back up the walk. She skipped the steps and hurried in.

Tom heard the ringing stop. He heard her voice, distant and hopeful. He followed, shutting Abby’s front door behind him as the tone of her voice changed.

Tom followed the sound down a short hallway decorated with wildflowers in vases mounted on the walls. The hall led into a big bright kitchen. He found her there, standing at an island countertop, phone to her ear. Pots and pans hung suspended from a big iron rack above her head.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What do you mean you’ve got him?”

Tom screwed open the flask and listened along.

THIRTY-ONE

A few miles down the road from Sparks, up the road from Coleman’s Landing, a working elk ranch sprawled for acres into the open plain on either side.

Big bulls with racks still in velvet lounged in the tall grass along a high fence, tagged ears twitching away flies. To the west, a long rock driveway led to five new log cabins equipped with satellite dishes and central air.

The cabins sat nestled in a shady grove of trees on a hill with a view of the pine valley below. The ranch rented the units to river tourists whenever they weren’t being used as a temporary field office for the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration.

Tom parked next to Farmer’s Escape and walked up the path to the porch. He stepped lightly over to the door, stood and listened for a moment; over the hum of the air conditioning units he could hear voices and activity inside.

Agents scrambled when he let himself in.

Rice was the first to recognize him. The big agent yanked a pen out of his teeth, threw it on the floor, and said, “Hey, asshole. What the fuck?”

Larson sat at a folding table, covering the mouthpiece of a cordless phone receiver with his hand. He looked at Tom for a few seconds and then went back to his call. An agent Tom didn’t recognize went back to a map spread out on another table.

“You guys look busy,” Tom said. “How’s the investigation going?”

Farmer sat in the corner at a third table crowded with audio gear. He took off his headphones and turned in his chair.

“Tom.”

“Hey, Larry. I mean Terry. Sorry. I keep getting confused.”

“You should work on that.”

Larson hung up the telephone. He said, “You shouldn’t be here, Mr. Coleman. I was under the impression you understood that.”

Tom gave him an innocent look. “But you guys told me I should report in if anything came up.”

Larson looked at Farmer. Farmer looked at Tom. Rice just stood there looking bent out of shape. The unidentified agent studied his map and pretended he wasn’t listening.

“FYI,” Tom said. “Duane’s going to be covering things at the Landing until tomorrow. One of you guys might want to check in on him, make sure he’s getting along okay.”

Farmer nodded. “Going somewhere?”

“Denver. With Abby.”

Everybody exchanged glances again.

Tom shook his head. “Kids.”

“You don’t have to drive all that way,” Farmer said. “We were just about to call Ms. Greer.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve alerted our division there. They’ll be in touch with Aurora PD. We’ll give Scott a ride back.”

At least he didn’t bother pretending that they didn’t already know everything Tom could have told them.

“That’s quite a service.”

“Not a problem,” Farmer said. “We work for the taxpayers.”

“What about my truck?”

“I can have somebody look into that.”

“I guess you guys know what you’re doing.”

“That’s right,” Agent Rice said. “Maybe you’d better keep that in mind.”

Tom ignored him. To Farmer, he said, “It’s ripe in here.”

Farmer sat quietly for a moment. He finally took off his headphones and stood up.

“I’ve got a minute. We can talk outside.”

On the porch, Terry offered a cigarette from a pack of Marlboro Reds.

Tom shook his head slowly. “Have you ever seen me smoke?”

“No,” Farmer said, lighting up. “Have you ever seen me smoke?”

Tom supposed he hadn’t.

“You want to tell me what happened down there last night?”

“Let’s cut the bullshit,” Tom said. “For once.”

Farmer blew a gray stream from the side of his mouth. “I’d like that.”

“Call off your people, Terry. Let Abby pick up Scott.”

“I don’t think I like that quite as well.”

“So the kid’s part of the program now?”

“That’s up to him.”

“He’s not going to cooperate,” Tom said. “You know that as well as I do.”

“At this point, he doesn’t have much choice.”

“That’s a confident statement.”

Farmer dragged on his cigarette.

“Send your guys in, he’ll just become one more liability.”

“He’s a bigger liability to me as it is now.”

“Foster’s not stupid.”

“That’s highly debatable.”

“Harlan Pack’s not stupid.”

“Again. Room for argument.”

“You’ll still be putting a kid in danger.”

“He’s been in danger since this started,” Farmer said. “We didn’t put him there. Christ, what are you arguing for, anyway? He’ll be safer if we contain him.”

“I thought we were past the bullshit.”

“Aren’t we?”

“You’re not going to contain him, you’re going to use him. Or at least you’re going to try. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Farmer said nothing.

“I doubt he’s got your acting skills,” Tom said. “You’re telling me the DEA’s willing to hang the next four weeks on a pissed-off teenager?”

“The DEA was willing to hang the next four weeks on a pissed-off ex-reporter,” Farmer said.

“And a drunk to boot.”

“You said it. Not me.”

“I guess I don’t blame Agent Rice for having such a hard-on,” Tom said. “Guy like me’s liable to say just about anything.”

Farmer looked at him. Paper glowed and tobacco crackled as Farmer took one last drag on the cigarette. He dropped the butt to the porch and ground it out with his heel. Smoke flowed in curls from his mouth and nose when he spoke.

“Are we to the making-threats stage of the conversation now?”

“Threats? I’m asking for a personal favor. One ex-reporter to another.”

“I don’t owe you any favors, Tom.”

“I don’t owe you any, Larry.”

Farmer nodded along with that. “Am I going to have to figure out some way to contain you, too?”

“You could have contained everybody,” Tom said. “Uncle Sam didn’t invest a whole summer in a couple hick kids. Or some pothead little fish who’s just barely dumb enough to have made it this far.”

“We like to think our operation is flexible.”

“Your whole operation is set up around Magruder. He’s your keeper and you know it.”

“We’re prepared to cut bait if necessary.”

“Who says it is?” Tom ticked off the steps on his fingers, one by one. “Call off your people. Let Abby pick up Scott and bring him home. Let me control what they know and what they don’t. Nothing changes.”

Farmer went back to his shirt pocket, fished out his pack, and shook out one more. He pinched the cigarette in his lips and held it there for a moment. He shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Tom. That’s too much favor. I think you know that.”

“Why? Right now, Scott Greer is contained either way. You’ve got other problems or you wouldn’t even be talking to me.”

Farmer dipped his head and cupped a palm around his lighter. He lit up and exhaled through the nose; twin streams of smoke blended, broke apart.

“Any word on Trevor?”

“We’re working on that.”

“I could help work on it.”

“If Scott wouldn’t cooperate with us, why would he tell you anything?”

“Larry,” Tom said. “That hurts. All we’ve been through together, and you still doubt my information-gathering skills?”

“I don’t doubt ours.”

“What do you lose? One way or another, Scott will be back in twelve hours, tops. If you still don’t have anything by then, you can take the rubber hose to him yourself. Try to get him to hold still for a wire. Whatever you secret agent guys do.”

“He’ll be back in six if our guys pick him up,” Farmer pointed out. “And he’s not the kind of kid who’s used to sweating out big scary government cops. If he’s not ready to cooperate after that car ride, he’s never going to be.” He gestured with his cigarette. “Anyway, why are you suddenly so concerned? Scott’s a minor. He’s got circumstances. Worst-case scenario, he works with me, this is a bump in the road for him.”

Tom didn’t have an answer for that. Because I feel bad for not believing him didn’t seem to pack much punch. In truth, he mostly agreed with Farmer. He was being childish.

“And why do you need to go anywhere in the first place?”

“I’d like my truck back.”

“I thought we were past the bullshit.”

Tom gave him that. “Because Abby asked me to go with her.”

“So do it another time. You can take a weekend. Enjoy the mountains.”

“Fuck you, Farmer. You do owe me. And I owe her.”

Farmer shook his head. “Sorry, okay? I need you at your place. Business as usual.”

The cabin door opened then. Agent Larson poked his head out. “We’ve got a line on Wheeler.”

Farmer looked at Tom.

“Sounds important,” Tom said. “I’ll wait right here.”

Five minutes later, Terry Farmer came back out onto the porch, pulling the door shut behind him. He’d either gotten a piece of good news or a shot of B_12.

“Okay,” he said. “I try to be a people person. Let’s compromise.”

“Found Trevor, I take it.”

“Found his cash card. Bank just posted four pendings.”

“In Denver?”

“North Platte,” Farmer said. “He paid for a motel room after midnight. Storage unit first thing this morning. Made a day limit cash withdrawal. Oh, yeah: Seems he’s having a bed cover installed on his pickup today. You know, those hardshells that lock?”

Tom nodded. “I hear those are nice.”

“Yeah, real handy. Especially for trips on open road. Now what does he need with a storage unit in the meantime, I wonder?”

“Congratulations,” Tom said.

“Thanks.”

“You were saying something about a compromise.”

“Abby can go pick up Scott,” Farmer said. “But our guys in Denver are going to make sure they get home okay. Discreetly, for now.”

“Rubber noses and mustaches, that sort of thing?”

“We like newspapers with eyeholes, too.” Farmer lipped yet another cigarette out of his pack. Tom supposed a guy whose alter ego didn’t smoke had to make up for lost time. “We’ll arrange with Aurora PD to get your truck back.”

Tom knew the rest, but he waited for it anyway.

“Look,” Farmer said. “I need you at your place. With me and Foster. Help me keep everything on an even keel until we get this little mess cleaned up.”

“Business as usual.”

“It’ll be fun. Just like old times.”

“Sorry, I missed it. Where was the compromise?”

“I’m trying to be a good guy, here. If you want to keep playing nice, there’s no reason why Abby can’t bring Scott in herself. I’ve got a teenager at home, believe it or not. I get it.” Farmer cupped his lighter around the end of his cigarette and thumbed the wheel. “We’ll keep an eye on them, but we can wait until Monday morning to pick him up. Either way, they’re both part of the program, now. Wheeler, too. Nothing to be done about that.”

“It sounds like it doesn’t matter whether I play nice or not,” Tom said.

“You know it does. Four weeks is still a long time.”

Tom looked off the porch, out over the river valley. In the distance, he heard the high, throaty gurgle of a bull elk bugling.

He didn’t think they challenged each other this early in the year. Maybe these animals were out of their element. Maybe he didn’t know jack shit about bull elk.

Farmer said, “What’s it going to be? Do we have a deal, or what?”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“You know I still want Magruder. I think we can still make that happen. With your help.”

“But if I hear you correctly, my help is no longer a requirement.”

“Look, I’m not going to yank your chain. The fact is, as soon as North Platte’s finest pick up Wheeler at that storage unit, I’ve got the least I need.”

“I understand that.”

“Me, I’d rather keep fishing. I don’t mind the great outdoors.” Farmer dragged on his cigarette and blew a few rings. “But like I said, the operation’s flexible.”

Tom shook his head.

“When I go back inside a minute from now, I’m calling the same people either way. You decide what I tell them.”

“So we’re back to the threats, then.”

Agent Farmer cocked his head. “I thought you were asking me for a personal favor.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Farmer smoked while he waited.

“So that’s it, then?”

“Pretty much.”

“Your final offer.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“I guess I owe you one,” Tom said.

THIRTY-TWO

He told her everything in the car.

It was a minivan, technically. A nice Plymouth Grand Voyager with lots of legroom. Tom tried to imagine the endless shit Scott must have taken from the Wheeler brothers, having to sneak out to go drink in a minivan. With a car seat, no less.

Tom could feel Hannah’s empty spot behind him. Toys and books lay scattered around the backseats and floor.

He explained all he could, starting with the very first beer Scott had swiped at the Landing and ending with the cash he hadn’t. In between, he heard himself talking about weapons and drugs, a crooked cop, feds crawling around the river valley like ticks.

Told like that, in one long summary, it all sounded so much more dramatic than it had seemed along the way. From a distance, it wasn’t a bad story. Tom could see which parts he would have juiced if he’d been the one covering it.

He spared Abby the seasoning. By the time they made I-80 west out of North Platte, she’d fallen completely silent behind the wheel.

Tom rode along in the passenger seat. He checked over every so often, tried to read her silence. She wore sunglasses against the afternoon glare, and he couldn’t see her eyes; the rest of her face appeared perfectly neutral. For twenty miles, Abby wore no discernible expression at all. She just drove, stable and constant, needle anchored at a steady eighty-five.

Traffic blasted past them on the left just the same. Cars and trucks, other minivans. A massive RV pulling a snap-covered boat took them like they were standing still. Tom imagined a family headed for the white sand beaches of Lake McConaughy. He wondered where else people in RVs would be pulling a boat in this part of the country, this late on a Saturday afternoon. He wondered where all the other cars were going.

Halfway to Ogallala, Abby finally chuckled a little. It came out like a stutter.

“I thought I was doing him so much good,” she said. “Me with the tough love. Boy.”

“Abby, I’m sorry. I should have seen this.”

“It’s not your fault. Don’t pretend it is.”

“It’s not yours, either.”

She shook her head and sighed. He heard her chuckle again. This time, she kept going. He looked over when he heard her draw in a breath and saw the tight bounce in her shoulders. Her arms shook.

Abby jerked her foot off the gas and drifted right. She took the shoulder and braked to a long stop, eighty-five to zero in a few hundred feet. The rumble strips alongside the roadway vibrated the minivan bottom to top, rattling the buckles on the car seat, filling the inside with noise.

She threw the transmission into park as vehicles shot past, rocking them in their wake. Abby pounded the wheel, then gripped it until her knuckles turned white. She leaned forward, put her head on her hands, and cried.

Tom didn’t know what to do for her. He put his hand on her back, felt heat through her shirt. He could feel her sobs bucking his palm. Sitting there, buffeted by the wind of passing cars, he felt like an intruder.

She yanked off her sunglasses and pressed her hands over her face. She ground her knuckles into her eyes. She said, “I miss him so much sometimes.”

At first, he thought, He’s only been gone a few hours. As soon as he thought it, he realized she wasn’t talking about Scott.

Then he understood that there was only one thing he could do that would be worth much of anything. So he lifted his hand away and got out of the car.

Hot wind pushed against him as he walked around the back bumper to the driver’s side. Tom opened her door and had to grab on tight as a big eighteen-wheeler drifted left and roared past. The force of the truck put him back on his heels, nearly tearing off his shirt in the slipstream, leaving him standing in a momentary vacuum.

When the coast was clear, he patted her shoulder. “Shove over.”

Abby didn’t bother arguing. She leaned to the right and gave up the wheel, seeming to melt from one seat into the other.

Tom waited until she was settled and then got in himself, feeling the last of her warmth in the upholstery. Abby leaned forward, covered her face again, and let herself go with the tide.

He put the van in gear and started forward, picking up speed along the rough shoulder. Soon the judder of the tires over the warning strips overwhelmed the sound of Abby’s tears.

When he saw a break in traffic, he merged back onto the road.

She was asleep by the time they crossed the state line.

He’d never driven this stretch before. Left alone with his own thoughts, Tom discovered that eastern Colorado was every goddamned bit as desolate as western Nebraska. It got to be tedious. Every so often, he saw a lone oil pump in the distance, its iron donkey head nodding along mechanically in the late-afternoon light. He began counting them to pass the time.

Abby still hadn’t woken by the time he stopped in Fort Morgan for gas. She didn’t stir when he pulled in to the pumps. It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen her smoke since that day at the hospital; he wondered if she’d quit since, or if she’d only fallen off the wagon that particular day. He thought about waking her to ask if she wanted anything.

He let her sleep.

The tarmac had soaked up the day’s heat and felt soft under his shoes. Tom gassed up and went inside to pay cash. He bought Abby a Snickers in case she woke up hungry. He assumed she still liked them. He bought himself a travel bottle and topped off the flask before he got back in the van.

When he climbed back in behind the wheel, he found her sitting up. Her eyes looked puffy, hair frizzy and tangled on one side. She’d been watching him through the windshield.

He pulled the door shut and handed her the candy bar. “Morning.”

“Mm.” She covered a yawn with the back of her hand. “Where are we?”

“Hour, hour and a half. Almost there.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“I can take over driving if you want.”

“I’m okay.”

She seemed to be fine with that idea. Tom pulled out, took the frontage road to the onramp, and got back on I-76. He reset the cruise control two miles over the speed limit and left it there. He knew she’d be anxious to get where they were going, but he figured they didn’t need the added hassle of a speeding stop turning into a DUI on the way.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Abby looking at the paper sack he’d stashed in the dashboard cubby beneath the stereo. They went several miles before she said anything. He’d begun to hope she’d decided to leave it alone.

“Was it Emily?” She cut short and corrected herself. “Grace?”

“Was what?”

She nodded toward the sack. “I’m not judging. I just . . . wondered.”

He drove a few more miles without saying anything. He wasn’t sure there was anything worth saying about it.

“There was this guy at the paper,” he finally told her. “Rim editor on the metro copy desk. He always said, ‘I was an alcoholic for twenty years before I developed a drinking problem.’ ”

“You were never a drinker.”

“I drank just about every day when we were in college.”

“A beer or two,” she said. “And parties. We all did.”

“Guess I’m one of the ones who tapered up instead of off.”

She listened.

“I drank with cops and EMT guys sometimes. Seemed to go with their territory, too.”

“I can imagine.”

“Dad never drank,” he said. “You tell yourself whatever you tell yourself.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I like to think I always had a handle on it,” he said. “I never wanted to drink more than I wanted to meet a deadline.” He tapped the brake, passed a car on the left, and hit the cruise again. “After Grace, I guess I didn’t really give a shit. It felt better to drink than not. So I didn’t not.”

“What about now?”

“What about now?”

She put her foot on the dash and leaned forward, untied her shoe and tied it again. She always fiddled. “Have you developed your drinking problem yet?”

“It’s more of a stopping problem.”

“Do you want to stop?”

He thought about it and realized he honestly didn’t have an answer.

They didn’t say much else for a while. Abby sat and looked out the window. Tom watched the road. He felt self-conscious now, reaching for the flask. It aggravated him that he felt self-conscious. It annoyed him that he felt aggravated.

At one point, she opened her mouth to say something else, then seemed to change her mind. It wasn’t like Abby to edit herself.

“What?”

“I was just thinking,” she said. “You and Dan have something in common.”

“Um . . . yeah.”

She dropped her jaw and looked at him. When he glanced over, she broke into a genuine laugh. It caught both of them by surprise. Tom realized it was the first time he’d heard her laugh since he’d gotten here. He’d forgotten how nice it sounded.

“Never mind,” she said. “Sleazeball.”

“Sorry, that just came out. Go on.”

“I don’t want to now.” She took her foot down and shifted in her seat. “This is better. I’ve cried enough today.”

He could tell that she wanted to say what she’d started to say, but he didn’t press it. She was right. The break was nice. Anyway, he knew she’d probably get back around to it eventually. It took about a minute.

“I was just thinking that he didn’t get to see his kids grow up, either,” she said. “I don’t know which way is worse.”

Tom didn’t offer an opinion.

“The other day I was watching Hannah, and I thought, she was barely two when he died.” Abby looked out the window while she spoke. “I realized that if I don’t keep talking about him, showing her pictures, telling her stories . . . she won’t even remember him. At some point, for her, it’ll be like he was never even here.”

“She’ll remember him,” he said.

“Why? I look at Scott. I used to see so much of Dan in him.” Her voice acquired a little tremor. “I don’t know if I see Dan in him at all anymore. It makes me wonder how much even Scott remembers him now.”

Even as she said it, Tom thought of the book Scott had loaned him. How battered it was, dog-eared and creased. He imagined Scott reading it, flipping pages, falling asleep with it tented over his chest.

He thought of the way Greer had actually managed to make ten thousand words on the topic of groundwater reasonably interesting. He thought about the way he’d written of hidden resources waiting to be tapped, needing conservation during crisis.

He thought of something else the best editor he’d ever had once told him:

I dearly fucking hate a good metaphor. That’s why I like you, Coleman. You never met one you didn’t torture half to death.

“He remembers,” he said.

THIRTY-THREE

Valerie Donner-Burbach had lived in Chicago for almost two years. The way Tom estimated it, she and he must have moved there from Nebraska very near the same time.

Life was full of little coincidences.

After taking back her maiden name, Donner once placed in a beginner’s mixed martial arts tournament at the Degerberg Academy on North Lincoln Ave. Yellow belt group.

That was how Scott first found her; somebody had posted the tourney results on a Usenet newsgroup, where they lingered in perpetuity.

Apparently, Tom’s own paper had covered a black-box stage adaptation of The Yellow Wallpaper at the Lookingglass. A guy named Burbach wrote and directed. Scott’s mother—already hyphenated by then—had played Charlotte.

According to Abby, reviews had been mixed.

You wouldn’t find a story like that by running a general search on the Web. The Trib kept an online archive going back to 1985, but Scott would have had to go to the paper’s Web site, run a specific search on the name Valerie Donner, and then pay to access the text of a story that old.

According to Abby, he had a talent for research. All his teachers at school said so.

According to the stack of printed Web pages she’d found in a folder under the bed in his room, Scott had made a graduate-level project out of piecing together his birth mother’s past thirteen years.

She lived an open-book life and left excerpts of it all over the Internet. He’d tracked her down once in New York, once in Sedona. She’d lived in Los Angeles for a few years, but that must not have panned out. At some point, she’d started her own Web site and kept a journal there, making it easier for Scott to follow the ups and downs and arounds.

The Donner-Burbachs now lived in the Denver suburbs, where Burbach worked as a PR veep for the Avalanche. Valerie worked days as an administrative assistant in an office building. She had a photography exhibit coming up at a co-op in September.

“Apparently, he called the first time around four this morning,” the desk sergeant told them. His name was Vidas. He had a ruddy complexion and thick red hair. “She says she told him she couldn’t see him, but he kept calling back. The husband finally unplugged the phone.”

This would have been seven or eight hours after Scott had left the Landing in Tom’s truck. Tom was amazed that the truck even made it to Denver. The old man must have kept the motor up.

“According to the husband, the subject—sorry—Scott was waiting out on the curb in the morning,” Sergeant Vidas said. “When he wouldn’t leave, they locked the doors and called in.”

Abby pinched her mouth and glanced at Tom.

Vidas seemed to empathize. He gave her a gentle smile and said, “He hasn’t given us any trouble here, for what it’s worth.”

The officers who had responded to the call found a ranch kid from Nebraska with a scarred arm, a swollen mouth, and no driver’s license pounding on the door of a well-kept split-level on a shady, tree-lined residential street. At the curb, they found what appeared to be a stolen pickup with a road atlas and a map of Denver on the seat. They’d also found a snub-nosed .38 revolver in the glove box. Unregistered. When asked about the gun, the kid had claimed he’d won it off a guy. Tom wondered where Scott kept winning firearms.

“I’ll have him brought up,” Sergeant Vidas said. “Unless you’d like to go on back.”

“Thank you,” Abby said. “We’ll wait here.”

Vidas nodded and picked up a phone. While he spoke into the receiver, Abby turned and crossed her arms.

Tom said, “It could be worse.”

A muscle jumped in her jaw when she looked at him.

“The cunt turned away her own son.”

Tom thought of something to say to that, but now didn’t seem like the time for platitudes. Abby wanted to be angry. As far as he was concerned, she deserved to be. So he nodded and said nothing.

“Are you Tom Coleman?”

He turned and saw a cop that reminded him of one of his uncles. The man had the same angular face and calm brown eyes. If he’d been gray on top, he might have reminded Tom a little bit of the great Jack Coleman himself. Maybe that was why he recognized brass without checking for stripes.

“I’m Tom,” he said.

“Deputy Chief Byrle. Pleased to meet you.”

Everybody shook hands. “Sorry you folks had to make the drive.”

“I apologize for Scott,” Abby said. “He’s not a bad kid. I know you probably always hear that. He’s just . . . he’s had a rough couple of years.”

“He’s obviously got folks who care about him,” Deputy Chief Byrle said. “In my experience, that’s something. More than some boys his age can say, I can tell you.”

Tom said, “You were looking for me?”

Deputy Chief Byrle reached out and touched Abby’s arm, then turned to Tom.

“You have a telephone call,” he said.

“I do?”

“Follow me.”

Three men waited in the office of Aurora Police Chief Gregory T. Cormoran. The chief himself sat behind a modular desk unit supporting a computer monitor, framed family photos, and a John Elway bobble-head doll. Cormoran had stocky features, thinning blond hair, and looked to be somewhere in his fifties, maybe ten years older than Deputy Chief Byrle.

In a corner stood a tall man in a tie and khakis, dark hair parted on the side. In a chair by the desk sat another man in a tie and khakis with dark hair parted on the other side. Tom knew they were Farmer’s guys the minute he saw them.

The agent in the chair had a mole beneath his left ear. The agent standing had no visible distinguishing marks. Tom supposed he’d be seeing the two of them for a while. He decided he’d use the mole to tell them apart.

Deputy Chief Byrle stood to the side, ushered him in, then closed the door behind them. Chief Cormoran leaned out of his chair and reached across the desk.

“Mr. Coleman. Welcome to Colorado.”

“Thanks.” Tom shook the chief’s hand. “I understand I’ve been paged.”

Chief Cormoran held up a finger. With his other hand, he reached to the phone on his desk, punched the blinking button, and lifted the receiver from its cradle.

“Agent Farmer? Right. He’s here now.”

He extended the receiver to Tom. Tom took it.

“Hey, Terry.”

“I thought we had a deal?”

“I said I owed you one,” Tom said. “You lied to me, I lied to you. We’re even. Why don’t we start over with a clean slate?”

“You can be a real asshole. Anybody ever tell you that?”

“You should talk to my ex,” Tom said. “How’s everything at the Landing? Duane keeping everybody happy?”

“He’s pissed at you.”

“That’s normal,” Tom said. “You said you wanted business as usual.”

“The deal’s off, Tom. Sorry. Actually, fuck that. You should be apologizing to me.”

Tom glanced at Agent Tall Guy in the Corner and Agent Mole. They watched his conversation impassively. Chief Cormoran watched from behind his desk. Deputy Chief Byrle watched from another corner.

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“It means have a nice time explaining your bullshit on the drive home,” Farmer said. “My guys are bringing Scott back. We’ve got Wheeler now. We’ll all have a powwow with Hilliard and his people bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“The deal’s off?”

“You heard me.”

“Fine. The deal’s off.”

Farmer held the line.

“It’s actually a relief, if you want the truth,” Tom said. “It’s too much stress, running a business.”

“Save it.”

“Hate to tell Foster he’s out of a job. But I probably should have shut the place down before now anyway.”

Farmer chuckled. “Don’t try to leverage me, hon.”

“What do you think? Would it be more ethical to explain the layoffs, or just send him on his way?”

“We’ve already got enough on Duane to work with. He won’t be going anywhere.”

“Tough luck for Duane.”

“You’re not doing Scott any favors right now, either.”

“It’s a bump in the road for him. You said that yourself.”

“I’ll make sure it’s a big fucking bump, if that’s how you want it.”

“You don’t have shit there, and you know it. He’s a minor. Circumstances. I know a defense guy in Chicago who owes me a favor. He’ll spring a boner over this. Especially since I’m not pressing charges on the truck. I figure Scott can sort out whatever’s left with the cops in Colorado just fine.”

Chief Cormoran glanced at Deputy Chief Byrle. Deputy Chief Byrle shrugged.

“What about Wheeler?”

“What about him? I’ve never even talked to the kid. He’s none of my business.”

“That’s pretty cold. I think I misjudged you, Tom.”

“It happens.”

Farmer held the line for another minute. He finally said, “Put Wilson on the phone.”

Tom held the phone in front of him and looked between the two agents. “Which one of you guys is Wilson?”

Agent Mole raised his hand.

Tom put him on.

THIRTY-FOUR

It was fully dark by the time they pulled out of the cop shop on East Alameda and into Saturday-night traffic.

Scott must have stopped somewhere on his way to Denver and washed up to meet his mom. A truck stop with a pay shower, Tom guessed. He’d changed into clean jeans and a new shirt and combed his hair. But he still had grease under his fingernails to go with the booking ink now caught in his prints. Tom could have told him you had to really scrub to get that stuff out.

Since last night, Scott’s upper lip had swollen into a fat purple blob. He sat in back and stared out the window. Abby tried to talk to him a little, but he didn’t say a word.

Farmer’s guys picked them up on South Chambers and followed a car or two behind. Their Suburban rode high, and Tom could track them easily in the rearview mirror. Wilson drove. Agent Tall Guy’s name was Denbrough.

Abby had already brought up the idea of finding a motel for the night and starting out fresh in the morning. Tom thought that sounded like a plan. He couldn’t believe how quickly he’d lost the feel of city driving. Twelve years in Chicago, and four months on the river had turned him into his nervous mother behind the wheel. He was wiped.

When he spotted a Kinko’s copy center in a strip mall, he pulled in.

“You guys wait here.”

Abby said, “Where are you going?”

“Be right back.”

He went in and used his credit card to rent a computer by the minute. It cost him twelve dollars and change to find what he was looking for and print out driving directions.

When he came back out to the parking lot, he held up a finger to Abby. He went around the corner of the building, where Wilson and Denbrough waited in the Suburban, smoking out the open windows.

Wilson said, “Now what?”

“We’re all tired,” Tom said. “We’re going to get a room.”

“That wasn’t agreed.”

“Call Terry.”

Wilson looked at Denbrough. Denbrough shrugged. Wilson flicked his butt out the window and lifted a mobile phone out of a cradle on the dashboard.

A minute later, he nodded and handed the phone out the window to Tom. He had to lean back in his seat to avoid the cord. Tom took a step back, stretching the cord across the bridge of Wilson’s nose. Wilson scowled and held the cord at bay with his hand.

Tom lowered his voice. “This is Agent Coleman.”

“You’re really pressing your luck, aren’t you?”

“I hope it doesn’t affect our friendship.”

“I thought you wanted your pickup.”

“I decided I could get it another time.”

“You’re a piece of work,” Farmer said.

Tom faked a yawn into the phone.

“But you know what? You caught me in a good mood. Sleep tight.”

“Why so cheerful all of a sudden?”

“Turns out things are going pretty well with Wheeler here,” Farmer said. “I guess losing his kid brother must have softened him up for us.”

“That’s pretty cold,” Tom said. “I think I misjudged you.”

“It happens.”

Tom waited.

“We’ll see Scott tomorrow,” Farmer said.

“Roger that.”

Wilson rolled his eyes.

Tom said, “Any chance of the DEA picking up the tab?”

Farmer chuckled into the phone. “Sure. You pay for your own porn, though.”

“Wow. You are in a good mood.”

“And now you really fucking owe me,” Farmer said.

The Warwick was nice. Big lobby, lots of earthy tile, soft light from sconces on the walls. They had a swimming pool on the roof with a view of the Rockies. Only executive suites available, though. There was a regional Gideon convention in town.

Tom sent Abby and Scott ahead to pick up some toiletries from the gift shop. He’d brought his old soft-sider with him from the Landing; he took the bag out of the back of the minivan before giving the keys to the valet.

Wilson and Denbrough leaned against the front fenders of the Suburban, each on a side.

“I don’t think this is what Agent Farmer had in mind,” Wilson told him.

“Call him back,” Tom said.

The main kitchen was closed, but room service still served bar food. Tom couldn’t decide what he wanted, so he told them to bring up one of everything. Abby raised her eyebrows when he put down the phone.

“We can all nibble,” he said.

The suite had a lounging area away from the main room. Scott had already retreated there and turned on the television. He hadn’t spoken since they left the police station.

Abby watched the back of his head through the doorway for a few moments. When she turned to Tom, her face looked drawn, haggard with exhaustion and a vague sadness that seemed to pull on her like gravity.

“I’m going to take a bath.”

“Take your time. We’ll be okay.”

She gave him a listless half-smile and picked up the plastic sack from the gift shop. She took the sack with her into the big marble bathroom, waved bye-bye with her fingers, and shut the door.

When Tom heard the water start running, he zipped open the soft-sider and took what he’d brought into the other room.

All the furniture in there was antique replica. Queen Anne, Tom thought. He didn’t really know. He only knew that Scott looked as out-of-place here as Tom had felt on the river those first weeks.

He handed him the envelope first.

Scott opened the flap and looked at the stack of bills inside. Tom had withdrawn them from the bank in Valentine on the way back to Abby’s yesterday afternoon. The check Paradiso had sent more than covered whatever had been left in the cashbox, but Tom wasn’t exactly sure how much had been left in the cash box. He’d taken a guess based on what he’d been paying Scott each week and rounded up.

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

Scott tossed the money onto the couch beside his leg. He looked back at the television without saying anything.

Tom stepped forward, leaned down. He put the copy of Greer’s chapbook on top of the envelope.

“Your dad was good writer.”

Scott looked at the book.

“Thanks for the loaner,” Tom said.

When the food came, Scott tried to act disinterested. After a few minutes, he wandered in and sniffed around, lifting lids and dropping them. Tom sat on one of the beds with a cheeseburger and fries, watching. Scott took a bite out of a chicken strip and winced as he chewed. Foster had really given the kid a duckbill. Tom imagined Scott’s teeth must have cut the inside of the lip nice and deep.

After the chicken strip, Scott tore the tail off a breaded shrimp and popped the meat into his mouth. He flicked the tail back onto the plate.

After another minute of poking around, he fell in and ate like an escaped prisoner.

He took the first plate back into the television room, but he was back in five minutes. At that point, he sat at a side table and chowed down. In twenty minutes, he’d reduced most of the first cart to a rubble of empty plates and bar baskets. Tom was full, so he took over the last of his fries. Scott ate those, too.

Tom left him to it and went to watch television.

Eventually, Scott wandered back in and took the same spot he’d been sitting in before. The book and the cash weren’t there anymore. Tom flipped channels and couldn’t find anything that held his interest.

“Those guys are cops,” Scott said.

It was like witnessing a miracle. Tom looked over and said, “What guys?”

“The ones following us. I saw you talking to ’em.”

“Yes, they’re cops.”

“Like FBI or something?”

“Like DEA.” Tom left the channel on some movie he didn’t recognize and punched the volume down a notch. “Larry? From the Landing?”

Scott nodded.

“Cop.”

Scott looked at him.

“They’ve been watching you guys all summer.”

“You knew that the whole time?”

Tom shook his head. “Not until the Fourth. That day I took Farmer out in the storm.”

“Who?”

“Salinger. Farmer’s his real name.”

Scott sat and stared at the movie for a while without saying anything. He finally said, “What are they going to do?”

Tom didn’t see any reason to bullshit the kid at this point. “They’ve got Trevor on the hook.”

Scott said nothing, but Tom could see the look on his face in the light of the television. He’d been hanging on to the idea that Trevor was still sticking to the schedule, whatever the schedule had been. Maybe he’d been hoping to sneak out of the hotel after Tom and Abby crashed.

“Just out of curiosity, what were you guys planning to do? Meet up here somewhere?”

Silence.

“Where after that?” Tom remembered something Abby had said a few weeks ago. “California?”

More silence. Tom tried to imagine what they’d been thinking when they’d cooked up their big plan. He tried to imagine Scott Greer and Trevor Wheeler, cruising Los Angeles in a Dodge Ram filled with ephedrine, looking for somebody who looked like a drug dealer. Why not? Piece of cake.

“They’ll offer a deal if you and Trevor help them set up Duane and his buyer,” Tom told him. “They’ll put you in a room and scare the shit out of you until you go along.”

“They’ll try.”

“You asked what they were going to do. I’m just telling you.”

Silence again.

“Trevor has the most to lose at this point. They’ll use that on both of you.”

They heard the bathroom door open. Abby padded in, barefoot. She was wrapped in a fat white terry-cloth robe with a Warwick insignia stitched on it.

“I hope you guys saved some food for me.”

Tom nodded toward the other room. “I think there’s a bite or two left.”

There was a whole other cart. Abby let out a sigh. Her face looked flushed, ten years younger. Her hair was still wet, combed straight back from her forehead. Shiny dark strands clung together, hanging past the towel draped over the back of her neck.

“Nothing worse than getting all nice and clean and then having to put on dirty clothes,” she said. “I think I’ll wear this robe all the way home.”

“Should come in handy if we get pulled over.”

“I’m too tired for flattery, but thanks.” She took an edge of the towel and pressed it against the back of her head. “What were you guys talking about in here?”

“Just girl stuff,” Tom said.

She smirked and reached over the back of the couch, put her hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Did you get something to eat?”

He nodded in the glow of the television.

“I saw an ice machine down the hall. You could get some for your mouth if it’s hurting.”

“It’s fine.”

She looked at Tom and shook her head. “Well. I’m going to eat. Then I’m going to sleep.”

“’Night,” Tom said.

“Don’t stay up too late, you boys. We’ve got an early wake-up call.”

With that, she turned and walked into the other room. Tom found himself watching her. He found himself watching her even after she disappeared from view around the corner. After a minute, lids rattled softly.

He blinked, looked over, and found Scott watching him. Disapprovingly.

“Give me a break,” Tom said.

Abby took one of the beds. Scott watched most of an Adam Sandler flick and fell asleep on the couch. At one point, he woke up, shuffled out, and flopped onto the other bed.

Tom turned off the tube and raided the minibar while Scott and Abby sawed logs in the other room. He drank the DEA’s booze in the dark until he fell asleep sitting up in his clothes.

When early-morning sunlight sliced through a gap in the drapes and across his eyes, he went to get everybody up. Scott and Abby were already dressed, each sitting on a bed, reading the complimentary USA Today. Waiting for him.

They checked out, picked up the minivan out front, and started home.

THIRTY-FIVE

On the other side of Sterling, Tom noticed that Wilson and Denbrough suddenly closed their following distance from the rough quarter mile they’d been keeping to about a hundred feet. Behind the wheel, Abby noticed, too. She looked over. Tom shrugged.

Ten miles south of Julesburg, her canvas bag started ringing between his feet.

Tom dug out her phone and handed it over. She held the wheel with one hand and thumbed the Talk button with the other.

“Hello?” She listened for a few seconds, then glanced at Tom again. “Yes, Jack. He’s right here. Hold on.”

She handed him the phone with a concerned expression. Tom took it and said, “Hey.”

“Is Scott with you two?”

“We’ve got him.”

“Where are you?”

“Let me call you back in a couple hours,” Tom said. “I’ll explain it then.”

“I asked you a question.”

It was a tone he hadn’t heard out of his father in years. On the receiving end of it, Tom suddenly felt Scott’s age again.

“We’re on our way out of Colorado,” he said. “Almost to the line. Why?”

“Everybody’s okay there?”

“We’re fine. What’s the matter?”

Jack Coleman sighed into the phone. Tom heard him say something away from the mouthpiece. It sounded like he was talking to Tom’s mother.

He came back on and said, “I just got through talking with Ronnie Pavel. Better get yourselves and Scott on back.”

“What’s going on?”

“Looks like Foster spooked.”

“What do you mean, he spooked?”

“Nobody’s seen him since last night,” his dad said. “DEA boys locked the Landing down an hour ago.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

Abby made an urgent face. Tom held up a finger: Hang on. “What do they know?”

“Not a lot, sounds like.”

“He just vanished? How do they know he didn’t just tie one on somewhere?”

“They found Harlan Pack’s Jeep in town,” his dad said. “Parking lot of the Jewel. Ticket girl knew Pack, said she saw him waiting around front late last night.”

“And Duane picked him up?”

“Little car-pickup thing with a shell, she told Roy.”

So much for Farmer’s good mood, Tom thought.

“I expect they’ll have somebody federal waiting for you at Abby’s place when you get there.”

“That’ll make it a party.” Tom checked the rear view. The Suburban followed closely enough that he could see Denbrough taking his turn behind the wheel this morning. “We’ve already got an escort.”

“Well. Just so you know.”

“How did you get in on this?”

“Roy had Ronnie Pavel call us at the house. I said I’d get word to you.”

“I put Pavel in the loop before we left. Why didn’t he just call Abby’s phone?”

“He said he tried.”

Tom took the phone away from his ear and looked at the screen. A message in the upper corner of the display indicated that they’d missed seven calls. They must have been in and out of coverage. He put the phone back to his ear.

“. . . more than they can handle as it is,” his dad was saying. “Deputy Pavel asked if I’d keep on it until somebody got you on the line.”

There was something else, Tom could hear it behind the words. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Jack Coleman paused a beat.

“You should know,” he finally said. “Cory Severs shot himself.”

“What?”

“Sheriff found him this morning.”

“Found him where?”

“Empty rental house he had over north of the hatchery.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“They figure he must have been down a couple, three days.”

Tom thought about that. “Three days?”

“They don’t know, son.”

“Like the day after we talked to Hilliard.” He remembered Duane saying that Severs had hassled him the same afternoon. Tom tried to imagine Cory’s path that day. To the funeral. The Wheeler home. Severs would have had to swing by the Landing before Hilliard had called him in. He couldn’t have had any idea what was coming.

“I expect.”

“Jesus.”

“Get yourselves home,” his dad said.

They had to stop for gas just across the state line. Wilson and Denbrough stayed in the Suburban. Tom paid at the pumps, and they all moved on.

Back on the road, Abby spent a few minutes on the cell with Lois Wheeler. She passed along condolences for Cory, asked to be called if Ryland’s sister needed any extra help with food or with the younger kids.

“That poor family,” she said when she hung up.

Tom agreed and borrowed the phone. He left a message with a nutshell version of Scott’s situation at Tyler & Tyler. Then he left one at George Junior’s home.

Other than that, it was one of the quietest car rides he could remember.

Tom could feel the climate change the further east they drove. He hadn’t perceived it so much going the other direction yesterday; now it was noticeable even with the windows up and the A/C going full blast. Little by little, the dry mountain air gave way to humid heat. By the time they finally reached North Platte, it was as if the atmosphere had grown heavier inside the car.

Wilson and Denbrough followed them north on U.S. 83. It was about a hundred miles from the junction to the Circle Slash. They made it just after one in the afternoon.

The DEA must have coordinated. Tom saw Terry Farmer’s Escape approaching in the oncoming lane, coming up on Abby’s driveway from the north as they arrived from the south.

Abby braked and turned in. Wilson and Denbrough drove past and pulled to the shoulder as Farmer swung around. In the rearview, Tom watched Farmer pull into the driveway a few feet, stop, and back out onto the blacktop until he drew parallel with the Suburban. The agents idled window-to-window on the highway as Abby took the minivan around the big dune.

From the backseat, Scott said, “What’s Lexi doing out?”

Abby looked across, out Tom’s window, to a bay mare grazing along the side of the driveway.

She sighed. “So much for my clover beds.”

Later, Tom wished he had paid more attention to the horse.

They went into the house through the garage, which led in through the kitchen. Abby said, “I’m going to call Phyllis.” She touched Scott’s arm. “Can you show Tom where the bathrooms are?”

Tom followed Scott out of the kitchen, into a spacious sitting room: big stone fireplace, rag rugs on oak, potpourri in a bowl on a coffee table. Tom saw a row of short bookcases with leaded glass doors. He remembered buying them at an antique auction for Abby’s birthday years ago.

He said, “Phyllis?”

“My grandma. She’s watching Hannah,” Scott said.

“Ah. Right.”

Somehow, he’d completely forgotten about Hannah. Yesterday, he couldn’t get the presence of that empty car seat out of his head. Today, he hadn’t even noticed. Something about that put a bad taste in his mouth.

He’d just screwed open the flask to wash it out when they heard something clatter in the kitchen behind them. Abby cried out.

They both turned. Tom said, “You okay in there?”

Nothing.

“Abby?”

“I’m here.”

In another moment, she appeared. Her movements seemed stiff.

When her step faltered, Duane straightened his arm, pressed the muzzle of the gun into the back of her head, and nudged her along.

THIRTY-SIX

Where is it?”

He was bare-chested beneath a threadbare denim shirt and looked like he’d slept on the ground. The shirt hung open, tails rippling around his waist as he moved. The left pocket had a dark stain the size of a compact disc.

Scott stood beside Tom like a coiled spring. He said nothing.

Foster sighed, maneuvered Abby around a gliding chair, and sat her down in it. He stood behind her and pointed the gun at her head again.

“Don’t shit me, you little dickhead. Seriously. I’m not in the mood.”

The shirt fell open when Foster raised his arm. Tom saw a large, thick square of gauze crudely taped over Duane’s ribs. The gauze ended just below his left nipple, soaked red from corner to corner. The blood had loosened the bottom strip of tape, trailing rivulets down his abdomen, staining his waistband.

“Duane?”

“Little busy now, boss.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

To Scott, Duane said, “Where you been, kid?”

Tom jumped in before Scott could answer. “He wrecked my damn truck. Colorado state police called us. That’s why I left. What’s going on?”

Foster shook his head at Scott. “Douchebag. If you even tell me the shit’s locked up in Colorado somewhere . . .”

“Trev’s got it,” Scott said. “We were gonna meet up.”

Tom held his breath, waited. Duane closed his eyes and smiled. He let out a sigh and lowered his gun hand.

Good boy. Tom kept his eyes locked on Abby’s. Play dumb.

She mouthed the words: Where are they?

The doorbell rang. Duane’s eyes snapped open. The gun came back up.

“That’s Larry,” Tom said, palms out. “We met him on the way in.”

Abby’s eyes flashed when he said it. What are you doing?

He was hoping. That was all. It was the first thing Duane had said: Where is it? Like he really didn’t know.

“Goddammit, what’s that guy’s deal? He was sitting out there two different times this morning.”

So Duane had been in the house all day.

Surely Farmer’s crew would have secured the place. Had they not ventured beyond the exterior? Had they missed him somehow?

Did they know he was in here?

Tom couldn’t buy that. Not even Farmer would risk a barricaded suspect—with hostages—for a pallet of precrank they’d already secured.

Had Duane walked in from somewhere? Had he been dropped off? Where was the Sube?

Abby watched Tom and suddenly understood. From the chair, she said, “The magazine guy? From your place?”

“Larry Salinger,” Tom said. “Right. The guy we saw coming in.”

She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, shit, he called last week and booked a room. I completely forgot.”

“Oops.” Foster pulled her up by the arm, nestled the gun in her ribs. “Come on, let’s get rid of him.”

“Get rid of him how? What do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him you don’t have any room.”

“I already told him I had a room.”

“Then tell him you’re fucking fumigating.” Duane threw up his free hand. “Christ, I don’t know. You were a schoolteacher, you can think of something.”

Tom breathed a little easier.

As long as everybody kept it together, they had the upper hand all the way. He understood in one quick flash: Duane hadn’t spooked. He’d merely discovered that his drugs were gone.

Farmer’s crew hadn’t gotten their shit together in time. Or they’d gotten lazy, trusting Duane to stick to his normal Saturday-night routine: casino, Landing, get stoned, go to sleep.

Or Tom and Terry had allowed themselves to get into a pissing match and screwed the whole operation.

Something along those lines. That left a hundred questions, but at the moment, Tom was only concerned with one of them. Duane answered it before he could think of the best way to ask.

“Friend of mine is babysitting over at Gramma Phyllis’s,” he said.

Abby’s face went slack. In the next moment, her eyes filled with something that went beyond fear. Tom saw wildness there.

Duane nodded. “Just so everybody understands the situation.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

She’s only four,” Abby said. “Please.”

“Don’t worry, little kids like Harlan. They think he’s a tree or something. She’ll be fine.”

The doorbell rang again. A sharp knock followed.

“Get your game face on.” Foster tightened his grip on Abby’s arm. He pointed the gun at Tom, then at Scott. “You two stay here.”

Larry, hi. I’m so sorry, I meant to call out to Tom’s and tell you.

Scott started across the room. Tom grabbed his right arm. The skin there felt rough, patchy.

“I’ve got a shotgun,” Scott hissed. He jerked his arm away.

I had a pipe break upstairs yesterday. Yeah, I know. It’s a mess.

Tom grabbed Scott’s arm again and dug into the soft inside meat with his fingers. He stepped in close and spoke quickly, quietly, in a middle register. “What are you going to do with a shotgun, spray both of them?”

The whole place is flooded. Part of the kitchen ceiling is on the kitchen floor.

“Let me go, goddammit.”

“Don’t whisper, it carries. Talk exactly like this.”

No, no, Larry, I’m fine, just fine. We’ve got a lot to clean up around here, that’s all. My four-year-old is busy helping. I’d better get back in.

“Listen to her,” Tom said. “She’s telling him everything he needs to know. Hannah’s okay.”

For a gambler, Duane’s tells were obvious. Now that Tom had seen Duane lie a couple of times, he could see it coming.

He was almost positive.

Larry, I swear, you’re as bad as Tom. You reporter types. I really have to get . . .

Her voice grew louder. Tom could tell she’d turned her head to face the interior of the house.

Hannah, put that down, you’ll get hurt.

“Keep your head on,” Tom said. “Okay? Don’t lose your cool on me.”

Scott pried Tom’s fingers away. “They’ve got my little sister.”

“Watch your voice.”

“Fuck you, this is your fault.”

Well, no, Larry, I don’t. Scott stayed here last night, and Duane was by to pick him up this morning. I’d think they’d be back any time. Tom should be . . . well, you know Tom.

Tom found Scott’s eyes. “Please trust me.”

Scott didn’t want to, but it was already too late to do otherwise.

Abby gave a pleasant laugh and apologized again. In a minute, the front door closed. In another minute, Duane brought her back into the room.

She’d been amazing. It had taken something vital out of her. Somewhere between the door and here, her eyes had acquired a flat desperation Tom had never seen in Abby. Not anywhere. Not ever.

Foster patted her shoulder. “Gold star, everybody. Good job.”

Outside, an engine turned over. A reverse gear whined. The engine revved, then faded slowly, down the driveway. Gone.

Duane looked at Scott. “Call Trevor. And use your cell so the asshole answers for once. Dial and hand it to me.”

“If he hurts her—” Scott started, but Foster cut him off.

“Take it easy, tough turf. I was bluffing. You think I’d hurt a little kid?”

Abby closed her eyes. Her shoulders sagged. Scott glanced at Tom. Tom felt something loosen in his gut. Relief came in such a flood that he realized he’d doubted his own judgment almost as much as Scott had.

“I heard you guys say she was at Granny’s house when you came in. No worries.”

“You fucking asshole,” Scott said.

“Kept your ass put, didn’t it?” Duane waggled the gun. “Here’s your worries.”

Tom couldn’t be absolutely sure from his distance, but he was almost positive Duane was holding the Browning Abby had taken from the Landing. He must have been through the place, looking for anything useful he could find. That goddamned gun was really starting to make the rounds.

Rounds.

Tom tried to remember how many he’d put into the clip the last time he’d handled the gun. He had no idea. The rest of the ammo was still back in the closet at the Landing, as far as he knew.

When he spoke, he tried to edit what he knew very carefully.

“Is this about Severs and that dope?”

Duane chuckled. “Just like your gramps, I swear. Always off in your own little world.”

“For Christ’s sake, quit waving the gun around,” Tom said. “Let’s figure this out.”

“I’m gonna accidentally start shooting if Lip here doesn’t dig that phone out of his pocket and start dialing in the next five seconds.”

“Honey, call Trev,” Abby said. “Just do what he says.”

“Yeah, honey. Do what I say.”

For a moment, Tom didn’t know if Scott was going to play along or let his temper get the best of him.

But he finally shoved his hand into the front pocket of his jeans. He pulled out the phone, flipped it open, pressed one button. Speed dial.

“Slide it over.”

Scott stooped and sent the phone across the floor.

Duane winced as he bent to pick it up. His gauze pad wrinkled, and blood dripped onto the floor. He straightened slowly, sucking in a breath. He put the phone to his ear.

Abby slipped around him and hustled over. Foster tracked her with the gun.

He brightened. “It’s me, numbnuts. Hang up and I’ll pop a cap in your little partner in crime over here.”

Abby touched Scott’s face and hugged him. He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t pull away. She reached out, found Tom’s hand. Tom imagined Farmer and his boys crowded around Trevor Wheeler and his cell phone.

Foster held the phone out and said, “Everybody say hello to Trev.”

Nobody said anything.

Foster scowled. “Guess you’ll have to trust me.”

In a low voice, Tom said, “What did Terry say?”

Abby leaned in. “‘If you see Tom, tell him he just lost his best customer. I’m cutting bait.’ ”

Tom nodded.

“What does that mean?”

“It means Duane’s about to screw himself.” He looked at Scott. “All we have to do is play along. Are you cool?”

Scott clenched his teeth, nodded.

Duane said, “Now what are you doing in North Platte with Daddy’s medicine? Get your dumb ass back here.”

He paused.

“Make it two. We’ll do it at that one place. The first one you showed me.”

He paused again.

“No, penis, not the place we used. The first one. The old whatever.”

Pause.

“Yeah. Two hours. Don’t get pulled over. And do not fuck with me, kid. I’ve had a shitty day, I promise you. I’m in no mood.”

With that, Foster folded the phone. “Okeydoke.”

He gave an underhanded toss. Scott caught the phone in the air, fumbled it, dropped it. The phone hit the hardwood floor with a crunch.

“Asshole.”

“Butterfingers.”

“Hey.” Tom pointed, rubbed his own ribs. “What happened there?”

Duane gave him a tight smile. “You could say Harlan got in touch.”

“How bad is it?” Abby said. “Do you need a doctor?”

“Hell, yeah, I need a doctor.” He probed gingerly around the edges of the gauze, drawing air in through his teeth. The ends of the tape peeled up almost as soon as he pressed them down. “I need about a million stitches and an airplane, too. What’s your point?”

“I could look at it for you.”

“Never mind,” Duane said. “Painkillers would be nice, though. Got any? Oh, wait.” He grinned, fished into the breast pocket of his shirt, and pulled out a prescription bottle. The bottle rattled when he shook it between his fingers. “I already found ’em. Thanks.”

“Those are probably old,” Abby said.

Duane shrugged and popped a couple. “Seem to be doing the trick.”

Watching him, Tom wondered about the Subaru again. He thought of the horse grazing along the driveway. He thought about Duane’s mystery wound, thinking he had a pretty good idea what had made it.

“Duane?”

“Yeah, boss.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Where is Harlan?”

Duane chuckled, but not like he’d heard something funny.

He’d parked the Brat in the horse barn.

Duane had stacked hay bales across the opening of the wide empty stall, all the way up to the cross beam and around the slatted sides. From outside appearances, the stall looked like a big stack of hay bales.

The bales were still slightly green, fragrant and heavy as hell. Horses snorted and switched their tails in a paddock out back. A couple of them watched the proceedings in the barn through the top half of the back door, which Duane had swung open for air.

The barn was hot and dusty and made Tom’s eyes itch. By the time he and Scott had finished taking down the front wall and restacking the bales off to the side, they both poured sweat. He’d forgotten about getting nailed in the shoulder with the truck mirror until all the lifting rekindled a deep ache in the muscle. His bare palms burned, raw from the bailing twine.

“This is more work than you did all summer,” he told Duane.

“Tell me about it. I need a vacation, man.”

Foster stepped between them and opened the back hatch of the camper shell. Black plastic sucked in through the window Pack had put out with the tire iron weeks ago. Abby gasped and turned her back. “Oh my God.”

Tom worked the flask out of his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a long pull. Scott stood next to him, unmoving, looking into the bed of the Sube.

“Scott,” Abby said. “Turn around. Don’t look.”

She pulled at his arm, but he shook it off.

The stall was dim, murky with floating chaff, but enough daylight leaked in through the upper windows that Tom could see Harlan Pack’s body in plenty of detail.

He’d been loaded in on his back, one arm caught beneath his hip, legs bent to one side at the knees. His ponytail was out, black hair unbound, matted and glistening on one side. Damp strands stuck to his face. Tom could still see the last yellow remnants of the bruises Cory Severs had left with his baton.

The cop was the least of Harlan’s problems now. Harlan was the least of the cop’s. Duane Foster seemed to believe he had no problems whatsoever.

Beside the corpse, Tom saw a length of gnarly wood about as big around as his arm. Pack must have hemorrhaged from the blow that caved the left side of his skull. Tom could see that he’d bled into his eyes. They were still open, the color of plums, dead gaze fixed on nothing.

Duane took the flask out of Tom’s hand. “Funny thing is, I probably imagined killing his ass a hundred times. It even crossed my mind last night. But that ain’t me, man. Never was.”

Tom finally looked away from the body. Scott didn’t.

“What happened?”

“We had a little thing working,” Duane said. “Kind of a long-term partnership. He decided it was time to, um, I guess accelerate the schedule.”

“I guess that was a mistake,” Tom said.

“Don’t get all judgy, there, boss. I didn’t mean for this.”

Tom said nothing.

“I think what we all need to keep in mind is, if Lip here and his cowbuddy hadn’t taken something that didn’t belong to them, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“I just asked what happened.”

“He thought I was burning him, that’s what happened.” Duane tipped the flask. “I was as surprised the shit was gone as he was. You think he believed that? Christ, the guy pulls that goddamn knife out if you breathe on him wrong.”

“Sounds like a clear case of self-defense,” Tom said.

“You got that right.” Duane nodded toward the bed of the Sube. “He tripped over that thing coming after me. I picked it up and clocked him with it when he got up. Christ, I figured it’d knock him out or something. Didn’t even swing it that hard. Dude went down like a bag of rocks.”

“It’s a fucking hedge post,” Scott said.

“Yeah, well, now we know.” Duane took another drink. “It’s not like I stopped to inspect it. It’s dark, I can’t see shit, I’m bleeding like hell, my guts are hanging out for all I know. Just kinda went Sammy Sosa on him.”

Abby made a small sound behind them, somewhere between a murmur and a sigh. To Tom’s surprise, Scott turned from the Sube and went to her. He put his arm around her shoulders. She wrapped both hers around his waist.

“See? There you go,” Duane said. “Tragedy brings people together.”

He turned back to the truck. Quietly, Foster said, “You know what’s weird? It doesn’t seem like that big a deal.”

“What doesn’t seem like that big a deal?”

Duane nodded toward the corpse. “I never would have thought I could hurt somebody that bad. Turns out it feels about like anything else.”

“I guess you learn something new about yourself every day,” Tom said.

Duane took another pull from the flask.

“Probably shouldn’t take pills with that.”

“Yeah.” Duane handed the flask back to Tom. “Might cloud my judgment.”

He moved his eyes toward Scott and Abby. He looked back at Tom. They held each other’s gaze for a long minute. If Duane was bluffing now, Tom couldn’t tell.

“We on the same page?”

“You’re the boss,” Tom said.

THIRTY-EIGHT

They set out in the hottest part of the afternoon.

In college, Tom once applied for a part-time gig driving hearses for Roper & Sons. He’d needed the extra cash and thought it would be something quirky to tell people at keg parties. Abby had thought it was morbid and gross and not a very funny joke.

He hadn’t gotten the job, but he’d often wondered what it might have been like.

Probably not quite like hauling a bludgeoned corpse in the bed of a twenty-year-old Subaru with a garbage bag for a back window, listening to thuds under a tarp in back every time he bounced over a chuckhole in the pavement or a rut in the ground.

Duane rode in the minivan with Scott and Abby. He’d removed the car seat so that he could sit behind them on the passenger side. Scott drove.

Tom followed them from the Circle Slash, off the main highways, winding mostly west along a series of desolate local roads. Each junction led to more rugged road until they finally turned off-road altogether.

They made the last part of the trip overland, following a set of wheel tracks worn into the prairie’s grassy hide.

Out they drove, into the empty heart of the Sandhills. The Sube ran lower than the minivan; Tom could feel clumps of tall grass and tough weeds lashing the undercarriage as he bounced along. Fat grasshoppers dive-bombed the windshield, landed on the hood and looked at him, zipped away.

Eventually, they came to a barbed-wire fence line. They stopped at a swing gate cobbled together with hedge posts much like the one next to Pack’s body in back.

Scott got out of the van and opened the gate by leaning in with his shoulder, hugging the posts together enough to slip the top wire loop. He held the bottom loop with his foot and lifted out the anchor post. He held the gate taut to keep it from tangling, walked it in, laid it down in the grass.

Once they were through, Tom stopped and got out, intending to fasten the gate behind them again. Scott braked up ahead, leaned out the window of the minivan, and called back.

“He says leave it open.”

Tom dropped the fence and got back in the car.

On they drove.

He saw the old wooden windmill first, a hobbled marker leaning at a cocked angle to the ground.

They approached from a wide valley, slightly uphill. Tom saw the house next: a small sagging box set in a shallow bowl, wood-slat siding peeled and blackened by the elements and time. Two windows and a door had long rotted out of crumbling frames, and the roof had caved in on one side.

Livestock had grazed the surrounding area up to the edge of a fence surrounding the property. Inside the fence, fifty yards from one side to the other, native grasses grew tall around tumbleweeds of rusty barbed wire.

They were on Wheeler land, Tom assumed. Which probably made this the homestead of one of Trevor’s forebears. Instead of demolishing the old ranch and carting it out, they’d fenced it to keep the cattle off and left the place to its own decline.

From what he could see, it looked like the perfect spot for everybody’s purposes this afternoon.

Big dunes rose up behind the property, sheltering the valley in three directions. He scanned the grassy ridges as they approached, saw no movement. He trained on the empty windows of the house, saw only dark voids.

Trevor had parked his big Dodge Ram near the remains of a lean-to shelter. He stood by the open tailgate, waiting for them. Tom saw the brand-new bed cover propped open on pneumatic lifts.

The minivan braked to a stop near the windmill. Tom pulled alongside. As he got out of the car, he noticed something jutting from the grass a few feet away. When he recognized what he was looking at, he understood the reason Duane had picked this particular spot: An old stone well, long defunct and abandoned, now capped with a limestone slab.

“Congratulations,” Duane said. “You’re the proud owner of a slightly used Subaru. Might want to hose out the back at some point.”

He gave Abby a gentle push in Tom’s direction. When Scott stepped toward him, Duane jammed the gun into his stomach. Scott let out a grunt and stopped where he stood.

“Please,” Abby said.

“Yeah, kid. Please.”

“Just go. You’ve got what you want.”

Duane nodded. “We’ll see.”

He turned Scott around, pressed the muzzle of the Browning between his shoulder blades, and pushed him forward through the knee-high grass. Squadrons of grasshoppers parted the way in front of them. They headed toward Trevor, who smoked by the truck twenty yards away.

Abby turned and mouthed the words: Where are they?

Tom moved his eyes to the old house, up to the dunes.

“I don’t see anything,” she whispered. “Are they . . .”

He shook his head sharply.

The sun beat down. The air hung heavy and still. Insects chittered in the grass; somewhere, a meadowlark trilled. He couldn’t see anything, either, but he knew they were waiting. He doubted they’d make a play while Duane held Scott point-blank.

He leaned forward and spoke into her ear. Abby smelled like sweat and hotel shampoo.

“It’s almost over. Don’t look around.”

At the truck, Duane held the gun on Scott while Trevor hauled out a big blue cooler, lid fastened tight with bungee cords. Trevor unclipped the cords and opened the lid.

Duane made him open up the other coolers the same way. When he was satisfied, Trevor slammed the gate up, the bed cover down. Duane moved them to the cab and made Trevor show him every inch inside.

In a few minutes, all three of them headed back. Duane still held the gun on Scott, Trevor’s truck keys now jingling in his other hand. Scott had the look he got when he’d lost himself in a task. Wheeler wore that thousand-yard stare of his.

Abby said, “Trev? Are you okay?”

Wheeler didn’t respond.

“Okay, men.” Foster gestured to the covered well. “Heave ho.”

Without speaking, Scott and Trevor got down on their knees in the grass on one side of the slab. They dug in with their boots and pushed.

Heavy stone grated on stone, sending hollow echoes deep down into the ground. Tom wondered absently if this was what had finished this place, way back when. The well had tapped out.

The back edge of the slab hit the soil on the other side with a heavy thud, then balanced there, leaning against the dark mouth of the well.

“Shit, that was easy.” Duane looked at Abby. “You two should be able to get it back on yourself no problem.”

Tom said, “You’re not going to stay and help?”

“Sorry.”

Scott got back to his feet and held down a hand. Trevor grabbed it and pulled himself up.

“I’ll send Butch and Sundance back in the truck when I get where I’m going,” Foster said. “Assuming I don’t run into any trouble.” He looked back and forth between Tom and Abby. “Am I going to run into any trouble?”

“No,” Abby said.

Too quickly, Tom thought.

But Duane didn’t seem to notice. He pointed the gun at Trevor’s face and said, “You’re driving.”

Tom could feel Abby straining against herself as Scott and Trevor turned and walked toward the truck.

Foster watched them all the way. When they climbed into either side of the cab and slammed the doors behind them, he looked at Tom. Not in the eye.

“I don’t want to hurt anybody else.”

Tom didn’t say anything.

Duane sighed. “I’m sorry it went like this. I like you, man. That’s the truth.”

Tom shrugged. “Good luck to you, Duane.”

Duane glanced at Abby, dropped his eyes. He fished into his pocket, popped his last pill, and dropped the empty bottle into the grass. He stood a moment then, looking toward the back of the Sube, fingering the edges of the bloody gauze. New blood bubbled out beneath the tape, trickling through the coarse hairs on his stomach.

“Shit,” he said.

With that, he turned and walked toward the truck, shirttails rippling.

He was halfway there when they moved on him.

THIRTY-NINE

Stop. Drop the weapon. Do it now.”

Farmer spoke the words calmly. He came from inside the house, gun drawn and leveled, moving toward Duane at an angle. The black vest strapped over his plain white T-shirt was the only thing that made him look properly dressed for a raid.

Agent Rice came around one side of the lean-to in a walking crouch. Agent Larson came around the other side. They moved around opposite sides of the truck, the three of them creating a loose arc around Duane.

All of that happened before Duane seemed to realize his plans had changed.

“DEA,” Farmer said, sharper this time. “Drop the weapon.”

“Go on and do it, bud.” Sheriff Hilliard followed Farmer out of the house like he was coming out to get the mail. He had his revolver in one hand, out of its holster but hanging toward the ground. So far, he was the only cop on-site not wearing Kevlar. “Let’s not see anybody get hurt out here.”

Tom caught motion out of the corner of his eye, tracked it up and over. He saw a prone figure atop a big dune a hundred yards above and behind Rice. He saw the figure turn a black ball cap around backwards, adjust the rifle on its tripod, and lean in. Cheek to stock, eye to scope.

Duane Foster finally stopped walking. His shoulders sagged. He slowly raised his hands, still holding the Browning.

“Thank God,” Abby said.

Everybody tensed when she broke from Tom’s side.

“Ma’am!”

Abby took a wide berth, hustling into a sandy depression and back up the other side. She jogged toward the passenger side of Wheeler’s pickup.

Scott had been craning for a view out the back window; his face twisted when he saw her coming, and he got out of the truck. Agent Larson caught him by the neck and pushed him to the ground.

Hilliard moved with heavy steps now, cuffs rattling on his belt, both hands on the revolver, barrel still angled down. He intercepted Abby and kept her moving, past Scott and Larson, around the front bumper of the truck.

Duane turned back toward Tom with an expression of patent, medicated disbelief.

He said, “You’re fucking kidding me.”

Tom spent a lot of time thinking back later, trying to piece together the order in which things happened.

Everybody who told the story seemed to remember the small details differently. The papers even got some of the big stuff wrong. By the time initial reports hit the national wires, it might as well have happened to somebody else.

In his own mind, it unfolded in dreamy slow motion, but not in any particular sequence. Most of it seemed to happen at the same time. He was never certain if he remembered it accurately.

He only knew what happened first.

While Farmer barked commands, Duane just stood there, hands in the air, eyes hangdog. How could you do this to me, man?

“Drop that weapon! Right now!”

Tom saw Farmer mouthing the words. The words themselves were lost; a sudden, withering crack seemed to arc across the sky.

It was as if the gauze taped over Duane’s chest exploded. A dark clot of matter flew. Foster stumbled forward two steps, then stood on wobbly legs, hands lowering slowly. His eyes went dull.

The gauze was gone.

A piece of Duane’s chest was gone. In the dark, fistsized mess remaining, Tom saw a shred of bright purple tissue, a brief flash of clean white bone.

Duane was gone, but his brain didn’t know it. He remained standing, still holding the gun.

Terry Farmer dropped to a knee, clawing a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”

Twenty feet away, Rice broke into a run toward Duane, both arms extended. “On the ground! On the ground! Get on the ground right now!”

Tom heard Farmer’s radio crackle. “It wasn’t us. Repeat, no trigger, no trigger.”

A second rifle crack ripped over their heads, one horizon to the other, rolling away.

“On the ground!”

“Goddammit, hold your fire, hold your fire! Who the fuck is shooting?”

“Northwest, northwest, no visual, repeat, no visual.”

“On the ground!”

Duane’s trigger finger spasmed as his legs finally gave. He fired an impotent round into the grass, and the recoil turned him as he fell.

Over Duane’s shoulder, ten feet away now, Tom saw Agent Rice’s gun buck twice in response to Duane’s shot. He saw the tight upward snap of his hands, saw the dry puffs from the muzzle.

One two.

He saw Duane’s falling body twitch and heard an angry buzz.

For some reason, his first thought was that a grasshopper had flown into him. But that was stupid. When he looked down, he saw that he was clawing at his own side with his fingers. His hands were slippery with blood.

He saw the look on Rice’s face. Realized where he was standing. Realized he’d seen the muzzle flashes head-on.

He realized he hadn’t taken cover. He hadn’t hit the ground like everybody else. He hadn’t ducked or dived out of the way. He’d just stood there, watching, like an idiot.

For a moment or two, it felt like he’d been jabbed in the stomach with a broom handle. Then it felt like the broom handle had gone all the way through.

Then it started to burn.

He heard Farmer scream, “Hold your goddamn motherfucking fire!”

He heard Abby scream his name. He saw her come running. He saw Scott in the grass under Larson’s knee. He saw Duane in the grass several feet away.

His knees buckled, and he felt his face hit the ground, and then he was looking through the grass, into Duane’s staring eyes.

Then he saw sky.

“Tom!”

“Shooter on foot. Six hundred yards northwest. Repeat. . . .”

Tom felt himself being lifted. When he opened his eyes, he saw Abby above him, hair hanging, eyes wet and crazy. She’d pulled him into her lap, hands under his arms. He was bleeding all over her. She was crying all over him. Something tasted salty, but he didn’t know if it was blood or tears.

He felt other hands on him then.

The next time he looked up, Abby’s face had been replaced with Terry Farmer’s. Farmer turned his head and shouted, “He’s through-and-through.”

Hard pressure sent hot bolts sizzling through him, down his legs, into his neck. Tom sucked in a breath and said, “Holy shit.”

Farmer looked down at him, looked at Abby. “Here. Keep the pressure on like this. Front and back. Got it?”

“Yes. Yes. Okay.”

She put her hands over Farmer’s. He took his hands away. In the distance, Tom heard the sound of a motor revving, winding tight.

“I’ve got a four-wheeler. Repeat! Shooter northbound ATV.”

Something passed over Farmer’s face; he slammed the walkie-talkie back to his mouth, smearing his cheek with Tom’s blood.

“Who’s on Wheeler?”

“Four wheeler—”

“Negative! Wheeler! Wheeler!”

Larson’s voice drifted over: “He’s right here.”

“Not that one, goddammit. The father, the father. Rice!”

“Here.”

“All roads,” Farmer shouted. “Ninety-seven, eighty-three, twenty. I want that shooter.”

“On it.”

The pain became a hammer and shattered everything. Tom caught fragments here and there.

He remembered watching Hilliard scrabbling up a slope behind the old house with a set of binoculars.

He remembered watching Trevor Wheeler step through the chaos, bend down, and pull his truck keys from Duane Foster’s dead hand.

At some point, he heard a familiar voice, turned his head, and saw Agent Mole—Wilson—standing at the back end of the Sube. Wilson had one hand above his head, like he was waiting for Farmer to call on him.

Tom realized the agent had his hand up because he was resting it on the open gate of the camper shell.

“What was the Indian’s name?”

“Pack. Harlan Pack.”

“Think I found him.”

“Tom,” Abby said. “Tom, open your eyes.”

When he did, he saw white clouds creeping across blue sky. He felt the floating sensation.

“Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

He tried.

FORTY

Cherry County Hospital’s administrative board finally lucked out in June, recruiting a bright kid named Jochum to replace the staff surgeon they’d lost to Alegent Health Systems in Omaha.

Jochum arrived in Valentine the second week of July, just in time to repair a perforating gunshot wound to the left abdomen of a thirty-six-year-old Caucasian male.

Strictly in terms of wound ballistics, the bullet had been a nearly perfect failure. The slug hadn’t expanded or fragmented, hadn’t tumbled, hadn’t hit any bones, and managed to miss all the really important organs, narrowly including the liver.

If the patient had been shot an inch higher or a month earlier, his story might have worked out some other way.

The way it happened, he took sixteen units of AB negative, gave up a foot of small intestine, and went home in about a week.

All things considered, he was an extremely lucky guy.

As far as Tom was concerned, the best part about getting gut shot was the way pain, morphine, and long periods of unconsciousness took a person’s mind off detox.

A long line of people floated in and out of his memory of those first two or three days. Many of them had badges.

Quite a few had needles.

One morning, early, he opened his eyes and saw Terry Farmer standing over the bed.

“Larry.” It came out like a croak. “Your guy shot me.”

“Yeah.” A smirk. “I envy the bastard.”

Tom smiled a little. Even that hurt. He looked up at Farmer. “What about Magruder?”

Farmer shook his head. “Couldn’t follow a set of simple instructions, could you?”

From what he could gather, based on snips of conversations he overheard, there were great numbers of four-wheel all-terrain vehicles in Cherry County.

Somehow, the one they wanted had slipped through the net, and finding it now had proven to be a difficulty. Apparently, everybody out here had at least one. Even Abby owned a couple. The Double Deuce Cattle Company practically kept a fleet.

According to Roy Hilliard’s two remaining deputies, Ryland Wheeler hadn’t left the Severs residence at any time during the afternoon of July thirteenth. He’d been there all day with his sister and the rest of the family, mourning their second loss in only a week’s time.

According to George Tyler Jr., both Roy Hilliard and Terry Farmer had suggested to the deputies, in blunt terms, that they were lying. But the deputies stuck with the story. As did the Wheeler family.

Tom kept hoping he’d see Ron Pavel. He wanted to ask him about it.

According to George Tyler Jr., Hilliard’s chief deputy had quit the department first thing Monday the fourteenth. Pavel had given no official explanation for turning in his badge. Tyler interpreted the move to be an act of principle.

Whatever the reason, Pavel never came by the hospital.

But Ryland Wheeler did.

One afternoon, Tom woke up to find the man sitting in a chair next to the bed. Wheeler studied his scarred fingers and didn’t see Tom open his eyes.

Tom closed them again.

“Got his first buck last winter,” Wheeler was saying. “Melvin Cobb mounted it for him.”

He paused for a while.

“How do you like that one? Old Cobb stuffs my boy’s first deer in November, then dresses him for a casket the next July. Guess you don’t hear anything like that in Chicago.”

More silence.

“Hell, I don’t know. Maybe you do.”

Wheeler talked for a little while longer. Tom actually did drift off again for a minute.

He woke up when he heard his father’s voice. It came from the doorway behind Wheeler.

“Ry.”

Tom heard Wheeler turn in his chair. He let his eyes creak open just enough to see.

“Johnny. How long you been standing there?”

“Long enough to wonder something.”

Silence.

“What did Morgan use on that buck, anyway?”

Wheeler stood and faced Tom’s dad. Neither man spoke for a minute.

“That Winchester seventy of ours.”

“Lloyd’s old gun?”

“Gave it to him on his sixteenth,” Wheeler said. “Would have been Trev’s, but he had to have something new when he turned.”

“Sure.”

“Morgan, though, he always wanted that gun. Talked about getting it all year.”

Tom’s dad put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the door frame. “Good rifle.”

“Old man used to claim he took a twelve-pointer from half a mile.”

“In a wind, I bet.”

Wheeler chuckled. “You know how he was. Morg always did like those stories, though.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Tom’s dad said. “I remember the mulie you took off the Pine Ridge that time. That was five hundred yards if it was a foot.”

“Hell. Wasn’t half that.”

“I guess it was a long time ago.”

“Goddamn long time ago.”

Jack Coleman closed the door and came inside the room. “You always were the best shot of any of us, though. And that’s a good rifle.”

“Guess it was. Hate to lose it.”

“Lose it? How do you lose a gun like that?”

Wheeler walked across the room, past Tom’s dad, all the way to the closed door. He stopped there and turned. “You know, Hilly asked me that same question. I’ll be goddamned if I know. Been looking all over.”

“That right?”

“Had one of my guys drive out to Merritt Reservoir looking for it,” Wheeler said. “Sent another one to all the way to goddamn McConaughy. Tell you what, I’m starting to wonder if anybody’s ever going to find that old gun.”

The two men stood and looked at each other until Wheeler reached out and opened the door.

“I’m glad your boy made it through all this business,” he said. “I mean that.”

“Ry.”

“You Colemans take care.”

Tom watched his dad watch the door long after Ryland Wheeler let it close behind him.

If he knew Tom had been listening, he didn’t say a word.

Two days before they gave him dietary instructions and let him out of there, Joyce Coleman bought a blank photo album from the bookstore on Main.

She spent an entire afternoon in a chair by the window, tipping in photos from the box she’d found at the Landing. Tom had stuffed his grandfather’s letter in there on top of the pictures. He didn’t remember doing it.

When he handed it over, his dad looked at the wrinkled sheet, flipped it over and looked at the back, then looked at him.

“What’s this?”

“Read it. I want to ask you something.”

The great Jack Coleman pulled his bifocals from his shirt pocket and settled back in the chair. He read the note. When he was finished, his mouth twitched.

“I’ll be damned.”

Tom said, “What does that mean?”

“What does what mean?”

“That line he used,” Tom said. “‘An old rain dog like me.’ ”

His mom looked up from the photo album, apparently interested herself. Tom’s dad looked at the note for a few moments, then shook his head slowly.

“We had this mutt when I was a kid,” he said. “Showed up on the back porch one morning after this big rain. Two, three days it came down. Real gully-washer.”

He put his glasses back in his pocket. His eyes seemed distant, amused.

“We figured he got caught out wandering, lost his scent in the storm, couldn’t find his way home.”

“No kidding.”

“We never did find out who he belonged to. Your grandma always called him our rain dog.”

Tom thought about that.

“I want to ask you something,” he said.

His dad waited.

“What do you think he was thinking?”

“About what?”

“Leaving his place to me.”

Jack Coleman chuckled. “Don’t know too many people who ever knew what your grandfather was thinking.”

“Say you had to take a wild guess.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.” That twitch again. “Why? What do you think?”

“I think he was trying to get us back together. Abby and me. He always liked her.”

This earned another chuckle.

“What?”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to laugh.”

“Then why are you laughing?”

“Just doesn’t sound much like Dad,” Jack Coleman said. “That’s all.”

“Indulge me.”

He saw his parents exchange glances. His mom went back to the pile of photographs in the windowsill.

“Only a guess,” his dad said.

“I’m all ears. Seriously.”

“Son. You named her Emily.”

Tom saw his mom wipe her eyes and buckle down again with the scrapbooking.

Emily.

He sat with that and said nothing. He couldn’t bring himself to tell them that he hadn’t meant anything by it.

It had been his grandmother’s name, but he couldn’t remember that occurring to him at the time. He’d just thought it was pretty. It sounded nice with the one Melissa wanted.

In fact, he hadn’t really thought about it even that much. The truth: She’d demanded he participate, he’d been working on a deadline, and it was the first name that came to mind. He’d tossed it off the top of his head just to get her off his back for a while.

They hadn’t called her Emily anyway. They’d called her Grace. What could he say?

The afternoon nurse came in then, greeted everybody cheerfully, and scooted his dad out of the way. She took Tom’s vitals, swapped out an empty IV bag, and scribbled in his chart for a minute.

When she left, she patted his leg through the covers and told him he was coming along fine.

EPILOGUE

VALENTINE

The Double Deuce Cattle Company made the AP newswire one last time in October, in a story unrelated to the botched DEA raid that resulted in the death of Duane Phillips Foster that July.

In a reported $9.2-million purchase, Turner Enterprises, Inc., increased its Nebraska land holdings to more than 350,000 acres across the western part of the state.

More than half of the Double Deuce purchase bordered the corporation’s Spike Box bison ranch in Cherry County, expanding that operation’s total acreage by an estimated thirty percent.

Reporters verified the deal through the county assessor’s office at $255 per acre. A spokesperson for the Spike Box assured Cherry County residents that the land would remain on the public tax rolls.

Thanksgiving week, donations in the name of the Wheeler Corporation were made to Cherry County Hospital, Chadron State College, the University of Nebraska’s Kearney campus, the Drug Interdiction division of the Nebraska State Patrol, and the National Children’s Leukemia Research Society.

According to a brief page-two report in the North Platte Telegraph, the Cherry County Sheriff’s Department refused a gift in the amount of $500,000. Cherry County officials declined comment.

Representatives of the Wheeler Corporation stated only that the rejected funds had been diverted to the Morgan Wheeler Foundation, to be used at the discretion of the directorial board.

Eventually, it came around again.

Two years, now.

She would have been getting ready to turn six. A first-grader.

Impossible as it seemed, they’d still been together longer than they’d been apart.

If the Fourth of July was the biggest day on the river, February fourteenth was Abby’s biggest day at the Circle Slash. People came from all over the country to get engaged, get married, and get lucky in Valentine, Nebraska, on Valentine’s Day.

Tom didn’t mind missing it.

It rained in Chicago, one of those cold misty drizzles that came off the lake and sank into your bones. He hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella, and he was drenched and freezing in half an hour.

Tom stayed at her grave all morning anyway, hands in his pockets, back against the wind.

Before his fingers got so numb that he couldn’t feel them anymore, he took out the Ziploc Baggie and removed the card from inside. It was a pink heart cut out of construction paper, glued onto cardboard and sprinkled with glitter. The words had been printed in bright red ink.

We Love You Grace! Happy Valentine’s Day from your friend Hannah Greer.

Tom assumed she’d had help from an adult, but nobody had fessed up yet.

The scars bit his belly and pulled tight on his back when he bent at the waist. He leaned the card against the headstone and straightened again. He stood there awhile longer in the drizzle, watching dark speckles turn the paper as red as the words.

He noticed Melissa then.

She stood by a mausoleum fifty feet behind him, hugging herself against the cold. Waiting. A man in gloves and a charcoal overcoat held one arm around her, a black umbrella over both their heads.

Tom wondered how long she’d been there. He hadn’t felt anybody watching. They stood for a minute, looking at each other across fifty feet of soggy cemetery turf. She finally raised a hand.

Tom raised his. He thought about walking over and saying hello, then decided he owed her better than that.

Whatever else had happened, they’d had one beautiful thing between them. That wouldn’t change. Maybe they’d be able to stand here together one day.

For now, Tom put his hands back in his pockets and walked the other direction, back to the car.

She deserved her own time, and he had a long drive home.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First thanks, always, to my wife, Jessica. Especially this time.

Special thanks are due Cherry County Sheriff Melvin Christensen for his patience, good nature, and most of all, for the stories. Like Roy Hilliard’s department, the stories in this book are mine, not his. I’m hoping he’ll write his own book. Thanks to Steve Hansen, Schlagel Creek Ranch, for use of the bunkhouse (and to Ken Santi for the firewood). Thanks to Cherryl Lovejoy, propietor of Lovejoy Ranch, for the French toast that started it all. Rocky Ford Outfitters, down the road from Sparks, may recognize their pile of driftwood, if nothing else. It’s a nice visual to build a story around, and I heartily recommend that recreation-minded travelers to western Nebraska check it out. Stay at Cherryl’s place afterward.

This book had a diverse sounding board, and the members all have my appreciation: Jessica, Victor Gischler, Anthony Neil Smith, Trevor Maviano, Amy Dahlman, Elizabeth Ostrow Smith, and John Rector.

Standing gratitude to Tom Fassbender and Jim Pascoe of UglyTown.

Newfound gratitude, and warmest fuzzies, to my agent David Hale Smith and DHS Literary, my editor Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, and everyone at Bantam Dell who helped this book home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sean Doolittle is the author of Burn, winner of the gold medal in the mystery category of ForeWord magazine’s 2003 Book of the Year Award, and Dirt, an Amazon.com Top 100 Editor’s Pick for 2001. He lives in Omaha, Nebraska, with his wife and children.

ALSO BY SEAN DOOLITTLE

BURN

DIRT

Read on for a sneak peek
at Sean Doolittle’s
next novel

THE CLEANUP

Coming Soon
from Dell Books

PROLOGUE

i. Meat and Frozen

Worth couldn’t get over the looks people gave him. It seemed like an easy question.

“Um, paper,” the woman said. “I guess.”

He swiped open a sack and went to it. Beside him, Gwen skimmed her cheat sheet for produce codes. Up and down the line, scanners beeped. Groceries clattered. Tinny Top 40 swirled in the rafters.

The woman finally leaned across the check stand.

“Forgive me for asking.” Worth did his best to ignore the way her breasts pressed together above the zipper of her jogging top. “But don’t they have employees who do this?”

“I don’t mind,” he said, already lifting the first sack into the cart at the end of the stand. Square. Stable. Not too heavy.

“Hey,” said the woman. “Wow.”

Worth touched a salute and quickly reduced the leftover rubble to three neat bags. He saved a little room at the top of the third, nestled a loaf of bread in the space. The woman was smiling, now.

“Say . . . do you think you could put the meat in plastic? And the frozen stuff?”

“Meat and frozen stuff in plastic.” He nodded to the young boy at her hip, drawing his baton. “Okay with you, partner?”

The boy shrank, staring, chewing on the neck of his soccer shirt. Worth kicked himself. He raked the new pile forward with the side handle, leaned the stick out of sight beside his knee.

Gwen struggled along, scanning with her good hand, running the keypad with her bum wing. Soon the cart was full, the total totaled. The woman scribbled a check.

“Is that a real gun?”

He smiled down at the kid, who now gazed at his gear belt closely. “It’s real, kiddo. But it’s only for emergencies.”

“Have you ever shot somebody?”

“Not even once.”

“Ethan. Don’t bother the officer.”

Worth fished a Jolly Rancher from a vacant Mace holster. “Here you go, pal. Official police candy.”

Ethan looked to his mother. The woman slipped Worth a grin, gave kiddo the nod. Worth handed the candy over. He finally spotted one of the regular sackers sauntering back in from a carry-out, twirling his apron, nowhere special to be. Worth flagged him while Mom admired her cart.

“You know,” she said, “you’re pretty good at that.”

He held up his hands. “Long arms of the law.”

She laughed and tried to tip him. Worth took Ethan’s empty wrapper instead. Something in the boy’s newly fascinated expression depressed him a little. He dropped the kid a wink.

When they were gone, Gwen closed her drawer with a hip and batted her lashes. “You’re so good at that.”

“Don’t even start.” He nodded to her injured arm; she’d sprained her wrist playing volleyball in some bar league, came on shift with a brown club of bandage for a right hand. By now her long slender fingers looked like spoiled cocktail sausages. “You should go home and put ice on that.”

“It’s okay.” She flicked his elbow with her good hand. “How come you’re here so early? No life?”

“Law enforcement is my life.”

“My hero.”

He liked seeing her smile.

Gwen pushed him out of her stand with his own baton. Worth strolled back to his spot by the cigarette case. He reholstered the stick, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and tried to look like a cop for a while.

ii. Gwen

Once per session, usually during a lull, Dr. Jerry Grail would take a hand mirror from his middle desk drawer and hold it up in front of Worth’s face.

“Describe what you see. Use only nouns.”

Sometimes it was adjectives. Once it was animals. It always felt canned, insipid, a little bit demeaning, but Worth needed the grade, so he did his best to play along. Sometimes Dr. Grail scribbled something in his case folder. Sometimes not. Half the time Worth felt pretty sure the shrink wasn’t even listening.

One afternoon, when he saw Grail’s hand moving toward the drawer, Worth said, “No offense, doc, but don’t we pretty much know what I look like by now?”

Dr. Grail stopped his reach and leaned back. He had a narrow face, a shell of thinning hair, and a way of looking across the desk that always made Worth feel like he was letting the guy down.

“The mirror is only an exercise,” Dr. Grail said.

“You say that like it’s a positive thing.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“Not really.” No way was he falling for that one again.

Grail ran a finger around the inside of his watchband. He did it ten or twelve times in an hour. Worth sometimes counted.

“Last week you mentioned feeling concern for somebody at work,” the shrink said. He checked his folder, flipped a page. “Gwen.”

Worth wished he’d never brought it up. “Right.”

“Would you like to talk further about that?”

“I guess not.”

Grail scribbled a note.

“I mean, I guess there isn’t much to say.”

She was a nursing student at Clarkson and worked a combination of graveyards and swings. Weeknights, she kept a battered textbook under the register with a pack of Dorals and a highlighter pen. She had big gray eyes, a sly sense of humor, and for some reason, the first time he saw her, Worth thought of the bird that once came in through the chimney and tangled itself in the fireplace screen.

He wasn’t about to tell Dr. Grail that he had grown to look forward to the shifts he worked with Gwen. That sometimes, watching from his spot by the cigarette case, he found himself entertaining pathetic fantasies.

Worth imagined coming to her rescue. More than once, in the long dead hours after midnight, he’d passed the time constructing elaborate scenarios in which he demonstrated steely-eyed heroism. Occasionally, he caught himself making adolescent, X-rated, cop-and-checkout-girl movies in his mind.

Ultimately, he drove back to assembly after sunrise feeling like either a sleaze or a sham.

Worth didn’t kid himself. He probably never had been hero material. He wasn’t typically a letch. He was just lonelier than he’d realized. And he really didn’t know Gwen at all.

She sprained her other wrist in September. One night, she came in with a limp. Sorensen, the night manager, told him that Gwen seemed to play volleyball all year-round.

“Rough sport,” Worth suggested.

Sorensen stood quietly in his tie and shirtsleeves. He scribbled something on his clipboard, met Worth’s eyes briefly, then agreed that it must be.

By then he’d already found himself in the habit of going for coffee when she took her breaks. One night she caught him off guard.

“I found stuff out about you.”

It messed up his small talk. “Stuff?”

“Mm.” Gwen looked up from her textbook. She took a drag from her cigarette and watched him through the smoke. Even in the harsh light of the employee break room, her gray eyes caught a warm glimmer. “I asked around.”

Worth went to the counter and worked a foam cup from the stack by the coffee machine. He felt like a cheeseball. “Stuff like what?”

“Stuff like what.” Gwen tapped her highlighter against her chin. “Let’s see.”

“Shouldn’t tease a cop.”

“So I hear.”

“How’s that?”

“I heard you punched another officer.”

He stopped pouring, tightened his jaw. Ricky.

Or Curtis. He couldn’t keep them straight. He didn’t know what the hell was the matter with him lately. Telling macho stories in the stockroom for those two knuckleheads.

“Is that really true?”

“Not really.”

“I wondered,” she said. “You don’t seem like the type.”

He slid the pot back. “I punched a detective.”

Now she closed her book and leaned over it, elbows on the table, cigarette trailing smoke beside her ear. “You didn’t either.”

“Unfortunately.”

Vargas in Homicide. He’d only told the Modell brothers, Ricky and Curtis, about the Vargas-on-his-ass part. Worth hadn’t mentioned the part where Vargas came back up, feinted left, and shattered his nose with a straight right. He hadn’t even seen it coming. Just thinking about it was humiliating.

“Why did you punch a detective?”

“Poor impulse control.”

“Ah.”

“It’s a long story.” It was a fairly short story, actually. Pretty simple.

She nodded along. “Is that how you ended up here? Keeping me company?”

Going on ten weeks, he’d realized coming on post tonight. The store had reported a rash of shoplifters in June and an unarmed robbery the first week in July; some crankhead from Fremont had jumped two check stands and run out the front doors with a cash tray under each arm, trailing loose coins.

Worth’s lieutenant had manufactured the temporary detail when he’d initialed the reinstatement papers. Six months, A-shift, SaveMore at Saddle Creek and Leavenworth. Provisional duty pending a fitness sign-off from psych.

“More or less,” he told her.

“That’s interesting.”

Worth didn’t kid himself. “It’s not that interesting.”

Gwen sat back. He liked the way she smoked: thoughtful, slightly awkward, one eye pinched. He’d never really seen anybody with eyes that color. They sort of fascinated him.

“I heard something else,” she finally said.

“Boy. What else did you hear?”

“You’re a faker.”

He burned his tongue on the coffee. “Sorry?”

Gwen looked at his left hand. It took a moment before he got it. The wedding ring. Worth chuckled, felt his ears get hot.

“Right,” he said. “That.”

“How long?”

“How long was I married? Or how long have I been divorced?”

“Whichever.”

“Marriage, ten years,” he said. “Divorce, eight months.”

“Ah.”

“It was over before that, I just didn’t know it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

She nodded as though she understood. “Still hung up, huh?”

“It’s complicated.” It wasn’t.

Somebody came in then, and they both looked. Worth recognized one of the other full-time checkers, cornrows beaded tonight, smock draped over her shoulder. She went to the clock, punched out, and slid her time card back into the slot on the wall. She hung the smock on a hook.

“Night, Gwennie.”

Gwen smiled. “See you tomorrow, babe.”

“Night, Supercop.”

“Good night, LaTonya.”

LaTonya gave him one of her grins. She threw Gwen a look, checked Worth again. She chuckled a little and walked out humming.

When she was gone, he said, “What was that all about?”

Gwen had already gone back to her textbook. She shrugged, uncapping her highlighter with her teeth. “Who knows with that girl?”

iii. Supercop

Lately, he’d been thinking about something Sondra once said.

You want to know your biggest problem? This had been a few months before she’d left him for Vargas in Homicide. It’s not the job. It’s not the department. Christ, Matthew, news flash: It’s you.

He’d written the comment off at the time. She’d been pissed because he hadn’t put in for the sergeant’s test, decided to get mean about it. At some point in their marriage, Sondra had become upwardly mobile. He hadn’t even seen it coming. Just thinking about it was humiliating.

Lately, even Worth was beginning to see the irony.

His great-grandfather took a bullet in the ribs before the courthouse fell to the mob in 1919; the way all the stories told it, Mort Worth had gone on bleeding and cracking heads even after they set the building on fire. His grandfather worked Boss Dennison’s funeral in ’34. A great-uncle made captain in the Southeast. His father gave the force thirty years and his liver; his older brother Kelly gave three and his life.

He was the last in four generations of Worth men to wear the shield in this town, yet somehow it had taken the SaveMore to remind Matthew Worth why he’d wanted to become a cop in the first place.

This store had been a Food 4 Less when he’d worked here as a teenager, but mostly it felt the same.

Back then, he’d always been the one zero his age who actually enjoyed having a part-time job at the supermarket. He’d liked imagining people’s stories. He’d enjoyed sacking their groceries; there was something satisfying in fitting a mountain of shapes and sizes into a few uniform packages. He liked helping them out to their cars, getting them on their way. It made him feel good when they said thanks and meant it.

Over the past few weeks, Worth had come to accept the sad facts:

He was living in a world where tired soccer moms were so accustomed to watching some apathetic teenager drop the milk jug on top of the eggs that they wanted to tip you just for trying to put a little extra “serve” in Protect and Serve.

And he’d probably felt more useful wearing an apron and a name tag than he’d ever felt wearing a gun belt and a badge.

Anyway, he only kept wearing the wedding ring because he knew it burned the shit out of Vargas in Homicide.

The last week in October, a January cold front sliced down from Canada like a blade.

Worth hadn’t listened to a forecast for a couple of days. The night the weather turned, he took his 2 A.M. spin around the perimeter with his jacket collar up, bare hands in his pockets, watching his breath form frosty clouds in the drizzle. He heard her before he saw her.

“Russell, please.”

The lamps out front cast a faint blue sheen over the oily wet surface of the parking lot. One of the lamps had gone dark. As he rounded the last corner of the building, Worth ID’d a tricked-out GTO parked askew in the shadows around the base of the pole. Muscle era, glossy black. Rear spoiler. Mags. Vanity plates stamped BadGoat. Cute.

Gwen stood half-bent at the driver’s side.

“Honey, I’m sorry,” she said. “Okay? You’re hurting me.”

Worth saw the driver’s hand, clutching her arm through the open window.

He lengthened his stride.

Whoever sat behind the wheel spotted him coming. Gwen got her arm back half a minute before Worth reached the car’s front fender. He rested one hand on the butt of his stick as he came around the driver’s side.

“Everything okay over here?”

Gwen folded her thin arms and looked at the blacktop. “Hey, Matthew. Just finishing my break. Everything’s fine.”

Worth put his hand on the Pontiac’s roof. “How about in here?”

In the driver’s seat fumed a lean, muscular guy in jeans and a tank top. The guy gripped the wheel and stared straight ahead, stubble shaded amber in the panel lights of a custom stereo.

Russell, Worth presumed. Warm air laced with cologne blasted from inside the car as his fingers grew numb against the cold wet steel.

He said, “It’s not polite to ignore people when they ask you a question.”

“Man, you heard her. We’re fine.”

Worth straightened and turned to Gwen. “Walk me back inside?”

Before she could answer, the car roared to life. A sudden assault of head-banger metal came blaring as headlight beams leaped through the mist. Russell dropped into gear, scratched the tires, and gunned toward the nearest exit, leaving the two of them standing alone.

Worth waited until the GTO’s taillights disappeared around the curve before he asked her if she was okay.

Gwen looked at the blacktop. Everything suddenly seemed too quiet.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

“Gwen, that’s why I’m—”

“No. I mean you really shouldn’t have done that.”

Gwen didn’t have a coat. He was halfway out of his tac jacket when she turned, hugging herself, and walked back toward the entrance of the store alone.

He found the Modell brothers clowning around in the break room, throwing box cutters at empty soup cases. They’d scrawled crude bull’s-eye targets on the sides of the boxes, presumably with the Sharpie marker stuck behind Ricky’s ear.

Most nights he didn’t mind the guys. Good-natured, blond tree stumps, both of them, stocking shelves full-time since losing university wrestling scholarships to a combined grade point average somewhere in the high decimals. But they had manners. They went out of their way for people. Either one of them would lift a car if you asked them to.

Tonight, Worth nodded them toward the door.

Ricky didn’t get it. As he stood there, blinking, Curtis punched him in the shoulder hard enough to dislodge the Sharpie. “Wake up.”

Ricky reared back, rubbing the spot. He informed his brother he was a fucking asshead. Curtis ignored him and showed Worth a grin, already on his way out the door.

Ricky caught up, nailed his brother a payback shot.

Worth couldn’t help noticing the way Gwen flinched at the sound of fists smacking flesh.

When he took a chair, she stubbed her cigarette in the grimy tin tray by her hand. She fished in her pack, lit another, finally flipped him a weak grin.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Hey, he almost said, thinking of the DV bag in the trunk of the cruiser. You read my mind.

He said, “I want you to do me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“I want you to file a report.”

“A report?”

“With me.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

In the weeks he’d known her, Worth couldn’t remember seeing Gwen wear so much as a smudge of lipstick. Tonight she’d caked her face with so much makeup she might as well have worn a mask. Even so, he could see the shadow of the bruise beneath, high on one cheekbone, cupping the eye.

“If you need a place to stay, I can arrange it.”

“A place?”

“Somewhere you’ll be safe,” he said. “If that’s what you need.”

Gwen still wouldn’t look at him. She crossed her arms, holding her cigarette near her lips. “You can find a place like that?”

The graveyard shift ended at seven a.m. Worth went to the break room at 6:30 and waited by the time clock.

At 7:15, he went looking for her.

At 7:25, he circled back to find that she’d punched out and slipped away.

iv. Volleyball

Gwen called in sick her next two shifts in a row. Sorensen, the night manager, told Worth she hadn’t missed a shift in the two years she’d worked for him at the store.

The third night, during roll call, Worth’s cell phone buzzed. Assuming it was Sondra calling about the house, he waited until after muster and then checked his voice mail.

Please help me, she said, so softly that he could barely tell it was Gwen.

v. Plastic

In retrospect, announcing himself almost seemed funny. Police. I’m opening the door.

The small bedroom felt like a meat locker. Worth understood when he reached down and felt cold iron: she’d valved off the radiator in there. She’d also opened the windows. Plastic blinds clattered on the chilly breeze.

From the doorway Worth could almost touch the foot of the bed. He raised the Maglite to eye level.

Russell lay naked in a twist of matted sheets. In the beam of the flashlight, Worth caught glimpses of white amidst ragged red pulp. He guessed he was looking at molars. Maybe jawbone. He wasn’t sure.

Moving the light around the room, his own breath foggy in the beam, he passed over the nightstand and noticed a dark square centered in a thin layer of dust. He found the lamp on the floor beside the bed, cord trailing, still plugged into the socket near the peeling baseboard.

The lamp came on when he flipped the switch by his elbow, throwing shadows up the cracked plaster wall. By some trick the bulb had remained intact. Dark clots of stuff had congealed around the chunky glass base.

Worth automatically reached for the mic on his shoulder. The words sat in his throat, pushing their way up: Three Adam Zero, Three Adam Sixty. His sergeant’s car.

He wondered how long the guy had been here like this.

He wondered how many times she’d hit him.

At some point, he realized he’d released the call button without speaking.

RAIN DOGS

A Dell Book / January 2006

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2005 by Sean Doolittle

Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 0-440-33594-9

www.bantamdell.com

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