 
## The Lipless Gods

Author: Brian Stillman

Cover Artist: Jenny Dayton

Copyright 2016

Distributed by Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

"But then our fragility imagines everything

and the final moment is a kiss from the lipless gods."

\- Jim Harrison, "Doors", _Songs Of Unreason_

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 1

Sipe was driving the Old Man home from physical therapy when the Old Man said, "Simon, I think you ought to be the one to go down and bring Connie home."

Anymore, the Old Man called him Simon. Sometimes he called him Dmitri. Sipe didn't know a Dmitri, but just a couple years back Simon had transformed into a cautionary tale.

The Old Man did business up in Alaska with a shipping company, the front specializing in this kick ass gorp endorsed by several prominent Iditarod participants. The more profitable shipping company boats arrived off the books, bearing weapons, black market electronics, or sometimes people desperate enough to endure shipping containers for days on end out on the ocean.

An executive with the shipping company had a wife with legs that just didn't stop. A leg man through and through, Simon just dumb enough he thought no one would find out about his dipping her on the down low or if they did, his position as the Old Man's driver was some magic get-out-of-trouble card.

They never found Simon. He just vanished. The last trip Simon ever took was probably on a trawler out of Anchorage, already mixed in with the chum. These days, Simon was settled into the sediment at the bottom of the Pacific, but the Old Man thought Simon was still driving him around Seattle, ferrying him home after rehab sessions on his knee, gone to shit after a tumble in the shower.

"Is he done with school now?" asked Sipe. The Old Man's only kid, Connie was enrolled in the Culinary Institute of America, down in St. Helena in California.

"I don't want anyone flying, you hear me?" said the Old Man. He had a blanket up to his chin. He'd use the blanket at the tail end of the therapy sessions. When they iced his knee, it made his entire aged body cold.

Some weeks, session finished, the Old Man would just start talking nonstop, and Sipe did therapists and patients a solid, wandering back to fetch him out of their hair. The Old Man's therapist an Asian lady with defined biceps and a terrifically muscular rear end. Today, she'd flashed a grin and five fingers at Sipe, telling him, nope, the chatterbox had five more minutes of ice pack.

"You know," said Sipe, "I know you don't like the flying, but I could get Connie home faster if I flew down. Then we could just take a rental car back home."

The Old man shook his head 'no.' The turkey thing with his chin going into full effect. Waddle wobble. His hair almost all white, he combed it back, and it was longish in the back, so with the tinted glasses he wore all the time, he looked a little like some foreign film producer. A legend. A guy who could make you or break you, moving mountains with just his pinkie, his nod or the refusal to nod.

"We don't fly," he said. "It's too risky. Too risky."

"Ok."

"You take a car down. You take a day or two. Take a nice trip. You know, you could stop, go see your wife. Your kids."

Sipe nodded. He agreed with Zeke. Skip corrections. It was just easier to roll right along with some of the Old Man's jibber jabber.

"He's a chef now," said the Old Man. "Connie. Gonna open his own restaurant."

"That's great."

"Can probably make anything. Make it delicious." The Old Man waggled forward and gripped the back of Sipe's seat. Sipe signaled, making the turn onto Lake Washington Boulevard.

"You know what I can make?" asked the Old Man.

"I don't."

"Shit on a shingle. I can make that. You know what it tastes like?"

"Nope."

"Like actual shit on an actual shingle."

Sipe looked back for just a second. The Old Man needing that look, the acknowledgment keyed something for him and he'd laugh and laugh. Smack the back of the seat and keep producing a noise like an old truck trying to turn over on a winter morning. Eventually, he sat back and settled down back under his blanket. Got cozy. Cozy, he could fall asleep in seconds. Magic. The one time Sipe had tried to wake him up, get him out of the backseat and into the Lake Washington house, the Old Man had screeched, thrown the blanket at Sipe, and then hobbled off the grounds and across the street down to the lake itself. That time, Sipe and Zeke conferred, they'd called Susan, Connie's former nanny, and she'd lured the Old Man back to the house. She'd modeled bloodied scratches on her neck for all her efforts.

The Old Man out like a light, swaddled beneath a moose and owls print, Sipe parked on the brick driveway and walked to the house, checked the alarm system, looked around inside and then back outside, leaned against a pillar, keeping an eye on the car.

Traffic on the floating bridge hummed. Over the gate, he could see the opposite shore, the eastside, at least one sailboat on the lake. The last time the Old Man was with it enough to have female company, the girls made out with one another on the balcony, the Old Man telling them to pause the slurping and sucking every now and then to wave across the water at Bill Gates.

Sipe hadn't seen a parent or a sibling in years. The closest he'd come was spending time with his former brother-in-law down in Longview. He was thinking about that trip when the car back door opened, and the Old Man slid out, dragging his blanket, walking towards the house. The limp was getting less noticeable all the time. The Old Man doing his home exercises religiously, desiring to please the therapist with her great smile, the even better posterior. Other than the brains going south, the Old Man was in pretty good shape for someone almost 80.

Inside the house, the Old Man dropped the blanket and kicked off his Birkenstocks. He wore a tank top and black shorts. The surgical scar on the knee looked like wax against the too tan skin.

"Anyone here?" the Old Man asked Sipe.

"I checked. Just us."

"Time me," said the Old Man.

The doctor and the physical therapist wanted the Old Man active but didn't want the Old Man taking stairs. They'd suggested a lift, an electronic chair. Or life resettled to only the first floor. The Old Man insisted on working the stairs. He refused to be an invalid. Grunting, sweating, swearing, he went up the steps, hobbling, thumping. Sipe alternated between watching the event, watching the second hand on the watch.

After picking up the blanket and the Birkenstocks, Sipe walked up the steps. The Old Man gripped the top rail, wheezing, looking down into the foyer.

"Tell me," said the Old Man.

"Same as last time."

"Same? Bullshit."

"Maybe a second slower."

"God-damnit."

"It's hot today."

"Fuck you. Fuck your hot."

The clamshell shaped window over the door went dull then bright. Clouds scudded over and off the sun like no one's business today, brightening then dimming the gold inlaid in the foyer tile.

The Old Man took deep breaths. He toddled back from the railing and worked his arms like chicken wings in slow motion. His exhales overemphasized his front teeth, giving him a squirrel-like appearance.

"You tell Connie it's up to him," said the Old Man.

"What is?"

"This. This." He motioned towards the lobby, the house itself, maybe the floating bridge connecting Seattle and Bellevue. And maybe the sun playing peekaboo.

"Everything. He can do both if he wants. Be a chef. Be me when I'm gone. You ever hear that that is the mark of genius? To hold two conflicting ideas in your head at the very same time. So he might be able to do that. I couldn't. I wanted to do so many things and I ended up only doing one. Just the one. You got all the time in the world on that drive."

Sipe nodded.

"Shower time," said the Old Man. Walking into the bedroom, tugging his tank top out of the shorts he paused and motioned at the blanket. "Wash that thing, huh? It smells like an old man."

Sipe nodded. The Alaskan shipping company had sent the blanket after the Old Man had made an inquiry. Simon went M.I.A., and they sent a blanket. It got the guys talking, speculating what they were worth in compensation.

Sipe listened for the shower to start up, for the Old Man to swear at the handrail they'd put inside the stall. The shower door clicked shut. Sipe set the Birkenstocks just inside the bedroom door, right where the Old Man liked to put them on, at least, on those days he could even remember what Birkenstocks were for.

Chapter 2

Sipe had thought the road trip would be easy. Straight shots, south and then north on I-5 with the only hardship his ears popping on Snoqualmie Pass. And it had been. Easy. Until all the texting.

South of Salem, Connie started texting almost nonstop. And just before Portland, he told Sipe there was a change of plans. A detour. Sipe didn't question, didn't complain. His job was to drive.

Later, just shy of 11 p.m., 250-some miles east of I-5, on a two-lane highway, Connie pointed, and Sipe signaled and decelerated, turning at the stop sign, off 395, accelerating away from the sole evidence of life on earth - a Zippy Mart gas station, complete with the 50 foot tall roadside sign, displaying the Zippy mascot in all his goony, squirrelly, snacks-gathering glory. The Lexus taillights vanished on 244, the point where the highway curved and sliced through a low hill.

Fifteen miles north of the intersection with the squirrel, the highway had started to curve through wind towers, the big blades still in the summer night. The wind towers resembled rockets ready to launch or a long-slumbered invasion force, one ancient signal shy of waking and incinerating the countryside.

Coming out of the punch through the hill the road straightened. The Lexus front beams lit roadside signs. Speed limit, 30. 'Welcome to Little Creek.' Population, 250.

"Two-fifty," said Connie. Whistled. Sipe slowed down.

Some big building on the left, parking lot lights painting the exterior amber. The night lights overly bright inside. An office.

"Forest Service. Huh. What is it, Smokey the Bear? Yeah. Smokey the Bear. He's the fire prevention bear."

You didn't tell the Old Man's kid to shut up. Sipe reminded himself of that fact.

Streetlamps glowed further down the throat of Main Street, beyond the sleeping houses. Until then intermittent porch light illustrated the lack of sidewalks. The shoulder a dark unbroken strip of gravel on both sides of the asphalt.

"It's just up here," said Connie. "Yeah. Auntie's. See the sign? We want to turn right up there."

This was where the married woman wanted to meet Connie. In St. Helena they'd had a fling. Connie at cooking school, the woman at some business retreat.

The kid had told Sipe, she didn't live here. Little Creek was just close to her residence. Convenient. Out of the way. The husband wouldn't think to tail her to someplace like this. Completely in the dark his faithful spouse had christened a student at the Culinary Institute of America her boy toy. Connie had guaranteed Sipe it wouldn't get messy. In and out. Like that.

On the left a garage, Don's Automotive. Orange lamppost light supplied the gravel lot an industrial sheen like fast food fries under a heat lamp. Further up, part of the same lot, were propane tanks and a profusion of signs. Lamps at their base lighting up a series of messages. Illustrations. The flag. Uncle Sam. What looked like a mannequin dressed in pirate gear.

Further back, looming behind a street running parallel to the main route, dark houses, and a hill, a big white building perched on the hilltop. A school. Maybe an asylum.

Sipe hit the signal, slowed the car down.

"You sure this is it?" asked Sipe.

"Yeah."

"No street signs."

"No. Auntie's. Look. Auntie's. And that's a park, right there. Turn between Auntie's and the park. It's all good."

They made the turn. Sipe registered two human forms inside the park. One slumped on a merry go round. Limp in the manner of teenagers everywhere.

They drove between more dark houses. Up ahead the houses thinned, fields took over, and darkness loomed, a definite border with the sleeping little town.

"She said there's a bridge. And then just make the first left after we're over it."

Driving past the last lampposts in town Connie asked, "What are those?"

"Houses."

"They don't look like houses."

Sipe took another look.

"Railcars maybe."

A good half-dozen, on the right, revealed just a little by the front beams glow, the railcars old, exteriors the dulled gray of an abandoned hornet's nest. Swamped in graffiti. Open doorways providing view to interiors even darker than the night enshrouded landscape.

Ahead of them, the forest border. In the foreground, a cement bridge glowed under the headlights like exposed bone.

Sipe fought the impulse to release the steering wheel and brush the shoulder holster. Just make sure it was still there. Years ago Zeke had told Sipe the reason most guys in their line of work wore black slacks was to hide the buckets of palm sweat rubbed off into the fabric over the course of a normal day. Sipe tried to picture Zeke, driving off course at Connie's say-so. He could imagine Zeke's shrug, the resignation. Some orders you followed and hoped for the best. Some orders you followed letter perfect, and still, the cops found you stuffed into a car trunk in Aberdeen.

The unpaved road was on the left just past the bridge. Gravel ticked off the under frame and Sipe imagined loose teeth rattling inside a label-stripped soup can. Zeke had known this one guy, looked like Vince Lombardi, and the guy liked to play dentist. Liked trophies. Some slender semblance of a creek curled parallel to the dirt road, on the left, the moon glittering here and there on the water surface like reflected angel contrail.

"I think I see her," said Connie. "Right up ahead. It's that ball park."

Diamond, thought Sipe, but didn't correct Connie, like the Old Man was in the back seat, listening, and would hiss and spit at any little indication the boy wasn't perfect in every way.

The SUV was parked nose in towards the diamond backstop. The Lexus headlights illuminated the driver side of the rig, someone in the driver seat, raising an arm, squinting, hooding their view. Sipe pulled in beside the SUV and groaned, realizing he hadn't signaled. Hand on the keys he looked back towards the bridge, anticipating the sudden flare of some shit kicker cop's dome light.

Connie had his seat belt off, the door open, was getting out of the passenger seat before Sipe even had the engine off.

"Millie. Baby," said Connie.

"Hey." Some wet noises. Some giggling. The woman got out from the SUV driver side. The door slammed. She swore. Connie laughed. She asked why and he said because she swore like that. Whatever. Connie grabbed her, performed an even more elaborate greeting.

Sipe listened to the engine tick. The baseball diamond was enclosed inside a track. There were two dugouts, but they weren't dugouts, not cut into the earth, but just built on the turf like little wooden forearms extended off the backdrop at angles. Sipe scanned the diamond, the track. Little Creek glowed beyond it all like some low-key, top-secret government project.

"Just give us a minute, huh?" Connie glanced in at Sipe, not even waiting for the response, gravel crunching under the couple, the noise thinning as they walked to the middle of the unpaved road. Sipe thought they'd make for shadows, some spot far enough out of the way the two-backed beast wouldn't be too obvious.

No one drove over the bridge. Nothing moved. A sliver of tiredness crept in. Stay frosty. Sipe concentrated. He thought of orphaned teeth clicking in a can.

The gravel crunched. His hand on the gun when Connie peered back inside the car. In the rearview mirror, Sipe could see Millie, a big girl under moon glow. Staring right in at him like a robot armed with specific, lethal programming.

"You know anything about cars, Sipe?"

"Little."

"We might have a problem. She got here all right, but she said she tried the engine a little while ago, to check the time and all, and couldn't get it to turn over."

Millie popped the rig hood. First, she handed Connie a flashlight and Sipe took it from Connie. Connie swore, trying to find the secret latch that actually freed the hood from the engine compartment. Millie sighed, playfully shoved Connie out of the way, and once the magic trick was pulled off, Sipe told the two of them to watch the road.

"Why?" Millie asked.

"Cops. Kids. Your husband."

A long pause before she said, "Oh. Right."

The flashlight beam aimed at the ground plus the blue toned night provided enough illumination Sipe could see her look at Connie. Later on, Sipe would remember what she did with her mouth - that smile like a parent keeping something secret from a kid. He caught it, but he read it wrong.

Sipe swept the flashlight beam over the black and metal and plastic cityscape. Engines were not his specialty. He didn't see anything wrong. He didn't know what he should be seeing, but he was wasting time. There were jumper cables in his trunk, and he knew he'd feel like a jerk, having to consult the owner's manual for the right place to put the tiger clips, but it beat pretending an area of expertise. It would get them back on the road.

"I don't know," he admitted.

Sipe stepped back, thumbing the flashlight beam light switch off, and at the same time a hand bunched up his suit jacket, and something jabbed him in the ribs.

Electricity shot out his head, his fingertips, coiled and wormed all the interstices of his teeth, soldered pubic hair to skin, and murdered the moisture in whatever turds were due to be dropped during his morning routine.

When he fell, he crumpled, like some tree long bare of green, something ancient the termites had hollowed long before even the Indians claimed the continent home.

The flashlight had crunched in his hand. Spasming, he'd gone Hulk. Squeezed it skinny. Or not. He couldn't feel. Anything.

Staring into the sky, aware, but not doing anything resembling thinking. Hearing Connie, not seeing him. The eyes looking down upon him from above belonged to the bared teeth. Miss SUV. No husband would willingly stay with rage so electric, so obvious in the night. A face like that didn't need people except to eat them, often and raw.

Gravel scattered each time a foot planted firmly into the side of his head. What was in Sipe's head? How much was in it? How hard did you have to kick it to get it out of there?

She had a long thick ponytail. It swung on each kick. Once, twice, and many more times, maybe a dozen more before Connie dragged her away.

When the SUV hood closed, it slammed shut. A thousand such reveries wouldn't have stirred the man bleeding onto the gravel, 250-some miles east of Portland.

Chapter 3

The old woman's dog barked from the screened in back porch. Mrs. Mason had told Henry not to start mowing before 10 a.m., because of the noise. She told Henry she wanted to be considerate of the neighbors. Just barely south of 7 a.m. and Grimace, the short-limbed sausage shaped pooch filled the air with missives.

Mowing might not even happen today. Henry had an entire patch of weeds to knock down all by hand. According to Mrs. Mason, the patch had been a garden years ago, something Mr. Mason tended. Anytime she mentioned her long perished spouse she whacked her bosom like he'd been put to ground only last week.

Henry had explained how fast the work would go via weed whacker, but Mrs. Mason didn't want him inside. The imposition would frighten Grimace, and there was the further possibility Grimace might chew through the extension cord and get fried.

After five minutes of swinging the backup, the so-labeled Lawn Buddy, a metal stick with a horizontal blade resembling lasagna, Henry wished he'd brought gloves. His mom would've reminded him, but she was somewhere in northern California. Summertime meant fire season. She'd been promoted to a Fire Management Officer with the Forest Service, necessitating the move to Little Creek. It meant come this fire season she might be gone even more than years before. Supposedly he could take care of himself. The weeds were thick, practically tiny trees, Lawn Buddy resistant, and the tension on his palms was going to spring a row of blisters. He could imagine the pain, the blister-fed degree of difficulty, trying to hold a sandwich, trying to make a sandwich.

"Hey there, Lone Wolf."

Shocked at the nearness of the voice, Henry swung awry. The Lawn Buddy clipped the toe of his sneakers.

"Oh no! Are you ok?"

"I'm fine." Henry studied his sneakers. No crimson oil well gushed to life. "I didn't hit it that hard."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's ok."

Tiffany Pleshette walked into the weeds, the dried out growth hissing against her. Through her summer shade of sunbaked pink, Tiffany actually looked white, freaked like Henry's tool was now blood soaked.

She wore her usual garb. The orange tank top and the green shorts - a hacked off pair of green trousers discovered gathering dust at the Pendleton Salvation Army.

Last fall, when Henry had started school in Little Creek, Tiffany was constantly clad in red and yellow. Sometime in winter, she'd course corrected. It depended on which superhero she was obsessing. She'd burned out on The Flash. For the foreseeable future it was Aquaman, King of the Seas. At least for those two – Barry Allen and Arthur Curry - she didn't need to dye her thatch of hair, naturally blonde, to match that of the idol of the moment. Trying to match the brown with white highlights of the Fantastic Four's Reed Richards had slightly poisoned her. Plus, all blue looked all bad on anyone and everyone. Henry thought she should grow her hair out to help draw attention from her slight second chin. She was cute. Pretty, even.

"Shit. I just wanted to say 'hi,' and I nearly cost you your foot."

Henry stood on his right foot, raising and investigating the left. Just making sure. He shrugged. Tiffany looked towards Mason's brown-shingled single story house. She tilted her head.

"That's Grimace," said Henry.

"He sounds unhappy."

Tiffany could interpret dog sound. Her Uncle Norm owned his own little dog, Pluto, but the difference in doggie demeanors fed truth to the fact owners either made or broke their pet. Tiffany could hush Pluto with a look. In fact, she could be standing behind him, and the little dog would feel disdain absent any hiss or cluck or finger snap. Henry sensed the longer he stayed friends with the husky, vociferous girl, more and more he'd begin to act in line with Pluto. Utterly under her control.

"What are you doing out here?" asked Henry.

It took a moment for Tiffany to break her concentration upon Grimace's distress call.

"What's that?"

"Nothing," said Henry. "It's early. Early for questions."

"Yeah. I know." She sighed and shrugged. Post-shrug Henry did his best to ignore the all too obvious bounce. Paul Salerno, his best friend back in Redmond called boobs 'sweater bunnies'. Tiffany sported the mother lode of all sweater bunnies.

"I got to though," she said. "I mean I got to run. Remember how I told you that was my goal over the summer? I'm fat. I don't want to be fat, Henry."

"You're not."

"Henry."

"You're not though."

"Henry." She lifted her right arm above her head and swacked the meat of the bicep underside. "Look at that wiggle. You don't know. I'm like the only Pleshette female you've even seen, and trust me, trust me on this, ok? All of this extra me and still, I'm the skinny one. So. Yeah. I got to get up and do something. Run. Walk. Walk. Run. Something. I don't think they make orange tank tops a size larger, you know."

Soul bared, Tiffany squinted at the house, the amber colored double panes, the chicken wire fence-line, the maligned roof tiles. Just one of the dozens of malingering Little Creek homes. The nice houses like Henry and his mom lived in were the aberrations.

"I'm pretty sure Mrs. Mason owes the store some money. I could check. Not sure how much, but my Uncle Norm probably fell in for some sob story of hers." Tiffany's face aged whenever it came to the misfortunes of Pleshette's, now Little Creek's number two-ranked grocery store. Tiffany's Uncle called Auntie's owners 'those people', refusing to identify the Dobbs clan by proper names.

Across the road from Mrs. Mason's stood the abandoned railcars. When Tiffany started looking at the house, Henry's attention wandered toward his classmate's considerable bosom, and embarrassed, certain he'd get caught, looked away, over Tiff's suntanned right shoulder.

A man stood up over in the neighboring field, plain as day, the silhouette with only the horizon as background. Henry thought the man might be looking right at him. Henry squinted. A war vet named Bug Collar spent a good portion of the week working a metal detector over the railcars field, but this wasn't Bug. A stranger.

Quick as the stranger had risen, he'd wobbled, and collapsed.

*

Both teens thought a 911 call was in order, at least until Tiffany found the shoulder holster and the gun.

"Should you be doing that?"

Tiffany was sliding the gun out slowly. She'd tugged the man's left arm up out of the way to allow for more operating room.

"Tiff?"

"Shush. You're making me nervous, Henry."

From across Old Woods Road, Grimace continued issuing invective. Henry checked every direction except skyward, certain someone would be witnessing Tiffany's indiscretion. Henry still had the Lawn Buddy clenched in hand. It probably wasn't a bad idea to be armed, just in case the stranger proved aggressive, but he was barely aware he had it in hand.

Tiff had checked for a heartbeat, a pulse, even put her knuckles up over the man's nose and mouth. He was alive. He'd been hit in the right side of the head. Above the eyeline the skin was red and black, torn back here and there, revealing splotches of dried blood. Tiff had patted him down. No keys. A wallet was in the front right pants pocket. Henry's scalp tingle upped a notch when Tiff didn't return the wallet, instead just left it out, beside her squatting knees.

She'd peeled back the suit jacket. Nothing on the right, but on the left, a magazine was tucked into the inside pocket. A _People_ folded down the middle. Interest in the periodical had vanished at revelation of the holster.

"It's heavy." Tiffany held the gun by the stock but held it like it was a sandwich, fingers clamped down tight, palms empty.

"Don't drop it."

She nodded and set the gun down on the ground, the barrel aimed at the gravel slope of Old Woods Road.

"Should we call 911? Tiff?"

Henry even had his phone in his hand. He bet he'd fuck up if the stranger woke, lunged at Tiff. Probably swing the phone instead of the Lawn Buddy.

Someone in a state like the stranger, time was of the essence, even more so for Little Creek emergencies. A population on the low end of 250 didn't support a hospital. La Grande was 40 miles away. Pendleton 70. Everyone knew the local horror stories of accidents that took a tragic turn simply due to the middle of nowhere status the town otherwise usually luxuriated in. Years ago, Pleshette's had been The Little Creek Grocery, tripling as a doctor's office and the post office. Those were the boom years, before color TV, Vietnam.

Tiff leaned closer to the man. She touched his face and peeled back his left eyelids and then the right eyelids.

"What are you doing?" asked Henry.

"They aren't bloodshot."

"What if they were?"

"I don't know. It wouldn't be good though I bet."

She let go and leaned back. She looked right, towards town. Her hands nearly held each other. Her left thumb worried her right hand like it was trying to jumpstart it. Back up on her feet, her knees were each now dirt capped.

"Who do you think he is?" asked Tiffany.

Henry looked down at the man.

"I don't know."

"I don't see any car."

"Right."

"But he's not from here. Or anywhere around here, that's for sure."

"Right."

Tiffany ran to the nearest railcar. They were all the same weather worn gray. For years and years, the admonition from the mayor and the sheriff was for kids to stay clear of the railcars. Disagreement over who owned the property stymied the railcars destruction. Bug Collar and his mom had inherited the field unless you sided with Lester Scoggins and his claim Pa Collar had lost the field in a poker game back in the early '90s.

Tiffany leaned inside the open doorway and pulled out a small brown box. She overturned it and what looked like a toilet paper roll and broken glass fell to earth, followed by dripping. A lot of dripping. Tiff waggled the box, trying to get it drip free. Walking back towards Henry and the stranger she gave the box a look-over, a nose wrinkling cursory sniff, but she was committed.

She bent over, plucked up the wallet and the gun and put them in the box, then folded the box flaps down to make a lid.

"What are you doing?"

She stood. Clutching the box, she smiled at Henry. She pointed at the railcar she'd just investigated. The one with 'HOPE' spray-painted across it. The artist had run into trouble. The 'E' not quite fully realized. Depending on who was looking at it, it looked a little more like 'HOPF' then 'HOPE.'

"Hope," said Tiffany.

"How would that help Hope?"

Tiff shrugged. Bit her lower lip.

"I'll be back."

She turned and ran, holding the box like it contained cupcakes with so artfully applied frosting she intended to keep the masterpieces intact.

The gun thwacked against the box. She bounded up off the field and mounted the gravel side slope and once on the asphalt settled into a slightly more forceful trot than what she'd planned for the track this morning.

The thwack-thwack-thwack grew dim the closer Tiff got to the city park. Finally, Henry couldn't hear it at all. Once she was out of sight, he braced for the sudden blast of the gun, jarred and discharged. The blood rushing in his ears subsided just enough he could pick up the sounds of Grimace.

A Forest Service truck appeared on Old Woods Road, headed south, out of town, the diesel engine gathering force. An arm appeared out the passenger side window, and automatically, Henry returned the wave.

Pushing the lawn mower somewhere in town, usually a Forest Service truck going by would honk its horn, and the employees would holler at him. The first few times it'd scared him shitless. He got used to it. Henry guessed part of the routine stemmed from people delighting in making noise, and part from wanting to support his mom, their Fire Management Officer, and Henry in the wake of Alec's desertion.

The stepdad had withstood Little Creek from fall to the tail end of winter. Then, one sunny February day, he just up and left. It wasn't like he'd been a monster. He'd gotten along fine with Henry. Alec had said he was the older brother Henry didn't know he needed. Alec was kind of a boy toy, a solid three years Lori's junior. Alec was an artist. Multi-talented. A musician-an actor-a painter-a poet, etc. Small town life was supposed to give him time to dig deep and produce some masterwork. Delivered to Little Creek, mostly he'd produced empty space in bourbon bottles and packs of cigarettes. Last anyone had heard he was in Eugene, working part-time at a coffee shop, prepping a one-man show.

Henry watched the truck vanish around a curve into the woods. When he looked back, the man in black was sitting up.

Even without the brown black splotch and the patches of blood on the right side of the face, the man couldn't help but stir some warning sense out of strangers.

Something ape-like or caveman-like to the bone structure. He didn't appear like he was comfortable using words of more than one syllable, and would much prefer grunting and flailing to forming actual words.

"Are you ok?" Henry asked the same question a second time. No reply. The man kept looking over his right shoulder at the railcar Tiffany had snagged the dripping box from. The 'HOPE' railcar. The man seemed to be measuring the distance from his seated spot to the shade promised inside the railcar.

"If you want," said Henry, "I can call someone. We really don't have doctors here, but we could get you one."

A faint engine noise grew louder, somewhat insect-like. Henry guessed it was Norm Pleshette's little red Toyota truck before it came into view. He'd just made out Tiffany behind the driver's wheel when she slowed and aimed the truck off Old Woods Road and onto the field. At the last moment, she course corrected and ended up pulled alongside the man in black.

He'd turned his head and watched the red truck heading for him. Hadn't shown any interest in rolling away. Henry looked at that wounded forehead. Pictured the brain inside resembling a pulverized mound of wet dog food. Barking from inside the truck cab came on hot and heavy. Pluto pressed both his paws against the passenger side window, tongue dangling, excited enough like he could smell dog food. The window was cranked down about half an inch. Pluto arched his muzzle, trying to sniff in the whole wide world through the crack.

Tiffany left the motor running and got out of the truck, the driver side door open in her wake. She clapped her hands and stopped just in front of the truck front bumper.

She threw her arms up in a hallelujah gesture.

"He's up! You're up."

She smiled at the man in black.

"You can get in if you want, Mr. Sipe. We need to get you somewhere safe."

The man didn't say anything. Pluto woofed and woofed.

"Oh." Tiffany looked at Sipe, her right eye squinted shut against the windshield glare. "But Pluto's called shotgun, just so you know."

Chapter 4

Pluto planted his back paws in Tiffany's lap and peered out the rolled down driver side window as they drove through town. He'd extended Sipe his usual greeting. Turned in a circle and then plopped down, waiting for that ear scritch due any dog so unquestionably cute. He shrugged off any puzzlement at Sipe's hesitation soon as Tiffany got into the cab and patted her lap.

"That's the park." Tiffany was locked into tour guide mode. "There's a barbecue under that roof over there, but no one really uses it. Someone pooped in it over the winter, on a dare."

She gave the tour in a kind of singsong voice. She had a pleasant voice. Sipe could almost imagine closing his eyes and listening to it until sleep came or he came to sleep.

"On the left here is Auntie's. Remember that house back there just when we came into town? Those people, the Dobbs? They own Auntie's, and they own the Laundromat and the motel on the other side of town. The girl you saw on their pool deck, Brandi? Depending on who you talk to, her folks are going to own this whole town someday. Maybe by the end of tomorrow."

Sipe had seen the Brandi girl as a blur. He was a step behind the world. The kid was pointing things out, and he'd look, try and record them, but he was moving slow.

The truck had slowed to a stop. They sat at the intersection, signal light ticking. On the left, Auntie's, on the right, the city park. Tiffany pointed out the windshield.

"Up there, that big white building is the school. Obviously, no one's going there right now. If anyone has to go to summer school, I think they have to do it on the computer or something. Most our teachers go off and leave town come summer. They bail on this metropolis. Crazy, right?"

Tiffany pointed out the front windshield at the large white building directly across from Auntie's. Don's Automotive. An aged gas pump set into the gravel. Two big garage doors were rolled open, exposing the tailgate of at least one truck parked inside, waiting on rejuvenation.

"And that building there is the fix-it shop. Don's kind of old so Mortie Henderschott runs it. Scott Grunley worked there after school, but he knocked up a girl. He took off. So after that, last year we didn't even have enough boys for a basketball team. It's ok though. We usually get walloped."

She pointed right, towards the propane tanks and the signs.

"Don put that up. Or at least approved some other old fart putting it up. That's the Patriot's Kiosk. Words of wisdom so you don't forget your rights as a straight, god-fearing white person. I don't know who put the mannequin there. Last election, someone told me, Don wore some of those clothes, trying to be Paul Revere or someone. He's too big to fit into all of them. My uncle says Little Creek attracts way too many kooks."

She shifted gears and signaled and turned onto Main Street. The truck gathered speed, enough to rattle something under the hood, all manner of metal or plastic building to the point it'd buckle. Sipe had driven the road just hours ago. Or maybe it was days ago.

Tiffany grunted and down shifted. The ride smoothed out.

Rolling down Main Street, the yards on either side all seemed similar. Brown lawns. The houses needed paint. Then about every third house there existed some dark green grass, flowers, some ideal domicile that was probably as well taken care of inside as out.

"That's Mrs. King's," said Tiffany. "Henry mows her lawn. Look at all those flowers, huh? She takes care of them herself. She says it keeps her young. She's 85. 85! Real nice."

Right after the flower explosion, two dirt roads branched off Main Street. The road alongside King's quickly shot up to a steep northward climb. At top of it a brick red house lined with pine trees. The hill still the same one the white schoolhouse sat perched on. Probably, you could cram every Little Creek resident on the southern face of the hillside with room to spare.

The next block was the last in town. The houses on the right vanished, replaced by a giant parking lot, a building the color of stained pine sat back of the lot, a hillside behind it, houses tucked into the segmented earth.

"Forest Service," said Tiffany. "It used to be kind of teeny tiny, but they closed up the office over in Dale, and all those people came over here. Some guys used the brand new parking lot here for speed racing last fall. It was pretty sad. I mean, they weren't kids. They were adults. Like you, you know? Nobody died, but some guy from Pilot Rock has to pee in a bag now. You can still see the rubber tracks all burnt in."

The truck slowed down, and she signaled. Not a car behind her, not a car coming from the straight asphalt out ahead of them, where Main Street died, and it turned back into the highway. Ahead, right after the slow turn through the penetrated hill the Zippy Mart, the crazed squirrel and the wind towers.

Turning, gravel crunched under the wheels. All manner of light green painted trucks were parked in the Forest Service lot. Tiffany slowed and rolled the steering wheel left and drove them up the driveway to the brown house west of the Forest Service lot. A tin shed and a woodpile stood next to the house, jammed in between hill and home. There was no car parked out front. The garage door down, hiding any potential car inside.

Tiffany killed the engine. Pluto barked. Turned and licked Tiffany's nose. She laughed.

"Ok," was all she said and the dog jumped off her lap and through the window onto the gravel drive.

"This is Henry's. We need to get you inside, Mr. Sipe."

She tilted her head towards the Forest Service building.

"His mom's gone, but Gwen watches over him like a hawk. Any little weird thing, her sensors go off like an alarm. I wouldn't want to have to explain about you and a gun, now would I?"

*

He followed her, past the tin shed and the woodpile, around the corner and down a slope towards a picnic table and tree with a tire swing dangling from a branch. Her bright yellow hair sawed down, the tank top collar revealed a purple patch of acne beneath the base of her neck. Pluto investigated one of the clothesline poles at great depth until Tiffany whistled. Then he sprinted, not wanting to be left out of the potential fun. Sipe couldn't imagine moving even half as fast as the dog, not with the weight he felt inside his head.

A tinted window obscured the basement. Sipe's reflection like he was looking into a mud-puddle. A steep extension of hillside like a giant's thumb gripping the east-half of the house obscured them from any sightseers on the dirt road or over at the Forest Service. Tiffany dug a key out from her pocket, showed it to Sipe before shoving it into the door's key slot.

"Henry comes from the big city. So him and his mom keep their place all locked up. It's probably a good idea. You never know who might show up around here anymore."

Door open, Pluto shot inside. Dog claws clicked across the cement floor. Tiffany extended an arm, swept the air, indicating Sipe should go in ahead of her, Little Creek's unofficial hospitality ambassador.

*

Water ran through pipes. The basement ceiling was partially exposed, displaying the network of black channels, papered over insulation. From the couch, Sipe could hear a slight squeak, Tiffany twisting the kitchen tap off. She issued an order and seconds later Pluto scampered down the stairs into the basement.

The door to the backyard was shut. The window tinting was only on the outside. Everything looked blue and green and summer perfect from inside.

Giving Sipe a tour, Tiffany had indicated where the basement light switch was located. The cellar door. The bathroom just around the corner from the washer and dryer nook. Further back in the dark was the furnace and a ping pong table.

The couches formed an 'L,' one against the basement west wall, a table separating the two. He'd managed to sit without her help although she'd made a noise like Sipe was forgetting all the previous attempts, Mr. Wounded and Wobbling's inevitable outcomes.

Tiffany stepped off the bottom basement stair step, two glasses in hand. Pluto hopped up on the couch and exposed his tongue to Sipe. Tiffany clucked, and Pluto complied.

"Good boy. No couch for you. Here. Water. Some lemonade." She set each glass down on the table in-between couches, right on top of a weathered magazine that had long ago surrendered to a single role as moisture sop.

She stepped back and pulled a bottle and a slip of paper out of her pocket.

"Aspirin. If you need it."

She waggled the slip of paper.

"This is my number. You call me. Well, the number up top is mine. The one below is Henry. I should've labeled them. Do you want me to label them? Ok. I won't. Henry's phone is upstairs. The landline I mean, right next to the kitchen table. You'll see it. You didn't have a phone on you. Do you have a phone? You do? Well, it wasn't on you. It was gone when we found you. Unlike your gun. Your wallet."

Across the room, Pluto snuffled a shirtsleeve leaking out of the clothes hamper. Something so remarkable needed a closer sniff. He rose up on his back legs, front paws pushing into the hamper. The claws didn't even click, but Tiffany still heard.

"Hey. Noodlehead. What are you doing?"

Tail thumping, Pluto relented, moved his snuffling floor-wards.

"Like I was saying, if you had a phone it was gone. Your wallet was on you. So was your gun."

The chubby child face dissolved. An adult woman peered out from the slightly hefty girl. The look implying his neck or was it his balls had been sold off.

"You should rest up. Once you're rested up, we should talk. You'll be safe here. It's only Henry. His mom is in California, fighting fire. I mean, not only her, but she's one of the people in charge."

She set the slip of paper on his leg. Didn't press it down. Didn't hold it out, waiting for him to struggle, try and take it from her. She didn't need to show him that even something so simple as taking an immobile object out of her hand posed a degree of difficulty at this place, at this time.

Pluto scooted upstairs after her, passing her. Sipe looked up the stairs, but couldn't see her go through the door between the house and the garage. Just heard it open and close. Then another door opened and shut. No sound of plodding through gravel, but he could hear the little truck start up, pull back, and then drive away.

The last thing before he shrugged off thought altogether he was trying to move his lower torso enough so his head could please at least clear the couch arm. He didn't want to wake up with a crook in his neck. Moving to the other couch was work for another time.

One of his legs kicked, trying to catch, and compel the water weight north to slide on down. The limb strain was like a dog getting his belly rubbed, the leg spasms in contentment. Nobody rubbed Sipe's gut. His legs stilled. Outside a breeze ruffled tree leaves and altered the sunlight piercing the basement, rippled grass below the clothesline tines, and turned the tire swing at a leisurely pace, producing the musical note of a hung man's dead weight.

*

Sipe woke on the stairs.

Years ago, when he was seeing someone, when such things were still possible for a man of his stripe, Gibby had always told him about the sleepwalking. She thought it was funny. Scared hell out of one of her cats while the other watched Sipe like a researcher. The sleepwalking the way he'd made it from the baseball diamond to the field that morning. Same way he'd made it from the couch to the stairs.

Grasping the railing bolted into the wall, he pulled himself up from the stair steps. The stars dissipated. Walking the few steps up, he rested, turned, and sagged right around the corner, against the wall.

The door on his left pine. Garage access. He'd look into the garage later. He faced some kind of kitchen nook. Plentiful blue sky and sunshine beyond the window, the curtain. Sitting down in one of the kitchen chairs hit him as a good idea. On these legs, with this head, really, the only option. Whorls in wood on the tabletop, stained. He centered a finger pad on top of one. Surface only. A pattern. The table not something made, but something sold in a store. Memory rolled over. Ikea, south of Seattle, Renton, shopping with Connie, the Old Man. The Old Man breaking into a sweat, concerned they'd get lost. Right now, Sipe out sweating him, easy.

Braced, he looked. Past the nook, into the kitchen. A sink. A stove. Plenty of cupboards. The refrigerator. The doorway beyond gave a view onto a living room. A cathedral of light in there, parallelograms of sunlight, hinted at huge windows, curtains drawn back.

A ceramic bowl sat on the counter next to the kitchen table. Fruit. Some portion of the fruit going bad. A cloud of tiny flies hovered. Sipe's attention wobbled, imagining flies in orbit above his body collapsed on gravel, astronauts lighting on and off Millie's Crater.

A phone hung on the wall adjacent to the kitchen table. The cord a long curly loop. Old plastic shell. Rotary dial.

The Old Man's edict: the most important number any employee could call, he didn't want it written down. He didn't want it saved on your phone on speed dial. Outside the organization, no one knew that number. If you told anyone outside the organization that number, you might as well shoot them because they were already good as dead. You might not admit you'd let the number slip, but the Old Man would know. And he'd know you knew he knew you'd fucked up.

Sipe had memorized that zero number, the one that did and didn't exist. He had a bunch of numbers written down on a card he kept in his wallet, but the zero number wasn't one of them.

Guys lost mobile phones right and left. It was amazing. It was like they were scattered by the technology that was supposed to help keep them organized. Instead, constantly calling on it tapped their brains, shattering a block of ice into smaller and smaller slivers.

By the time he sagged against the nook wall, sweating, and had a hand out, quivering, reaching for the phone, Sipe realized it might be dead tone. Some elaborate prop left in place for niche value. All his effort for nothing.

But it existed. The hum. His gift from the gods for the day.

The finger wheel clicked after each dial. A time machine. He was little again. Lived outside town again. Rode the bus to school. His sisters older, but weren't maturing, twisting, turning on one another, mostly turning on Sipe. If he dialed Daryl, Daryl might agree to meet him down at the creek, for fishing, at least for awhile, before Daryl suggested they take off, hit the swimming hole, hide in the bushes and try and watch the older kids swim. Some of the girls swam in just their underwear.

He sagged into the wall between the window and the phone.

The number rang. He'd dialed it right. If no one answered, he'd dial it again. He wanted to share, tell whoever picked up to guess what technological marvel was responsible for the call.

"Yeah."

The same voice that always answered. The ageless, timeless voice. Someone the Old Man kept on a religious regiment of vitamins, clean living.

"I'm bringing a package from California," said Sipe. "I lost the package."

The way it was supposed to work was the way it worked.

No response from the other line.

No acknowledgment.

The line went dead.

Eventually, Sipe mustered the strength to hang up the phone. For a long time, he listened to the emergency note. The robot voice informing him if he wanted to make a call could he please hang-up and try again. By the time he could swing his arm up and slam the phone in the cradle he swore victory, busting up an emigrated halo of flies, sick of soured fruit, come to inspect the now newly christened walking dead.

Chapter 5

Despite fevered campaigning by the hastily assembled Little Creek Economic Committee, GreenBlo had ultimately based its central operations in Pendleton. The wind tower project had whipped up a presumption of prolonged economic glory, but boon proved nothing but bust. The cold, hard reality settled in most resoundingly for those needing the most dramatic boost.

Little Creek's Lazy Bear Inn didn't run full capacity months on end. The Outpost restaurant didn't seat capacity night after night. They had a normal. They'd survive, famine or feast. Auntie's saw a little lift - icing on an already plentifully frosted cake - but not only was Pleshette's located on the far east side of town, it stocked little different than Auntie's and in most instances less of that same.

Further hampering Pleshette's was the lack of eye candy. Maybe Mrs. Dobbs wasn't beautiful, but she had a rack on her, and neither she or her husband were oblivious to the fact that their eldest, Brandi, at 15 was ripe with all sorts of unspoken procreative possibility bubbling at the genetic level, increasing heart rates, thickening blood vessels, not only in strangers but in repeat customers, a role most GreenBlo employees had quickly assumed.

When Norm wasn't clerking his store, it was Sutton Welter or Tiff. Sutton somewhere in his 40s only he looked 60ish. Both upper and lower dentures to replace what he'd lost and his skin permanently clay colored from a stretch first on the now defunct Welter farm then as a member of the County Road crew. There were old comic book ads for shrunken heads that spit water at your unsuspecting family and friends. Tiffany couldn't suffocate the notion that Sutton's resemblance to the novelty item was dead on.

About the only thing Uncle Norm came to enjoy from the installation of the cadre of 'European noisemakers' (the common refrain from any white, conservative, local male 30 or older when the wind towers percolated into conversation) was the blooming of the prostitution trade. And now even that fair flower of capitalism was endangered.

GreenBlo was done. The workforce plopped down in eastern Washington now. Probably by the end of summer many a local Little Creek man come to expect a lay of convenience would be left bereft. Back to the common solaces of the palm, the Internet, even their spouse.

Uncle Norm waited outside the trailer home on Sheff Street, dressed like a man with places to go, and people to impress, though opting for it in casual a strain as possible. Sunglasses. Unbuttoned, striped short sleeved shirt over a dark blue tank top tucked into khaki knee-length shorts, revealing darkly haired calves, the feet fit into tan-colored open toed sandals. The way the oxygen tank gleamed it didn't seem out of the realm of possibility he didn't spit shine it before his usual Wednesday visit to the 'massage parlor.'

When Tiffany pulled up in front of the house and killed the Toyota truck engine, she moved her lips in time with the anticipated exasperation.

"Jesus Christ and applesauce," said Uncle Norm. "It's a miracle I guess. I should drop to my knees, thank the heavens that you actually remembered I got an appointment."

"Huh."

"'Huh,' what?"

"I thought you'd be so antsy I'd get a 'Jesus effing Christ and applesauce.'"

Norm's head quivered. "Whatever. Sometimes I disappoint. Get used to it." He shrugged. "The fuck am I saying? You should be used to it."

A trail of dust dissipated behind the Toyota. Tiffany knew Norm would be agitated, waiting for her to get back. She'd turned left off Main Street just past Auntie's, rolling towards the hill and the school and then made a right onto Sheff, unpaved, running parallel to Main. She'd brought the truck to a full-stop with the nose even pointed a convenient direction - a simple right onto New School Road, a left onto Main, and like that, you were out at Butcher's Camp and Norm's appointment, scheduled inside a pine-shingled structure once operating as a hunting lodge before Butcher's Camp suffered population wipeout during the 1917 flu epidemic, a horror that seemed to all but sidestep Little Creek.

Butcher's Camp was only occupied at anything close to full capacity during the summer months. The rest of the year the vacation homes were dark, shuttered, the hot springs and swimming pool shut down to the public.

The operation the Ruchert's had opened up inside the former hunting lodge was as quiet and low-key as possible. A row of antlers remained bolted above the front entrance as if conveniently planned to give a pre-session boost of masculinity to the purely male clientele.

Before the Ruchert trio went the entrepreneurial route, Tiffany's uncle was in as peachy of health as a man with emphysema could expect. About the only physical ding outside the daily struggle for oxygen was slight conjunctivitis and pain in his toes, remnants from several incidents of sloppily dead-lifting then carrying his oxygen tank around the house rather than rolling it around on its wheeled cart. Norm refused to invest in the strap on packs. Nothing but old biddies in the ads, looking far too delighted with their lot in life.

Pluto hopped out the truck, and Tiffany followed, leaving the driver side door open for Norm. He hoisted up the oxygen tank and set it down on the seat then rolled it and set it down into the passenger foot-well before settling in behind the steering wheel. Pluto waited until the driver side door was shut, and then he skittered forward and propelled himself up into the air and through the open window and off of his owner's thigh onto the seat. After a cursory sniff of the oxygen tank, Pluto called on the gifts given by the dog gods and fixed Uncle Norm with eyes big and soft and wet.

"No. Goddamn, dog. Out. Now. Hey!"

Norm slid back against the seat, arms raised, offering the dog room enough to bounce off his lap and back on out of the cab. Back to earth, Pluto snuffled the sun burnt lawn like the last ten seconds hadn't happened.

"Every time. Jesus."

"Maybe Pluto knows something you don't. Maybe the therapist likes dogs," said Tiff. "You should ask her."

"No."

He turned the engine over.

"What's her name again? Bambi? Candy? Sunshine? I still think you're crazy, trusting the health of your back to an adult with a name like that."

"Yeah? You hang out with a guy named Bug."

"No. I know a guy named Bug. More like I know 'of' a guy named Bug. I hang out with Henry."

"Not what I hear."

"Rumors?"

"'Rumors.' The common currency of Little Creek. You know it."

"Rumor has it," said Tiffany, "at least the flavor I got wind of, rumor has it our good buddy Bug, he's already got me preggers. Oh yeah. Bent me over out there at the railcars, just one, two, three good thumps, and then just went right back to running his metal detector over the ground." She swatted her stomach, the swell of girth beneath her orange shirt. "Yup. This isn't just fat. Oh-ho-no. This isn't just teenage sloth. Got a bunch of sea monkeys percolating in there. You ready to be taking care of the whole wiggly squiggly batch once they're good and hatched? Great Uncle Norm, you bet. Probably come September? Couple months since me and Bug hooked up, I think. Couple months, isn't that the regular gestation period for sea monkeys?"

"And they say your mom's the crazy one."

The kid knew the bigger her smile the eerier the resemblance to her uncle's absent sibling.

"Yup," said Tiffany. "They say."

Shaking his head, Norm put the truck into drive and peeled off, out of view just as quick as you please.

*

Inside the house, Tiffany opened her dresser drawer. Sipe's gun pointed towards the back of the dresser. She left it. She didn't even want to look at it. She took out Sipe's wallet, slid the drawer closed and knelt down on the floor. Muzzle dripping from a dip into his kitchen water bowl, Pluto hopped up on her bed, snuffled pillows, and then turned in a circle several times before plopping down between several stacks of comic books.

Before leaving the house this morning, she'd been sorting, wondering if it wasn't time to shitcan Aquaman, concentrate on some other hero, complete with a mimicking of their threads.

Most of Tiffany's comic books were coverless, nabbed from boxes two layers deep in the delivery drop-off at the Pendleton Goodwill.

Last-last February, near 18 months ago. The normal end to the going-to-town routine. Norm was at Staci's, his Pendleton dive of choice, just up the street from Goodwill, having a quick one for the road before they headed back to Little Creek. Tiff usually haunted the interior of the Goodwill, but as luck had it, some convincing little voice directed her out back to the unsorted bonanza of cast-offs.

Almost soon as she stopped goggling at the sheer spread, and could focus in, she'd spotted one of the Goodwill sorters holding up a handful of comic books.

Rain was falling in late winter drizzle. The sorters working through what looked the colossal drop off of crap of all time.

"How much are those going to go out at?"

The sorter, comics still in hand, turned and looked at her. Back then, Tiffany was still dyeing her hair blue and pink. She wore a Weezer t-shirt and a pony backpack, not that the sorter could see anything of the horse. Tiff had waved, grinning the grin she knew left most people with the impression they faced a human-sized cartoon squirrel in human-disguise.

The sorter shrugged. Poured a dismissive glance upon the pulp in hand.

"No covers. Probably trash 'em." To put a fine point on their worthlessness, he dropped the handfuls like they were small frogs or some other vertebrate, hand-sized, harmless, but capable of pooping on you for no apparent reason.

Tiffany pushed and slid through twenty feet of cast offs, stools, TVs, boom boxes, etc., and felt her jaw go numb. She felt her jaw get wet - it hit the pavement - that's how far it unrolled and eventually plopped down at sight of the sheer amount of comic book-goodness.

She texted and finally called Norm, bothering him to the point he abandoned the bar and brought the truck around.

Tiff insisted on paying the sorters something for the six very wide and deep boxes of comic books, but her main contact refused. By loading up the boxes into Norm's truck and taking them away, they were saving the sorters several trips to the recycling bin through the rain now graduated to downpour.

Comic books. Aquaman. Color coordination. The concerns of the early morning. Now, mid-morning, it was time to mature. Lock back onto the problem that'd been gnawing into her weeks now.

Hope. The absence of Hope.

At least a half-dozen times a day she tried to call Hope. She already knew it would happen, but a finger cold and hollow poked into her marrow when the call immediately clicked her over to leaving a message.

"Guess who? Your pal that lives in a zoo. Seriously though. It's me. Hey. Just doing the daily jab. Wondering where you are. Who you're with. Something weird happened this morning. I need to ask you if maybe you know a guy, or, have seen some guy out at Butcher's Camp, at you-know-where...Where Norm is headed right now. His regular appointment and all. That's it. Call me. Please. Bye."

She checked the time on her phone. Plenty of time to kill before she covered Sutton's lunch break. Not that it mattered if someone watched over Pleshette's. The old-timers that hated the Dobbs for one invented reason or another had already cycled through, buying their _East Oregonian_ or _The Oregonian_ , jawing for a little while then dissipating by car or by foot, back to command central, a sofa or armchair aimed at their flat screen and the persistent dribble of information, provided courtesy of reality TV or unreality TV news. When the bleakness really took hold of Norm, he postulated never locking up the store, just leaving the doors open 24/7, let the market decide how clean to pluck the store shelves.

There were only two photos in Sipe's wallet.

The driver's license, and then one Polaroid displaying a little girl in a man's lap at a kitchen table. Both faces bearded in the pink frosting coating a bunny rabbit-in-profile shaped birthday cake resting flat on the table top. More of a cheek-smear on Sipe's face, like the little girl first went face down in the cake and then bestowed a kiss on the man, both her hands still resting on Sipe's chest like the kiss had happened seconds ago. The little girl's face crinkled by her mirth. The left side of Sipe's mouth rose, close to a smile as he managed.

Mostly, the wallet contained cash. New, fresh smelling bills. Kind of sticky to the touch. All $100 bills.

One of the rumors circling the Ruchert's success in the sex-trade centered on their securing a loan from big-timers. Out-of-towners. The mob. The mafia. There weren't too many women around Little Creek that would willingly take on prostitution as a career choice. The supply had to come from somewhere. Plus neither Ty or Bret struck most people as the successful business owner type. Bret more like a bouncer or some guy that could drain pitcher after pitcher of beer and maintain consciousness (if not clarity) while their peers dropped off one by one. According to Hope, the brains behind the day-to-day operations belonged to the sister, Bonnie. A real bitch, too.

"Why didn't he have a phone? Unless it fell out. Unless I clean missed it. Did I miss it, Pluto?"

The dog's sleepy eyes barely widened from slits. No help in this instance.

Tiffany looked at her door. She'd shut it. Silly. She tucked the wallet guts back in, and stood, ran her fingers through Pluto's scalp. He looked at her adoringly.

She opened the drawer and put the wallet in next to the gun.

She imagined Norm's reaction if he knew about the gun, the man with the bruised head. Call the cops, he'd urge, even with all evidence to the contrary that local law enforcement was a joke, at least when it came to certain trades.

They were honest when it came to domestic violence or DUIs, but anything GreenBlo related, or where illicit drugs or prostitution were thrown into the fray, things got hazy. Some of it was just hearsay, some of it clear and clean confabulation, jokes made at the expense of a deputy's waistband-size that drew oxygen and grew until even little kids knew the unflattering nicknames, but then there were dribs of evidence, cold hard facts.

In late spring, during one of Hope's sustained school absences, she'd sent Tiffany selfies snapped out at Butcher's Camp Massage. Close shots, Hope from the bare shoulders up, clutching a Sheriff's badge, then a baton, then wearing the man of the hour's big old cowboy hat and winking at the camera. The set delivered to Tiff's phone under the tag line 'I f*kd th law & th law cum.'

Come late July, Tiff would turn 17. She was two weeks older than Hope. Hope said the way Tiff treated her, looked out for her, worried about her, bothered the shit out of her it was more like she was Hope's mother.

"I don't need you." The gun didn't say anything back to Tiffany. "I might need you. We might need you. But not yet."

She shut the drawer. Left the bedroom.

There was a soft spot in the living room floor, invisible lines extending to it out from the coffee table, the sofa and Norm's easy chair, it creaked at this one pressure point, whenever Norm or Tiffany might be headed outside. Pluto could sense even the barest beginning of weight being administered to that point. He was off the bed, shedding the thin wrap of dozing, before Tiffany's hand even met the front door knob.

Usually, she told him to stay here. Inside. She'd be back. Not today. Without a word to Pluto, the door shut. He whined, started to bark, not knowing Tiff's brain was overcome, focused on the potential uses of the man with pink cake frosting smeared on his face.

Chapter 6

The call came in on the landline. That was clue one she was going to leave her half of the duplex today.

Secondly, it was that dry, arid voice that always left her picturing chalk dust wafting.

"Got a call about a package coming from California. The package got lost."

Followed by recitation of a number Susan needed to call. A pay phone, north of Rainier Valley, if she remembered right.

Click.

End of message. Now it was in her lap. Last week, she'd received a message by mail. No return address. Inside the envelope an index card, and written on it, 'Connor coming home next week. Graduated CIA. CA to WA.' She found herself immobile, thinking about Connie, all the possible permutations of 'lost.' Finally, she shook it off.

One of these days they were going to have to rethink the entire communications channel. Pay phones were going to vanish. They were inconvenient as fuck. No one could convince the Old Man of this. Everyone has a wild hair up their ass. Cell phones were the hair up his. It made sense. There was cause.

Years ago, Connie had nearly died. His mom talking on her phone while crossing the street, not even holding little Connie's hand, totally mesmerized by her chat, and some jerk makes a wild turn, hits her, grazes Connie. Mom survived the collision, all the good it did her. Probably better off to have perished at the scene.

Depending on who told the tale, they gave her $25,000 to disappear for good, or it was one of those times the Old Man did something himself. Personally stabbed her to death out on the Olympic Peninsula and buried her near this one little cabin he used as a dojo. Susan pictured the worse possibility that they tucked twenty-five grand under the woman's armpit, and she left the Old Man's Lake Washington mansion eking out every forward motion on crutches, sobbing, wondering where oh where would she find a new sugar daddy now.

For a brief time, Susan had acted as Connie's de facto mom, but it wasn't a permanent gig. She was better off as like a really cool babysitter. Not mother material. Sorry. Of course, it pissed off the Old Man. He'd plucked Susan up from the ashes of her attempt to be an actress. How did it go, throw a handful of quarters up in the air in any Los Angeles crowd, and 60% of the coinage would bounce off some wanna-be actor or screenwriter? At best she'd been eye candy in 'B' and 'C' pictures, and suddenly she'd turned 30, suddenly an old biddy, eking a living as a hostess and trying to crack the world of voice talent. If the Old Man's party hadn't gone to a certain Santa Monica restaurant on a certain night, who knows? That poor lady that ended up killed at Phil Spector's? That might've been Susan. If not Spector, some other degenerate, murder-bent millionaire, and depending on the point in Susan's free fall, it might've registered as a mercy killing of sorts.

Her sisters told her how smart she'd been to move up to Seattle when she did. Kendra in Boston. The winters were killing her, the yoga studio always just barely getting by. The eldest sister, Bobbi, down in San Diego, and anytime Susan talked to her, Bobbi brought up the dreariness of the city clerk post, the pension that wasn't going to materialize, and the drought. Never anything really substantially new to those topics, but she was so comfortable revisiting either, it was ceremonial.

Getting ready to go out sadly wasn't such the costume change. Anymore Susan dressed like someone's idea of a widow or some aged virgin, a crazy cat lady probably. She didn't think about how she might look to other people anymore. Probably the normal end country for someone who once spent far too much time second-guessing every possible cosmetic effect.

Outside, she popped the car trunk, removed the two Hefty bags and set them in the backseat. Several random, empty boxes littered the backseat. They'd been there for months, post-garden sale. And how did Susan's garden grow? Brown. Aphids-ridden. Lazy Susan. The couple in the other half of the duplex already at work. No stray encounter, no insubstantial chat to endure. She puttered through the Ravenna neighborhood, drove west and took the freeway on-ramp north at 72nd.

She exited at 130th, headed west, and turned into the library parking lot on Greenwood. Just opened, she had plenty of room to operate. She nestled one of the Hefty bags in the front passenger seat, then collected those empty boxes, shoved them up next to the rear windshield, leaving barely enough room to peer back, check traffic.

The whole time three dollars worth of quarters clinked inside her front pants pocket. She turned back out on 130th, turned left on Greenwood, going north, and made a right onto 145th. Arrived at her destination, standing outside the driver side door she scanned the post office parking lot. Plenty of people inside their cars lost in their palms. Those ever present devices, the handy dandy rabbit holes. Were they waiting for someone inside the post office? Had they clean forgot they were here to get the mail, or task accomplished, spaced on the fact they could keep on with their day? All that mattered is if they spotted her, they'd think, bag lady, lady down on her luck, crazy town, stay the fuck away.

The jeans a size too big, cinched to her waist, stained brown like she played in mud puddles, or raised rabbits, goats, something that liberally sprayed shit. Layered tops, the outside layer a matronly sweater one size too small. The hair loose, knotted, matted courtesy of Crisco. Wearing glasses with these weird clear frames, big lenses, and her face looked scrubbed down, scoured. She'd used a dry wash cloth, but with strokes strenuous enough it could be mistaken for the effects of steel wool.

There was a pay phone about half the distance between this north Seattle post office and the duplex, the former go-to, but the last time she'd gone to use it the phone cord had been sliced in half. Pain in the ass. Typical for some public service directly on highway 99, the local way station for hookers and lost souls. The Bitter Lake post office was all of a 30-second walk from 99. Someday, she'd arrive and find this phone cord severed, but happily, not today.

The first number she dialed, and she didn't have to wait. Boog answered immediately. Same voice that had informed her the package was lost. After calling her from his store in Seattle's Central District, Boog walked to a phone booth half a block away and waited. Susan wondered if this might not be one of the last times they went through the hoops. Developers were the drug of choice in Seattle. Condominiums, four to five story structures, apartments and businesses, all-in-one. Zeke had mentioned Boog was all a flutter, his store sitting on ground zero for one of those knock 'em down, kill the old, raise the new enterprises.

Used to be Boog would farm it out. One of the Old Man's employees would call the store, Boog would tell one of the guys hanging out all day in front of his store to go down to the pay phone, provide Susan the info. Dangerous, if the Old Man had ever found out. The guys were sometimes drunk, high. One guys always eating. He'd paused now and then, get some words out around Cracker Jacks, the demolishing of an ice cream cone. The guy super-intent on slurping every last sweet morsel. All those regulars must have died off. Now Boog had to do it himself.

"Pacino's," answered Boog. Way he said it it sounded like the fish soup, cipino.

"You already call Zeke?" Susan asked. That was standard procedure. Foot soldier called Boog. Boog called Susan, Boog called Zeke. Zeke got the ball rolling on his end. Susan called Boog, back from another line, gathered information.

"Yeah, I did."

"What'd he say?"

"'Shit.' 'Fuck.' Made it sound like it was my fault."

"That'd be Zeke. Give me the number."

Boog said, "Hold on," and coughed, spat, sliding paper out of his pocket. He recited an area code for Oregon.

"How did he sound?" asked Susan.

"Zeke?"

"No. Oregon."

"'Oregon'? Oh. Right. Sounded like someone having a shitty day."

"I imagine so. Have a good one."

"You too, lady. Thanks for calling Pacino's."

The second phone number punched in she listened to a good half-dozen rings. Starting to get antsy. All this effort for nothing, and getting Crisco out of the hair such a pain in the ass, too. Some acting teacher's voice rattled in her memory, authenticity the key. The performer had to believe in the performance or the audience never would. Oregon. Susan couldn't remember the last time she'd even been in Oregon.

"Yeah."

"This is Susan."

"Yeah."

For a couple of reasons, she didn't get called so much anymore. The more the Old Man tried to get legitimate - a clean empire his hoped for legacy to Connie - the problems didn't crop up and hop up into her lap so often. She couldn't place the face that belonged to the voice. Mr. Yeah. The loss of familiarity, a price she paid for distancing herself from the Old Man, turning down invitations to the Lake Washington residence, afraid the Old Man in his decline into senility might extend a marriage request. That would be patently uncomfortable, turning it down, wondering from under how much dust he'd exhumed the invitation.

"You ok?" asked Susan.

"Huh?"

"You sound out of breath."

"Had to run to get the phone."

"Where's the kid?" Oops. "The package."

"No idea."

"And you're in Oregon?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?" She almost said 'in brief,' but she was beginning to picture Mr. Yeah. If it was who she thought it was, being brief his standard protocol.

"He wanted to see this lady he knew. He got hold of her while we were en route, headed home. He insisted, so I deviated. Off I-5, into eastern Oregon. So last night, we stop in a little out of the way place. Little Creek. They tell me Millie's car has some issue."

"Millie?"

"Yeah. It's what he calls her. So I'm looking at it, helping, next thing I know I get Tased, stun gunned, something. I'm on the ground, this Millie kicks me in the head, kicks me out."

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Last night. 11 p.m., about that."

"Was it just the woman? No friends with her?"

"Just Millie. Just the kid. Me."

"Huh."

"The car's gone. My phone's gone."

"You got your pills?"

Mr. Yeah long, too long, in answering. Embarrassed. His gun, his 'pills' taken, too.

"They send a closer?" he asked.

Stupid question. But she knew if she were this guy, this poor schmuck that'd let Connie fuck him over, that had lost his phone and gun, she'd want to hear something in the affirmative. Just so he knew what to expect.

"Yes."

"Who?" he asked.

"They don't tell me that. You know that."

She could ask. Zeke coordinated all that. Zeke would tell if she asked.

"What if I make it good?"

"Fix it?"

"Fix it."

"I don't know. You know. It depends. You fix it, maybe nothing happens. We all have a good laugh. Or. You fix it, but that original mistake is just too big and bad."

Down at the post office entrance, a couple exiting were laying into one another. The woman flaying back more skin than the man. Both just shy of 60. The man stepped off the sidewalk, threw his hands in the air like he was done. The woman paused, kept laying into him as she looked at her phone. Her face transformed, from demonic to passive in a matter of moments. Christ. Machines already masters to millions if not billions of trained, waiting slaves.

Susan watched, hoping the man backed out and drove off without his ball and chain. He waited. The woman somehow managed to sever communion with her phone. For a moment, she made eye contact with Susan. Opportunity. Susan jammed her free hand into her crotch, dug it deep inside like there might be a prize somewhere notched deep within the itch.

The voice came on. Robot operator. She didn't know if Mr. Yeah could hear it, too. She told him she had to deposit more quarters.

For a few seconds, she thought he'd hung up. She was about to ask if he was still there when he said, "I'm gonna try."

"Try what?" Grinning, she waved at the sedan. Susan could make out her new friend, gesturing out at the crazy crotch grabber - the new enemy supplanting the husband at least for a few minutes. Susan sniffed those crotch-digging fingers. Almost planted them in her mouth, but too late, the sedan rolling forward, rolling away.

"You know," he said. "To make it right."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Mr. Yeah hung up before she could say 'good luck.'

It left her feeling empty. It would've been a nice thing, let that guy out there in the middle of nowhere know that she cared at least enough to fling a wish even if it was one of those empty wishes, dissolving quick as butter in a pan, substantial as a drunken kiss in a crowded bar.

She felt for the guy. Sipe? Sipe. That terseness? Had to be Sipe. Probably 20 years her senior. No big plans, not Sipe. Not like Zeke. More like Susan. Just making it from one day to the next. They tell you to go here. They tell you to go there. There was reward. There was penalty. The shit thing being you never knew when the penalty phase was going to kick in.

Connie must've had some reason for this. For trying to disappear. It'd been years since she'd seen him. Years since she'd been a regular at the Lake Washington house.

Before she got back on the freeway, she pulled off onto a side street, knocked the boxes out from the rear window, toted the Hefty bags back into the trunk. Someone's little dog, imprisoned in chain link, barked at her. She didn't buy it. The wiggly little tail betrayed the pooch's nature.

Driving south on I-5 she couldn't shed the image of Mr. Yeah, Sipe, a lot of gray in the fur, a wagging tail, following or tromping ahead of someone taking him out on his very last walk.

Chapter 7

The rotary phone had started to ring when he was in a room on the other side of the house, looking at art. Sipe had sprinted, out of the room, down the hall and through the living room to catch the call in time. Running hadn't seemed a bad idea until he was leaning into the wall, catching his breath, watching blue sparks behind closed eyelids. Talking to Susan hadn't made him feel much better.

The bedroom some sort of storage space. The one upstairs room behind a shut door. Lots of boxes. A bookshelf against one wall with the top shelf actually holding some books, the lower shelves storage slots for more boxes.

The windows in the storage room gave view beyond the top of the clothesline onto a field. Wild grasses sun-dried to a shade of hay bale.

The tallest box in the storage room one of those deep spaces meant for clothes, dresses or suits, but it'd been intercepted from that intention and was now sort of catch-all detention space for artwork. Drawing pads, sketchbooks, and canvases.

Before he'd started looking at art, he'd looked at the living room, Henry's bedroom, the upstairs bathroom, and another bedroom. He remembered what the blonde girl had said. Henry's mom was out of town.

Part of the problem with his head feeling not right, he hadn't caffeinated. After calling the number, he celebrated his pending execution by unearthing a couple of Cokes from the fridge and downing them, one right after the next.

A coffee maker hung out with a grinder. Sipe didn't know how to grind beans. A spoon-it-from-the-canister kind of man. Even easier than that apparently non-existent option was popping the tab on a caffeine-rich soda or two.

He tried to think of the most likely person flying out of Seattle, armed, their sole mission to clean up the mess. His mess. It'd been years since he'd gone and done that particular job. He hadn't begged off. They just knew some guys took to it, some didn't. Some would rather escort the Old Man to meetings, to the gym, to Sonics games -- at least until the Sonics had been sold off. That'd been a pisser. That whole mess. God help the man caught texting or even looking at a cell phone in the Old Man's presence. About the only other thing as certain to dip you up to your chin in a shit that didn't wash off was to show up with a Starbucks coffee in your hand. The Old Man so pissed off at the way Howard Schulz lost the Sonics to that faggot from Oklahoma, all the errands the Old Man ran, whoever navigated was bestowed the impossible task of avoiding driving past a Starbucks. Even if you called up a Google map and showed the Old Man the sheer, stunning insidiousness of the chain, he wouldn't care. He didn't want to be driven past one. Figure it out. If you couldn't, he could hire someone else with the know-how.

After talking to Susan, Sipe had sped up his search. He was looking for two things. A gun. Unlikely. Keys to the Honda in the garage. So far, no dope.

All he'd unearthed in the mother's bedroom was a sex device in a box in the bottom drawer of a bedside table, buried under a Bible, a box of See's Candies. The plastic dingus set on top of layers of silk lingerie. It kind of made him curious what Henry's mom looked like, but he didn't see any pictures. He wondered if the step dad was prevalent in pictures that might've otherwise hung from the walls. Henry's mom too raw from the experience. She might've thrown them out.

Out the mother's bedroom window, facing east, a dirt road wound around one side of the Forest Service. It kept going up. Past a house, then a street with at least two houses he could see, some little kids out at the intersection, one on a Power Wheels. He knew guys that would leap at the chance. Escort the little kids back to mom or dad. Imply gun. Imply wholesale slaughter. Tie 'em all up and drive away in whatever rig was available. Sipe wasn't armed. He didn't trust his head. He'd get halfway through a procurement like that and blackout.

The blonde walked into view, walking up the road, followed by Henry. Henry carried the scythe, some sort of garden tool. The kids paused at the bottom of the driveway. Sipe pressed up against the bedroom north wall and then edged out from the wall far enough to look out at the action.

Tiffany producing a lot of arm motion, most of it directed towards the house. Henry slow to respond. Tiffany a toucher. Even putting both hands on Henry's chest, looking up into his face.

A woman exited the Forest Service. She called out Henry's name. Waved. She was a big one. Sipe's scalp tingled. Residual effects of his run in with Millie. Another Amazon. Eastern Oregon might be ripe with them. The lady looked both ways before crossing the street. She wore a burgundy blouse, a skirt, tennis shoes.

Moving out the bedroom, Sipe ducked his head down. He circuited down the hall, through the living room, the kitchen, and opened the door into the garage. It was dark and cool. He walked past the front bumper and down the driver side of the Toyota. There were glass panes head high in the retractable garage door. He angled his head towards the door. He couldn't hear words. He could hear them talking out there, the females at least. But he couldn't hear the words.

He tried the car doors again. Locked. Back when he was about Henry's age, he knew a kid that could hotwire a car in record time. Once, just to fuck with random strangers, the kid broke into three parked cars, started all of them, and left them running curbside. It was 4 a.m. January. The kind of kick you got off on absent booze or girls.

Outside, gravel crunched.

Sipe hunched down, backed up, brushed a rope tied to the garage door, some sort of guide rope. Clutching it, standing along the doorway, he looked out the garage door windows. Henry and Tiffany walked up the driveway, into view, and then past the side of the house, out of view. A moment later came screeching sounds, the metal-shed doors opening. Sipe pondered the little brown structure next to the woodpile. He imagined spare car keys hanging off a hook inside the shed and just as quickly shook off the notion.

The roof overhang provided shade outside the front living room door and the door opening out the side of the garage. Sipe exited the latter, and edged out a little more with each second, crossing the meridian into sunlight, looking towards the Forest Service, wondering if the Amazon-lady remained outside. She could've caught his scent. She might be waiting, eager for sport.

"He's awake. Hey! You're awake!"

He'd been too focused on the Forest Service. The kids able to practically sneak up from behind. Tiffany walked up to him, smiling. Henry lagged behind her.

"How's your head?" She made a face. "It's still kind of bleeding, you know?"

"Who was the lady?" asked Sipe.

"What lady?"

"One you were just talking to."

"Gwen," said Tiffany. "She's Henry's mom when Henry's mom is gone."

"No, she's not." Henry sounded put out like he was being treated like he wasn't even here.

"You'd like her," said Tiffany. "She used to be a school teacher even. Not here. Somewhere. I forget where, but she got tired out. Probably because of kids like me. I sap people. Little energy-sucking Tiff." She sucked in her cheeks and moved her mouth, producing a sound like a dog trying to lick its genitals clear of its torso.

Sipe looked at the Forest Service. The windows were tinted. He could imagine faces looking at him. Suspicions gathering force.

"Who's the girl in the picture?" asked Tiffany. "There's a girl in a picture in your wallet. She's got frosting on her face. It looks like she got frosting on your face, too. She's real cute. Is she your daughter?"

"No."

"Who is she?"

"Some kid."

"It's really cute. You don't really come off as the kind of guy that lets just any kid sit in his lap and get frosting all over him. I don't know. Maybe it's a thing up there in Seattle."

Tiffany sharing a look with Henry like this was just the surface sweep, you should hear all the items unearthed on her background check into Sipe.

"You always ask things like this?"

"Like what?"

"Personal things."

"Aren't all things personal things?"

"You still have my stuff?"

She tilted her head. Innocent.

"Come on. You have it? The wallet?"

"The wallet. The gun. Yeah."

"I'm gonna need them. Soon."

"And you can have them. Soon. But I need a favor."

"I might not be able to do you a favor."

"I think you will. I think you'll want to. Really, really, really." She raised a finger and said, dropping it, "Really."

He didn't ask why he'd want to. Something adult pushed away all the kid, melted the extraneous fat on her face.

"While you were out, you know?, on the field on the other side of town, I took pictures of you with my phone," said Tiffany. "A lot of pictures. I posed your hands on my boobs. I posed your mouth on my boobs. I even unzipped your pants and made it look like you were holding my head down and making me give you a suck job. For that one I made it look like I was crying while smiling with your knob in my hand. I worked up some spit for that one. I wiped it off, but I can still smell it on my chin."

Behind Tiffany, Henry had gone pale. Sipe guessed he was in close pursuit of the same chalky shade.

"So the thing is this, if I have to, I'm going to send those pictures to a bunch of people. My uncle. And Sutton, this guy that works at our store. Gwen, the nice lady you seem so interested in. Some of my teachers. I already attached a little text telling them who you are. What your situation is. A man just getting around on two feet probably isn't going to get too far around here.

"The other thing is, I know you might try and grab the phone off of me. I don't have that one on me. I have my Uncle Norm's phone on me. And my phone, where is it?" She exaggerated a shrug. "And also, so you know, Sutton, he expects me to call later. If that doesn't happen, dominoes start to fall. Boom, boom, boom, boom, like that. My phone will turn up. And boom. All that bad stuff you made me do, it comes home to roost."

Sipe said, "What do you need?"

She smiled. She probably had the same unsettling smile since she was 4. Not evil. Knowledgeable. Someone who knew they were preternaturally talented in some respect. Bemused that God had oversupplied them this way.

"Shit," said Henry. He touched Tiffany's shoulder. "Hey. Hey. Gwen."

The Amazon, marching from the Forest Service, coming on over to join them. Sipe couldn't help it, but he checked her hands, convinced all the big ones in Oregon came armed with stun guns.

Chapter 8

Fire season had left the Little Creek Forest Service with a skeleton crew. The business office reduced to just the one skeleton. There were hours upon hours of overtime available out there, but Gwen had promised Lori she'd keep an eye on Henry. Plus, a lot of times you flew in smaller and smaller planes to reach the fires. Just a little turbulence and there she'd be, in front of strangers, filling every barf bag on board.

It wasn't like Henry couldn't take care of himself, but Alec had bailed town completely, and Gwen would feel guilty about her part in that for a while to come. It was better Alec was gone. For a jerk, he had some semblance of a noble streak. Their cheating had consisted of a lot of looks, some fantasizing and masturbating on both their parts and one - count it - one hook up. That's it. A January evening, he'd rung her doorbell. She'd been eating chili, wearing a toothpaste-stained sweatshirt and jammie bottoms, catching up on The Daily Show. Alec's breath smelled of cigarettes. His mouth definitely tasted the same. They tried to do it on the living room floor, but Gwen's back wouldn't have it. They moved into the bedroom. Done, he didn't have time for a cuddle. He'd told Lori he was just going out for a walk. Artistic temperament and all. Needed to think on things, refill his vast artistic reservoir. Still, he made it seem like Lori started a stopwatch the moment he walked out into the gloom.

After that, he didn't keep her in suspense. Alec stopped over a few nights later, didn't go any deeper into her house than the living room, and didn't even sit down. Gwen was a catch, he'd kept saying, but he didn't see any kind of future for them. He'd already decided to leave Little Creek. Abandoning Lori would be bad enough. Abandoning Gwen would be worse.

After he left, she cried, just a little, more from losing a fellow confessor than a fuck-buddy. She hadn't shared details of her professional derailment with anyone other than her aunt since moving to Little Creek. Alec seemed set to fulfill that role, and she'd gotten a little too excited at the prospect. By the following morning, she was shaking her head, playing back his saying she was a catch like he'd seen it off some old movie, and was trying to make it his own statement, but the original source poisoned the borrower's tongue. Despite the substantial theatrical resume he'd alluded to over the course of his detour into small town life, Alec not a good enough actor to hide the way Cagney or Bogart had called some starlet, some clutch of bones long shoveled down into California soil, a catch.

From her desk inside the Forest Service office, Gwen had a view right onto Lori and Henry's driveway. Earlier she'd recognized Norm Pleshette's truck and Tiff, but definitely not the man that had ridden over as Tiff's passenger. After Tiff left, Gwen had gone over and knocked, walked around the house, but hadn't gone inside. Maybe she'd missed it. Both Tiff and the stranger had driven away. Minutes ago, on the pretense of asking Henry if he wanted to eat out at The Outpost tonight, she'd tried to shake information from the kids without being too blatant about it, and Tiff volunteered some tale about a traffic collision, some guy needing a place to rest. And there the guy was now, standing and talking to the two kids, cropped up like a beanstalk from beneath the gravel.

Mary Lou was in McCall. Teresa in Arizona. Gwen didn't have to tell anyone she was getting up and walking out and across the street to chat. Responsible enough to at least call up the task manager on the computer and lock it.

Mostly, the black suit prodded her. The thermometer was slated to hit and hover in the upper 80s. Other than old men little less than their bones and liver spots, no fool willingly sported all black come summer in eastern Oregon.

*

Dust covered, his pants looked derelict. Sipe looked like a derelict, recently rolled, slow to heal. The Amazon headed up the driveway waving and smiling and talking to the kids, Sipe took a snapshot of what he looked like and placed it in her head. Maybe she'd called the cops before exiting the Forest Service. Sipe imagined sprinting, surprising some Barney Fife on patrol, the cop hitting brakes on the gravel road, watching Sipe leap off the highway, start running through the tall grass for the thick timberline.

The Old Man had guys working for him that'd be more upset about the state of their clothes than their head, or Connie's whereabouts. Sipe didn't know the names on the tags inside his clothes. Secretly, he shopped secondhand. Looked for the stuff that was black. Waiter cast-offs. Sipe not about to invest thousands in something that might get so soaked in oil or dirt or blood he had to burn it.

"This is Mr. Sipe." Tiffany pointing at him, smiling. "This is the guy I was telling you about, Gwen."

Sipe tried to look exactly like a guy a kid with peroxide blond hair and an orange tank top could vouch for. He imagined the two Amazons getting hold of him, Gwen the feet, Millie the arms, part of their workout pulling him apart, tossing the corrupted ends to dogs.

Henry remained pale. Recovering from Tiffany's dark promise to Sipe. Scared Gwen would ask too many questions.

"That's quite the bump you got on your head." Gwen crossed her arms under her chest. A pose conveying the unspoken expectation that she'd now hear Sipe match whatever story Tiffany had concocted. Connie's mom had convinced the Old Man to let one of her pals come in, teach the fellas body language, conversational turn taking. It was right after this slaughter down in Aberdeen. Months prior to the cell phone fiasco, the Old Man still sweet on the blonde, malleable. If she thought she could save him the time and trouble of replacing dead employees, why not? Just a week or so ago Sipe, visiting his storage space, came across a Deborah Tannen paperback, bought for the 'class.'

He tried, but Sipe couldn't leave the bruise alone.

"He's lucky," said Tiffany. "You're lucky. I think his brother must still be en route or something. I can't remember. How far away is Billy from here? He's up in Clarkston you said?"

Sipe nodded. "Yeah. He said he'd get here soon as he could."

"Yeah," said Tiff. "I mean, if my uncle's place had a basement or even air conditioning I'd totally let you rest there, but I mean, Henry's house has like the coolest basement in town." Tiffany plucked at her shirt. "It's awful sticky today for one reason or another, huh?"

"Tiffany said your car was totaled?" asked Gwen.

"Pretty much."

"That's too bad."

"It is what it is. I'm alive. My head doesn't feel too good, but you get what you get."

Trying to sound homey. Sipe didn't dare smile. When he smiled, he looked like his father. He remembered his father smiling. People looked away, like too confident, a resuscitated skeleton overplayed its hand, trying to fit in with the living.

"Where you going?" asked Gwen.

"Lunch," said Tiffany. "I mean, we could eat here, but I really, really want an Outpost shake for some reason. And they can't fuck up a grilled cheese. Sorry." She laughed. "I mean they could, but they don't. Henry said he'd treat me since I'm taking him swimming later on."

The boy blushed. It didn't matter if it was over being roped into the lies created on the moment. He looked like the kind of kid that would blush no matter who mentioned him. A girl mentioning him, of course, he instantly transformed into a tomato in sneakers.

"Is this your first time in Little Creek, Mr. Sipe?"

"Yeah."

"It's pretty tiny. It's quiet. It does have its good qualities though. Like milkshakes."

Tiffany laughed, snorted and laughed, and Gwen couldn't help but smile. When the trio was walking across the Forest Service parking lot, the black asphalt fresh-looking, dark as licorice whips, Tiffany looked back over her shoulder and waved. Sipe didn't look back.

"Man," said Tiffany. "Maybe she's not a teacher anymore, but she sure acts like one. Suspicious as all get out."

"She was a teacher?" asked Sipe.

"Mm-hmm. Not here. Somewhere else. Then she quit and moved here. Her aunt lived here. Then she moved to Arizona, gave Gwen her house and all. What'd she teach, Henry?"

"High school. English, I think."

"She looks out for Henry when his mom is gone. Sheesh. Still standing there."

Sipe's thoughts only disrupted when they hit the intersection with Mrs. King's abundance of landscaping. The little old woman protected by a sun hat, crouched down in a northern corner of her lawn. Tiffany had pointed up the steep in cline of the hill, told Sipe the red house up there, seemingly protected by enormous pin e trees, that was Gwen's place. It pulled him out of imagining sleeping in Henry's basement, unaware of Gwen or maybe it was Millie or a conglomeration of those two and his sisters, looking down at him, gauging the best, the most painful way to purge the world of so obvious an insidious weed.

Chapter 9

Norm snored away on the recliner. Wheezed. Tiff told Sipe there was nothing to worry about. Post-massage appointment he slept the sleep of the dead. Not even Pluto barking at the sound of three fresh entries into the house had disrupted Norm.

Crowded into Tiffany's bedroom, she showed Sipe just what a Beeper was as prelude to explaining her need for his services.

Hope Logan, heiress to the presumptive Beepers fortune, had gone radio silent. Ordinarily, a text, even a phone call would come Tiffany's way and still the mounting worry. A few weeks ago all communication had ceased.

Three of the little figurines rested on Tiffany's desk. All ugly faced. A fisherman, a cop, and then some little kid, all looking like they'd been squashed down, their faces not moon-shaped like they were afflicted with Down syndrome, more a genetic thing, inbreeding. If not for long hair and a preponderance of bosom, female Beepers were virtually indistinguishable from their male counterparts.

Hope's parents, Rita and Owen, could no longer stand the sight of one another, not even the sound of the other's voice. Things had been fine when they simply ran the café and gift shop next to the gas station in Orley, smaller than Little Creek if you could believe it. Hope the only kid that lived in Orley, so she rode the bus to Little Creek, traveling with the kids that lived on farms or in the countryside houses.

Disputed, the cancer on the marriage, the rip in Hope's universe, trying to pinpoint the true source of all things Beeper. Some Canadian investor had thrown money at her parents, convinced Beepers were a brand waiting to burst upon consumers. The Canadian filling their heads with fanciful thought of a cartoon show, a movie even. He had contacts throughout his native land, and internationally, Sweden and Germany.

Throughout the marriage, Owen screwed around. Rita screwed around. They were artists. They understood appetites. The nourishing of the artistic temperament. It was never really an issue, but tens of thousands dollars hadn't been laying around waiting for claim. Now tens could turn to hundreds. Rita drew. So did Owen. Owen worked clay. So did Rita. If they split, if they dissolved the marriage, they could crack everything down the center 50/50 and sidestep nastiness. Hope said neither of her parents could even recall who'd crossed the line first, making unfeasible the notion that nastiness should be avoided. Rita wanted it all. Owen wanted it all. Neither seemed to care that all their focus blinded them to their only child's free fall. Hope's transformation from troubled to slut to prostitute just one more issue to bring up in the lawsuits, another failing on part of the other party.

Last time anyone took account, Rita looked in the lead for claiming title to progenitor of the would-be-fortune. Owen misplaced notebooks, threw them out. Rita saved everything including an aged, dated customer receipt, the back featuring the first scrawled images of what any reasonable person would admit looked a Beeper, fresh from Rita's creative primordial stew.

Owen claimed Rita must've burned his sketchbooks. Potentially buried them out in the woods or had one of her siblings – all male, all low life - hustle them away, never to be seen again. An auxiliary ran the gift shop for the Logan's, filled online orders. The café closed. No time for the spotty coffee and breakfast trade, not anymore. While Owen kept to a sublet apartment in Pendleton, Rita ranged closer to the continuing concern, bouncing back and forth from a friend's alpaca ranch and the Orley home.

Not surprisingly, given her parents' war, Hope missed a lot of school. On days Norm worked Pleshette's, she'd crash out on Tiffany's bed. Not a complete idiot, Norm would ask Tiff if Hope was coming over, and if she was, could she at least make sure to turn the stove burners all the way off after heating up her oatmeal. Bored, Hope might wander town, stop in at Pleshette's, buy some strawberry-banana Nestle Quik, a bag of sour cream and onion chips. Norm didn't mind the company unless Hope had been drinking. A minor soused and so obviously not wearing a bra or underpants something he didn't need to contend with.

More often than not she'd bail on the Pleshette's and end up staying with other people. Hope doing her best to keep Tiffany innocent, also to keep Tiff from bothering people running the other way stations Hope had turned dependent upon.

All kinds of stories, legend, fable, whipped up about Hope and her insatiable appetites.

Sipe had the cop Beeper in hand while Tiff told him about Henry's supposed encounter with Hope, out at the railcars. Henry mowing the Dobbs' yard, Byron practicing moves like Lebron on his own personal half-court when a drunk or drugged up Hope wandered through the yard, and pulled Byron, all of 11, and Henry into her vortex.

The railcars were full of debris. Toilets, couches, TVs, fridge doors, shattered plates, rusted silverware, the unofficial garbage dump. There were also scattered about somewhere in the neighborhood of 500 used condoms, dehydrated, stemless dandelions littering the earth and then the decrepit railcar floorboards. Legend had it there wasn't a single surface inside any of the railcars that hadn't soaked into it piss from some source, two- or four-legged.

Byron got a blowjob, or a handy or just stood in awe as Hope popped one elegant titty after another out from the halter top and nested his erection between the deep cleavage. Unfortunately for Henry, the second Byron popped off, nausea overcame Hope. Ironically, some corn dog from the Auntie's snack rack disagreeing with her guts right as the son of Auntie's owners was experiencing his first public ejaculation.

Henry still modeled the stricken look perfected in his driveway while Tiffany lied to Gwen. The boy felt Sipe looking at him. He looked at Sipe, then back to the void, the safe space immediately in front of him. Safe enough he dared to speak up, interrupt Tiffany, tell them both, "That's not what happened. She didn't. Byron didn't. I mean, she was drunk or something, I don't know, but nothing...Nothing happened. Nothing sex...Sexy. I mean she just kind of laid down and talked about how sick she felt. How stupid her parents were. How stupid this town is. She fell asleep and Byron and I just kind of left her there. Let her rest."

"Henry, I know," said Tiffany. "I'm just trying to tell him how everyone just makes things up about her at this point."

Henry shrugged. "Whatever."

Sipe's phone wasn't out on top of Tiffany's dresser. She'd made that up. Or moved it. Hidden somewhere. Maybe it was in with all the comic books. Or Uncle Norm had it. The Sutton guy had it and would look at it if Tiffany didn't check in by a certain time. Something a little too sweet about Tiffany, the hair the color of baby chick feathers, it diluted the possibility she'd taken those dirty photos.

"She's supposed to be out at the whorehouse," said Tiffany. "We have a whorehouse. Courtesy of the wind towers we have a whorehouse, but now that all the wind towers are built and all, it's probably going to shut down. Some guys have gotten used to it, locals I mean, but not enough, I would think, to keep it going.

"I don't know if Hope is actually working there or not. It's out at Butcher's Camp. She was out there, but she might've just been crashing. Then like screwing with me because she was bored. Making me think she's a hooker or whatever you call them. I've never been inside it. I know where it is. Butcher's Camp Massage. But I've never gone inside. I don't want to go inside unless Hope actually is in there in which case I'd probably have to drag her out. She's lazy, and if she isn't she's scared and if she isn't scared she's angry and just wants to self-immolate or something. She wants to burn up and thinks she can set the whole world on fire from just her embers. She's selfish like that. It's really, really frustrating."

"She's a kid?" asked Sipe.

"Yeah. My age," said Tiffany. "A little younger. Barely."

"Why not call the cops?"

She laughed. Said, "Oh that," and told him about the text Hope had sent her, 'the law cum,' that old gag.

"Why do you think I can do anything for her?"

"I don't know," said Tiffany. "I just do. I mean...You've got your gun. The way you look. That picture of you with the little girl. Look. I've been out there. Butcher's Camp? I knocked on the door, and they wouldn't let me in. Told me no Hope Logan was there, had ever been there.

"I've even asked Bug to help. You don't know Bug. You know where you woke up at, where we found you today? That's Bug's property. Kind of. No one's really sure. Might as well be Bug's, I mean since he's out there more or less every day. He's probably out there right now. Was he?" She looked at Henry.

"I don't know."

"He's eccentric or nuts or whatever. But it doesn't matter. At this point, I'll take whatever I can get. If I could do it-" she swacked her collarbone, "-do what Aquaman does, and command the seven seas, I'd have whales or whatever look for her, free her, bring her back to me. But what I've got are options like Bug. And I asked him. Interrupted his search for whatever it is he looks for out at the railcars, you know, coins or gold or whatever, but I interrupted him, and he looked at me like I was nuts. But that's...Her parents don't care. Boys at our school who've been with her don't care. Nobody cares. But. You know. She's my friend. I don't know if she knows she has any friends anymore."

Sipe wasn't worried about the man with the oxygen tank. The uncle. Unless there was a gun for home protection stashed some convenient place. One punch to Henry's nuts would knock him out of contention. Then it was just a matter of how close to breaking Tiffany's arm he had to get before she gave up his gun and his wallet and keys to the decrepit truck out front. The dog would bark, but it posed as much immediate threat as a throw pillow. Sipe knew guys that wouldn't think twice about shooting a dog or having some fun with a female even one this young even after she'd done what they'd asked, given something up. There was always more to give up.

The Beeper cop had a face like something that'd been perched on a barstool for all eternity, like after being denied entry at the golden gates it'd fared at least well enough to stumble across the bar at the end of time, pickle its guts, pick a self-replenishing amount of peanuts from a bowl. Sipe could imagine perching on a stool in that bar, taking account, knowing what was already known to the scorekeepers, that there weren't enough potential good deeds out there to amount to one bright pinprick against Sipe's accumulated inner dark.

"You like them?" asked Tiffany. "Beepers?"

"Ugly." Sipe set the doll down beside its brethren. He turned it, so it faced out at the same angle as the fisherman and the little kid.

"What does your friend look like? Hope."

"Oh. Oh, right. Right, right, right, right."

Tiffany looked around the room. She laughed. She pointed at Sipe, waggled the finger like she got it, he'd tested her to see if she'd volunteer where that phone might be hidden. She walked over to the bookshelf. The shelves not tall enough for all the books. She slid a school yearbook out. It'd been tipped on its side, slid on the shelf. Tiffany flipped through the slender book, found her target, handed the book over to Sipe.

The entire Sophomore class: 9 kids. Five boys, four girls.

"She doesn't really look like that right now," said Tiffany. "She dyed her hair. It's black and blue or purple and blue. I forget. And she wears a lot more makeup. She says the yearbook pic is her 'pre-slut' look." Tiffany sighed. "She said I ought to try that look. 'Tiffany Tits.' That's what she'd call me if I lathered it all on. Hope. She...She really doesn't filter things before she says them."

"This the only picture?"

"I think. Wait. Give it back. Let me see."

Tongue poking out the side of her mouth, she discovered a couple more random shots. Hope using peers as obstacles, doing her best to hide.

"All right." Sipe handed the yearbook back.

"All right?"

"You want to go, we go."

"Really?"

It was the first hug he'd received in years. He hardly noticed the school yearbook smacking him in the side when she hugged him. Pluto hopped up and down on the bed, barking.

The uncle glared from half-lidded eyes but didn't move from the recliner as they trooped out, at the door Tiff projecting some bullshit about going swimming. Halfway to the truck, Tiffany swore and spun and ran back inside. When she came back out, Pluto kept hopping, trying to nail the invisible yo-yo egging him on at about her hip height.

Tiffany got behind the truck steering wheel, shifting into drive even before Sipe was seat belted. They left Henry and Pluto in the yard, forlorn, the dog snuffling earth, and the kid giving Sipe a cold, unforgiving look like he suspected at least half an erection had blossomed in the old man's pants at having girl flesh, especially those big boobs, mashed up against him.

Chapter 10

Half the drive out to Butcher's Camp amounted to a straight shot through woods, most of it tall blonde grass with few trees near the asphalt. Anytime roadkill appeared, gray fur or feathers served on a lumpy red platter, Tiffany would produce a squeak, sometimes follow up by saying, "Gross. Grosser than gross."

Serenity was Hope's working name. At least that's what she'd told Tiffany. It could be a fabrication. They'd find out. At the front desk, Sipe would ask for Serenity. Once assigned to her, he'd tell her Tiff was out front, ready to drive her away. If she resisted, if Sipe thought she was drugged up or in danger, Tiff wanted him to extract Hope, willingly or not.

"How big is she?"

"How big? Tall? Or do you mean fat? If that's what you mean, she isn't fat. Not like me."

"I just mean, is she normal kid size? I gotta carry some girl six feet tall, that's not going to go so well. Especially if she's not wanting to be carried."

"Oh. Right. No. She's tiny. Well, skinny. Like Henry. Except, you know, the girl parts."

The side road off the highway to Butcher's Camp was heavily shaded. Houses hid behind stands of pine and cedar. House numbers bolted or nailed to trees, arrows pointing down driveways into dimness, some driveways alternating the dimness and bright stripes of sun.

There wasn't a sign advertising the precise place to turn, those in the know just knew which artery delivered you to 'therapy.' Trees ran tight on either side of the sloping drive finally depositing customers onto a broad lot. Sunlight sprayed the tops of trees, but the building and the gravel lot remained in the shade.

She parked the truck nose first against one of the two logs set on the ground in front of the covered porch. Above the awning was a second floor patio, encircled by a railing.

The engine turned off, the aged rattle replaced by the sound of trees tilting, squirrel chatter, a distant profusion of children's happy shouts.

"You can hear whatever's going on over at the swimming pool from here. The hot springs," said Tiffany. "It's that quiet."

"No one's here."

"Well, unlike my uncle, some people don't want to be so obvious about their visits here. They'll park somewhere else. At one of the cabins or even at the swimming pool and then they'll lug it. Some skip the roads and just cut through the trees. Try and be real lowdown about it all. Uncle Norm can't. Because of the oxygen tank and all. He has to be a little more direct about all of it. He hasn't done it with her. Hope. He couldn't. She's. You know. It'd be like doing it with me."

Sipe didn't ask what was wrong with the man's lungs. He guessed it was smoking related.

The Old Man didn't regale the troops with stories of the good old days. He'd been anointed the Old Man when he was young, not much older than Connie. He'd tell one story though where his crew hit another, and some old emphysema stricken piece of shit got shot, a stray bullet striking his oxygen tank. The sound not like you'd expect, more like a filled balloon being let loose to fly around the room. Pieces of the oxygen tank shred guys, both the hitting crew and the crew getting hit. The Old Man would punctuate the anecdote, make a production out of it, roll up his shirt sleeve to show some indentation in his bicep, shrapnel he'd insist, but it could've come from falling out of bed, or some sloppy genes work when he was in the womb half-a-million years ago.

"They got guns?"

"I don't know. Should they?"

"This is a little town. Little town operation. They had any problems?"

"We have our school party at the swimming pool. This year some boys skipped out on it at a certain point and came over here. I don't think they even made it inside. Just tried to dare one another to even go in through the front door. Idiots."

"'Serenity.' That's her?"

"Right."

"She's underage."

"Yeah."

"Do they know that?"

"I don't know. The Ruchert's run it. Bonnie might be at the front. She was that one time I came out here. She's the sister. Her brothers run it although no one sees that much of Ty. He's married and works for his wife's father over in Pendleton. Mostly you just see Bret. He's kind of big. He kind of dresses like you do, all black, but he does it to keep from looking fat."

"Big guy?"

"Oh yeah."

"Big like he's solid or is he big and soft?"

Tiffany bit down and made some sizzle sound like it hurt to try and figure it out.

"Kind of...Half and half I guess. He's a butthole and a half, that's for sure. He was a real bully when he was in school. Uncle Norm remembers him giving wedgies to kids in the store, our store. Indian rope burns. At least he hung out with the group that did that sort of thing. Like offer rides and then take off, drive a kid to Pilot Rock instead or out into the woods, make them get out, figure out how to get back to town. Hee-larious. That sort of thing. Real mature."

"He usually here?"

"I don't know. Sorry."

A sudden moment of complete silence sounded. The squirrels, the trees, the swimming pool celebrants, all taking a breath like the face of God had pushed through the atmosphere for just a moment, or the pale smudge of moon had turned red as some of the roadkill. The moment ceased. Matters of the world regained prominence. The chatter resumed.

"Your uncle...He doesn't keep a piece hidden anywhere on the truck? A gun? Even a knife?"

"There's a putty knife in the tool tray in back."

"That's something. Not something that helps right now, but that's something."

"Do you think you'll have to fight someone?"

"Here?"

She nodded. Some of the blonde hair mooshed against her cheek, almost in her mouth. He pictured her chewing on it, waiting for him to reappear with her friend.

"I don't know," said Sipe.

"She's not that big. She's not fat at all, not like me. But if you have to drag her out of there, just so you know, she can get mean real fast. She'll bite."

"I'm gonna need to pay."

Her response surprised him. This adult, put-upon look swung up onto her face like a mask on some sort of swivel. Pet peeves sometimes migrated one generation to the next. Could be her mom, her dad got in a twist over all things money. She was a sweet kid. Those were the ones that blew up the easiest sometimes.

"Even if I go in there and used their bathroom, they're gonna want money. That's the way these kind of places run. So, I ask somebody some questions and she isn't there, or she is, and I take her out of there, pretend like we're going on a walk or something, they're going to want money."

"Right. Right, right, right. Hold on."

She pulled a wad out of her pocket. Not his wallet. Money from.

"Is it enough?"

"Should be."

"Where do you get all that money?" she asked.

"Work. Some is mine, some is what they give me so I can pay along the way. Expenses."

"How much is it?"

"You didn't count it?"

She shrugged. Sipe leaned forward, stuffed the money into his pocket.

"Hey," she said. "The girl. The pink frosting girl."

Sipe stared at the dashboard.

"What about her?"

"What's her name?"

"Paige."

"Paige?"

"First name's Michelle. She liked her middle more. Paige."

"My mom's a Michelle. I always like that. That sound at least. The 'ehl.' I wish I had that noise in my name."

He was out and shutting the passenger side door when she said, "Shoot."

"What?"

"I don't have anything to read. I can't read on a phone, not really. It gives me a headache."

Walking from Henry's to Tiffany's, removing his suit jacket to cool off a little, he'd felt the heft of the _People_ magazine tucked in the inside pocket. Mostly he was keeping it so when Connie ever came within arm's length again, he could roll it up and swat the kid in the face. Something definitive, but that didn't leave a bruise. Like that would happen. He imagined the closer winging in towards Pendleton's probable dinky sized airport, right now. The cops would find the _People_ on Sipe's corpse. Wonder what the hell this refugee from the big city was doing with it.

Sipe waggled the magazine at her. She took it.

"February? This is old."

"You don't gotta read it."

"Just saying. You know, honestly, you don't look like a _People_ reader."

"Not mine." They'd been loading up Connie's things in St. Helena. Connie doing a once over on the place, Sipe discovered the magazine on top of the apartment fridge. Sipe had waggled it at Connie and Connie had asked him to hold onto it.

"Oooohhhhweee. I love me some celebrity trash."

Tiffany already thumbing through pages before Sipe was off the gravel and onto the porch, through the door, trying to ignore the antlers line-up, the greatest hits of the former hunting lodge, trying to not think about his own head, his eyes replaced by black glass, mounted in the Old Man's office.

Chapter 11

The last time Henry had answered the kitchen phone he'd talked to some old guy living around Little Creek. The way the voice rattled, Henry could picture the guy's phone being even older than the relic the Forest Service had left in the big brown house for years. The old guy told Henry he'd seen the ads Henry posted at Pleshette's and the post office, offering his lawn mowing service. The proposed job sounded like a pain, out of town, maybe way out of town, but Henry told the old guy he could fit it in.

"Well, now, I don't know," said the old man. "The more I talk to you the more you sound like a horny little boy to me."

The moment just seemed to stretch on and on, kind of like the first time he'd rode through Little Creek, his mom telling him she knew how tiny it was, how much of a sacrifice it presented, but how good it'd be for her, job-wise.

The old man had laughed and then the laugh altered. It was Paul. Paul's laugh. Paul Salerno, Henry's best friend from Redmond, flipping him shit from far away.

This time when it started ringing, Henry had a Coke in hand. He'd downed plenty of water first come in from seeing Tiff and Sipe drive off. He knew stories about people misjudging their beverage consumption when it was hot, his mom having all sorts of tales of firefighters downing pop after pop and coming down with heat exhaustion, one time so bad they had to helicopter this guy out of a fire camp.

He forced out a burp and set the Coke on the kitchen table and gripped the phone. Henry hoped it was Paul Salerno. He hadn't heard from his once upon a time best friend since May and hanging up on his hyena-laughing ass.

"Yeah?"

Not the most polite phone greeting. The silence that greeted him actually chilled him. Imagining it could be Lori calling from her fire camp or Alec checking in from Eugene for some reason.

A woman said, "Is Sipe there?"

"No," said Henry. "He's not here."

"But you know who that is?"

"Yeah."

Henry wanted to ask who she was.

She sighed.

"Do you want me to tell him to call you?" asked Henry.

"No."

"Ok. Do you want me to tell him you did call?"

"Tell him Susan called."

"Susan. Got it."

"Tell him I looked into it. Who the closer might be."

"Ok."

"Can you repeat that? Not the 'Ok' you just said, but what I said."

"Uh. Sure. 'Susan called. Susan looked into it. Who the closer might be.'"

"Perfect."

"Do you want me to tell him anything else?" asked Henry.

"Well, it's not good. You don't have tell him that though. He'll know. Just tell him I called, I looked into it, and they sent the Wub."

"Wub?"

"Right. Wub. Like you're saying 'rub,' but substitute a 'w' for the 'r.'"

"Wub."

"The Wub."

Henry nodded. "Right. The Wub."

"Tell him I said good luck."

"Ok."

"No. Actually, don't tell him that. He'll think it's like I'm telling him I know it's going to go poorly. Don't tell him that. Forget the good luck. Can you forget the good luck?"

"Yes."

"Ok. And you got the rest?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She laughed.

"Now you're making me feel old. But it's nice in a way. You take care."

"Ok."

The long looping entrail of phone cord swung in the aftermath of hanging up.

She didn't know his name. He knew she was Susan. She sounded like she might be a nice lady. Maybe old, but kind of pretty, kind of like Gwen. Sipe was so grim looking. Henry picked up the Coke and finished it in a gulp. Crimped, the can got pitched in with the recycling out in the garage, right on top of the two empties Henry had discovered in the house. Henry wondered what it meant that Sipe looked like an alcoholic, but drank Coke and that he knew someone who sounded so nice, who might worry after him.

Chapter 12

Cookie Monster wore a chunk of technology in his ear, a Bluetooth, covertly, riding in the car on errands, telling Sipe he wasn't dumb about the technology thing like some of the others, texting and making calls obviously despite all the Old Man's rules. If pressed to explain, Cookie Monster confident he could make something up about testing out the hearing aid of tomorrow.

Back in high school, Cookie Monster had fucked with some spinster substitute, convincing the woman a spark plug was a joint. He'd made a trip to the office, but the hysterics he'd whipped up saved the entire class from some test.

Cookie Monster said having technology readily available might save their asses if things went bad some times. Being a Luddite just made the Old Man and their business practices all the more prehistoric. Cookie Monster liked the attention, the guys asking him how he came up with words like Luddite. In another life, he said he might've been a shop teacher or computer instructor. Sipe thought him more like the washing machine repairman who had mussed Sipe's hair and called him 'Skipper,' smiled standing real close to Sipe's mother, and met his end with a pitchfork shoved through his torso, part of a three-way murder-suicide on a farm at the other end of the county.

For Cookie Monster, things went bad on a trip up in Alaska. Sipe skipped the trip. Connie's prom had been that weekend and Sipe got the nod to play shadow chaperone. Cookie Monster found in Fairbanks in an alley, ventilated, the Bluetooth nowhere in sight. Tensions with the Russians had been bad, but not really enough for them to intimidate the Old Man that way. Just Cookie Monster's dumb luck to drink and wander into a mugging, or he'd been obvious about the Bluetooth where he thought the Old Man was blind.

The woman at the Butcher's Camp Massage front desk wore a hands-free headset, horn rims, and bubble gum pink lipstick. She didn't smile when Sipe walked up to the counter. She didn't acknowledge him until she suddenly rolled her eyes, pointed at the earpiece and made some face letting Sipe in on the fact the person eating up her precious moments was intellectually compromised.

She cut them off, hitting a keyboard key, and then issued Sipe a smile. Bonnie Ruchert's front right tooth was shorter than its immediate sibling like it had busted or been defective at the word go.

Sitting on the counter edge were two Beepers, fishermen, one all bulging red eyes – a fish sinking its teeth in his bulbous nose, the companion fisherman's head tilted way back, his face all gray beard and a skull minimizing yawn. His pole twisted around so the worm – contemptuous to his plight – dangled above the sleeper's abyss-like black maw. They struck Sipe the same as their brethren in Tiffany's bedroom. They could be considered cute, but by someone or something acclimatized to lurching in and out of the dark, its moral yardstick alien to the rest of the race.

"How can I help you today, sir?"

"Some pals of mine have been here. They recommend the place."

"Oh. That's nice to hear."

"Yeah. They've told me the one person you got on staff that I ought to ask for is Serenity." Sipe looking at the ceiling, making it a question almost. Serenity. Celery. Something-y. "Is she here?"

Something rolled over from hairline to jaw, and she faked a glance at her monitor like she might be viewing cameras aimed at essential personnel.

"Unfortunately, I don't think she's with us today," said Bonnie.

"That sounds like my luck."

"Sorry. I think right now our only available therapist is Faye. She's good. All of our employees are very accomplished at what they do. Do you want me to buzz her?"

"Please."

"No problem." She typed. Waited. Typed again. Nothing. She stuck her index finger up in the air, asking him to wait just a moment.

Getting up out of her seat she looked like film rolling backward, careful to let some coil off her hind end roll into a perfect 'o' on the seat. The slack in the headset nearly went taut, plastic thrust up through her hair and lifted her glasses, and she slapped a hand to her head. She slid the headset off and tossed it onto her abandoned seat. Turning on heel cinched it, revealed the baby bulge. She wore a black dress, and then a tan vest draped on over the dress. It only accentuated the pending due date. She waddle-walked through an open door into the dim room behind the front desk, and Sipe heard another door open.

There was a door in the wall on the customer side of the lobby. Black drapes dangled the doorway length. Several minutes passed. Given the nature of the Old Man's health and the way bosses always dragged out wrapping up the slightest of business, Sipe had mastered the ability to wait. Younger guys thought he was retarded a little, how patient he could be. Meanwhile, they were twitching, muttering under their breath.

A slight squeak noise preceded Bonnie's re-entrance. The sound of mom-to-be weight coming down on the floor. She pushed through the curtains, practiced at discovering and then sliding through the slit.

"Technical trouble," she said. "Faye's available. Just this way. Follow me. Please."

She held the curtain up until he was close enough to take the material in hand. Sipe indicated ladies first, and she smiled and went through the doorway ahead of Sipe. The hall on the other side of the curtain featured unfinished wood surfaces – floor, walls, and ceiling. The walls formed from logs stacked one on top of the other and then lacquered in honey, something glossy.

"Quiet," said Sipe. Bonnie paused and looked back at him. "It's quiet," he repeated. She nodded then said, "Usually is at this time of day. Don't know what it is. Moon. Tides."

"Good time to golf maybe."

Bonnie made a noise. Half laugh, half clearing her throat.

"She's just in here." Bonnie stopped in front of a shut door. 'Paul Bunyan' read the title on the door. Right above the 'Paul Bunyan' was a small portrait of a blue ox. They'd passed several doors. Each titled, each featuring a portrait, too. 'Babe Ruth.' 'Howard Hughes.' 'Martin Luther King.' Sipe wondered if men visiting the whorehouse more than once asked for a girl or asked for the room.

Up close, you could see Bonnie's right upper eyelid sloped down lower than the left. The space between her teeth wide, the half-tooth gray like it had cocooned itself. A slight tangy odor emanated off of her or her clothes. A body spray past its half-life.

"Do I pay her? You?"

"Talk it over. Tell her what's ailing you. Neck. Shoulder. She'll let you know what you owe."

"Ok. Great."

At the other end of the hall she didn't go through the curtain, but through a door on the right just before the curtained doorway, back into the cubicle.

When he knocked, someone called a greeting from inside. Sipe turned the handle and pushed in, watching the blue ox stare off over his head into the wall behind him.

Chapter 13

The first thing they did, they switched rooms. GreenBlo gone, business was down so much, girls had already moved on, leaving rooms vacant.

"They think they need to stick to the schedule. Blue room. Red room. Babe the oxen. Babe the baseball player. Like I give a shit. I only had one other guy today, and he didn't want to switch. Too much trouble, but I got that. I mean, he had an oxygen tank and all. Someone beat up like that tells you they don't want to move around too much you just tell them, 'whatever you want, baby.'"

Faye telling him all of that during the room switch, being careful to keep quiet while in the hall. Now they occupied the 'Babe Ruth' room. Right away, Faye propped the window open. The gutters were barred, keeping the windows from sliding up too high. Window raised, resting on a catch, Faye inhaled, made a sound, appreciating all that good clean forest air.

"All these rooms with windows, but she's sweating the details, like some accountant is going to penalize her, like any of the people in Portland give a shit which room we're fucking in. Sorry. I mean, treating patients." She pointed at the window, a hornet droning at the mesh. "Don't worry. There's bugs, wasps, but the screens keep them out."

"I'm not worried."

"You just always look worried?"

"Could be."

"Maybe it's just your black eye."

"Yeah."

"Though...That's more than your eye. That's half your face."

She held a pack of cigarettes up.

"You smoke?"

"No."

"You mind? It'll ease me up before I work on your shoulders. Your back. Whatever your trouble spot might be." She held Sipe's eye, smiling like they both knew what his trouble really was.

He hadn't seen enough of 'Paul Bunyan' to figure out what distinguished it from any other room. Nothing in the 'Babe Ruth' room carried on a sense of nostalgia or baseball theme. A little portrait painting of a baseball bat on the door, that was it.

A large plastic white chair, something from someone's summer deck, sat in front of the now propped window. Faye sat on it, crossing long bare legs at the ankle. Her toenails were painted the color of wet clay.

After her first exhale, smoke going out the slit the raised window allowed, Sipe asked, "You said girls were leaving?"

"Right and left. You know it."

"Don't take this the wrong way. You're nice looking and all, but a buddy of mine told me if I come out this way I ought to ask for a girl name of Serenity."

Faye nodded. Her kinky black hair was up in a bun and nodding made the dangling crescent-shaped earrings bob back and forth.

"Little superstar."

"How's that?"

"Our little superstar. Diva, I guess. It was bullshit. Bonnie telling us she was 18, easy, and she'd tell you she was 20, but you see some girls without makeup, I mean if you aren't already sure, you can tell."

"How old was she?"

"Probably 16. Or an old 13."

"Jeez."

"Mm-hm. Pretty baby. Crazy baby."

"Crazy?"

"She'd start crying. Or talking in tongues, some poor guy banging away at her and then all of a sudden she's going on like Satan's possessed her. Some guys complained, some guys got off on it. Kid bored to begin with. Or had daddy issues of some sort. Lucky she didn't do that to some guy that wouldn't have it. Start beating on her or something. Maybe see her being all crazy and then try and out do her. I guess this isn't the city though. You guys have more manners out here." She looked at him, sucking in smoke then blowing it out over her shoulder. "But you're just a visitor, like me, right?"

"Right."

"What brought you out to the middle of the middle of nowhere?"

"Things."

She laughed.

"Forces beyond your control. I get you. Where you from?"

"Here and there."

"Oh," she said, "I got it. I got it. I say the same thing a lot of times when people ask me that. Guys enjoy that. The exotic touch. Mystery."

"You know where she went?"

"Who?"

"Serenity."

"Jesus. Can't let go, can you, baby?"

"Curious."

"That what happened," she lifted her chin towards Sipe. "Your little beauty mark there, all over your face?"

"Car accident," said Sipe. "Dashboard."

"And bad as you look, I ought to see the dashboard? It like that? Uh-huh."

She focused on the cigarette, blowing a couple of serious streams of smoke towards the window. Sipe wondered how a girl otherwise super-skinny could have a little belly roll, just a little one. It'd melt away when she stood. Like a magic trick. She had more belly than breast almost. An incurable case of the munchies maybe.

"It's just, you know, my buddy will probably ask me about her," said Sipe.

"You want to be sure and have something to tell him. The facts?"

"Sure."

"We gonna actually do it, mister?"

"Maybe."

"Mm-hmm." Like Faye already knew he just wanted information. "We can talk. I don't mind. I'm pretty mellow. I was smoking a joint earlier. I mean that's part of why we moved over here. I got a sister she's allergic to marijuana, the smoke at least. I figure she's allergic probably other people are, too. Bonnie, she gave me shit for doing it. Thinks I'm stoned, that's why I wasn't answering her text. I was like, look, it's not my fault if the room ringer doesn't work. That's her brothers' fault, not me. They're losing their shit over every little last thing because they thought this was going to last. They invested in it, got money from Portland, got some girls from Portland, and now they can't meet their monthly payment. And it's my fault? Excuse me?"

"Is that part of the reason Serenity left?"

"What?"

"She didn't like the way she was getting treated?"

"I don't know. See, I didn't see much of the other one. Ty? The other Ruchert? I don't know what he thought of her. Bret seemed to treat her pretty good. She's local, you know? Me, Cassandra, Wanda, we're all foreigners. And I mean that like, you know, we're not from around here, and you know, we aren't white. Well, Cassie not so much, but Wanda, she looked like Tina Turner, I mean young Tina Turner, right?, and I look like the way I look, so we don't get the pass white people give white people.

"But I know something fucked up happened a couple weeks ago. Something money related. That little room behind the front counter, they shut the door, and Bret and Bonnie just screamed at one another. Well, Bonnie did. Bret's so big he doesn't have to. I'm all the way back here and I could hear it. We all could. Family squabble. That's something, you get so pissed off you scream loud enough it vibrates on down all those logs and into the rooms."

"And that's when Serenity left?"

Faye squinched up her face.

"Right around then, yeah."

"And the others, too?"

"Wanda's just over in Portland for a week or so. She's supposed to be recruiting, Bonnie and Bret asked her, too, since she's over there already, but she's not going to fucking lie to anyone. She'll tell them this thing over here is dying. I mean, far as I can tell it's dead. All this pussy available and no one gives a shit? I mean I guess the backup plan is to get local girls to work here. Cheaper, but if they're crazy like Serenity..."

Faye laughed. She worked it up, hitting high-pitch noises Sipe had heard from other people that smoked weed.

"Sorry. It's just, I know the kind of girls Bret would try and get to work here. Or not that, more, the only ones he could get to work out here, when I finally get out, when Wanda does, too. I've seen what they've got around here. The locals. I mean, they'd look like Bret, but with a wig on, some lipstick. Oh shit. Not pretty. Not pretty at all. Guys would be coming in here, and the girls would be posing at the doors, showing it off, and it'd be like you were at the zoo whorehouse, looking at the animals inviting you in. Like an ape, a fucking ape in lingerie. Oh shit. Oh shit."

Faye laughing hard enough tears leaked out from her eyes. She blotted with the back of her hands. Once she seemed under control again, Sipe asked if Serenity had any customers she seemed close to.

"Like a getaway guy? You know what that means? Ok. It's the type of guy that proposes you leave your job, run away with him? Become his angel? Whore to angel just easy as 1-2-3. Those guys are full of shit. Usually, they got a wife and kids. They get caught up in the moment and think about taking off with some girl they just paid to fuck, and by the time they're halfway home, they know it's all so much bullshit. Probably freak out, thinking the girl is going to take it as being real, a done deal and all.

"I mean any girl with sense knows bullshit as it's being fed to her. But her...A kid...I mean, there was one guy that made the rounds and made it sound good, like he did it to me and to Wanda and probably all the others, telling them how he could change their lives. He was sick of this place, this little corner of nowhere and was meant for bigger things. Slick. Real slick, but some little girl, someone susceptible to something like that like her, our little Miss Serenity, she might've gone for that, talked herself into it as much as those kind of guys talk themselves into it."

"You remember his name?"

"Oh, yeah. Quinn. I want to say Dobbs as the last name. Most guys don't advertise the last name, but he thought it was real important somehow. Dobbs. That sounds right, but don't hold me to it." She shrugged. "I guess I can't blame her. If she did. I mean _if_ she did. If I was young and dumb and kind of broken I'd take Prince Charming's hand. I wouldn't put him under the microscope. I'd believe because I had to believe in something."

Chapter 14

When his father bailed, Henry was six. There was a comeback period, a year later, but it failed to sustain. The second time his mother fell apart more, those assurances that the Humpty Dumpty of a marriage had been put together again proven false.

This past winter, when Alec expressed his need to flee Little Creek or watch his grasp on sanity disintegrate, Henry anticipated some emotional display similar to what Lori had shown years earlier, but the well turned out to have run dry. Watching his mom and stepfather negotiate the terms of surrender she was matter-as-fact as a postal clerk explaining shipping rates.

"You want to leave when?" she'd asked.

"Soon. Probably Friday. That's the earliest Clive can pick me up. Lori. God. I'm so sorry."

"Ok. Well. You've got the couch until then."

That Friday, Lori made Henry go to school. And she went to work, not like she was in the Forest Service office either, right across the street, available for teary goodbyes. There was a controlled burn to supervise out in the woods, near Nickel Creek. Friday night, they ate in town, at The Outpost, and home, Lori let him stay out late, Lori with a book on her lap and still nursing some Scotch when he stumbled in from movie night at Tiff's near 1 a.m. Getting up to pee Saturday morning, he heard a steady clink-clink-clink come up from the basement, and he investigated, but he didn't even need to go downstairs to figure out the weights on the trainer were going up and down. The weight machine Lori's gift to Alec this previous Christmas, never quite used, now abandoned, now hers.

Soon as Sipe and Tiffany were back, and Tiffany told Henry all about Butcher's Camp and their brief return drive around Little Creek just to look around to see if Hope might be wandering out and about like she never ever did, Henry told Sipe the lady, Susan, had called.

"What does that mean? Wub?" asked Tiffany.

From Henry, a shrug. Sipe stared at Henry, and it was like the head wound, its internal component, was ceasing blood flow, squishing normal brain function out like water from a sponge. Words and thought trickling down his spinal column like cloudburst rattling down a storm drain. Henry convinced he could've flit his hands around and around and Sipe's eyes would've been dead to tracking any motion.

Stunned, thought Henry, like his mom when his dad had given details, the first time, what he'd been doing and for long and with whom.

"Who's Wub?" Tiffany asked Sipe.

" _The_ Wub," said Henry.

"He's a guy," said Sipe.

"Someone you know?" asked Tiffany.

"Yeah."

"Wub."

"Like rub," said Sipe. "He doesn't talk right. So he can't say rub. It comes out as wub. So, someone made a name out of it. Like it was a joke."

"And he's coming to help you?"

"No. Not really."

"Then why's he coming?"

Sipe clasped both hands to the back of his head and looked out the giant living room windows. The sun coming through, partitioned by the wainscoting, forming three rhomboids of warm yellow, cozy spots on the carpet. Sipe could imagine a bright flash, a mushroom cloud, everything out there in sight turned to ashes, dust.

"Wait. What did she say again?" Tiffany asked Henry.

"That they sent a closer. She looked into it and they sent a closer and the closer is the Wub."

"What's a closer?"

"I don't know."

A car drove out of Little Creek, blazed past the fence line bordering the unused patch adjacent to Henry's lawn.

"What's a closer?" she asked Sipe.

He didn't look at her. He said, "They clean up."

"'They clean up.' Maybe they should call them 'cleaners'."

"They have. They do. The Old Man doesn't like the term."

"Who's that? The Old Man?"

Sipe shook his head.

"What do you want to do?" asked Tiffany. She stepped towards Sipe. "I mean until this guy shows up, do you want help keep looking for Hope?"

Sipe turned. Not looking at the kids.

"I gotta find Connie. It might not make any difference. Even if I find him. Even if Connie tells him exactly what happened. Jesus Christ."

"Are you ok? You seem a little worked up."

His fingers were in his face. Right under his nose. The right side of his face lit up by the slightest pressure on his bruise. The kids both looking at him like he'd been digging for gold. He lowered his hand.

"I gotta find Connie. Millie. Goddamn. I gotta do that at least." He looked at Tiffany. Henry. "And if I can't. It's like you two can't exist. I don't think anyone being just a kid would matter. To him. He likes to do what he does too much."

Henry thought Sipe pale and muttering like this was like some prophet or battle-scarred survivor in a movie telling the ragtag band of heroes they weren't quite comprehending the devastating power of the earth-devourer winding its way through nebula and asteroid fields towards their front door.

"Wait a second," said Tiffany. "You just said 'Millie.'"

"Yeah."

"'Millicent.'"

"I don't know."

"'Woods'? No. 'Timbers'?"

"I don't know."

Tiffany pointed at Sipe. Snapped her fingers.

"That. There! Your thing. The magazine. The _People_ you loaned me. Just now. When we were out at Butcher's Camp. Look."

Sipe twisted and turned like he was on fire, or trying to see his shadow. He swatted his side, held it, and the left hand unearthed the magazine from the inside jacket pocket. He looked at it.

"Here," she said, hand out. He handed the magazine to Tiffany, pre-empting what would've likely been his own sad, frantic rifling of pages. She turned to a certain page and handed the magazine back to Sipe.

"There."

Sipe stared. Turned a page. And another. And another.

"Whoa. Stop. That's it. They don't do long articles," said Tiffany.

There she was. Grinning. In full-color. Ms. Stun Gun. The picture was scrawled over in ink. Sipe couldn't quite make out the scrawl.

"I think it says 'To a great lay, Millie.'" Tiffany giggled.

Sipe turned pages. Some more pictures. Millie swimming. Millie in a kitchen with some old lady.

Still looking at the magazine, Sipe said, "Where is this?"

"'This' what?"

"Pendleton. That's around here?"

"It's, yeah. It's just like 60 miles from here."

"She lives there? She's got some business there?"

"Fitness club, yeah. Like the magazine shows. She's like the pride of Pendleton, I guess. I mean if you're an Olympic athlete, of course, people are going to treat you like royalty. At least she was until her problems."

"What problems?"

"It's in there. Kind of. Drinking. Drugs. She punched someone, too. I can't remember who. I think it was some swimmer from Russia. I guess it doesn't matter. She has her fitness place and all."

"Pendleton."

Sipe didn't look at them. Looking into the air immediately in front of him, a personal Iron Man moment like in the movies, thought Henry, schematics and armor updates floating in non-space.

"I need to get there," said Sipe. "I need to get there now."

"What about Hope?" asked Tiffany.

Sipe pointed at Henry. "You got keys to the car in the garage?"

"I don't know," said Henry. "I don't know where they are."

"You don't know where they are?"

"No. I don't drive yet. My mom has them. And she's not here."

"No spare?"

"No. I don't know."

"Bullshit."

"Sorry."

"Then the truck," Sipe said to Tiff. "We go back to your place and get the truck."

"It's gone."

"What?"

"That's why we left it there. I told you. Uncle Norm needed it."

"For what?"

"It's his truck. If he needs it and tells me I leave it for him. Jeez."

Sipe laughed. Waved towards the living room windows, magazine still clenched in his hand.

"This is. Ok. This is. Maybe you don't get this. I get this. You don't. Let me make it, let me put it so you get it. I need Connie. I need to find him. I need to get him. I don't have him when this guy, The Wub, shows up...You see this? Right here? My face? This, what this lady did, Millie? Millicent?, ok, it's just, it's nothing compared to what The Wub will do. It's nothing. It's a slap. In comparison, it's a slap. He don't slap. He doesn't slap. Ok? He hits. He tears. He rips. He likes it. Let me tell you, let me make it clear, kind of guy he is. One time he broke this guy's ribs. A little insurance salesman guy. Some poor slosh got behind on what he owed. Most guys, that's it, they've done their job. A lesson has been taught. The Wub, he waits and comes back, and craps on the guy. Right here, right on his chest. Because he felt like it. Because he could. It doesn't matter that I am who I am. That he knows me. They don't allow for fuck ups unless you somehow make amends. I have to do that. Quick. Right now. I need, I need to be moving. I need a car, ok?" He pointed at Henry. "I need yours, right now."

"You said you'd help me," said Tiffany. "You promised to help find Hope."

Sipe shook his head. "No."

He stepped towards Henry, and Tiffany reached out and placed her palm on Sipe's right shoulder.

"Wait. Just wait a minute. You told me you'd help-"

Sipe grabbed her wrist with his left hand. The pressure made her cry out.

"You don't get it? You didn't understand all that that I just said?"

"You're hurting me."

He dropped the magazine. Passed her wrist off to his right hand, turned her, and grabbed her left shoulder in his left hand, then started to lift her right arm at an angle behind her back.

She screamed.

"I need those keys. I need those fucking keys, Henry. Get 'em. You don't, I break her arm."

Sipe wrenched on her arm, and she screamed, louder. Her head and her upper torso dipping down now towards the base of the TV stand.

The boy surprised him. Henry slapped at Sipe's head. The slaps graduated to punches. Sipe released Tiffany. Turned. Brushed a punch away, and he grimaced as Henry's fist landed almost a bull's eye where Millie had stomped him. He straight-armed Henry. Shoved the kid back and when Henry found his feet and crouched and lunged, Sipe stepped right and swung an open hand into the kid's cheek. The way Henry landed it was like he was demonstrating the best way to simultaneously embrace and lift a widescreen TV. The top heavy Beeper on the TV stand edge wobbled and thumped onto the carpet.

"I'm calling the cops!" Tiffany stepped on the _People_ , sliding, tearing the magazine and nearly sprawling as she ran into the kitchen. When Sipe tried to pursue, some phantom hand latched onto his brain and twisted it, spinning both eyes up towards the skull top. He closed his eyes, kept moving, bounced into and then off both sides of the doorway.

On the far side of the kitchen, past the stove, Tiffany stood between a cabinet and the counter sticking out like the short end of an 'L,' behind her the kitchen table and chairs and in the corner the phone hanging on the wall. She had a mobile phone in hand.

"Don't you come any closer. Don't. You lied to me. You told me you'd help."

Her face gone hot pink, almost a rose color, and wet with tears.

"Right now I have to go."

"You hurt me."

"I need keys. That's all."

"You hurt me."

Sipe held his hands up. Empty hands. Look. Look how empty they are. Moving slowly. Closing in on the jittery squirrel. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Her face so darkly pink he thought of fruit gone bad, rupture-ready at a touch.

"Henry has a gun. Lori does. He's getting it right now. You better go," said Tiffany.

"She had a gun, I would've found it."

"You looked. I bet you looked. Someone like you, you probably looked for anything to steal, didn't you? Fuck you." Snot, some back throat bubble, rendering the 'fuck' near silent.

"Don't touch me," she said. "Don't you touch me. It's dialing. It's dialing."

She held the phone towards him. If it dialed, the tone was too quiet to reach his ears. If he dared another step, he might be vanquished. A light that burned, a light from God would come on out from her hand.

"Hey!" Henry shouted.

Turning to look back into the living room, something hit Sipe in the shoulder. It didn't stick. It fell. Keys clinked on the tile floor. Then there was a thump, near the doorway. A carrot. Right on the floor, next to Henry's feet. The pinkest carrot. Lingerie now decorated the floor. A Bible. The box of See's Candies. Henry looked at it, too. Henry had a small box in hand. Sipe had seen the box earlier, alone, poking around Lori's bedroom dresser.

"There." Henry looked at Sipe, pointed at the keys. Henry's face red. "There. The keys. The fucking keys to the fucking car!" He threw the box, too. Not quite at Sipe. At the kitchen floor. It rolled, landed with the open end up.

Henry had run to the back of the house and grabbed the box and run back, digging the keys out.

Crouching down to gather the car keys, half-expecting another brain spasm, Sipe silently acknowledged the smarts of the fire fighting mom, savvy, guessing some potential thieves, even men with blood on their hands, transformed into conservative little church ladies come upon certain sights, certain private things.

Henry knelt, gathered the Bible, the box of candy, all of it, off the floor, and started throwing it back into the box.

Walking towards the garage, past Tiffany, Sipe didn't look at her. He could hear her breathing. He could still feel her flesh in his hands.

*

The garage door rolled open on a rope. The car meeped when he pulled on the driver side door handle.

Sipe backed out of the garage, from dimness into brightness, counted the little bars indicating the gas tank status. He could breathe, but he couldn't. The girl screaming. She seemed capable, big as she was, she should be able to handle Sipe, but once he got in control she'd been his. His fingers sinking into her shoulder that pink and warm meat. He closed his eyes. Thought of things, cigarette smoke, a dirt clod, his sisters dressed for some school function. He could remember pitching dirt clods, him and Tracey Shortner, playing war from a ditch, lobbing dirt clods at passing cars. Both boys getting in trouble. His mother shucking the role of judge and his sisters meting out justice in her absence. Ten dirt clods a sister, aimed at his head, 30 paces away, but it turned funny because the dog kept trying to catch them midair.

He was starting to shift into drive when Tiffany ran out from the garage and ran in front of the car, and around to the driver side. She pressed her palms onto the window. She talked louder than she needed. The car engine quieter than cat purr.

"Let me go with you. You don't know where that place is. Timbers Athletic. I can help you. You can find him, your guy? You can find him easier if I help. Then we can come back. And you can help me. I help you find him, and you help me find her. You promised." She slapped the window. "You promised."

Sipe looked out the windshield. He could just go, right now. Right across from the driveway on the other side of the gravel road was the Forest Service, all those windows with tinted glass, and that big girl in there, Gwen. She could be watching right now. Wondering who was taking Lori's car and where.

"Please," said Tiffany. "You promised. Please."

He'd decided. She didn't need to fall apart again like that, he was sold on the deal, just befuddled by all the switches and buttons embedded on the car door's inside. How do you lower the window? He tried a door button. The locks clicked. Technology well beyond Sipe's grasp. He covered. He tapped the glass until she opened her eyes, stopped with the scrunched up, crying face. He looked at her and pointed at the front passenger seat.

Chapter 15

Right after they drove through Orley Sipe asked Tiffany about her shoulder. Orley, at 40 mph, all ten seconds of it, consisted primarily of a combination café and gift shop, the latter closed, no longer run day-to-day due to Hope's folks dispute over the true origin of those Beepers. Sipe imagined Beepers leaping on the car as it sliced through Orley, refugees escaping a dying kingdom.

"It's fine," said Tiffany. "Don't worry. You didn't hurt me."

Sipe nodded.

"I'm a baby. You could've pinched my arm, and I would've made just as much noise. I'm sorry I'm such a baby."

She looked at her phone. A few minutes later she told him the street address in Pendleton for Timbers Athletic. It closed at 7. Plenty of time to get there. And Henry was off looking for Hope. Gwen had caught Henry and bothered him about the car, but he'd told her it was an emergency. If Tiffany was with Sipe, then nothing was probably going to happen to Lori's car, now was it?

The highway started to curve more and rise as trees thickened and moved nearer roadside.

"This is really pretty, isn't it?" said Tiffany. "At least where there are lots of trees. Usually, I have to drive. Uncle Norm makes me drive a lot of the time when we go over the hill. I can't really look so much. See the sights. I think that's what I'd like to do most of all. Just drive. Go on a road trip all alone, check things out. Do you like to drive?"

"Sometimes."

"'Sometimes.' Huh." She didn't say anything else for a few minutes. She looked at Sipe. Maybe just gauging the bruise. Still. It started to get uncomfortable.

Finally, she spoke. Asked Sipe, "Is this guy we're going to see, your friend, is he a nice guy?"

"He's my boss' son."

"Oh. Right. Is he nice?"

"I don't know."

"How can you not know if someone is nice?"

"It doesn't come up."

"He can't be that nice, I mean if he hit you."

"No."

"Wait. That's right. Who hit you? It was her, right? _People_ magazine lady?"

" _People_ magazine lady."

"Do you normally read _People_ magazine?"

"No. When I got Connie, the other day, we were putting his bags in the car, and it was just this thing in his apartment. He told me to hold onto it. First, he said pitch it, then he said hold onto it. So I just folded it, put it in my jacket."

"But you didn't look at it?"

"It's not mine. It's Connie's."

"So you don't know her? Millicent?"

"No."

"Did she have a reason to hit you? You weren't trying to break her arm, were you?" After a second she said, "I'm kidding. I know you weren't going to break my arm." She touched her shoulder. Extended it like a bird warming up a wing.

"I was looking at her car engine. They told me she was having car trouble."

"Huh."

"So I looked. She Tasered me. Stun gunned me. Then she hit me. Kicked me."

"Are you going to hurt them? I mean, it could happen. She might try to do that to you again. She's kind of big, isn't she? She looks big. I looked it up on my phone. They've got footage from the fight she got into. The fight with the Russian lady. The one that got her kicked off the Olympic team. You want to see it?"

"Driving."

"I know. I meant later. It's all surveillance camera type footage. It looks like a bear and a dog going at it. You look at it, and you're all 'that's one brave dog.' I bet Pluto would be like that if a bear came after me or came after Uncle Norm. Pluto doesn't do much, he doesn't look like much, but dogs are like that. Loyal. He'd totally get killed, but..."

The road coiled out of the dark, the tunnel of tall pine trees fell away, and ahead the asphalt sliced along a hillside. The road through Snoqualmie Pass, bridging the eastern and western halves of Washington was steep, but the difference was the wideness of the roads, multiple lanes, the shoulders, the safety in having an abundance of time to correct an error. This was a two-lane road. You sneezed, your tire strayed onto the pencil-width worth of shoulder, you were locked into turning into meat inside a blackened metal coffin. The steep hillside looked like something the movies would use, the bad guys' car rolling down it towards a fiery end.

"This is the part Norm hates," said Tiffany. "Hates it. He's like Pluto when Pluto sees a cat. Puuuuure chicken. I swear. He's such a weenie sometimes. Both of them are."

An oncoming car swished past them, a flash of metal and glass. Tiffany thought the other driver might've been going 80. The driver had one hand on the wheel, their head angled towards the passenger seat, something, a phone, a distraction in their right hand.

At one point, negotiating the steep hillside, Sipe caught sight of storm catchers on the hillside above them. Aged wood thrusting up like bones halfway ejected out the earth, indiscriminately interrupting tumbleweeds tumble. He could almost picture a colossus, once long ago striding the earth, a hide composed from tumbleweed, but some sort of extinction event occurred, maybe hastened by the wind turbines, some war between wood and steel, and only here and there you could still catch sight of fragments, bones, bits of tumblemeat rotted, clinging to the bone. It wasn't a thousand feet down to the bottom of the hillside on his left. It just looked it. He imagined storm catchers erected on the hillside down there, catching all the unfortunate travelers, the meat and metal tumbleweeds, plummeting from the highway for one reason or another.

One last curve and the road was back to negotiating the rolling humps of dust-colored plain, the steep drop left behind.

Tiffany yawned.

"I usually tell Norm, 'you can open your eyes now, Little Normie.' He hates that."

He waited for her to say you can open your eyes now, Little Sipey, but she didn't.

*

Tiffany fell asleep in the car. She'd said something about getting up earlier than usual. Planning to run, first day of her new regimen, but instead, she and Henry had found Sipe. Then everything that had happened after that, up to and including him nearly popping her arm out of the socket, leaving her susceptible to the warmth of the sun, and the car moving, she was lulled asleep.

The Old Man's crew peppered with nappers. Trick being having someone with you to wake you up or having an alarm on you, a phone. Sipe could follow directions, someone just showed him how to set up an alarm on his phone, but Sipe didn't trust technology quite that much. On a job, you didn't nap. That was the only way to be sure. Things happened when you napped, when you ought to be paying attention. You think two guys in a car couldn't both fall asleep?

Tiffany's sleep a quiet sleep. No snoring. No talking. No indication that dreams included a replay of Sipe grabbing her, hurting her. She faced him. Left cheek pressed into the car seat. He kept glancing at her. He told himself to stop looking, but by then it'd ignited inside his head. Paige asleep, and Bryce coming on into the room. Of course, stepdad had beer breath. Bryce told him it was a drunk's crime. It wasn't him, it was the him he became. The admission coming when Sipe had Bryce out in the woods, lashed to a tree. Before then, walking him at gunpoint from the car parked on the forest road into the trees, Bryce had been innocent of it all. It was those two women, Sipe's sister Greta and the girl, they had it in for him, they had a little on Bryce, and they'd turned it into a lot. Once he was bound to the tree, sitting on the forest floor, Bryce's story altered. Confession clearly the only way out. Bryce hadn't planned it. Greta out of town, Bryce bored with the marriage, with work, with life in general, the Mariners gone tits up yet again, he was soaked to the gills, just wanted to go see the girl, drink in what a pretty girl she was, and things got a little out of hand. The girl didn't look like Greta. Paige was beautiful. A girl transforming into this goddess and her upper body sticking out above the sheets all clumped up at her waist. Bunched up. Enough light coming in from the hallway and it was on display. Inhale and exhale. Look at 'em, rise and fall and rise and fall, perfect handfuls, straining against some thin tank top. Asleep but she had 'em on display.

Bryce had worked for the parks department. A supervisor. His dad a businessman, a city councilman. When the allegations arose, both Bennetts talked willingly, insisting that Greta was barely held together with spit and Scotch tape, a wounded woman with a wounded, beautiful daughter. It was a conspiracy. Bryce the real victim here. He wasn't perfect, he'd fooled around a little (no surprise when you looked at Greta), and she'd convinced Paige to parrot this story about rape. Revenge on Bryce for being a less than perfect husband.

Greta in glasses, this dopey Prince Valiant haircut post-wedding, all elbows and knees, a feminist maybe going lesbo, all-around about as fuckable as some lady freshly airlifted from a concentration camp. Birdwoman incapable of attracting some man to fuck her, to even the marital score with Bryce, so instead she decided to fuck him, humiliate him, tarnish his dear old dad, too, publically. Anyone that'd listen, and a lot of people listened to the Bennetts, Bryce would forcefully state the real victim here was Paige, being used by her mother.

Sipe didn't know what had happened until after Greta and Paige had moved out of the town. Forced out, more or less. Not surprising, if your father-in-law was a prominent businessman/councilman with friends in high places. Sipe called his mother once a year. Sometimes twice. The older mother got, the less close to the vest she held cards. She'd figured out people weren't quite so worth protecting.

When his mother told him the stepdad had done things to Paige, sex things, all he could see was that four-year-old covered in frosting, getting frosting on her uncle's face. Even though the four-year-old was ten years a ghost, that's who'd suffered, that's who'd cried and struggled, and had something torn out of her.

Sipe cashed in on his seniority. Just telling the Old Man he had a family thing to go deal with was enough. Sipe bought a camera, a professional deal, drove to Longview, checked in to a motel and let them know he was an amateur photographer looking to up his game. He did reconnaissance, figured out the best spot to take Bryce, and then sweated out exactly how to get him out there.

There was little to sweat. Bryce would eat his lunch in his city rig, smoke a cigarette, and then take a nap in his city rig. No dummy, he had a couple of prime, out of the way spots to stretch that hour out to an hour and a half.

Two days in a row he did it. The third day Sipe knocked on the sleeping man's window and smiled at Bryce. Coming to Bryce as a stranger. A mustached and half-bearded stranger with a map in hand. A camera around his neck. Sipe knew Greta had at most one picture of her baby brother as an adult, and in that one, Sipe's face was messed with frosting.

Bryce didn't know who Sipe was other than a man interrupting his nap, then, the man producing a gun and walking him from the city truck and forcing him into a car trunk.

Not until Sipe had him out in the woods, deep off the regular track, the drivable arteries thinning and turning ever less navigable, the only regularly created sound in the world tree tilt, the only sign of civilization jet contrail dissipating in a pale blue sky did the gunman say,

"I'm Paige's uncle."

"Who?"

You had to give him a moment to catch up. Bryce woken from a nap, shoved in a trunk, facing a loaded gun. It was a lot to take in. To process. Forgetting Paige not all that surprising. It was about Bryce all the time anyway. All about his dick plowing some prime vagina before anyone else on the planet ever could.

Anyone else in the Old Man's employ might've ended it right there, incapable of keeping down the rage surge. Plan made, Sipe stuck to it.

Bryce stripped, hands bound, tied to the tree, gagged, Sipe produced the knife, sliced Bryce's biceps and his hairline. Surface deep. Waited until Bryce stopped freaking out, and waggled the bloodied knife. Set it down a good foot distant of Bryce's socked feet.

"You didn't give Paige a choice. See, I'm giving you an option. You figure some way to wiggle on out from them ropes, enough I mean, you can get the knife, drag it with your toes, and cut yourself free. Get out of here before something smells that blood, comes looking for the source."

The third day Sipe arrived and thought his once upon a time brother-in-law might be sleeping. The second day, Bryce had been pale. That third day he was gray. No pulse or so weak a pulse Sipe couldn't feel it.

Each day Sipe had cut him someplace new, let some blood out, thinking the smell might attract something in the woods. Bear. Cougar. Wolf. Higher elevation, no clouds at night, it got cold. Colder than Sipe had predicted. Maybe he'd cut something vital, something that had bled a little more vigorously than he'd planned.

Bryce's predicament hadn't hit the papers, but two days in, eating at a Longview restaurant, Sipe had overheard diners talking about it. They didn't know Bryce, didn't even know his name, just knew Councilman/Businessman Bennett's son was missing. Not too upsetting. The conversationalist still found a way to dig into their dessert. Sipe took that as a warning shot. Pretty soon the search would expand outside the more civilized parts of the county.

The last trip out to check on Bryce, Sipe had worn his third pair of shoes. Slightly different sizes, forensics might think there were multiple kidnappers. He sliced the ropes on the side of the tree opposite Bryce, gathered them, tucked them in a bag with Bryce's shed clothes and the bloodied knife – the potential getaway knife, and buried the bag in a hole dug in a random spot at a lower elevation in the forest. For good measure, the collapsible shovel went in, too, and Sipe kicked and pushed and threw the soil back in on top of the cored spot. Then the pants and boots clad in soil went into a plastic grocery store bag dropped off in a rest stop garbage can the day Sipe drove back to Seattle.

Last Sipe saw of Bryce, the dead or dying man's weight left him draped and leaning against the base of the tree. In a few more days his skin color would be inseparable from the tree bark, but the way he tilted, he might more likely be slumped across the forest floor.

Back in Seattle, almost a week went by before Sipe saw a story about a missing Longview man.

Bryce Bennett's body recovered. Cops looking into possible homicide. Following all available evidence.

Just to confuse things for the law, the second day, Sipe had hammered a Polaroid picture into the tree above Bryce. This picture Zeke had forced on him at some point and that Sipe hadn't chucked. Zeke aghast that the picture was left in a library book. Some kid might find that for God's sake. Sipe couldn't remember the book Zeke had found the picture in, but the guys had gotten some gas out of making fun of Zeke, riffing on his worry, an old man checking out kids books and all.

A poorly lit picture, head to waist, this lady laying on her back, wearing glasses, more or less dressed, but the low cut top is pulled down far enough both her breasts are exposed, nipples hardened, her hands cupping, showing off the goods. Zeke called it a Mona Lisa face. Some people would say the lady was smiling. Some people would say she looked indifferent. The cops would copy the picture, cover up the breasts, waggle it in faces and ask if anyone ever remembered seeing Bryce Bennett with some lady of what appeared to be Asian ancestry.

Out of it, not yet cut anew on his second day out in the woods, Bryce had slit his eyes, tipped his head towards Sipe and looked at the Polaroid. Sipe having trouble with the Velcro pouch on his belt, trying to dig out a nail.

"Who's that?" asked Bryce.

"I don't know."

"She looks fat. That your girlfriend? You fuck 'em fat?"

Sipe hadn't fed Bryce. Removed the gag to give him some water. Enough to make him piss himself, put that odor in the air. Once the gag was back in place, the Polaroid nailed to the tree, Sipe had cut him again. The strokes a little deeper than intended, not that Sipe needed to defend the honor of women of a certain weight class, it was just the look on Bryce's face, blood dried on his forehead and around the orbits of the right eye, the fruits of the initial scalp slice, and still he'd dredged up a sneer, a look of unquestionable ownership Sipe could imagine Paige had witnessed close-up, the monster from under the bed now sharing the bed.

*

Pendleton was only 15 miles from Pilot Rock. Once he'd driven out of the small town, a metropolis compared to Little Creek and Orley, Sipe woke Tiffany, first trying to do it just with the sound of his voice, and then giving up, reaching out and so soft he had to keep doing it, shaking her, but not having to touch the shoulder he'd earlier threatened with permanent injury.

She yawned. She looked around. Told him, "You let me fall asleep."

Sipe nodded.

"I can't wait until I'm an old woman and I can nap every day. No one will care. Do you nap?"

"I'm not an old woman."

She didn't laugh. He thought the line had dropped with a thud. He looked. She grinned. When she smiled like this, a little gum showed. Her hair was in her eyes. Sipe thought it looked like some shot from a montage, the credits for some TV show. Next a quick cut to her holding up her phone in Henry's kitchen, crying, followed by her driving Norm's truck off the asphalt and onto the railcar populated field.

Phone in hand, she told him they'd be at Timbers Athletic in like ten minutes.

Chapter 16

Mrs. Boyle doted on Quinn Dobbs. Her only child, Clay, too self-reliant, eating what he hunted or fished and in between sustaining on prepackaged foods, survivalist fare, or takeout from The Outpost.

Anytime Quinn arrived, the woman would start baking. She'd make it sound matter of fact, that Quinn just had extraordinary timing. Today, banana bread. It felt too hot for the oven to be on, but Mrs. Boyle waved off any suggestion otherwise. 92 degrees the optimum temperature for the secret Boyle-clan maple-bacon-banana bread recipe.

The Boyle's spread located outside of Little Creek proper, a ramshackle red farm house, right off of 244 headed towards Butcher's Camp and further, La Grande. Two ancient poodles accompanied Mrs. Boyle, to check on the door ringer, any of her travels, even a pee. The worse off, Daisy, turned around by a series of incremental paw shuffles. The little dog's tail fluttered back and forth at Mrs. Boyle's handclaps, exultations at Daisy's arthritic-driven efforts to remain mobile.

Quinn hadn't bothered calling ahead of the drop in. He knew the two partners in crime would be chillaxed in the Boyle's backyard.

Clay unloaded arrows towards a backdrop of hay bales. His head shaved bald, but for the ponytail slinking down between his shoulder blades. So blonde it was near white, threaded with miniature beads and charms like in its off-time a child dragged it through the nooks and crannies of a preschool play area.

The Boyle's had bought the property from a farmer, a generous spread at a cheap price. Once the henhouse and pigpen had been knocked down, the backyard proved generous for fulfilling Clay's interests. Beyond the yard, a long strip of clump grass rolled towards the forest line, the only break the thin burble of the town namesake, the creek bed shores far wider than the anemic vein of water. Spring the only outlier to the perpetual state of atrophy.

In between shots, Clay's head bobbed. Earbuds snugly compacted in, cords trailing to the iPod slid between waistband and bare skin. Courtesy the unfettered summer sun, his bared torso pinkened to the color of a store bought ham. A hundred feet away, arrows stuck to a bull's eye, closely grouped, and his next shot almost a carbon copy, the predecessors bobbing like tree limbs swaying in a breeze.

Bret Ruchert spotted Quinn coming out the back door. Bigger than Clay, Bret leaned against a totem pole, one of three standing in the backyard northeast corner. Bret so big, so solid, you'd figure the totem pole had thick, deep roots to endure keeping upright all that mass swaddled in classic Johnny Cash, man-in-black.

Before discovering he was a spiritual heir to Robin Hood, Clay tapped his 1/16th Native American heritage and unearthed eagles and mermen visages from tamarack. Beyond the backyard pieces, there was a totem pole performing double duty as a hat rack and magazine stand inside The Outpost, Little Creek's premiere dining destination. The poles were also featured on the website, 'Clay Boyle Adventures,' under the 'Shopping' drop down, just in case some browser was moved to look beyond Clay's offering of 'Archery Lessons' and 'True Life Wilderness Tours.' As a boy, he'd burned through enthusiasms for Hot Wheels, the banjo, puppeteering, frog farming, chemistry, mime, arm wrestling, and finally, bodybuilding. The Boyles indulged their only son, the sole success of Mrs. Boyle's multiple pregnancies.

"And I thought I was getting rusty." Clay not even saying hi or howdy there Quinn. He blew sweat off his upper lip and swabbed slickness from his left pec into the wrist sheath he wore practicing, maintaining his pole position among eastern Oregon archers.

"Watch this." Like a fast draw man pulling down on three bad guys, Clay shot three arrows in quick succession. Two hit high up on the bull's eye, the third landed centrally but banged off the butt end of an already sunk shaft. Clay laughed. Shook his head. Looked at the bow like it was some damned manufacturers error risen up yet again.

"You gotta want it." Quinn took the cigarette from his lips. "Otherwise you're just another pretender to the crown."

Clay messed with his phone. Muted the music.

"Dobbs," Clay notched an arrow then rested the bow against his left shoulder. "You park out front?"

"Maybe."

"Gonna guess you parked along the fence line."

"Maybe."

Clay blew sweat off his upper lip.

"Bet you I can plant this in your trunk. From here. Right here."

Bret snorted.

"Tell you what." Quinn slid his wallet out. Pinched a $100 out. "You shoot it, it goes into the trunk, and somehow opens the trunk and the spare rolls on out and through the yard and back here...This goes right into your hot little hand."

Bret snorted some more. The big bear liked it, these two giving each other crap. The slight disharmony continued to radiate from Quinn hitting on Bonnie before anyone – Bonnie even – had informed the recent Little Creek arrival that she'd a bun in the oven courtesy of Clay Boyle.

"Tennis ball," said Clay.

It took a moment before Quinn got it, started studying the parched brown lawn, and picked up a bright green victim, one Daisy and Colin hadn't slobbered up yet. He bounced the tennis ball in his palm.

"This in lieu of the car trunk?"

Clay gave him the patented Clay Boyle stare.

"Fine. Here you go."

Quinn lobbed high, towards the creek. The arrow connected and the tennis ball bounced off the top of the hay bales. Bret gave the feat a little golf clap. Doing things like that, he seemed like a T. Rex. Nothing to his arms it seemed, at least compared to Clay.

For months, the trio in the backyard met up in Butcher's Camp. That was when business was booming. Those wind towers being assembled. Quinn joking they ought to hire a monkey to ride some bright pinwheel colored beach ball up and down the whorehouse halls, bucket and squeegee in paws to slop up the expenditure of wind tower employee jism. Anymore, Quinn bet that poor, unemployed chimp would be chained up in the Boyle's backyard, plotting on Daisy or Colin snuffling close enough for a grab, and then an eat or a fuck, maybe both.

Bret's older brother, Ty, he'd told them the business wouldn't last forever. All good things end. He'd kept distance for a number of reasons. Ty put money into the enterprise, took care of all the financials, even traveled to Portland with Bret to work out financing with some Russians versed in the "entertainment industry." Ty poked in during the grand opening week and got all red in the face the attentions lavished on him by the girls. A married man, a dad of 3, PTA vice president, a city accountant for gosh sake, he really shouldn't, he couldn't, but he had, two girls at the same time, the guilt trip keeping him away for near a month before he returned, starving for seconds.

Attended by Daisy and Colin, Mrs. Boyle came outside, told Quinn the bread had ten more minutes tops, then puttered around the flowerbeds. Bent over, curves expanding her blue jeans, silver hair up in a loose bun, even for an old broad, she tickled Quinn's interest. Should he ever gift her his technique, she'd shatter the ceiling. The oldest squim he'd penetrated just shy of 50. Clay's mom easily 60-something. It wasn't a problem. A hang-up. He looked, he considered, he didn't necessarily act. Same as hanging out at the majestic casa de Dobbs, seeing his niece prance around in two-piece bikinis day after day. Quinn only Guy's stepbrother, and he knew Brandi thought he was hot, so it wouldn't take too much effort to reward the constant advertisement of the tanned goods, but his sister-in-law had some early warning system wired to Brandi's cherry. Racine would hand him his balls, guaranteed. Watching the two aged poodles acting as sentries, Quinn wondered how much Mrs. Boyle admitted to herself, all the rumors about the 'massage' place her son worked, chief of security.

"Bread? Why do you get bread?" asked Clay.

"She thinks I'm underfed."

"Bullshit."

"Language," called Mrs. Boyle.

"Sorry, ma. Can't be helped sometimes. Someone's got to remind Quinn he's kind of a butthole."

"Language!"

Quinn flipped Clay off. Clay grinned. Sent it right back to him.

Quinn's phone rang. Duran Duran's 'Hungry Like the Wolf.' He blamed the heat for the extra seconds it took to process the name on the caller I.D. Maybe it was time to get a hat. Already walking out of the backyard and along the side of the house before answering, the others could take it as him being thoughtful or careful, Quinn always presenting himself as a renaissance man, all kinds of balls in the air, deals in play or suspended from Phoenix to Santa Barbara and beyond, any of which could suck him up out of Little Creek for good at the drop of a hat.

"Hello. This is Quinn Dobbs."

"Where you at, Bush?"

"On the moon, where you think?"

Faye laughed.

"Oh. And you nice enough to take my call? You so sweet. Tell the moon men I said 'Hi.'"

"What do you want?"

There was a pause. Faye taking a hit. Phone conversations with her could easily be trimmed 33% if you killed her love affair with the green. He blamed the recreational brain damage for her inability to refer to him as anything other than Bush, Faye convinced his haircut left him looking like Gavin Rossdale, front man for the '90s era British alt rockers. Quinn rocked a goatee, Rossdale always smooth-skinned, but that didn't alter Faye's perceptions. Once she'd decided his name was Bush it stuck.

"Faye, my love, what do you need?"

"Had a visitor."

"Ok."

"He asked a lot of questions."

"Ok."

"Lot, lot, lot of questions about your girlfriend."

"'Girlfriend.' And who would that be?"

"Little Miss Beepers."

One of the dogs barked. Mrs. Boyle yelled. The dog stared down the side of the house at Quinn and then ducked back out of view.

Faye related the highlights of the little ugly man's visit. Quinn half-listening, half-numb. It remained mystifying, his reasons for revealing too much to Faye. The pot part of the problem. It could center some users. They became masters of some particular portion of life. Faye more homely than hot, flat chested, spindly legs, but her puss, and how she could work it, hooked Quinn right from the first. The orgasms left his gums tingling. Still, like a dummy, just because spilling his load a semi-religious experience, spilling secrets at relatively the same spot not a wise decision.

"The guy," said Quinn, "you don't think he was from Portland?"

"Couldn't tell you one way or another."

"Is there someone you could call? Ask?"

"Not really."

"Shit."

"You're sure you don't know where she's at?"

"No. If I knew...No. No idea."

"This isn't the city," said Faye. "Little Miss Beepers doesn't have friends by the pound. There's only so many places she could go, right? So, maybe wherever you looked, you ought to look again?"

"Yeah. I know. I already did. And did again."

"Thorough."

"Oh, the very definition of."

She sighed. In person she'd purse her lips, achieve this look that sent him careening back to elementary school, the name escaping him, but not the sensation he'd disappointed teacher.

Any idiot paying attention could have stolen the money. Bonnie took it to the bank in La Grande once a week. Same time, same day of the week. While Bonnie was away, one of the girls would fill in at the reception area.

A couple of weeks ago, Hope's turn, she sits down, and instantly she's confronted by some representative of the local moral majority, this guy shouting and hollering about Babylon and the fires of Hell, Hope produces tears, and screeches, Bonnie shoots out of the backroom and Hope reels away from the visitor, the guy grabbed her, hurt her, and she heads for the back room, leaving Bonnie to be yelled at and threatened for a good five minutes. Given the tumult, the one customer being serviced doesn't even finish, Wendi ushers him from 'Paul Bunyan' and shows him the lodge back entrance, and the half-dressed, retired M.D. scoots through the pine trees back to his summer home.

There's no writing on the deposit package. Just a thick business envelope slid into Bonnie's purse. With the one-man circus throwing her off, wanting to get to La Grande and back – currently a hassle and a half given a highway repaving project – at best she double-checked and made sure an envelope was in the purse and hit the road. Hope settled in place, trembling, but eventually convincing everyone she can deal with the reception fill-in. Brave little Hope.

Roughly ninety minutes or so later, a customer faced with a vacant reception desk started calling out if anyone was actually in the massage place at all, and at the same time, Bonnie, at the La Grande Bank of America, shown the envelope contents by a bank teller confused by a deposit consisting of nothing but strips of dollar-sized newspaper.

$4200 not a fortune. Some large-scale operation would shrug it off, write it off. Portland needed payback. A check to the Portland front company already cut, already mailed. No deposit, the check would bounce.

The steady drum roll, from the very start, do not anger Portland.

You will not like Portland when Portland is angry.

Hints that body parts might soon prove in peril had Ty shitting his pants. His new normal, keeping his wife blind to his 401k plundering, and when that went dry, next up, the kids' college funds. Ty already withdrawing fistfuls just to pad out the monthly nut. The $4200 would only compound his pain. Bonnie and Bret had kept it from him.

Far as everyone knew, Hope didn't have wheels. She also didn't have the backwoods skills to lope from Butcher's Camp back to Little Creek. Definition of lazy, girl could barely be bothered to flush a toilet. Someone picked her up, drove her away. In other words, she had help. A co-conspirator.

Any trace of the Bible thumper vanished. His timing a little too spot on for it to have been the universe lending Hope a helpful distracting hand. Quinn Dobbs the most likely suspect in helping Hope, but he had at least one witness, his niece, confirming his presence at the Dobbs' poolside the entire timeline of events. Bonnie had asked her about that, Brandi's potent brand of can't-be-bothered-teenage-insolence coupled with her Little Creek power ranking enough to keep Bonnie from circling the Auntie's front counter and threatening to forcibly dip the sophomore's face into the deep fryer.

Quinn's problem: post-crime, Hope had told him she'd done it for them.

Them. Her and him.

Fucked up little girl taking his post-coitus talk too seriously. Like he wanted to run away with some 16-year old, start a new life. He hid her. No choice. Tried to think up a way to get the money back to Butcher's Camp Massage, then spent a little too much time considering how far he could stretch $4200 with or without Little Miss Beepers. By the time he'd decided to throw her to the wolves, she'd deciphered the warning signs, beat a retreat. Vanished from the cabin Racine and Guy were building south of Little Creek.

Faye swore she hadn't gone into Mr. Questions' interest in Hope with Bonnie. Played it like the customer just some guy with a hard on for a young girl, this 'Serenity' in particular, but she'd satisfied all the same. Feign innocence, call him 'daddy,' act like it hurt at the same time it felt so good, a near-rape orgasm still an orgasm, you know, the usual.

"You know who he looked like?" Faye paused, her voice came back, the pot smoker's dreamy-high pitch. "Years ago I had a client, some coach from some Midwest college. Not the ugliest guy ever, but you know, he told me he was a coach, showed me his picture on ESPN.com and all, but really what he looked like some guy owns a diner out in the middle of nowhere. Guy that doesn't talk that much. Doesn't really care if you talk or if you just sit and eat your shit and leave."

"That's not helpful."

"It's what I got, Bush," said Faye. "He got a big old black eye. Tell you that. Can't miss that. You gonna let your girlfriend know someone looking for her?"

"Hey. Like I said, I don't know where she is."

"Sure you don't." Way she chuckled, he wanted to hit her. Not enough. Wanted to see an arrow go through her head, other parts of her, too. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it is Portland. Part of it. You know sometimes, one head doesn't know what the other is doing. Could be they sent someone out to rattle people until the money magically shows up."

"And which is it?" asked Quinn. "I forget. Personally, I mean, are you better off if that money gets found or not?"

Quinn in the front yard now. He'd kept inching further and further from any ears that might overhear.

"Mmmmmmm, you know. Whichever," said Faye. "This place is going back to being a museum. Way the three R's run it. They know it. Portland knows it. Three R's, they want to walk away with their hides still intact. End of the day that's about the best they can hope for."

"Maybe you need to up your sweet talking. I thought your sugar daddy was all set to go all in with you. Buy the place."

"He's not a sugar daddy. He's an investor."

"Uh-huh."

"See, I know you're trying to rile me up, Bush. I don't rile. I ride the seas of calm. I got patience. Options. Miles and miles of sweet options."

Quinn near certain the local old fart under Faye's spell Lester Scoggins, one of those retired farmers that spent half their life parked inside Auntie's, kvetching at the coffee counter on politics, race, sports, what have you. A miser dressed in denim overalls, driving a beat up truck, but sitting on piles of gold, looking (maybe) for something to spend it on. Lester might orate on the splendors inherent in the master race, but the way some racial mutt like Faye got his withered member to stiffen and spit, he was the slave in the relationship. Faye sweet-talking Lester into ponying up the dough, so when the Rucherts looked to sell, she could slide on in, take it over, at the same time offer the digs up to Portland, keep the whoring going, a smaller operation, but more important, the former lodge a new inland way station for pharmaceutical distribution. Lester kept out of those fine details. He'd just be making his dark-skinned angel happy.

"He didn't leave a number?"

"Who?" asked Faye.

"The ugly little guy."

"You know, no, he didn't."

"If you see him, call me."

"Oh, now, Bush, he isn't coming back here." Tone in her voice like Quinn a little kid, overly hopeful about Christmas or a grandparent recovering from a stroke. Oh, now, how sweet Bush could be, that strain of ignorant innocent optimism.

*

Bret looked at Quinn, striding back into view, smiling like he'd arrived for a job interview, and then returned to meditating on some choice spot on the lawn. Clay at the back fence, collecting his arrows, one by one slid into the quiver. The dogs and their mistress vanished. Probably checking on that banana bread.

"I got to stop taking calls from Santa Barbara."

No one looked at Quinn. No one asked for details.

"You know, some people, you tell them you're out of something, they don't hear it. They keep you in the loop, and you could give a crap for their loop." Sigh. Head shake. "I just don't know, man. I just don't know. Long as the money keeps on keeping on into my bank account, I can put up with their shit."

"Life's a bitch." Clay cleared his throat. He didn't spit. Some people swallowed their gooey ones. Quinn pictured the little one, once it slid out of Bonnie, mimicking its pops in all those manly mannerisms.

"What are you guys doing today? This? Just this?"

Clay sat down on a stump and pulled the towel draped over his shoulder into his hand. He took an arrow out of the quiver and started polishing the point, breathing onto the metal like some people blew eye boogers off their glasses.

"Wherever the day takes us," said Clay. "Ain't that right, bro?"

So focused on his one patch of lawn, Bret not even responding. Guy had Asperger's or something.

"Let me know, right, something good shapes up," said Quinn. "Otherwise I might just be poolside. Goddamnedest thing, Brandi's started asking me to work the suntan lotion into her shoulders and back, doing this thing where she sits up and holds the top against her boobs? I'm all, ok, you do understand I'm your uncle, right? She's in heat. Something. Kids. Hormones. The sun. Something. Man. I'm gonna am-scray on you guys then."

Am-scray.

Kind of thing he hadn't said since high school. Middle school.

Passing Little Creek city park, moving at already twice the speed limit, then casa de Dobbs a blur on his right and then the railcars a blur on his right, the cement bridge a brief humming noise, the abandonment of Mrs. Boyle and all her culinary effort burbled into mind. A sweet smell in the kitchen. Bent over the oven then bent over wearing nothing but an apron, he pictured the old woman sweat dampened, loose curls from her bun sweat plastered to the back of her neck, buried between drooping buttcheeks her opening so slick in anticipation of Quinn's touch a thick fishy blob broke and splooshed on the kitchen tile. His dick didn't get hard. Not even a little. The asphalt gave way to the gravel road, and the imminent task withered all fancy, fuck- and otherwise. Hope wasn't at the cabin anymore. Neither was the money. Still, he had to look. There had to be a clue. He could picture Faye giving him up, Bonnie and Bret and Clay deciding to deal with him. Next thing he knew, he was target practice. The bull's eye. Poor Bush. Dead Bush. Jesus. Things in Little Creek got much hotter, Quinn told himself, he'd am-scray for real.

Chapter 17

About every other vehicle parked in the mall lot reminded Sipe of the SUV from last night. What wasn't big and shiny and black looked like it'd been dented by something likely big and shiny and black.

Timbers Athletic operated inside the biggest structure on the lot, nestled in between a bakery and jewelry store. Tiffany stayed inside the car, a view right on Timbers Athletics front entrance, and Sipe walked around the buildings, doing reconnaissance. Behind the businesses a dirt road, loading docks, and a grassy area populated by shattered wooden pallets and aluminum flotsam.

After he returned to the car, Tiffany asked if she could go use a bathroom. Hesitating, like she expected he'd come with her, make sure she didn't tattle to some adult about the thug who'd attacked her earlier. When she came back, she handed him a plastic bag. A present.

"Hope you don't have a prescription or anything," she said.

Sunglasses. Not sleek, but big granny-like sunglasses. He slid them on. Sipe checked out his reflection. The lenses big enough they muffled the initial visual impact of his bruise.

A half-hour after he got back to the car, Millicent exited the front doors of her business.

Today the red gold hair hung loosely across sun baked shoulders bared to the world, her body clad in a strapless swimming pool blue stretch top and crimson colored, skin tight yoga pants. She wore mirrored sunglasses. The entire walk from the front entrance to her vehicle she stared at her phone, at one point halting midstream the main arterial in between the parking and the businesses. When she pulled out of the parking lot, Sipe and Tiffany followed.

"This is kind of cool," said Tiffany. "This is like a TV show or something. Have you followed someone before like this?"

"Couple times."

"Wow. She's turning."

"I see it."

"Wow. She doesn't signal, does she?"

"Guess not."

"Uncle Norm doesn't signal either. One time we got pulled over, and he flat out lied to the cop. Told him it wasn't him it was the truck. The wiring all gunny-bag. The cop believed him. But, I mean, seriously? That truck? Who wouldn't believe him?"

They drove past a community college and then up a hillside with kind of a corkscrew path for the road. High up the hill, a construction crew was installing a condominium on one end of a street, and on the other end were finished condominiums, plopped on the same lot, each structure skinny on the bottom, wider on the top like a flower constructed from LEGO blocks. Millicent turned off the street into a driveway. The SUV disappeared. Sipe sped up slightly and drove just a bit past the driveway entrance, braking and hunching low in his seat, looking out Tiffany's window to try and see where the SUV ended up in the condo parking. It looked like a lot of parking slots.

"Keep looking for traffic," he told Tiffany.

"Ok."

A few second later, he said, "Maybe."

"What's that?"

"They might have it marked out with numbers. If you're in Unit 1, then the parking is specifically labeled like that. So I get out, see where she's parked and it'll tell me which one to go to."

"Which one what?"

"Condo."

"Yeah. Maybe. Wait."

"What?"

Tiffany pointed. She'd tilted forward, her head hovered over her knees, looking through the passenger side window and up towards the condominium.

"That's her."

"Where?"

"There."

The second condo back from the street, Millicent stood in a window on the top floor, something in hand having arrested her attention. Mail? Likely that phone, again. A woman walked into view. The sun struck half the window. Millicent in the shaded portion. The woman in the sunlight had white hair and wore a bright pink top. It looked like she tried to grab the phone from Millicent, but all Millicent did was rotate, keeping the phone out of the old woman's reach.

Sipe drove down the street, made a right, backed up in a driveway, and then drove back down Millicent's street and parked curbside a couple houses down from the condos. Before he shut the engine off, he rolled down Tiff's window. Engine off, he opened his door.

"Wait. Now what?" asked Tiffany.

"I go knock on the door."

"Really? You don't wait?"

"Don't really have time to wait."

"I thought you'd have binoculars and all that. Stakeout the place."

"Can't."

"Because of the guy. The Wub."

He nodded.

"The Wub. I'm sorry. How scary can a guy be if he's called the Wub?"

Sipe looked at her.

"I mean, geez, what? He comes up to someone and says 'I'm duh Wub heah doo Wub oo out.'"

"It's not that bad."

"What? How he talks? Whatever. Do you do that? What he does?"

Sipe didn't know why it felt worse, admitting it. Like words were more violent somehow than nearly tearing off her limb.

Sipe shoved the door wide and got out.

"Oh." Then Tiffany said, "Oh, shit. Your gun. We should've stopped and gotten it."

Sipe shrugged. Shut the door.

"That might not be a problem."

Walking away from the car he heard her say, "Might not be a pwobwem."

*

His car, the company car, the Lexus, was parked next to Millicent's SUV. The parking spots weren't conveniently marked. Lucky he'd gotten the window shot of Millicent in the sunlight. Lots of signs posted around the parking spouts espousing trespassers would get towed. Sipe bet a camera was watching him.

Despite the Old Man's assertions, Connie wasn't a complete idiot. The black sedan was locked up tight. If Sipe had a spare key, he'd pop the trunk, move Connie's bags, slip out the black briefcase nooked inside next to the toolbox, dial a combination lock, and arm himself with the backup gun and burner phone, simple as that.

A repetitious click-click-click-click sounded. A little dog scooted out from a walkway and paused and looked at Sipe. Smaller than Pluto, the dog's lower jaw extended forward further than the nose.

"Bijou, you bad thing. You wait for mama. Yes, you do. You wait for mama."

A woman with white hair and wearing a pink sweater with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows appeared.

"Oh." She saw Sipe and stopped.

Bijou looked back at mama, waiting for instructions. The kill order maybe.

"I don't have to worry about being eaten, do I?" asked Sipe.

Mama laughed.

"Maybe if you taste like chicken. Bijou is a connoisseur of chicken."

"I think I might be all right." Sipe laughed. Mama laughed. Bijou snuffled the asphalt, peered down the drive like out on the street, something chicken tasting was wasting away.

"Pardon my poking around down here. Do you know how much these places go for?" Sipe asked. "It's not for me. I got a nephew, coming back to the states from Singapore, and I'm price shopping for him."

"Ohhhhh." Mama tilted her head back like that explained this strange little man's presence in what was normally a vacuum. "That is a good question."

Sipe took off the sunglasses. Hooked the earpiece into his shirt collar. He pointed to his bruise. Laughed.

"This. I know. Horrible looking. It's what happens when you don't pay attention playing doubles."

"Oh-ho-ho-ho-ho." Mama got it. He didn't have to tell her.

"I don't know, you know," said Sipe. "He sounds more like he wants something really urban. Portland. Seattle. I tell him Pendleton's a good place, but Singapore to here, that might be kind of bumpy. Transition and all, you know?"

"Totally. Mmmm. Totally." Mama old as Sipe's mother. A shade of tan just shy of saddle leather. Ratchet one of those thin arms behind her back, and it'd go to dust quicker than a stake through a vampire's chest.

"He's in software, so, he's got money to burn. Here." He stepped towards Mama and put up his hands. "I don't...Cujo here isn't gonna eat me, is he?"

"No. Bijou's a baby. A little sweetie. You be good, you don't eat the nice man, baby."

Sipe laughed, patting himself down, walking towards Mama, saying he had his wallet here somewhere. Telling her the nephew's wife was something else, but it was the kids. She had to see 'em. He had the pics right here, 4 of 'em if you could believe it, boom-boom-boom-boom, in half as many years. Honestly, could you fit a family that big in one of these condos?

Chapter 18

The condo lobby walls were decorated in medals, some under glass, some strung off hooks. There were photos of Millicent, captured coming out of the pool, or standing on the dais, glossy testaments, the athlete arrested in a moment of glory. The procession of achievement interrupted on one side by a window looking out on the street below.

The sunlight made the pine floors glow like the wood had only today been slathered in an oil-based sealant. Two stair steps led up to the main loft. A living room on the left, as big a flat screen TV physics allowed mounted on the wall. Across from the lobby doorway, a bunch of windows allowed a view to a hill, and past a free standing wall standing guard to some sort of fountain burbling atop slabs of granite, a combination kitchen and dining area.

The way the Old Man remembered it, Connie's mom had this big nose, this troubled way of breathing, and it had passed to the kid. Connie looking a little like Ichabod Crane, from the Disney cartoon version of Sleepy Hollow, at least according to the Old Man, when he was less than enthusiastic about his legacy. Caveat to that being anyone in the organization caught calling Connie 'Ichabod' or 'Sleepy Hollow' would lose their job and their life in short order.

Connie had a beer bottle in hand, standing, his back to a kitchen counter. The way Zeke had described him once, it was like a woman could have too much tit or too much ass, and the gods hadn't stopped working on Connie until it was too late. His chin, his nose, his forehead, if you cropped 'em all just a bit, he'd be movie star handsome, and it wasn't like he was ugly like Zeke or Sipe, but there was something a little off.

Connie's eyes switched back and forth between Mama, Bijou in her arms, and Sipe, back and forth like something here was off if only he could figure out what. The electric cord powering the smile got kicked out of its outlet, and Connie's shoulders fell like it was a given last night's events had a half-life, expiration date: now.

Millicent shut a cabinet door. Several liquor bottles and glasses stood ready on the kitchen island. A cutting board occupied by a knife, ice cube trays, and a sliced lemon and a sliced lime.

"I'm sorry, Millie," said Mama.

"What?" Millicent dropped a lemon into a glass.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" Millicent licked juice off fingers and plucked a lime slice from the cutting board and dropped it into a glass already half full of ice and yellow and pink liquid.

"Millicent," said Connie. When she looked at him, he motioned with the beer hand.

The thing Sipe had, according to Zeke, was an absence for overdoing it. He was a minimalist. A master of deadpan. A lot of guys in a situation like this would call Millie any number of insulting things or would indicate the bruise on their face, the simple fact that maybe these dipshits ought to have just finished the job last night.

Sipe looked at Millicent. He was as stone. He could have been looking at his reflection.

The Olympian's smile evaporated. The spot between eyebrows dented, she showed some teeth, and she grabbed the knife from the cutting board.

Even before Sipe reached inside his jacket, Connie stepped away from the counter and grabbed Millicent's wrist.

"He has a gun," said Connie.

"Fuck. You fuck. You fucking fuck."

"Millie. Millie! We didn't take his gun, remember? Hey. Baby. Come on. Look at me. Look at me. There you are. Remember?"

Her tan super-ceded by a boiling red like some invisible attendant had flipped the lid on her skull and was pumping in a limitless amount of agitation.

"You dumb fuck." Spit flew. "I told you. I told you to take it. Toss it. Jesus."

"I know. I'm sorry. I couldn't...I just couldn't. But you gotta put the knife down. You gotta. He'll kill you. He'll kill your mom."

"I told you to take it. I did. But you had to be a faggot, didn't you? You stupid fucking faggot. I knew you were a faggot."

Bijou barked. Mama cried out. She tried to cover the little hairballs muzzle. She must've pressed too hard. The dog nipped her. Mama cried out. Bijou squirted out from Mama's arms and landed and scuttled across the kitchen floor and behind the island.

"Bijou," called Mama, clutching her wounded hand. "Bijou," like the little dog had escaped outside and it was a given no one would ever see him again.

*

Right after everyone sat down at the dining room table, Millicent stood.

"I have to piss."

Sipe sat in the chair across from her at the other end of the table. He sat back from the table edge, at an angle, just in case he had to bolt. Resting on table edge, right in front of him, Millicent's stun gun. He'd asked Connie to get it for him. Having it here, out in front of everyone, it acted as a subtle threat. The elephant in the room.

He looked across the table at Millicent.

"Sit down," he said.

Millicent laughed.

"I have to piss. You want me to piss my pants?"

"If you leave this table to go to the bathroom when you come back, your mom will still be sitting in her chair, but her head is gonna be in her lap."

Mama didn't react. Reclaimed from the brief escape, Bijou sat in his owner's lap, panting, tongue exposed, black beady eyes aimed somewhere near Sipe.

Connie stood and actually had to touch Millicent. She jerked like static electricity had discharged.

"What does that mean? What he said. He's gonna cut her head off?"

Connie whispered at her, touched her, guided her back down into her chair. Millicent glanced at Mama like she was imagining the exposed neck stump, a swatch of tissue and gristle like marble dipped in borscht.

"You mind if I stand?" asked Connie, implying it might be better here on out if he held Millie down.

"Fine," said Sipe.

Connie bent at the waist, kissed the top of Millicent's head, kept his hands on her shoulders.

"How'd you find us?" asked Connie.

"Not that hard."

"She wanted to hit the road right away. I didn't. Whoops."

"Who is this? Who are you? Are you with the commission?" asked Mama. "You know, Millie's been doing well. No drugs. She's been just like the doctor said she could be, 'placid,' I think is what he said. It's when you people come around-"

"Mom."

"It's true," said Mama. "They have it out for you. Now. Young man. If you have someone you report back to-"

"Mom. Mom! He isn't with the commission."

"Well, they'll be back. It's like they have nothing better to do. Just pick on one athlete, over and over."

"He isn't with the commission."

"All right. You don't have to yell. I'm not deaf." Bijou licked Mama's fingers. She murmured, scratched the dog's ear.

Connie kept massaging Millicent's shoulders. So sun bronzed, when the kid took his hands away, they'd smell like he'd held a fist full of pennies.

"They sent someone," said Sipe. "A closer. I called."

"Oh man," said Connie. "Why'd you do that?"

"Protocol."

"Man. That was dumb." Connie sighed. "No. Sorry. It's not. It's what you're supposed to do, isn't it?"

"It's the Wub. He's on his way. Plane probably already landed. Walla Walla, probably. I don't know. This place got an airport?"

"I don't know. Millie?"

Too busy dismantling Sipe with her eyes.

"I had to call from a landline," said Sipe. "So he's gonna go check on that. Go to the house I made the call from. If he does that, some people that don't need to get hurt might get hurt. You know how he is. Once he gets going, he kind of loses it."

"Where'd you call from?"

"The town."

"Little Creek?"

Sipe nodded.

"I can call back home. I can call my dad."

"That doesn't work," said Sipe.

"Jesus H., what do you mean? We can even, take video, Skype it, upload it, show him I'm all right. Call off the hounds of Hell before they lay waste to some shitty little town."

"They'll think you might be doing it under duress."

"Come on!"

"It's happened before. Guys like me, sometimes they get grand aspirations. They go rogue. They see a pot of gold, think they got the key to ride the rainbow. It happens once, people in charge, they won't take a chance."

Connie snapped his fingers, trying to spark something inside his skull.

"Susan! Call her. She's not a dummy. Call her. I'll call her. Sipe, man, even my dad listens to her."

Bijou barked. Stirred by Connie's passion. Mama wrapped the little dog up even tighter and whispered in the fluff ball's ear.

Sipe said, "You seen them face huggers, in those movies, the ones with that tall broad? Right. No one, not even their makers I bet, can talk a face hugger out of doing its job. It's gonna lay its eggs. That's what it does. You try to pull it off a face, remember? That little tail just winds around the person's neck tighter. I've closed before, Connie. Like the Wub is right now. I've kept an open mind. Shit gets called off, sure. I get a call from the right number, I'd believe it. Thing is, I don't have to. I'm a closer? I get a call? I don't have to take it. Orders are orders are orders. Someone told the Wub, 'drop an egg down a throat.' That's what he's gonna do. Me, you, Susan, anyone, tries to pull him off, tell him to save the fuckin' egg for later, the tail is just gonna wind around the neck tighter."

"Yeah, but what about my dad?"

"What about him?"

"I call him. I tell him to call the Wub."

"He wouldn't call the Wub."

"Not even if I talked to him? Told him everything. Had Millie talk to him?"

Sipe looked at Millie. Imagined the Old Man meeting her for the first time. Sipe had seen a cartoon once. _Bambi Meets Godzilla_. You saw Bambi sniffing flowers. Then – boom! – down comes Godzilla's foot, flattening Bambi. It'd be like that.

All Sipe said to Connie was, "No."

"Well, after we make him stop, if we did," said Connie, "stop the Wub, send him home, what do I do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't want to go back. You get that, right?"

"Yeah."

"I'm done. I don't even want to start. I know I'm supposed to take over. I've told him I don't want to. I thought that's what having me go to school out of state was all about, him finally realizing I meant it."

"You wanted to go to cooking school. He sent you to the best."

"No, he sent me to an expensive one in the states. The best is in France. He wanted to send me to the best that's where he would've sent me. But I know, France, right? Kind of far away. The tentacles reach far, but only reach so far."

"You don't want to be a cook?"

"He's a chef, dumbfuck," said Millicent. "There's a difference."

"Thanks, baby," said Connie. "I'm a chef, ok? I've got the tools now. I don't want to though. I figured that out. Some of those people...They're intense, and I just don't own that passion. And I'm not dumb. I know the Old Man just sent me off to shut me up for a little while. I know what he wants. What I'm supposed to do once he can't run things like he does. Just drop everything, anything I've worked for, and put his crown on my head." Connie laughed. "I look like her, like my mom, here and there, so he thinks I'm dumb like she was. Hand me some stupid bauble, and I'll suck on it, just shut up."

"What do you want to do?"

"Her." He put his hands on Millicent's shoulders. She reached up and covered his hands with her own.

"'Her' isn't really an answer."

"This Wub guy," said Millicent, "he'll have to kill me to get to Connor." Connie tilted forward and smooched the top of Millicent's head.

Sipe nodded. He worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth, and it made a wet little noise when he pulled his tongue back. He stood.

"Ok," said Sipe. "Sooner we get to Little Creek and all, sooner we can figure out what you do when it's done."

"You promise? You swear? Pinkie swear?"

Connie stuck his pinkie in the air. As a little guy, Connie had forced pinkie swears on a lot of people. Zeke. Susan. Simon. Sipe could imagine Tiffany adhering to a pinkie swear. Remembering it forever.

"We'll do what we can," said Sipe.

It was a contrast, the hope on his face. The bloodless gaze Millie directed at Sipe and kept directing at Sipe while Connie smooched the top of her head.

*

While they hugged and kissed, Millicent started sobbing. She loved Connie so much, so very much. Mama sat, her lap a flat surface affording Bijou the luxury of maximizing his butt and balls maintenance.

Connie walked out ahead of Sipe. Most the way, careful, considering previous experience given the company, and even with the stun gun now in his possession, Sipe backed out. When he turned to follow Connie down the steps to the lobby, Millicent called out.

"Bela Yalbo."

Connie stopped. Sipe stopped. He started reaching for his suit jacket pocket, new home to the stun gun.

"Little man, I'm talking to you," said Millicent. "You know who I'm talking about? You should. When I was 8, I knew I was meant to swim. I knew it. I took to it. I was part fish. I still am part fish. When I started winning swim meets, my mom and dad wanted me to have the best. They asked me if I wanted the best and I said I want the best. Bela Yalbo was the best. Craigmont, Jensen, all these swimmers, Bela Yalbo's swimmers, they went to the Olympics. Colorado, we went all the way to Colorado. We were ready to move there, but Bela Yalbo, he told them, he told me, 'little girl, you're shaped like a log, not like a fish, you're solid where you should flex.' I was winning all those swim meets, but he told my parents no. He told me no. He took something away from me. Telling me that, it was like he raped me. He could've raped me it wouldn't have been half as bad.

"But do you know what? Every time, every time, every time, I swam against someone coached by Bela Yalbo, I beat them. Look it up. Go ahead, look it up. Everyone knows it. Bela Yalbo. His queers, his faggots, his little stupid flexible cunts, I took them down. All of them."

Millicent pointed at Sipe. She trembled.

"You're taking my Connor away from me. Until I get him back, you're Bela Yalbo. You're my new Bela Yalbo, you got it? You're Bela Yalbo. And I beat Bela Yalbo. I beat Bela Yalbo. I beat Bela Yalbo."

On and on and on like they were being serenaded out of the lobotomy prep ward. All the bronze plates fastened to the awards boards, it was possible the raised lettering on every last one of them read nothing else but 'I beat Bela Yalbo.'

*

Outside, Connie pressed the fob and unlocked the Lexus trunk. Sipe opened the trunk, shoved luggage, eyeballed the inside, felt panic rise, but finally made out the shape of a slender black briefcase. He detached it from the brace at the rear of the trunk, slid it out, and closed the trunk.

"We'll lead," said Sipe. "Tan Honda. One of them fish on the trunk."

"Darwin fish?"

"Yeah."

"Ok." Connie snapped his fingers. "Your phone. I forgot. Sipe, man, sorry, but she chucked it. Last night, I don't even remember where, but we were driving and she all of a sudden threw it out the window."

"It's just a phone."

"Yeah. I know. Still, kind of rude. She does that. Impulsive you know?"

Sipe started walking out of the condo parking and stopped. He turned. Connie had the Lexus driver side door open.

Sipe asked, "She really beat all those swimmers, all the ones coached by that guy?"

Connie nodded.

"He knew he'd fucked up. He told the press she was 'the one that got away.'"

"Like a fish?"

"Like a fish," said Connie. "He's dead. Bela Yalbo."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Sipe looked up towards Millie's condo. No one in the windows.

"How'd he go?"

"You think she killed him?" Connie laughed.

"Just curious."

"Naw. She didn't. He suffered a heart attack lifting weights. Probably left a void in her life though. It's why she freaked out. Attacked that other swimmer, got her butt bounced off her team. She needed to have someone out there she could hate as much as she hated Bela."

Sipe took in Connie's enigmatic smile.

"What?"

"Nothing. We better go before she's drawn down here. Take on the newly christened Bela Yalbo."

Sipe walked down the slope towards the Honda parked on the street. He could hear the Lexus start up behind him. Sipe kept saying Bela Yalbo to himself like he was practicing pronouncing before ordering at a restaurant.

Chapter 19

Henry knew that most days Bug was out at the railcars at dawn. This morning the day of the week he ran his mother into Pendleton for her medical visit. If it had been a regular day, his regular schedule, Bug would have found Sipe, and Tiffany and Sipe wouldn't have driven away in Lori's car, and Henry wouldn't have ridden Alec's abandoned bike from the house through town and out to the railcars. Crawling into afternoon, the day heating up, the asphalt smelled molten.

Henry knew he'd been short with Gwen. He couldn't hide being upset. It was obvious. Not crying, but he got a look on his face when he got upset. Or happy. Whichever emotion, always slow to retreat. Poorest poker player in the world, Lori called him.

Gwen had caught him right as he'd rolled the purple bicycle out the garage. Sipe was sick, he'd said. Then why was he driving Lori's car? Henry didn't know. Tiff was with him. That worried Gwen. Some strange guy going off with a girl. Well, she shouldn't be worried. But she was worried. Then Henry asked just a little too loud didn't she trust him? Didn't she have work to do? Teacher face. She wasn't a teacher anymore, but she'd given him the teacher face. Stone on the outside, stone on the inside. Once those teachers perfected it, they could call on it, easy.

Bug's pickup was parked on the grass next to the railcars. The tailgate flopped open, a Thermos and a lunch pail shaded courtesy of a flattened cardboard box. Most people assumed Bug stored all kinds of random junk inside the truck bed. He kept it orderly, tight. He had a metal detector out on the bed, and the storage box bolted to the back of the front cab. Inside the box might be tangle of wire and cord and tools and screw and nails, but it was all contained.

When Henry rode the bike off the asphalt onto the field, Bug sat on his lawn chair in the shade on the northwest side of a railcar.

"Henry." Bug greeted him, not looking at him, focused on his two finger typing attack upon his laptop. The lawn chair weave in some plaid pattern mimicking Bug's western shirt. One sleeve buttoned to the wrist, the other cuff rolled at the elbow. Disheveled, Tiff's word for this Little Creek eccentric.

Bug plotted and mapped out every inch of the railcars and the field, his field, or Lester Scoggins', depending on which camp backer you talked to in town. All he'd tell anyone was that his work at the railcars amounted to a 'work in progress.' Now what that meant was open to interpretation. Some thought the crazy sumbitch believed a UFO was buried under the earth. Others thought there was some truth to the rumors old timey bank robbers had hit banks in Portland and buried the stash here, only arrests and in-fighting and the cold hand owned by the march of time had stymied the unearthing of treasure.

"How you doing?" Still tapping. Not looking at Henry.

Rumors held when he went into the service right out of high school, Bug singled out at Fort Lewis, funneled into some sort of special ops spook program. That buttoned sleeve encircled a scar induced by a hypodermic needle, some super soldier serum side effect turning the Collar boy's limb half-lizard. No one called him Bug until he came back, and his own old man shared tales with drinking buddies about how the boy-now-man could sense entrances and exits and the slightest alteration of wind or heat like a bug bearing super-sensitive antennae. 'Boy could be in the crapper, and tell you which pup out at the Erdrich's gonna suck on its mama's teats first 'fore any of the critters even wakes up.' That sort of hyperbole. Legend building.

"I'm ok," said Henry.

"That's good." Tap. Tap-tap.

"You seen Hope?"

"Come again?"

"Hope Logan?"

"Umm. Which one of you is she again?"

Bug sat right at the butt end of the railcar spray painted with the word 'HOPE.' He waved the air, scattering insects.

"Tiffany's friend. Tiff's asked you about her before. Hope's pretty. About my height. She has a piercing in her nostril. Least she did."

"No piercings. Nope. Not out here." Bug cleared his throat, spat over his shoulder, likely spackling the weathered railcar with something the consistency of tapioca. "Sometimes, over there, the Dobbs' place? see some female in a white bikini." He looked back at his laptop and shook his head. "That white bikini spends entirely too much time on her cell phone. Can hear it. Her chatter. The me-me-me-me-me. And her laugh. The kind of laugh you hear and you just know the lady laughing like that is playing with her hair while she laughs."

Henry looked towards the Dobbs'. Riding past the house on the bicycle he'd looked, hoping to catch maybe a glance of Brandi Dobbs. Nothing doing. Bug's mention producing flutters in Henry, memory of what the mere sight of one of Little Creek High School's premiere displays of eye candy could do.

"How old is she anyways?" asked Bug.

"Brandi?"

"That her name? Wait. Thought it was Hope."

"No. Hope's missing. Brandi lives over there. Brandi isn't missing."

"No nose piercing on Brandi?"

"No. No. Yeah. Brandi, she's my age. No. A year younger," said Henry.

Bug squinted at the Dobbs house.

"I see someone in a bikini outside there sometimes, I thought it's the mom. The mom's tall, skinny, yeah?"

"They both are."

"They both are? Shit. I don't need to be looking at some kid, and getting all worked up. People say enough bad things about old Bug already, I don't need to be a Chester, too. Sweet post-pubescent temptation is acid on a man's soul. That's good intel, Henry. Thank you.

"Freshening up my specs like this, perhaps I ought to mosey south a railcar or two, put some distance between here and their pool before the moral majority come for me with the torches and the pitchforks." Bug cleared his throat and launched one into the dirt. Then he looked at the Dobbs' place like he dared or even double dared Brandi Dobbs to come on out, showing off all points supple and pouting and/or aroused and arousing.

"You know anything about Quinn Dobbs?"

"No. He the dad?"

"The uncle."

"Mm-mm. Never seen, never talked to."

"You know about the place, out at Butcher's Camp. The ladies. The prostitutes."

"Here and there I heard some. Heard it was doing great guns for a little while."

"Hope was out there."

"What do you mean?"

"Like...working out there," said Henry. "Quinn Dobbs was one of her customers. A regular, I guess you could say."

"He know how old she was?"

"I don't know. She can look older than she is. Tiff says Hope's even gotten into bars before."

"One of them girls. Oh, I see. Slide on by the bouncer. Put enough mascara on they look like a raccoon, but legal."

"But no one's seen her now for about a week," said Henry. "And this Quinn guy, he was, I don't know, if she was going to go somewhere with someone, he's kind of the prime suspect out of everyone. He liked her."

"Enough to cut and run. Right. You tell the cops?"

"No. Tiff doesn't think that's such a hot idea." Henry relieved that Bug didn't ask why. He didn't want to recite the dirt about Hope having relations with the cops.

Bug closed the laptop and rubbed his whisker-covered chin. They never coalesced into a beard. Just constantly hovered on the brink like a pregnant beer foam on the cusp of spilling suds.

"You know the Dobbs' have a cabin," said Bug.

"I thought about that," said Henry. No. He hadn't. But if someone had reminded him of all the world wonders Byron and Brandi got to experience due to the intrepid foresight of their parents, the cabin would've eventually seemed a plum suspect.

"Don't think it's done," said Bug. "It's not too far out of town, otherwise why build the fucker, but it's out of the way. Place for hunting, entertaining, what have you."

Hope stashing, thought Henry. He looked at the asphalt winding into the foothills, the timberline, the instant thickness of green.

Pumping the pedals, standing up off the seat, hard enough on asphalt, but the road regressed to gravel just before it curved out of sight into the trees. Riding back wouldn't be too bad, all downhill, but by the time he got out to the Dobbs' cabin, it'd be sunset.

"My nuts get numb I sit too long in this thing." Bug closed the laptop and stood and snagged the lawn chair in his other hand, popping the chair hinges shut by banging the chair into his hip. "You want, we could run on out, take a look at the cabin."

"Really?"

"Shit, yeah. I been sitting in the sun too long anyways"

After Bug threw the chair into the Toyota bed, he helped Henry load Alec's bike in. There was a trick to getting the dented tailgate shut, and Henry just took a step back on Bug's advice, letting the wiry little man slam and pull back on the tailgate at the same time.

The cab interior was mildly dusty, a slight oily sheen on the seat fabric, but nothing hideous. Back in Redmond, the inside of Paul Salerno's car was more cause for concern. Paul telling Henry and any male in their crew the sickening sweet smell permeating the used cruise mobile the result of all the pussy juice sopping out of crotches and drying into the backseat. Tim Hayden asking Paul point blank just how long did Paul stimulate those cat anuses with his tongue and fingers before the torrent.

Center of the dash, facing the occupants, a Beeper. Henry thought it looked like a zombie. A woman half-starved or something, ribs and the outline of boobs showing.

"That's Dezzy. Back in high school, had something with an older girl. Started in March, ended in June. Desdemona, like out of the Bible if you can believe it." Bug scritched the Beeper's beaver-sized buckteeth. "Found Dezzy out here. Someone had busted up a bunch of 'em, but Dezzy survived. Ugly. So ugly. But you look long enough, who isn't?"

Bug didn't buckle up, and neither did Henry. The first curve beyond the asphalt towards the forest maw turned slightly sludge-like courtesy a kingdom of gravel, but if Bug showed no open concern at the prospect, Henry bit down on his, wanting to be grown up acting as a pacifier to the obvious safety step.

The Jaguar came out of the woods at a crawl then ramped up speed so that by the time tires hit asphalt, the car fairly roared. It wasn't prolonged, but it was loud. The car zipped in towards Little Creek proper, downshifting to make the sudden turns, left off Old Woods, left off of Kautz and park in the Dobbs' driveway. Cessation of the engine left the world seeming Eden-like. The unmistakable slam of a single car door sounded as Henry looked at Bug and Bug looked in the rearview mirror like habituated in its confines existed tech capable of piercing the southern end of the Dobbs' house, any and everything interior and exterior on display and for his perusal.

"I think that was him," said Henry. "Quinn. His car."

"Weird."

"I mean I'm not sure. I couldn't see. The windows are all dark on that car. Did he go by earlier?"

Some vestige of the laptop work remained. Bug's index fingers tap-tap-tapped the steering wheel ridge, Bug thinking. He turned the engine over. His head bobbing, maybe a confirmation, as thoughts passed in bubbles like saline out of an IV drip.

Before heading out of town, they did a drive-by.

Quinn Dobbs' car the only vehicle parked in front of the house, the lawn just two days shy of Henry's next appointment. No one in sight. No one on the deck, modeling swimwear.

"I don't even know what that ding-dong looks like," said Bug. "But it seems weird, him pooping on out from the woods like that. I don't know. Could be that cabin. Could be he had some squirrel killing to get on out his system. Could be this. Could be that."

Nodding, Henry looked out the cab rear window at the Dobbs' house, retreating fast as Bug headed for a cross street then one, two, three turns through town, and acceleration, Auntie's in the rearview, then past the Dobbs house again, past the railcars, one last throat clearing and then a hucking of a fat one out onto the pavement before the considerably rougher ride Bug greeted by telling Henry and maybe himself, "Hold on to your hat. Here come hemorrhoids."

*

Bug stayed with the truck, butt resting against the hood, smoking a cigarette. Henry walked the cabin perimeter.

He'd knocked on the front and back doors. No answer. The roof kind of complete, the windows set in place, but the porch wasn't quite complete, shingles missing from the overhang, the pillar supports the color of wood just purchased off a lumber company lot. Pressing his face against windows, cupping his head and squinting revealed unfinished walls, exposed wires, insulation. Not the surroundings someone like Hope would endure. The dirty little secret, the joke here, Henry didn't really like Hope. Not a hate. She was definite eye candy. But Henry didn't have anything to say to her. Tiff always did. Tiff could talk to anyone. Henry could barely tote the conversational kindling to communicate with his mom. Instead of Hope seeing Henry as someone she could trust, another freak or geek out in the boonies, he was dead weight. Even if he saved her from some life-or-death scenario, he bet she'd wish it were someone a little bit cooler, a hero with cache certain to rub off, increase her worth.

Henry rounded the cabin's western side, passing bags of cement, spots for flowers and other ornamentation blocked off by rebar and planks shunted into the loam. A mound of beauty bark loomed at the rear of the lot, and a smaller peak filled the wheelbarrow adjacent. Hand tools littered the wheelbarrow perimeter, work abandoned sometime ago. He couldn't picture Hope out here, biding time courtesy of intensive labor. He could picture someone loading the wheelbarrow for her, and Hope considering the labor ahead, sighing, and poking at bark before finally freeing up her hands for the more soothing and familiar work of texting.

On the drive out he'd received a text from Tiffany. They were in Pendleton, Sipe inside some condo, Tiff sitting in Lori's car. Bored. Fighting off sleep. Naptime anytime, right? Her arm felt fine. She wasn't mad at Henry. Like she'd said. She could never be mad. Their places swapped out, she would've watched Sipe tear Henry's arm off before coughing up the keys.

She didn't say anything about kissing him.

It'd been dry and platonic. More like a smooch his mom would plant.

Right after Sipe took Lori's keys out and got into the car, Tiff told Henry she was going with Sipe. She started towards the living room door, and Henry grabbed her. The left shoulder, the wing Sipe hadn't nearly ripped off. Still, a spasm went through her. Henry let go, stepped back, hands up, but right away Tiff laughed. Told him her brains were messed up. Like both shoulders hurt, sheezus. It was ok. Really. Put her hands on his shoulders, told him it was going to be fine, all of it, she promised, then she arched up, and put one on his lips. And then she ran out of the house.

Henry knew he should shake it off. It wasn't on her radar. It didn't mean anything. He could imagine Paul Salerno, pointing and giggling, 'Look at Henry, sporting a permanent stiffy, all because Aquagirl's sweater bunnies mashed up against him for all of a half-second. Virgin.'

A power line buzzed. Henry looked up at the cord sagging between the cabin and the pole at the lot perimeter. A few people lived outside of Little Creek proper. He hadn't really noticed the power poles on the ride out. A few more miles into the woods there was the first fire lookout. Lori had taken him out to it this spring, just as a mom-son weekend activity. She'd pointed out the next lookout, a little blip out on the rim of the world. Henry thought it might be a pretty cool job, at least the being alone aspect. Thinking of the forest being on fire, even if you were perched up top in the lookout, that scared the shit out of him.

Deep down the throat of the access road, a rumble started and gathered force, gravel churned up and clicking like dud popcorn kernels canon shot from a popper, caroming around the rim of a waiting bowl. The Jaguar rolled into view, kept coming in slow poke pace and then turned sharp, slowing, perpendicular to Bug's truck, the sporty cars front tires angled so that if the car decided to make a break for it, only a sapling or two would be sacrificed.

The engine died. The driver side door opened. The whole time Bug remained sitting on the hood, looking over his left shoulder at the Jaguar.

Henry recognized Quinn Dobbs. That razor-sculpted goatee had been in the big brown house at least once before Alec's run. Henry home from school, the Jaguar parked in the driveway, a late last winter snow melting soon as it landed on the car, on the gravel. Quinn barely ever speaking to Henry, just nodding at him before leaving the house, Alec going out for a spin with his one Little Creek pal.

Whenever Quinn cropped up as a topic at the dinner table, Lori just nodded. Alec ignorant that the Lori-nod indicated the mistress of the shit-brown castle was only putting up with one of her guys' poor taste in friends. Paul Salerno had been a former frequent recipient of the nod.

"You guys do know that this is private property, right?" asked Quinn. The look he gave Henry like with a single stroke of some pen on some parchment he'd strike down any current or future lawn mowing work the boy might otherwise have performed in the entire kingdom Dobbs.

Pushed off the hood, Bug cleared his throat and hucked one onto the gravel. He gestured at Henry, rubbed at his ball cap like some titanic itch had arisen, and after fidgeting with the ball cap bill asked Quinn, "You guys got a kid out here? A girl?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know what a girl is, right?"

Crickets. Quinn a mannequin.

"Hope? Henry? Hope? That's the name? Right. So, look, this girl's missing. Looked all over for her, in town and whatnot, but figured we ought to look a few other places. You seen her?"

"No," said Quinn.

"Know who she is?"

"Not really."

"Kind of a cutie. Kind of like most kids these days, showing off a little more than might be advisable."

"No," said Quinn.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"By my count, well, yeah, by my count, you've been out here twice today. You doing work out here or something?"

"That's none of your business."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. I'm just asking. This is quite the set-up. Tell the truth, I'd build somewhere there weren't quite so many trees though. They're gonna shit on your shingles constantly."

Quinn patty caked the Jaguar roof. A nice tight polite smile tugging the goatee.

"Like I said, you shouldn't be out here. Either of you."

"We go you can get back to work?"

"Something like that."

"Huh. 'Cause honestly, you don't look dressed for labor. You look like you might be going to work at one of them Indian casinos maybe, but you don't look like you got a date with beauty bark, son."

"I think you need to leave."

"Sure. Certainly. Pop them doors open. Let us into your cabin. Make me believe there isn't a kid out here."

"That isn't going to happen. Now, please, I've been more than accommodating," said Quinn. "You can pack up, you can beat it, or, I can call the cops."

"Tell you what. Tell. You. What. Let's have a race. I'll whip out mine, you whip out yours, fuck, Henry, whip out yours, and we'll see who gets Deputy Dawg out here first. You do know how law works around here, right? Out in the boonies? They mosey through town once or twice a day, and it's all about their tummies. Which one's on duty and whether or not they enjoy the hash they serve up at The Outpost. What day is this? Henry, what day? Tuesday? Right. It's Tuesday. So probably neither one of us, any of three of us, is going anywhere anytime soon. Deputy Lueck won't be anywhere near Little Creek another 3 or 4 hours."

"You won't get a signal," said Quinn.

"What's that?"

Quinn pointed towards trees, his finger ticking back and forth like a frenzied windshield wiper.

"This. The trees. There's no reception out here."

"Got a phone inside?"

"Maybe."

"So go call."

Quinn scratched his face.

"Huh," said Bug. "Not so quick to have the law out here. Huh on top of huh. That's something."

Bug had worked the pack from his breast pocket. Tapped out a cigarette, and took the lighter out from the other breast pocket. Hands occupied he spat. Waggled the smoke and the lighter at Quinn.

"Long as I got access to flavor country, sport, I can wait all day, all afternoon, and on into the gloaming. You wanna try and make me and Henry leave you're welcome to it, but I'm kind of settled in for at least the next little bit. Maybe not like a tick on a well-digger's balls, but close to it."

Quinn opted out of the tight turn and backed the Jaguar up, incrementally, just missing mashing bumpers, and once aligned with the access road he peeled out, gravel spraying all over. The kind of unnecessary noise and violence that sent squirrel and bunny hearts into race mode. A slight haze rose, drifted into the trees, the gustiness of the take off complete with industrial perfume.

Once the Jaguar's roar edged into a slight insect-like hum, Bug stretched and motioned at the cabin.

"Those doors locked?"

Henry shook his head.

"Don't know. I knocked."

Bug gave the cabin a once over.

"Well, let's knock, again, and then if we have to huff and puff and blow the house down, well, we'll just apologize to the little piggies later on."

Chapter 20

"He says he has to go to the bathroom," Tiffany told Sipe. "Is the gas station ok? The Zippy Mart?"

"All right."

Tiffany told Connie 'All right,' then laughed, then hung up. After the initial pit stop in Pilot Rock, Connie and Tiff meeting and exchanging cell numbers, Connie had called a couple of times during the drive back to Little Creek. Even along the steepness. Sipe's guts had gone cold, imagining Tiffany listening to the Old Man's kid grunt and expectorate as the car cab crumpled, and he turned into jelly, one more dead motorist notched on Battle Mountains' belt.

"He did an impression of you," said Tiffany. "It was pretty good."

Henry had called Tiff. He'd gone out of town, out to some cabin, and interestingly enough, the Quinn Dobbs guy had appeared. No sign of Hope, but it looked like someone had been crashing inside the cabin.

The sun primed for a long descent into the west, the landscape glinting with copper highlights. Everything seemed of one piece. The cars driving past, north, towards Pilot Rock or Pendleton, they seemed to come out of nowhere. The wind tower blades were still. The Zippy Mart sign glowed with a dull white light, the crazed squirrel encrusted in plastic the color of moon crust, more yellow than white.

Foregoing the signal, Connie zipped out, drove past them, and cut across the lot, past the gas tanks, and parked at the side of the mini-mart. Already out, headed towards the entrance as Sipe turned wide, ignored the parking slots, and ended up idling Lori's car perpendicular to Connie's rear bumper, stopping so he could look towards the highway and also past Tiffany, out the passenger side window, at the mini-mart front doors.

"What are you doing?"

"Keeping an eye on things," said Sipe.

"What things?"

"Things." He tried to come up with a word that would get it across.

"You don't trust him?"

"People do things."

"Like last night."

"Yeah."

"You look so cool now. I should've gotten some sunglasses, too," she said. "We could be twins. Brother and sister. Father and daughter. Or lovers."

"Probably not."

She sighed and sat back in her seat. Yawned, patty-caked her thighs. The noise bothersome, but he wasn't about to force her to stop.

Trees behind the Zippy Mart formed the line of demarcation with the Collar place, a lot composed of abandoned farm machinery and sheep and chicken pens. The trees looked too close together to allow admittance. Sipe's normal state to check everything in a continuous orbit, right-front-left-back, Sipe glancing at the rearview mirror when a man pushed through the greenery, onto the asphalt, past the air and water pump and then onto the cement, walking in-between the Lexus front bumper and the big white ice box with polar bear decals.

"That's Bug," said Tiffany. "Collar. I was telling you about him. He was with Henry."

Sipe watched Bug at the mini-mart door, the plaid shirt and a pair of grimy jeans, Bug working a finger under the brim of a grimy ball cap before he went inside.

"Guy that was with Henry?"

"Out at the cabin. Right." Another yawn. "I should go talk to him. He's probably sick of me. I bugged him about Hope before. But I'm so sleepy all of a sudden. Oh my gosh. I think this thing has seat warmers. That'd be the nudge. I did that, you'd have one passed out Pleshette on your hands."

Cars had driven both directions out on the highway. No one slowing and turning and driving for Little Creek. That's what he was waiting for. The Wub. The timeframe seemed right. Flight from Seattle to Walla Walla or Pendleton. The drive. The Wub might already be in Little Creek. Waiting. On the drive from Pendleton, Sipe had checked the rearview religiously. Fate deciding to deal nothing but turds, why not send The Wub, why not have him end up right behind Sipe and Connie, a little caravan, a little reunion out in the middle of nowhere.

A gleaming black sedan, a sibling to the Lexus, sibling to all the cars in the Old Man's stable, heading south on Highway 395 slowed on approach to the intersection, waiting for a rickety pickup truck headed north to putter past before turning left, rolling on towards Little Creek.

Sipe could imagine some stooge from the Old Man's Walla Walla winery meeting the Wub at the Walla Walla airport. The stooge told the Wub some associate in the venture. A wine taster, a vintner with local issues to address. The stooge loading a locked slender black case in the trunk, brethren to the slender black case Sipe had put in the Lexus trunk before driving to St. Helena.

The black car turned. Sipe could imagine the car rolling left and inside a grim death's head grin holding, facing him at a tendon-snapping angle.

"Call Henry. Tiffany. Hey. Tiffany."

"Mmsleepy."

"Tiff. Call Henry."

"Ow."

"Call Henry."

"You pinched me."

He cupped her face and brought his so close he could have kissed her.

"Call Henry. He needs to get out of his house. Now. Right now. Or he's dead."

Her pupils expanded. Her brain shrinking like a conveyor belt conducted Tiff and Tiff's brain in opposite directions. He ran his finger down the length of her nose.

"Call him."

Released, her hands slapped all around her body, the phone in her lap elusive. Sipe's pointing down cued her and she picked it up. Dialed. Swore. Something about no bars. She popped the door handle and got out of the car. Walked away without shutting the door. She started to run towards the gas tanks like she might sprint back into town. Then stopped. Rotated this way and that, the modern equivalent to tilting the TV rabbit ears this way and that, trying to clear the snow from the signal. She shouted 'Henry' and then lowered her voice while appearing to talk a mile a minute.

Meantime, Bug exited the mini-mart, clutching a milk carton and junk food. He looked at Tiff and then through the open passenger side door in at Sipe. A moment later, he was past Connie's car and through the trees, back onto his property.

Connie exited. Looked at Tiffany, he made a face and started around the side of the mini-mart. Engine left running, Sipe got out, called out, and standing on the driver side of the sedan he motioned Connie to come on over.

"Everything ok?" asked Connie.

"I think I saw him. The Wub."

"Shit. Where?" Connie looked around, down the broad sweep of the valley like the shooter might be perched at the top of one of the wind towers, blades motionless in the deep throat of afternoon.

"Going into town."

"You saw him like you saw him. Him him?"

"Just a car."

"Look, Sipe, man, I don't want to be a dick or anything, but it could just be nerves. What, was it a black car?" Sipe nodded. Connie said, "Uh huh. Right. I'm just saying. It's been a day, man. It's been a couple three days compacted into one."

"It felt right."

"'It felt right.' I know. I know."

Tiffany walked back towards them. Not running. Not breathless.

"He's not at the house. Henry, I mean."

"Good."

"He's with Gwen. When he got back, from the cabin, she grabbed him, took him to The Outpost for a milkshake."

Sipe didn't care where Henry was just so long as it wasn't the house.

"Fuck that sounds good," said Connie. "They make good ones?"

Here Sipe thought Tiff would go all moonie-eyed, twist her hair through her fingers like sure, since Connie asked, she'd love to go get a milkshake.

Tiffany said, "Bug Collar had strawberry-banana Quik."

Connie returned the look Sipe sent his way.

"It was strawberry-banana Quik. And hot dogs. And a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips."

"Sounds like a meal to me," said Connie.

"That's like Hope's favorite snack. The drink, the Quik? It's really gross. And she mashes up the chips and rolls the hot dogs in them. One day it's going to get her, catch up to her, and she's going to be even fatter than me."

"You're not fat," said Connie. "You're pretty cute, you know, even if you're trying to rock that orange shirt. Not many people make orange sing, you know."

"Leave the car," said Sipe.

"Hm?"

"We'll leave the car. The Old Man's car. He'll know it. The Wub. He doesn't know this one. The Honda. We'll take this one into town."

"All right."

Sipe pointed at Tiffany. "You need to stay here."

"I'm going to ask her," said Tiffany. "I'm gonna go in there and ask the clerk how often Bug's been buying Quik and sour cream and onion potato chips."

"Can you stay here? After you do that? I don't want you to go to town right now."

That wall of green, those trees held her attention. Sipe had to say her name, almost walk around the car and touch her.

"You need to stay out here."

She looked at him. Nodded.

Connie ran in, Tiff behind him, Connie ever the gentleman and holding the door for Tiff, inside, he hefted some bullshit about car trouble at the clerk, and came back out, Sipe getting impatient while the kid checked all the doors on the Lexus.

Speeding across the Zippy Mart asphalt towards the intersection Connie asked Sipe, "That kid, she's pretty smart, isn't she?"

Checking the highway north and south, Sipe accelerated through the intersection. Once they were through it, he found the time to shrug.

Chapter 21

Forest Service employees stood in the parking lot talking. Helmeted, dirt smeared. If the Wub was at Henry's house and shots started, Sipe wondered how long it would take them to figure out they needed to duck. The dark green pants and bright, bright yellow long sleeved shirts worn by several of them reminded him of Tiffany's shirt and shorts.

Henry's driveway was unoccupied. Sipe parked in the driveway, bumper facing the garage door and got out and walked around the house, between the house and the metal shed, and looked down the lawn. Nobody stood at the clothesline. The Wub wasn't at the base of the lawn admiring the tree swing or the picnic table.

Back at Lori's car Sipe got inside and shut the driver side door and said to Connie, "He isn't here."

"Where do you think he went?" asked Connie.

"Don't know. This should be it. This is where I'd go."

"Why?"

"Phone number."

"Oh. Right. They got it. Tracked it."

Sipe put the car in reverse and backed up. Pulling forward he turned the tires toward the gravel road up the hill and hit the brakes.

"This is where you get out," said Sipe.

"Seriously?"

"I don't have time to talk."

"Don't you need me? He needs to see me, right?"

"At some point, but if you get shot? That's no good."

"He wouldn't shoot me."

"He wouldn't mean to shoot you."

"Fuck."

"Connie. You need to get out."

Connie punched the seat belt release. Opened the passenger side door. He started to get out and then he stopped.

"How do we...You got a phone, right?"

"There's one in the case I took out of the car."

"You know my number?"

"No," said Sipe. "The kid has it."

"Tiffany? Yeah, but do you have it? You want it?"

"Connie, there are 250 people in this town. If I need to find you, I'll find you."

Connie got out and started to close the door. He halted up and looked in at Sipe.

"I'm going to try to call him. Mr. Wub. You wouldn't. The Old Man wouldn't. You dinosaurs just don't get it. Use the technology for fuck's sake."

Sipe looked at him, Connie hunched over, holding the door. Maybe if he looked at the door long enough, it would pop out of the kid's hand and slam shut.

"This is so fucked." Connie slammed the door. Sipe pulled forward and looked right, looked left, and turned left, up Old School Road, forcing gravel to migrate, a rising coil of dust marking his path.

*

The sign at the top of the hill read School Street. He'd missed it, walking with Tiffany. Adrenaline kicked in he was seeing what earlier he might have missed. To the left the gravel road ran down a length of trailer houses. Sipe drove down it, the highlight some woman in sunglasses sitting on a green plastic chair and talking into her phone. He turned around and drove back.

He stopped in the middle of the intersection and looked right back down Old School Road towards Henry's house, the northern face and part of the roof of the Forest Service in view. No black sedan. Connie stood where the driveway met the road. He raised his arm. Hailing or flipping Sipe off.

Sipe drove east on School Street. Past Gwen's house. Across the street, a small white house and then a coffee-colored trailer, a metal shed erected at the head of the narrow driveway beside the trailer. Two cars parked in the driveway, the car closer to the street a black sedan.

Sipe drove just past the trailer and then pulled to the left and parked alongside the wire fence. On the other side a field and trees, the grass the color of a lion's mane. The next building on the street, after the fenced in field, the school, the gymnasium Tiffany said that was so small basketball spectators had to slide on the single bench spacing to get out of the way of an inbounds pass.

After Sipe took the handgun out of the black case and checked the clip he laid the gun on the passenger side seat and tucked the case back into the rear footwell on the passenger side. He put the gun in the shoulder holster, shut the engine off, and got out of the car. A late afternoon breeze tugged at the weeds and the tree branches. According to Tiffany, a few years ago the whole field had caught fire. Sipe thought he could smell it, sulfur stirred up by the breeze.

At the trailer, Sipe walked around the rear of the parked black sedan, and up the driver side. He put his hand on the hood. Warm. Hot even. The porch overhang hid him from the people he could hear talking inside the trailer. He could knock on the door. Ask how long ago they'd been driving. Were they at the intersection, had they come from Pendleton?

The back window of the car parked ahead of the black sedan was a Beepers holding cell. A cowboy, a cook, a ballerina, an astronaut, and something indefinable. That last one looked like maybe too much sunlight had begun to melt it down into component parts. Someday soon the slag might encompass its brethren.

A woman on a ten-speed bike zipped by behind him. Sipe looked over his right shoulder as she pedaled towards the school, looking over her left shoulder long enough to satisfy her curiosity. He walked back towards the Honda. The woman on the bike past the school and kept going, down the street, descending, out of view.

Behind him, some kid laughed, the kid in the backyard of the coffee colored trailer house. A little one brandishing a plastic sword and babbling at a dog in a monstrous voice, maybe mimicking something seen on television. The dog barked. Front end down, paws splayed, butt up in the air. The kid pointed the plastic sword and unleashed chaos energy, spit foaming on out from his mouth. The dog barked, turned and ran, and the kid laughed and ran after the dog.

He walked across the dirt road. Standing on the southern edge of School Street, Sipe looked down at Little Creek.

He thought he saw Henry walking westward down Main Street. The woman next to Henry was tall. Gwen. He wondered if Henry had continued to fib. To cover Tiffany he'd fib. Down on Main, Henry and Gwen held up right beside the propane tanks and the multiple signs forming the Patriot's Kiosk. Right after a car drove past on Main the couple cut across, and walked alongside the park fence, headed, it looked, for Auntie's. Several cars were parked in front of Auntie's. One little kid balance walked the logs laid lengthwise, the logs acting as front bumper rests. Another little one jumped rope in the dirt lot. In the city park, a single figure moved, bouncing a basketball, taking a jump shot, and running after the ball after the ball bounced off the front rim. Gwen and Henry walked under the front overhang and disappeared inside Auntie's.

Back in the car, Sipe drove down School Street, and down the hill to Woodruff Road, turning right, driving past Tiffany's trailer, and stopping at the intersection with Main. No one stood on The Antler Inn porch. Sipe imagined a rocking chair set out on the porch. Some old timer sitting there working the tobacco inside a pipe and watching Sipe and The Wub face one another like gunslingers. Someone coming out, forcing the old man inside, the old man fighting them off, wanting to watch this duel, this reenactment of a supposed common occurrence from the past.

Sipe signaled, and turned left, driving past The Outpost and the post office on his left and then the bar on the right side of the road and then Pleshette's on the left. The aged truck, Norm's truck, parked along the west side of the store. Sipe thought the store looked like something that had been picked up by a twister and spun around the funnel a few times before being dropped out of the sky back to earth.

He rounded off the eastern reconnaissance at The Sleepy Bear Inn. If there were boarders, they were all out doing touristy things.

Sipe considered stopping and going inside the office, asking the clerk if they'd seen someone matching the Wub's appearance. Giving them a hundred dollar bill, and a phone number to call if death incarnate happened to check in for the night. He realized he didn't have a hundred on him. The kid had it.

The Laundromat located across the street from the Sleepy Bear some sort of socializing mecca. A half-dozen people in front of the structure, the ones not wrinkled overweight and some both, some going in and out, most staying in one place and clucking conversation.

The one male in the seeming maelstrom, some hunk of meat in a motorized wheelchair. A long orange flag sprouted off the wheelchair seat. Something so motorists would make out the slow mover. The guy's chin appeared velcroed to his right shoulder.

The least of his problems, probably.

The arms tucked in like he'd seized up in the midst of making fun of T. Rex and its useless little arms. Flesh-wise, better off aborted, but maybe he was a genius like Stephen Hawking. The body a betrayal, a real fuck you from God until you realized the three pounds encased in the skull operated at a higher capacity than 99.9% of the rest of the race. All the hens around him clucking about this and that local gossip and the whole time the grizzled meat in the polyester throne was solving the how's and why's of black holes and anti-matter and classic theorems even escaped Einstein's reach. Sipe imagined the kid with the plastic sword attacking the man in the wheelchair.

*

Driving on Main Street towards the center of Little Creek, he struggled with an impulse to stop in at The Outpost. Sipe could make it on a single meal a day, and he was long past due. Anything would be acceptable, even that hot dogs and sour cream and onions potato chip desecration Tiff had described.

Distracted, he didn't notice a big rig, a Jeep or an SUV, tail gaiting, then slowing, then making a quick turn through the intersection up Woodruff. Sipe continued past the Antler Inn, the Patriot's Kiosk, scanning Main Street, thinking maybe Henry and Gwen would be walking up ahead of him.

Parallel to Auntie's, a siren whooped to life, and Sipe's bowels nearly gave out on him. The cop car invisible to him, and then it charged in and out of his rearview, roof lights flashing, zipping up Old Woods Road towards the base of the hill the school was built on. Sipe nearly came to a complete halt before pressing his foot back down on the gas.

The siren still booming through the town, Sipe kept rolling down Main, towards the far west end, fighting the impulse to flee. Trying to find Connie could be a pain in the ass. The kid likely wandered away somewhere. Sipe should've at least taken the kid's number. Need be, he could turn off, work his way back to Tiffany's trailer house, walk in, break in, get his phone back.

Up ahead, the SUV shot out into view, off of Mountain Road and turned left, a sharp and wobbling left, onto Main, and accelerated, heading east, coming towards Sipe. The cop car, red and blue lights rotating, curved on into view, pursuing the SUV. The SUV crossed the dividing line. Coming right at Sipe. Instinct kicked in. Sipe accelerated, spun the wheel towards the fence line on his right. Too late. The driver side headlight flashed past Sipe's window. Smashed into the sedan back door, the window fracturing. The impact threw him into the steering wheel, into the air bag, the front and back bumpers switching out, the sedan spinning, his breath left him, the spinning motion lasting seconds seemed to go on and on.

Once he processed the fact the car had stopped spinning, he looked in the backseat. Instinct. The Old Man wasn't back there. No one to check up on. Sipe pushed on the air bag, hit the seat belt release. Something to help uncrumple his chest wall.

Out on the street ahead of him, bits of broken plastic like crumbs led to the SUV, passenger side facing him, the vehicle set at an angle, rear end closer, the vehicle occupying both lanes, steam pouring out its crumpled engine compartment.

The cop pounded the Honda's front passenger side window. A bright eyed kid in a too big hat. Sipe held up a hand. Nodded. The cop wanted to know was if he was all right. Sipe thought he said I'm fine.

"Sir, turn off your engine. Turn off your engine, ok, good, thanks. Is it off? Good. We have an ambulance coming. Don't move, ok? Ok?"

Over his right shoulder he could see the cop car, roof lights flashing. The cop walked towards the damaged SUV, a phone, a walkie-talkie, a CB, something in hand, calling it in. Sipe looked out the driver side window. The door flush to the fence line. A house far back from the street. The one Tiffany had told him Henry mowed, only mowed, the owner this old woman who still took care of the landscaping. Right on the other side of the fence a carefully crafted mound of landscape, flowers, rocks, bark, and at the peak a fountain occupied by a mermaid, hair covering breasts and crotch, all of her white as chalk dust. Sipe imagined a more violent cessation of impact flight. A haze of fragmented mermaid hanging over everything.

Walking towards the SUV, the cop called out in a loud voice. A figure appeared, walking around the rear of the SUV. The cop saw her and froze mid-step.

The strapless blue stretch top might still be on her, but out of sight beneath a black t-shirt. Millicent Timbers retained the crimson colored stretch pants, the muscular legs terminating in some sort of black sneakers crisscrossed by bright orange shoelaces. Her hair in a ponytail, sunglasses on, a kitchen knife in either hand.

The Sheriff's Deputy called on Millicent to put those knives down. His elbow stuck out, hand on the holster along his right hip.

Millicent pointed at Sipe, at the now damaged Honda, and Millicent said something to the cop. It almost sounded like she wanted to talk to Sipe.

"Ma'am, put those knives down. You need to put those knives down. Put them down now."

Millicent looked at Sipe. The way he saw it, she'd driven from Pendleton to Little Creek and the whole time she'd had her hands on the steering wheel, all those miles, she'd had the knives in both hands. It didn't hurt. It didn't get in the way. When you were in pursuit of Bela Yalbo 2.0, nothing slowed you down.

She dropped the knives. The Deputy told her to put her hands behind her head and take two steps forward. Once Millicent did that, the Deputy told her to get down on her knees. She did that. She still looked at the damaged sedan. At Sipe. The Deputy asked her to lay down on her stomach then put her hands at her sides. The Deputy looked over his left shoulder at Sipe and then walked towards Millicent, flat on her stomach on the ground. The Deputy had a slight second chin. He'd lost weight. Gaining weight. Or it was just the genes he'd been dealt. The Deputy holding a pair of handcuffs, he told Millicent to put her hands behind her back. For good measure, he kicked the knives a little further back from their impact on the asphalt. He turned and walked forward until he was standing right above Millicent and then he knelt down.

Sipe made a noise, a not quite gelled together 'no.'

Years ago, Greta told him she'd sucked in a breath when Sipe took a basketball and winged it right into Roxanne's face. It was the look on little Sipe's face even before he picked up the basketball. Greta knew what he was about to do. The breaking point had been reached.

What it was was some motion Millicent had learned competitive swimming. The porpoise. The orca. A Bela Yalbo-move reporters had learned not to ask about unless they by-passed all mention of Bela Yalbo and treated it as Millicent's and only Millicent's creation.

Her entire length snapped, convulsed, a thick violent 6'1" tall muscle and the Deputy pitched back and to the side. Like she was performing a push-up, Millicent braced her weight on her palms and spun under the Deputy and slid a leg out from under him and then kicked him in the midsection. Then she was up and on top of him, hitting him in the face.

The first time Sipe turned the key the engine turned over. He backed up, the driver side of the dented sedan scraping the fence. Sipe looked out his window expecting sparks. The little old woman, the landscaper, stood on her front porch, braced on a walker. Sipe kept backing up, kept the steering wheel straight, not messing around with trying to turn the wheels one way or another. The sedan slipped clear of the fence. Nose to tail the sedan blocked access to Mountain Road. Up at the peak of the steepest street in Little Creek, a tall silhouette looked down towards Main. Millicent had multiplied. Whoever it was, they looked like they were on their phone. He started to roll the car forward and to the right. The fogginess of the impact cleared enough he realized it was Gwen up there.

Sipe accelerated across Main Street, passing the butt end of the downed Deputy's rig, bouncing off asphalt onto Mountain Road's sparsely graveled southern half, up and down, in and out of summer's deep divots, winter's mud puddles.

Millicent had acquired the Deputy's gun. Sipe had seen her. She'd raised it, pointed it at the damaged sedan, but hadn't taken the shot.

Safety. Didn't think about finding it. Or found it. Set it and hadn't meant to.

Maybe she just had her hand up. He'd seen her so briefly his brain was betraying him.

Sipe made the first left he came to, then sped east, and turned left onto the pavement, heading north on Old Woods Road. The park flashed by him on the right. At the intersection with Main, his intention was to turn right, start heading east. A Jeep bearing west on Main, heading towards Millicent's wrecked SUV and the beaten Deputy hurtled down Main, the driver pigging out on pavement, taking up the fat center of the street, working their horn the whole time.

Sipe turned the wheel to the left. He cut into the Auntie's parking lot, spraying gravel, and cut the wheel to his right to avoid rolling over one of the parking perimeter logs. He hit the brakes and slid to a stop.

A small sea of people had formed. They stood on the rim of the parking lot, looking down Main Street towards the SUV, the cop car roof lights. Across the street, more on-lookers arranged outside Don's Automotive looked down Main Street.

Sipe's chest hurt. His right hand trembled. He looked at it. Lifted it off the steering wheel, shook it out of the deflated air bag. Willed it to still itself and it refused. Some of the onlookers were looking at him. Someone swore. Someone else swore. People started running towards Sipe. Scattering. Some headed across Main Street towards the fix-it shop to join the Don's Automotive crowd as it dissolved. At least one man sprinted down the alleyway between Auntie's and the house west of the store.

Millicent.

She walked, the gun in her hand, and at sight of Sipe, she ran. She raised the gun.

Sipe shifted into reverse and pressed the gas pedal into the floor. He didn't look behind him. The driver side rear tire rolled up and over the end of the log. A terrific scraping sound accompanied the black spots, Sipe hitting the top of his head on the compartment ceiling. The front driver side tire bounced up and over the log. For a long moment, the car stopped, Sipe looked for a body. He'd run over someone. This near impossible to shed impulse to get out and look under the car, he fought it. It lost out at sight of Millicent, running across the Auntie's parking lot, right towards him.

Making sure the car was still in reverse, Sipe hit the gas and looked back over his right shoulder into the car's back window. A woman ran along the park fence. He wobbled right and left but got the car centered on Old Woods Road and drove down it in reverse. He hit the brakes once he cleared the city park. Shifted into drive, and accelerated, steering right, east, along the southern edge of the park. He spun the wheel to the left and drove up gravel-covered Woodruff Road back towards Main Street. Up ahead of him the church on the right, and then the intersection, across Main Street, The Antler Inn on the left, The Outpost on the right.

On approach, he slowed down and heard a popping noise. Something sent hurtling through space turned the rear driver side window from a portrait of cobwebbed glass into a frame decorated in fragments of glass. Millicent running towards him. Running the length of the park. Running and shooting at the same time. Sipe hit the gas and immediately stomped down on the brake, the car stopping on Main Street, the front bumper just across the center line into the westbound lane.

The tall orange flag waggled as the hunk of meat in the wheelchair rolled from The Outpost parking lot across the street towards The Antler Inn.

The guy's chin stuck to his right shoulder, but he was still able to send this dirty look over his left towards Sipe. The motorized wheelchair hummed. Crossing the asphalt at a glacial pace. Off the pavement, onto the gravel, the wheelchair wheels rattled, wobbled.

Another popping noise. A soft metallic thump, on the roof, like the bullet gouged the paint job, surfing, tearing, at the same time.

The meat in the chair clear, Sipe shoved the gas pedal down.

The car shot up Woodruff, past Tiffany and Norm's trailer house, Sipe glancing into the rearview mirror - Millicent came into view, a silhouette in sprint mode - just as he finished the climb up to the top of the hill, hearing one last pop maybe two but without a physical effect, and everything flattened out before him. The school grounds on his left, and everything down below, any hint of downtown Little Creek, vanished from the view the rearview window provided.

The asphalt ran the length of the half dozen houses trailing north out of Little Creek, all the houses on the east side of the road, nothing built in the field of lion's mane colored grass on his left.

Moments after driving past the last house he drove by the graveyard, modest, tucked into the confines of rusting chain link fencing. Seconds later, the pavement gave way to gravel road. He sped up.

Chapter 22

Running down Main Street headed for the cop car, the wrecked SUV, and for the cop, dead as dead gets at Millie's hand, Connie wished he hadn't chickened out.

He should've taken the hit, his brains, his viscera sprayed all over the road, the side of the road, a slop across the windshield and hood of Millie's SUV. Ruled an accident it might ruin her life, but murder ruined it in deeper, darker ways.

She'd called him.

Abandoned by Sipe, standing in the brown house driveway, hearing the Forest Service employees continue to chatter, he'd been thinking about calling her, and his phone rang. He checked the caller I.D. before answering.

"Millie?"

"I'm almost there."

"Where?"

"Little Creek."

"Babe. Really?"

"He's a dead man."

"Wait. Who?"

"I'm not ---" The line garbled.

"Whoa. Millie. I didn't get that. The connection."

"Nothing will stop me. Nothing will stop me from making sure I can hold on to you, Connor. Nothing. Not a gun. Not a shot to the head. I'd come back from the other side for you."

Crying. Worked up enough, her face would go red, and she'd blubber like a cartoon character.

"Millie? Listen. Ok, I am coming back to you, remember? There's the one little thing to clear up then I'm coming back."

"No."

"Yeah. No, I promise, ok? It's just the stupid way they do some of this shit."

"No."

"It's my dad's fault. And Sipe-"

"No."

"Listen! Admittedly, ok? He didn't need to do what he did, but Millie, just-"

"Nonononononononononononono. No."

"You hurt him? You make a mess, you don't - - We definitely won't be together. They'll take you away."

"I won't stop. I don't stop."

"Millie."

"I love you. I'll have you again. I'll have you. I love you. I love you. I love you."

She screamed that last iteration. Then hung up.

He'd called her back. Dialed her a dozen times. Nothing. Angry she acted on impulse. She might've chucked the phone out of the rig.

He wondered how close she was to town. If she'd hopped into the SUV like right after Sipe had escorted him out of the condo.

About the best he could hope for would be shooting out her tires. Great. Got a gun? Was there a gun in the big brown house? A car inside the garage? He tried the front door, the door into the garage. Bent down at the base of the sliding door and tried to lift. He investigated further, ran around the house, skitter stepped down this steep decline to a basement door. Locked. The windows locked. Windows on the west side of the house too high up to get to. Everything locked. Maybe there was a key, hidden somewhere outside?

He even ran his hand inside the tire swing. A goop of pine needles and the remnants of winter snow coated his hand.

He found the girl's number in his call history. Tiffany. Called her. He called twice, imagining her looking at the caller I.D. and dismissing a wrong number.

Connie listened to the ringing, walked down the driveway and onto the dirt road, considering Main Street, where the highway swapped coats, knowing if nothing else he could stand over the dividing line and be a barrier to Millie's impulses. The Forest Service jabber-crew had dispersed. He didn't have to worry about anyone overhearing him, potentially owning some info to share with law enforcement later on.

"Hello?"

"Tiff? Connie."

"Hey!" From answering dour to lighting up.

"How's it going?" Connie wanting to make it all sound light as a feather. Everything great.

"Oh. You know."

"You still out there, at the gas station and all?"

"Yes and no. I'm at the Collars. Bug's. She's here. Hope's here."

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Great. Say. Question. Sipe left me at some house in town. A big brown house right next to the Forest Service."

"That's Henry's."

"Ok. Henry isn't home. Is there a way to get in? Like a key hidden anywhere outside?"

"Mmmmmmmm, no. Henry has a key. Gwen has a key. I do, but there isn't one outside unless there is but if there is no one's ever told me. Why?"

"You know, it's just a lot of sun. And at some point, you know, I might have to go to the bathroom again, you know."

"Ohhhhhh, yeah."

"Yeah."

"Where's Sipe?"

"Don't know. He told me to get out, and he drove off."

"Ohhh."

"There isn't...There isn't a car inside the place is there? Does Henry park a car inside the garage?"

"No. I mean...It's his mom's car. Henry's like my age, so he doesn't drive very much. Or I mean I drive more than he does, but the car, Sipe's car, the car Sipe was driving, that is Lori's car. That's Lori's only car."

"There's no car here then is what you're saying?"

"Right. I mean, there's a bicycle in the garage, but even that, I think, that was Alec's bike, and the tires are probably still flat. I think. I don't know for sure. Henry would know."

Hope. Alec. Lori. Henry. He could give a fuck, all he knew was he was fat out of luck here.

"Is Sipe ok?" asked Tiffany.

"I don't know. He's got a phone on him, but I don't know the number. It's just some burner phone, some backup phone."

Connie walked off gravel onto asphalt. Standing above the dividing line, he looked down towards the town and then west where the highway slid and curled and cut through a hillside. The gray house on the other side of the road surrounded by junk, a filled to the brim blue plastic kiddie swimming pool. The sliding doors leading to the deck were open. Afternoon TV volume loud enough ghostly whispers reached Connie's ear. The smell of hot asphalt permeated the air.

"You know, your car is still out here," said Tiffany. "Or Sipe's _._ Whoever's. At the Zippy Mart. Do you need it?"

"I don't know. No. It's all right."

"I could bring it to you."

"I got the key."

"Ohhhh. Shit."

"Yeah. Look. I'm gonna run, ok?"

"Ok. If you need anything, let me know. Let me know when Sipe gets ahold of you."

"You know it."

"Connie, is he going to be ok?"

"I don't know. I wish I knew. I wish I could tell you."

"I hope he's ok." She laughed. "That's rude. You, too, ok? You be ok, too."

"Thanks."

"Ok. Later."

"Yeah. Later."

"Bah."

No cars drove westward. And no one drove into town either. Late afternoon, everyone slowing down, taking it easy. Connie put a hand over his eyes, tried to shade them from the sun, working its way towards the horizon, hours of work left before the moon clocked in. His sunglasses in a bag in the trunk of the car out at the Zippy Mart.

Finally, the one rig headed west was a Forest Service truck. It must have already stopped at the Ranger Station and then gone into town for gas or snacks. Connie heard it before he saw it coming his way from town center. Connie stepped out of the middle of the main vein, back onto the gravel. The diesel engine sounding vehicle drove past, the passenger's arm hanging out, a ponytail coiled over her shoulder, a dimpled smile, semblance of a wave, dirty hand poking out the cuff of the bright yellow sleeve.

Less than five minutes later, Millie arrived. For a moment, Connie thought it was a hallucination, heat shimmer, stirred to life by a brain going to soup courtesy the sun. Coming up on him, Connie could tell it slowed a little. Millie thrown by sight of some idiot standing in the middle of the road. Then she sped up. He still had his arms up in the air, flapping them like Daffy Duck or something similarly desperate. She didn't veer. She didn't alter her course. Connie had to leap out of the way otherwise he would've become a bug splattered over the front of the rig.

Millie had told him when she was training, and it got close to a swim meet, she closed down the mechanism. No one, not even a soul mate, would exist to her, not until the job was done. After the meet, after victory, she slipped out of her shell, she'd be a girl again, she'd be a woman, she could talk to people, she could fuck like no one's business. But set on course she was unreachable. A closed mechanism.

Connie had watched the tan SUV get smaller and smaller, rolling on into town. All this tech in his hand. He could reach out and touch anyone, and it didn't mean shit. That was the Old Man's take on technology. Son of a bitch if he wasn't right. Connie fretted, second-guessed his second-guesses, what to do, what not to do, and pretty much, his thumb was up his ass right there where the unpaved road dumped off onto the highway, Main Street, whatever you called it. All he needed, one of those hats and those too short jackets and the funny little pants, he might as well have fluttered a red blanket at Millie, let her pass on by like some angry bull.

He heard sirens. A siren. Then down towards the center of town Millie shot into view, hit a car, the cop car coming out right behind her then stopping, blocking the road, lights flashing. Connie started running. Thought he could see her, could hear the cop yelling. Thinking she was going to get shot. The next time he'd see Millie she'd have a bullet in her or bullets, it would take more than one to drop his Amazon love, all her warped and wonderful brains in the vicinity but not necessarily inside her head.

He watched. Not running. Walking. Vaguely aware of people coming out of their houses, drawn by the noise. It happened fast. Too fast. Sipe backing up, tearing off, Millie standing. Something in hand. Then Millie sprinted down Main Street, towards the middle of town.

He could follow her, try to stop her from doing any more damage. Or he could try and salvage what her rage had accomplished.

Approaching the cop car, walking through the intersection, Connie caught sight of some kid on his left, walking down a steep side street. Trailing behind the kid, a tall woman in a skirt, talking on her phone. Witnesses. People that could put Millie away forever and ever. Start killing witnesses, pretty soon, the whole town would be a lake of blood.

It could've been a trick of the light, but the rotating red and blue on the cop car roof seemed to flash on the boy's spectacles like he was a robot, a local sentry bearing witness to the violence the outside world wrought on this idle village.

The cop's hat was still on. The brim crumpled under the back of his head. His face bloody. Kneeling down beside the guy, Connie's hand trembled. He touched the guy's chest and he was pretty sure the cop was still breathing, but it was hard to be sure. Connie's quivering might be providing the movement, the argument that everything might still have some semblance of ok.

Connie knew he was talking to the guy, but he wasn't saying anything with much nutritional content. One of the Old Man's sisters had a retarded son. They used to bring him around. Connie and his other cousins playing, and Orion would be over off on his own, in a suit, sitting with Lock Blocks, talking to them, petting them, putting them in his mouth, providing a narrative to their daily routine. Connie about as effective here, his Lock Block this big fleshy deputy, Lueck according to the badge on the breast pocket.

Tires screeched. A Jeep stopping just on the other side of Millie's steaming SUV.

"Sir! Sir, can I have you step away from the Deputy, sir! Yes, sir. Just stand back. Thank you, sir."

A big guy. Bald head, wraparound sunglasses, tank top displaying ample pecs and biceps. In the right hand some sort of metal case, white with a red cross painted or printed on it.

The big guy walked around Millie's SUV and looked down at Deputy Lueck.

"Holy shit. Is he breathing?"

"Yeah."

"Is this your vehicle?"

"No."

"Do you know what happened?"

"Some sort of accident."

"Were you in the rig here?"

"No."

"Right, right. Was he hit by the SUV?"

"No. I mean, I don't think so."

The EMT-guy glanced at the asphalt. Dragged his toe through shattered glass, molded plastic. He set his case down beside the Deputy.

"We're gonna get you through this, Dougie. You hear? Dispatch sent an ambulance. But until they get here I got you. Guaranteed, now, you hear?" The EMT-not-an-EMT knelt at the Deputy Lueck's right side, looked towards Deputy Lueck's cop car. He threw up a hand, palm out.

"Stay back, son. Stay over there."

Connie looked back. The kid he'd seen on the side street. Hair clipped close to the side of his head, glasses, kind of fat lips, a pretty mouth almost. Millie had told Connie he had a pretty mouth. The kid talking on a cell phone. The EMT knelt down, his weight crunched front bumper detritus, SUV bits drizzled all over the pavement.

Shouts sounded from the center of town. Pop noise. One firecracker. Another firecracker.

"Jesus, please us." The EMT rising, meerkating, looking towards the park, role in the community hierarchy aside, like anyone, gauging for danger, hoping to witness something exciting. Blood. An explosion. Sun exposure had seared the EMT's shoulders an angry pink. The ponytail running out the back of his head sweat-mooshed onto the shoulder muscles like a swab of shed hair stuck to a pink eraser. A half-dozen knickknacks threaded through the twisted knot, their combined weight snapping the hair away from the flesh.

The crowd up near the park scattered. In the running shapes, Connie tried to see Millie. Pick her out, but he couldn't.

"What is going on here?" The EMT put a hand on his shaved skull. "It's World War 3."

Deputy Lueck coughed. Connie looked down, and the cop was looking right at him. Another cough, blood leaked out the guy's mouth. The eyelids shut. The eyeballs both blood colored.

"Shit. Hey. Guy. Fella." Connie reaching out, almost touching the EMT, fuck, almost pinching the horrible ponytail and tugging it like it was the rope on a bell.

The EMT turned, looked at Connie, Connie's outstretched hand and the snarl forming on his face like he might pull an Orion, grab and hold and bite, but Lueck gurgled, and the EMT snapped back into professional mode.

"Right. Duty. Duty calls. It's me, Dougie. Your boy, Clay Boyle. It's Hell on earth. But I got ya. I got ya and you're safe. Tell me where it hurts, ok? Ok."

"Henry!"

Connie turned, and the kid was past the Deputy's car, walking right at Connie, pointing his phone at Connie. His scalp went all tingles, his brain for a beat seeing 'gun' not 'phone.' The tall woman on the far side of the cop car looked pissed off. She looked brittle though. Not capable of mayhem like Millie.

"Are you Connie?" asked the kid.

"Yeah."

The boy waggled the phone.

"It's Tiffany. She told me to. It's ok. I'm Henry."

Even before Connie had the phone in hand Henry's eyes were bulging, taking in Clay Boyle probing the bloodied cop for ouchies and boo-boos.

"This is Connie."

"What's going on? Is Henry ok? Are you ok?"

"Uh. Yeah."

"Oh my god. What about Sipe?"

"Don't know."

"What about Millicent?"

"I don't know." Connie whispering. He couldn't really move east or west, either way, anything he might say about Millie would be overheard either by the EMT or by the tall broad perfecting looking pissed at Henry.

"I can hear a siren," said Tiffany. "I can't really see it from here, but I can hear it."

"Where are you?"

"Still out here. At Bug's. Hold on." Tiffany talking to someone. "Sorry. We're trying to keep Hope from going out to watch the ambulance go by. Or cops. Or both."

Connie nodding. More cops on the way. Duh. He hadn't thought about that. Of course more cops would be on the way.

"Tiff, hey, look, sorry to cut and run, but I'm gonna go, ok? I'm gonna go look for her."

"Ok. If you see Sipe-"

"Yeah. I know. I know. All right."

He'd be a piss poor relay race runner, nearly dropping the phone when he handed it back to Henry. The kid not saying anything to him, more interested in talking to Tiffany.

It'd been a long time since Connie had run. His metabolism still kicked ass, he could consume all manner of shit and never gain a pound. But when it came to physical exertion he got his ass kicked, time after time.

Connie coated in sweat by the time he reached the intersection, Auntie's on his right, the automotive place across the street. In the aftermath of the excitement, shots fired, the crowd had reformed. Connie looking for someone to ask, the right person, finally he gave up, just asked aloud, hoping someone would take the bait.

"Where's the lady go? The one that was shooting?"

Some old boy in a Yankees ball cap pointed down the paved road going to the railcars.

"She went that way. You can see her, see? I wouldn't go nowhere near her, son. She's got that gun. She did look a might pee-ohed, that I can say for sure."

Two voices popped up.

"She dropped it."

"She did! Guy's over there, look, he's got it. Jesus."

The old boy shrugged. Corrected. Whatever.

So many phones. They all had phones. Whatever Millie had done was now part of the permanent record. Connie could try and buy their phones, Connie could get Sipe's gun, shoot as many of these hicks as he needed, it didn't matter. Millie's mayhem already well on the way to going viral.

About parallel to the southern rim of the city park, Connie shed his suit jacket. Just flung it to the ground. Millie was past the railcars. Across the bridge. Running up the middle of the road towards the forest. If she got in the trees, he wouldn't catch up to her for sure. She wouldn't last forever. She wasn't Rambo. Helicopters, hounds, a cop with Iraq or Afghanistan on his resume, she'd be caught, easy, and the next time he'd see her she'd be standing beside a lawyer in a courtroom.

That shit about running and getting a pain in the side? Fuck that, Connie got a pain in both sides.

At the same time, he had saliva in his mouth, his mouth and throat were barren of moisture. But go forward was the command imperative. He probably looked like a rubber man, some out of balance piece of shit bereft of an inner ear, or Orion, his cousin, told to run home right now or else his mom was going to get raped by a black man, no shit, that's what they'd told him once, even though his mom was at some fundraiser over in Bellevue, Chad or Saul, one of them, just fucking with the retarded kid because it was fun. Watch the moon faced boy run and cry at the same time, Connie laughing with them. And here it was. The payback.

Some girl in a bikini stood at a railing at the back of a house on his right, watching him flail.

Connie wheezing, crying, his heart a pulp, too far back, Millie veering off the road, into the thick, the dark, the trees, not hearing her love shouting her name, or hearing it, but dismissing it against the louder sound of police sirens, then garbled cop directive telling Connie to get the fuck out of the way, the unit blasting past Connie, and accelerating up the road, around the bend, the flashing red and blue lights pulsating in between tree trunks before vanishing from sight.

Chapter 23

The field around the base of the wind tower had burned. The graffiti applied to the base of the wind tower seemed familiar. The brush technique about spot on to that on all the signs at the Patriot's Kiosk, difference being a blue rather than blood-red paint. Among the death's heads and the swastikas, the words familiar, reminding Sipe of something from school. Starting out 'First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out-Because I was not a Socialist,' ran through these "They" thugs coming for Trade Unionists and Jews, ending up on 'Then they came for me – and there was no one left to speak for me.'

Driving towards Pendleton, and driving back, Sipe had noted the dirt road coming towards the highway from the east, a wind tower looming up behind it off on the flat. The road out of Little Creek running past the cemetery kept headed north, parallel to the highway. After driving through trees, and driving up and down some hills, the land flattened, and he had seen the wind tower just up ahead, the road making a sharp turn west, and what he could see of the highway it was the portion angled westward, up towards trees, and Orley.

The oddest thing, seeing flashing lights on a cop car before hearing the siren.

In the city, he always heard the squawk before he saw the lights.

He hit the brakes, the car wobbled a little on the sea of gravel, but he didn't skid into a ditch. Some panicky part of the brain thought the cop would have seen the trail of dust Sipe had been kicking up, and the cop would turn off the asphalt and come investigate before continuing on towards Little Creek. Sipe wouldn't be able to wiggle out, questions on top of questions and the cop would have to take him in and he'd have to shoot the cop. He'd never shot a cop. It was one of those milestones some celebrated, the gunman equivalent to popping their cherry. Zeke one of the few in bed with Sipe on that particular front, cop-shooting, it was this taint, a stain, that once you got, didn't come off, ever.

Thanks to Millie, there were going to be more cops coming down here. Depending on whether or not she'd killed the cop, it was going to be like a swarm of cops. The time window on getting out of sight was rapidly closing. Waiting for dark seemed dumb. So he drove.

The wind tower getting tiny in his rear view window, encircled by dust, he couldn't predict how far it would be, the Zippy Mart, from where the dirt road met the highway. Driving a car that the cops were now looking for would only increase the distance.

Sipe took the sunglasses off. Realized it made no difference. The car was bruised. The driver's face bruised. No way to mask the car bruise.

Already on the highway, southbound, and he had to fight not to give in to the voice wanting him to stop, and get out, and assess the damage. The same voice practically sobbing about the likelihood, right at that intersection with the Zippy Mart, the cops would have set up a roadblock.

For a moment he imagined Roxanne in the backseat. Her lips sucked up under her teeth. Moving the flesh over her chompers, producing a sound, lovey-dovey noises, noises like someone pretending they were going to eat you up. He'd forgotten how she came up with that, the lipless routine, just one of the hundreds of ways to torture a little brother. Quite the feat, once a week, an all-new weak point exposed, exploited. Sometimes she roped a friend into helping. Greta outgrew torturing Sipe. But Roxanne reveled in it. There had been another lipless god. Some other girl, pretending to take bites out of Sipe, holding him down, those lipless, toothless mouths snapping at him, gouging away, Roxanne losing it, laughing when her partner-in-crime started chomping Sipe's crotch, through his pajamas, Sipe screaming, convinced the Colvin girl was going to chomp off his little boy weiner, and he'd have to pee out of his butt from then on. Sara. Jenny. One of them, the older one, the Colvin that didn't pick her nose and eat the gold on the bus.

Approaching the intersection, he signaled a right turn. He rolled the steering wheel, and drove past the Zippy Mart, past a sign posting the distance to Heppner, then slowed, signaled, and turned onto the drive, a narrow road going under a carved sign that read 'Collar.'

A row of hedges on his left, the gas station just on the other side. On the right, some empty animal pens, metal scraps, stacks of 2 x 4s, rusted ancient trucks, a barn that looked one good windstorm away from collapse. The house had a peaked roof. A wood fence around the yard, plenty of flowerbeds, bright colors, clean, an oasis in the midst of rust and ruination.

Sipe parked at the house, pulled up right next to a small sized Toyota truck with a metal rack. Two giant cats dozed on the truck hood. One squinting at the intruder until Sipe killed the engine. The cat licked fur and then lowered its head back onto its paws.

Out of the car, Sipe assessed the driver side damage. If Millie's aim had been a little better, if she'd been thinking, she could have totally snarled up the rear tire. Sipe would've been on foot from that point on. His imagination painted it with Millie chasing him through Little Creek, the cop's scalp pinned to her waist wet and fresh and red slapping her thighs as she pursued the promise of scalp number two.

He didn't yelp, the person touching his arm yelped, and then laughed, and asked him if he was ok, and apologized for touching him.

"You jumped," said Tiffany. "Sorry. I thought you heard me."

She started saying something else, and Sipe held up his hand, stilling her tongue. Another siren. This one didn't sound like a cop. More like an ambulance. Live in the city long enough and the two sounds turned distinct.

"Shit. Is the town on fire or something?" asked Tiffany.

"I don't know."

"I'm glad you're ok."

"Connie?" asked Sipe.

"I talked to him earlier. Right now? I don't know. I'll call him again."

The screen door opened and shut. Another cat appeared, scampered off the porch and down the steps to the lawn. A girl followed the cat off the porch and down the steps. Barefoot. Pale legs sticking out of jeans shorts. The t-shirt white, the hem long. Her hair was cut short in back, long in front, into her eyes. The hair colored purple and blue. She brushed a foot against the cat, and the cat scampered off. The girl told the cat to stop being such a weenie.

"That's Hope," said Tiffany. Pointing at Sipe, she raised her voice, and said, "I'm telling him how skinny you used to be before your diet of nothing but hot dogs and chips."

Hope flipped her off. The girls laughed. Sipe could still hear the siren.

Chapter 24

Right as Gwen and Henry drove out of Little Creek, a helicopter flew overhead, banking towards the forest. Not Forest Service affiliated. Something black and insectile. A law enforcement investment.

Earlier, Gwen had almost ordered a meal to go along with her Outpost milkshake. She could've grabbed a snack at her house, too, but had settled for a drink. Two fingers of Bourbon. That second finger burning the back of her throat when the siren rattled Sheff Street and the bottom of the hill turned into an action movie. It wasn't like she was flying off the hook. After watching mayhem unfold, she hadn't touched another drop. She hadn't anticipated driving though, not that a mosey out of town, basically just out to the Zippy Mart was much of a drive.

Lori would hear about the excitement in Little Creek. Gwen would have to fib here and there. A lot here and a lot there if Lori's car didn't turn up.

It'd been years since she'd felt this level of anxiety. She couldn't explain it to Henry. Or Lori. Maybe Alec if he was still around, but with Alec, you could tell him anything and not worry. The self-centered son of a bitch so consumed with all things Alec your problems lobbed at his ears were like raindrops spattering the ocean.

Henry thought the helicopter flying over them was cool. He looked out the windshield on Gwen's Hybrid, scanning the sky, practically bouncing up and down in anticipation of more whirlygigs.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," said Gwen.

"Why?"

"Because it's unreasonable, Henry. Because I'm an adult." Doing what a child wants me to. Tiffany wasn't a child though. Her boobs dwarfed Gwen's. Gwen careful not to share that bit of self-appraisal with Henry.

"Wow."

"What?"

"The cop cars."

"What? Where?"

"Down there."

Henry pointed towards the intersection. Roof lights lit up, the cop parked at the side of the road. The cop playing traffic conductor, dead center of the intersection.

"Shit."

Henry asked, "Are they blocking off the town?"

"I don't know. Oh my god."

"Are you ok?"

"What? I'm fine."

"You don't look fine."

"I just have...It's just...I have...Problems. With." Gwen pointed at the jockey box. "Look in there. Please. There should be gum."

"I don't see. Oh. Here."

"Big Red? Fuck. Sorry. I shouldn't swear. That's what I have? That'll mask nothing. Cops smell that and they know."

"Know what?"

"Nothing. Here. You chew some, too."

"No."

"Henry."

"I hate cinnamon."

"Do you want me to get arrested, like, what? two hundred feet away from the Collar's place?"

"No."

"Then shove it in your mouth, buddy. Chew it like you love it."

Gwen missed her trash bag, the wadded up gum wrapper landing somewhere on the floor.

"Ick." Henry, acting like he was taking medicine.

A logging truck got the official ok and started rolling again, gave the cops a little toot-toot salute, and an RV rolled up, next in line, headed north on 395. It was actually a substantial lineup, betraying most people's estimation that no one really drove through here.

Of course, no one was fleeing Little Creek, only Gwen and Henry. This afternoon providing the most excitement since Don Jennings had wandered town in nothing but a ski cap, snow boots, and a smile the New Year's Day after the last presidential election, rope in hand, a noose, dragging the incumbent in effigy, taking hits off a bottle of Jack Daniels and urinating on his mobile decoration as his bladder dictated.

Slowing down, Gwen sighed.

"Remember," she said, "we're going to Heppner."

"I know. Why?"

"Henry, I'll be fucked if I know why. Sorry. But that's where we're going. That's our story, and Henry, please, don't make faces like that. It's gum. I'm not making you chew a turd."

"It tastes like a turd."

"Henry." Out of nowhere, her teacher voice. The Prius came to a full stop, and she heard the cop saying 'ma'am,' and she flipped another switch, the teacher dealing with a parent smile. The mask. It came back so easily, but she didn't have time to marvel at the resuscitation. She blew a bubble. Pushed the sunglasses up into her hair. Slammed the door shut on Gwen the Worrier, Gwen with the Crucifixion Complex.

*

The matron had put in a brief appearance. Bug helped his mom get from her bedroom to the bathroom. The woman gone bald from chemo, wearing a dress, probably nothing on under it, a nod to the heat, a nod to the pain in the ass of slipping in and out of underwear when you were so exhausted it didn't even register you were wearing underwear.

The woman saw Sipe, and he felt guilty, adding anything at all to her stress level, so when she came out, Bug helping her back to her bedroom, he made sure he was out of sight. In the front of the living room, he could just hear them moving, the lady laughing at something, and he liked that. Maybe she had a shot at getting rid of whatever was making her sick. If you could laugh, that was good, but maybe all it meant was she'd made peace.

Sullen, the choice word to describe Hope. Put upon. She kept messing with her hair. Changed for the never-materialized bailing out of town with Quinn Dobbs. She'd lopped it off on her own, and had left the bangs long so she could have something to play with it seemed. Raising her arms to groom herself the six millionth time since Sipe had arrived, he'd done his best to avoid noticing the t-shirt pulling taut over her bra-free breasts and nipples. They were perfectly proportioned. She knew it, knew with a rack like that no one cared about her slight second chin, the beginnings of a sloppy belly hanging over her shorts hem, the way she sighed every thirty seconds like her suffering outpaced the Holocaust, outweighed the terrors of animals slated for a slaughterhouse.

She bedded down in a guest bedroom upstairs, the place she'd been hiding out since cutting out from the Dobbs' cabin-to-be. Quinn had failed her. She figured that one out, Prince Charming with a liar's tongue. Despite promise after promise, he had zero interest in taking her out of town, to Pendleton, Portland, Boise, Seattle, anywhere. Under cover of darkness, she'd bailed on the cabin, walked back to town and ended up crashing in the railcars. Even with the piss smell, the mold, the rot, doing her Sleeping Beauty bit when Bug happened upon her. He gave her half his lunch, refused to slip her a smoke, and took in the sob story of the year.

About a week ago they snuck her out at night, she insisted it be at night, and Bug complied, even going so far as to let her lay flat in the truck bed although chances were pretty good just sitting in the front passenger seat they would've made it out of town unnoticed.

The Butcher's Camp Massage deposit stowed in a gym bag. Hope had counted it a couple of times. Out at the cabin, bored out of her mind, her phone out of juice, the recharge cord M.I.A., counting it about all she could do for entertainment. Sipe could count it if he wanted, but at this point she knew for sure the total. And by the way? After awhile, money weighed heavy as fuck. Her shoulders still hurt, toting the cash from Butcher's Camp, even worse the walk from the cabin back to town.

The knot couldn't be worked out. Bug had refused to touch her, Quinn was useless in that regard, so the shoulder work Tiffany did at the Collar's the first honest physical therapy effort anyone had tossed Hope's way. Hope groaned, moaned, produced a steady stream of noise, Tiffany standing behind her at the Collar's kitchen table, Tiff a workhorse, slickened up to her elbows with Wesson Oil, the closest thing to massage oil available.

Sipe bided time, walking around the living room, looking at wall hangings, framed photos, Bug in military regalia, or looking out the windows at the sun's decline painting abandoned machinery in molten light, or standing next to the couch, rubbing his cheek and staring at a glassy reflection in a TV that might have a dead picture tube for all he knew, the model a good decade out of production.

Not a word from Connie. Tiff not able to reach him, Sipe either. The cops could have him. He could be running through the trees at Millie's side. He could be dead. The cops might've aimed for her, shot, hit Connie instead. That chopper they'd all heard might be medevac, Connie's spleen in ribbons, a lung a flattened sac full of blood. Sipe kept deciding to get in a car, drive to the town, lay waste to everything in his path until he'd secured the package, but then reality would set in. Some of that mission might get accomplished, but not all of it.

Bug off in the kitchen, boiling water and boiling an easy-on-the-stomach egg for his mother and Tiff evincing that stream of orgasm-moans out of Hope at the kitchen table when a car pulled up outside. Tiff saw Sipe tense up at the window and she said, "It's probably Henry. And Gwen."

At that, Bug appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. He goggled, Tiff's arms glistening, Hope's shirt tugged down around her biceps, both shoulders slick from Tiffany's ministrations. Sipe could guess a generous amount of teenage cleavage was on display, Hope even looking up from under her brow at her savior, a knowing smile, and dimpling on display, like that's right, all this right at your fingertips and you never took the plunge. You, Mr. Bug Collar, are a dumbfuck.

Once Gwen and Henry were on the porch, Sipe opened the door, and Henry blinked at him and walked in right past him, the tall woman queued up right behind Henry. She chewed gum. Gave Sipe a look he knew measured him and concluded he fell short in every category that mattered.

"What did you do to Lori's car?" she asked.

"I got run into. Shot at."

She nodded. Blew a bubble.

"This better be good." And she was past him, into the house.

Chapter 25

Listening to Tiffany go over everything that had happened, Hope Logan piping in now and then, Gwen felt more certain there'd been a tray of Kool-Aid - tainted with something – something that made you believe – and the tray had gone around, once, twice, and Gwen had missed it somehow.

The best part was the Romeo and Juliet bit, a Connie and a Millie, the Romeo an heir to some sort of crime family, a chef in the interim for fuck's sake?, and he was somewhere in town now, evading the cops, or he was with the homicidal Juliet, running through the woods, just barely staying out of the cop's reach. Gwen placed him. The gangly guy, the one Henry had lent his phone, Ichabod Crane in the flesh. After seeing him, Mr. Uncoordinated, it was hard to imagine the cops not capturing him, sheer numbers encircling a daddy long-legs.

Gwen wanted to tell Hope to rearrange her shirt for God's sake, the stretched out collar, at least. They'd all seen her cleavage, thank you very much. Henry could endure an erection for only so long before the lack of blood going to his young brain did permanent damage.

Bug kept chewing his nails. It was his house, she was a guest, admittedly, but he chewed with such a wet, persistent industriousness. She couldn't snipe at him though. They were of a kind, outsiders, even in a town this small. She was glad to see he did in fact have a full head of hair. Most men that wore ball caps 99% of the time were hiding a boiled egg.

And this other guy, Sipe, wouldn't sit down, he just stood next to the table, faced the front door, looked around the room in a continuous circuit like a robot, damaged, C-3PO with the shiner to end all shiners, staring at the windows, looking left-left front-other front-then right, like he was the chosen vigilant, keeper of the peace, this ineffable sixth sense would kick in when the cops got close or whoever it might be that wanted the money Hope had stolen from the whorehouse. Of course it was a whorehouse, the second Butcher's Camp Massage opened everyone knew what it really was. Truthfully, Hope looked the part. Throw a bulky sweater on her, fuck, jam her into a burka, she still radiated sex. The pair on her. Her beepers, Gwen labeled them and nearly lost it. Gwen knew she ought to have some empathy here, Hope wasn't an adult, not legal, but a lot of Gwen's problems, most of the big ones, they'd been served up by human beings the same age as Hope. Soon as you started growing pubic hair (or beepers), soon as the words that came out of your mouth could cause seismic alterations in the life course of others, you were done being cute, done needing to be protected like some sort of fucking Ewok.

Part of the problem having to sit here and listen to the justifications for why Gwen had to join them, trust them, lie to Lori, keep everything on the down low - stress. It'd been a few years since she'd lost her job, her career, said goodbye to Idaho for good, but the stress from that whole witch-hunt was stirred up easy enough.

To lose her job, all she'd done was her job. Unlike all the other teachers going soft for the good of the athletics program, Gwen had held a football player to account, given him a failing grade, and next thing she knew, accusations of sexual misconduct were not only being leveled but were being considered as having actual heft, her word versus their word, the trouble being denying the claims placed a taint on her, placed questions in not only questionable, over-emotional heads, but the rational ones that could make or break her future.

What kind of woman, what kind of teacher was in their midst if she had to deny after school sex parties, gang bangs, booze, and drugs galore? Her status as a single female with no beau in sight did fat little to help her out.

Probably the only way it could've been worse is if the accusers had been members of the girl's volleyball team. That lynch mob would've come for her in broad daylight, shook her right on out of the booze spiral administrative leave had punted her into.

At the twelfth hour a sibling came forward, tattled on her idiot brother and an idiot teammate, verified the allegations all made up, plotted out via text accounts, but the damage was done.

People had apologized to Gwen, parents, the alumni council, the booster club, the school board, the local paper's unsigned editorial waggled the blame finger at the whole community, but Gwen's bags were packed, and even though it left her feeling kin to the boy-cock-hungry-deviant she'd been labeled, she took off in the middle of the night. The last time she ever laid actual foot in Couer d'Alene was when she chucked her notice into a post office drop box dead splat deep in the heart of dark-thirty at night.

"Can I just say something here? Please? I just want to point something out."

She stared at her fist. It'd come down on the dinner table. The candle in the middle of the table vibrated in the aftermath. Hope's eyes big like that fist might be coming after her next.

"Does Norm know about this? Does your uncle know anything about any of this?"

Tiffany's shoulders deflated. "No. Not really."

"What about your parents?"

Hope delayed answering until the little girl scampered behind the skirts of the rough and tumble loner. Part of the delay Hope finally tugging the shirt back up onto her shoulders, sheathing the cleavage.

"Rita? Owen? Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em both."

"You're a minor."

"Legally."

"That's all that matters."

"To who?"

"To the people that hold your future in their hands."

"I hold my future in my hands."

"I'm not saying you don't have a say in things, in what happens to you. But this is..."

"Look. I can go right now. Really. Truly. I can go out, stick out my thumb, and I'm gone. I've got the means."

"You've got stolen money."

"I earned some of that money."

"Oh my God. I should just call Child Protective Services. Right now."

Hope laughed.

"Go right ahead. I bet you a hundred bucks whatever bureaucratic dickweed they send out, he's a regular. Do you know how many assholes from Pendleton and La Grande all of a sudden decided to go 'fishing' near Little Creek this year? Guys that wouldn't know a fishing fly from a dust bunny. The majority of them all have that look, like accountants or bank clerks. Teachers. Bald spots. Guts. Send one. Send two. Best bets are if I didn't fuck them yet it was just because they'd rather have tasted some dark meat before some sweet meat."

Gwen looked at Bug. At Sipe.

"Am I delusional here? Am I the only adult here? You both realize how damaged she is?"

"Wow. Yeah. Thanks," said Hope. "Because I've never had anyone talk about me like I'm not in the fucking room."

Tiff reached over, placed her hand on top of Hope's. She leaned in, whispered something. Hope shrugged. Kept sending darts Gwen's direction.

"There are three problems."

Sipe spoke so low everyone got quieter in order to hear. He pointed at Hope.

"What to do with her. What to do about the people that she took the money from." He rubbed at his brow. "And then the other thing. Connie and Millie, all of that."

A long pause. Gwen didn't know, was he done talking? That was it? Pointing out the semi-obvious then retreating to sentry mode.

"Don't forget the car," said Gwen.

Sipe looked at her. Nodded.

"That's four things," she said. He waved his hand like yeah, he knew, he'd done the mental math.

"You got to clear the books," said Sipe.

"What do you mean?" asked Tiffany.

"She's got to give back what she took."

"It's mine," said Hope.

"It's Portland's."

"Fuck Portland."

Sipe smiled. Gwen thought of a corpse trying to smile, trying it on just the once, thinking it looked all right before lumbering back into the midst of the living.

"They owe Portland. Way it works. Portland helped set them up out there, at Butcher's Camp. Portland expects regular payments. Portland doesn't get its money, they come looking for it. Now - what's their names? Bonnie, Bret, et cetera - they're gonna give your name up to Portland. Then Portland comes looking for you. And Portland will find you. And will get its money. And Portland, money in hand, goes back to Portland."

"Can't you talk to them?" Tiffany asked him.

"Who?"

"The Portland people. The people the Ruchert's owe money to."

"They don't know me."

"What about your boss? What about Connie? Can't Connie talk to them?"

"They wouldn't know him. And Connie's dad doesn't do complicated. His kingdom is his kingdom. Portland means nothing to him. Portland has problems. Whatever. It's the same set-up everywhere. Basically. The only thing they want is money. It's simple. You do business with them, you give them what you agreed to give them, they leave you alone. There's an interruption in that, they show up."

"Are they coming?"

"Right now? Today? I don't know."

"What did the lady say?"

"What lady?"

"Faye." At that, Hope snorted. Under her breath, she said 'Faye the Lay,' like she was pristine in comparison.

"She didn't say," said Sipe. "She might not know. She came off like she had her finger on their pulse, but who knows."

"And it'd be like this guy that you think is still coming," said Tiffany. "The closer. The Wub. Would it be one, or would it be more?"

"Ask Portland. Every operation runs a little differently. But if they had a guy like the Wub, really, you only need to send the one guy."

Gwen swore she saw Tiffany age in the space of a half-second.

"Hope," said Tiffany, "you need to give the money back."

"No."

"You need to give the money back. Or they'll kill you."

"No."

"Hope. Goddamnit, look at me. Look at me." Tiff up out of her seat, leaning into her friend's personal bubble, grasping the shoulders, maybe even grabbing right into that group of muscles the bag strap had agitated. "They kill people. He knows. Him, look at him. You know how he knows? Because he kills people. He kills people that don't pay his boss. That's how he knows. And if his boss was expecting money from Butcher's Camp Massage, and he didn't get it, he'd send Sipe down here to find that money. And Sipe wouldn't care about you. About your whole sob story. About Rita and Owen and Beepers or Quinn Dobbs or what you and Derek did at the school dance or what you and Henry and Byron did out at the railcars, any of it. So what? So what? Big deal. All he'd want is the money. And he'd find you. And shoot you. And he'd take it. And he wouldn't think of you ever again."

Even after Tiffany let go of Hope and sat down, the little kid look remained on Hope's face. Tiffany's face scrunched up, she restrained any kind of noise, and she turned and said, "I'm sorry," and smooched Hope's cheek, and hugged her, and took up Hope's hand, holding it, stroking it on top of the table.

"So, how would I give it back?" asked Hope, sounding all of five years old.

"Call," said Sipe.

"I don't want to see them. Fuck them."

"We'd go with you," said Tiffany. "Right? Sipe? We'd go with her?"

"Sure."

"See? Hope? We'd be with you."

"But you want to do the handoff on neutral ground. Somewhere no one has the upper hand. And no one has, you know, no one's brought anything to the party the other group doesn't have as well."

"You mean..." Tiff slid a hand free of Hope's, stuck out her index finger, the thumb going up and down while Tiff said, "Bang-bang."

"Yeah," said Sipe. "I mean."

The chair squeaked, shoved backward across the tile floor. The table trembled, instant pain in Gwen's hip, she grabbed the throb as she pivoted, headed for the living room, the front door.

"Where's she going?" asked Hope. A moment later, she watched Sipe follow Gwen, and the front door and the screen door shut one right after the other again, and the rapid tap-tap-tap of feet on the front porch went away.

Tiff pale. Bug looking into the space directly in front of him. Henry looked at Tiff. At Hope. She shrugged. He shrugged. Hope smiled at him.

"So, Henry," she said. "You still mowing lawns like a motherfucker or what?"

*

I have a tire iron. I can pop the trunk and lift the tire wheel well cover out of the way and when he grabs for me just bring it down right on top of his head. Twice. Three times if I have to.

Thinking that, moving towards her Prius. She did calculations. Physics. Too close. He'd be able to hug her from behind, the trunk hood still rising, Gwen not even close to getting a hand on a weapon. Plan A, rejected. Plan B, enacted.

She wheeled on him. Dead stop, gravel crunching under heel and she pointed at him. Surprisingly, Sipe stopped, kind of jumped back even. It could be the light. Day wading into dusk everything attained a purpled outline, a veneer of the unreal.

"Stay the fuck away from me! You touch me, and I'll tear your eyes out of your head. Or are you just going to pull a gun out and shoot me? Is that the way you usually do it? Just point and shoot? Never have to touch the body?"

He held his hands up. Palms up.

"Who are you?" she asked. "How much of what Tiffany was saying is true? Is it? You kill people? You're a killer? What are you doing here? What are you doing with someone like her?"

"I know what this sounds like. To someone like you."

"You mean an adult? You mean someone that's never held a gun on another person? I don't think you have any idea what any of this sounds like to someone like me. This is insane. This is..." She pointed over his shoulder towards Lori's car. The dented driver's side. The cobwebbed rear window.

"How do I explain that to Henry's mom? Huh? How does she explain that to her insurance company?"

"You fix it. You don't have to tell anyone." He watched her. Confused. "What are you doing?"

"I'm patting myself down. Because, you know, I don't know, maybe I packed my magic wand today, maybe I didn't. Let's see. Let's see. No. I guess I didn't. Oops. Did you? Did you pack your magic wand that makes real problems go away? Or do you just have room inside your little black mobster suit for a gun? Maybe it's a magic gun though. It shoots magic bullets that just do what you want them to. You shoot and just squint, like that, like you do, you just squint, and everything's fine."

This time he looked a little more human, mostly because the smile was a closed mouth smile. Still, it was an alien's amusement, tickled by the hijinks of something in a cage that had no idea it was caged.

"Money," he said.

"Money. The magic wand? Of course, it is."

"I was gonna give Henry money. Or you. That's-" he looked back, assessing the Honda's battle scars, and turned back, "-a couple thousand ought to cover that."

"And no one has to know. Not Lori. Not Geico."

"No."

"And you have that?" asked Gwen. "Just on you?"

"Yeah. Look." He slid a hand into his pocket. His forehead wrinkled. Confusion. "I keep forgetting she's got it."

"Who?"

"Tiffany. She took my wallet. My gun."

"She has a gun?"

He swallowed. Even blushed.

"Not on her. I don't think."

"She...She's a little girl. She's this cute, chubby little girl, and she has your gun. Do you...Do you not hear these things as you're saying them?"

"I was unconscious," said Sipe. "And she's not a little girl. You think that you don't know her very well."

"I don't think I would take your personal opinion on anyone as a very sane judge of character." She'd stepped forward to make the point. He'd retreated. She noticed. Wondered if he knew how obvious his cowardice showed.

"I know her," he said.

"Really?"

"She's got honor."

"Ok. So?"

"She's loyal."

"Again. So?"

"'So'? So, she doesn't want people to be in trouble. Henry. Hope. Me. Connie. You. She doesn't want anyone to be in trouble. All that, in there, the little pow-wow, to keep Hope from getting hurt? If you didn't already know how that car had gotten to be a mess, she'd take the blame. It was Tiffany. She did it. And if Tiffany had her way, you know what she'd do? She'd take that money back herself. She'd force Hope into a closet or a basement or wherever, she'd lock her up, and she'd take that money back all by herself. And if Portland was already here, and all these people, these Ruchert's, were dead, and Portland just wanted to clean it all up, kill everyone? Tiff would tell them she was Hope. She would. She'd take the blame. So don't tell me she's a little girl. Don't delude yourself that she's a little girl. Maybe she is soft and chubby and cute, but she's got a spine on her. I know she does. I found out, ok? I found out."

He looked like he might cry. And he'd invaded her personal bubble arguing his point. So maybe she wasn't the intimidating factor she'd suspected. Something chirped. Inside his jacket. Sipe stepped back, and pulling the phone out she saw the holster, the gun, poking out just under his left armpit.

Sipe answered the phone. No voice met his. He looked at the phone, at the caller id. 206 area code. Whatever it meant, good or bad, he couldn't tell. He'd ask Tiffany, she'd know Connie's number, probably off the top of her head. How Connie knew the burner number, that was a question though. He slid the phone back inside his jacket.

"Who was it?"

He shrugged, looked around. All of a sudden, even suspicious of the tops of the trees on Bug's property, like the Wub invested in logger gear, mounted tree trunks to get a clean shot.

"I thought you said you didn't have a gun," said Gwen. "Just now. I saw." Patting her armpit.

"Oh. Yeah. Naw. That's not my gun. I mean, it is, but...That's just the backup."

"Right. Of course it is."

For what felt like the longest time Sipe stood and looked at Gwen, standing, her head bowed, hands up, thumbs pressed against either brow, massaging like all this deep concentration would pay off, and a butterfly, a cup, a golden halo, something might appear from the birth canal of mooshed palms.

"I'm ok," said Gwen. "I swear. Just give me a second or two."

Nodding, Sipe scratched the side of his neck and looked back towards the Collar house. Hope looked out at them from behind the screen door. She pointed at Sipe, at Gwen. Smiled. Pouted her lips and made kissy motions.

Chapter 26

"Looks like World War 3 down there," said Sutton, for the third or fourth or fiftieth time. Norm had lost count.

As residents passed Pleshette's, Sutton, nominating himself for the role of Weeble Wobble shaped info kiosk, would hold up the dumb enough to slow down, informing them that at this distance from the shooting and car smashing everyone ought to be safe enough, long as a stray bullet didn't ding Norm's oxygen tank. That happened, all bets were off.

Sutton's laugh sounded like a ceiling fan Norm had battled most of his time with Cathleen in Eugene, years before he couldn't breathe right, before he became more a parent than just an uncle. The bathroom light and fan operated on a single switch. Under the influence of the green, the bud, Cathleen would turn it on, then wander the house, most the time talking on her landline with the generous cord length, or forgetting it was on, taken in by TV or the radio. Wasn't long before that fan whipped around on ungreased bearings. Norm's inability to silence the noise just one of many reasons the romance had gone bust.

Sutton might delight to see that ignition occur, Norm sent off into the sky like a rocket. Fired or quit from the County Road Department - it depended on who you asked - Sutton just liked to jaw, and working from facts rather than fiction presented a brand new suite of conversational opportunity. Who knew how many variations on the theme of Norm's fiery death he could assay before the day was done.

Tiffany hadn't checked in. There wasn't a schedule. The way Norm looked at it she could run around when he didn't need her to watch the store. Not that there was much to watch. Both he and Sutton could wander away, join up the crowds down near the park or further down, massed around the SUV smashed up, blocking Main Street, and not a soul would wander into Pleshette's.

Dusk falling, he wondered how much longer he should let it go before he called her. Made sure she was all right. The only ambulance ride out of Little Creek had been for Doug Lueck, according to Sutton. He was getting updates on his phone. Norm's phone was somewhere. He hated the phone. All phones. They bred distraction. As if people weren't dumb enough already. Auntie's held some regular contest, Racine Dobbs would let her phone randomly dial a customer, and presto, they won a $5 gift certificate.

"I bet the National Guard will come on in," said Sutton. "And at least one network. Not those liberal sons of b's, none of their affiliates, but maybe the Northwest News Channel." Sutton rubbed his chin like he was considering the sacrifice he could throw Little Creek, make himself available to the talking heads, represent the best interests of the town. Sutton always talked about running for mayor, and here, The Honorable Bud Luotto's inability to foresee these dangers playing on out right now in front of everyone might be the necessary wedge.

The man walking east on Main Street, away from The Outpost, now past the post office towards Pleshette's was lanky, dipped at the shoulders like he was embarrassed by the 6'4" or so Mother Nature supplied.

Sutton's novelty item sized phone meeped at him (maybe he'd won Racine's contest), and instantly he was talking away, the device so big it looked like he held an irradiated dinner plate up to his head.

Across the street, Fenton had been coming out of the Up'n Up, reminding regulars that any beer drinking had to be done inside unless they wanted him to lose his license. They kept apologizing, taking a last look down at the crowd, heading back inside, then coming back out, clutching Coke and Pepsi cans Norm bet hid beverages of a yeastier bent.

The tall walker held up just in front of Norm. Even taller than Norm had estimated. Big nose, a woman's lips, and a kind of Italian nose. A sad face, but the guy looked beat. Could just be the common humidity a little too much for his system.

"Afternoon," said Norm. He waited it out, the usual. A stranger's eyes taking in his breathing tube, down to the oxygen tank, the mobile-wheeled cage, and back again.

"Are you Norm? Norm Pleshette?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did your niece call you about me?"

"'About' you?"

"Sorry. Long day. I'm Connie. Tiffany said she'd call."

"No. I haven't heard anything from her since about noon. Connie? I don't-"

"She said she'd call."

"Well, she didn't." Norm providing the smile he kept ready for the occasional drunk or when Sutton got into it with one of Don Jennings' acolytes – usually the trigger the latter accusing Sutton's hero Ronald Reagan of being a closet liberal, about the same for Sutton as calling old Ron a cocksucker. Norm had permanently banned a Dale resident, Peevie Owens, after a launched can of peas missed Sutton's head and permanently dented a wall.

"Who's this?" Sutton couldn't resist noticing, butting in. He stuck his lips back near his glowing dinner plate. "Hold on, Peevie. Just. Yes. We all saw the helicopter. Jesus. Take a breath." Sutton smothered the phone against his ribs. Norm processed the fact Sutton and Peevie were still on speaking terms. This was war come to their neck of the woods. Old alliances held firm apparently.

"Says his name's Connie," said Norm. "Said Tiff was supposed to call me, tell me about him."

"Well, where is your phone, Norm?"

Norm shrugged.

"Every day," said Sutton. "Every day. I swear. And still, I'm surprised." He hung up on Peevie and started in toward Pleshette's, stubby fingers working the pad screen. "I'm calling it, Norm. Is the ringer on?"

"No idea."

"Of course not. It's only technology preschoolers have mastered, but not a 50-year-old business owner. Jeezum Crow." Sutton mounted the porch and disappeared through the doorway.

"How do you know Tiff?" asked Norm.

"Oh. You know." Connie tried to smile. Good-looking boy at some angles and that smile might melt hearts in most situations, but his flat out lack of fuel left it looking more of a snarl. "Friend of a friend."

Norm nodded. Wished he and Sutton had some keyword worked out so need be one of them would know to grab the gun under the register.

From deep inside the store, Sutton bellowed, "Bingo."

Even the drunk out in front of the Up heard it. Wiped some faux cola out of his whiskers as he squinted across the street, anticipating something exciting to burst on out of Pleshette's.

"Oh. I forgot." Connie snapped his fingers, pointed at Norm. "She said if you seemed a little reluctant to help I was supposed to tell you a Dobbs was involved."

"Wait. What?"

"Tiffany. She said to tell you that you needed to help me. And a Dobbs was involved. She said that would totally grease the skid."

Norm's scalp tingled. He'd hoped to witness the brick-colored store down at town center to explode. Maybe have the Amazon hole up inside Auntie's and shoot it out with the Sheriff's deputies. A million dollars in damages. A stray bullet punch through something combustible. No deaths, no-no-no. He wanted the Dobbs alive, destitute, leaving town with their tails between their legs.

"Which one? Which Dobbs?"

"I don't know." Connie felt like taking a step back. Norm looked like he might grab Connie, shake the name out of him.

Sutton was lollygagging. Held up, standing there on the porch lip, lost in the world of his dinner plate. Norm could see the found phone tucked between Sutton's flipper and breast.

"Do you want to borrow my phone, to call her?" asked Connie.

Norm waved away the offer.

"Sutton! You find it?" Nothing. Pecking away at the touchscreen. "Sutton! My niece could be dying right now, but I'm not going to be able to say goodbye to her because you're busy updating your motherfucking Facebook!"

Sutton not even looking at him, but at least he was moving.

"Swearing. And at your age."

He stepped off the porch onto the gravel and held the cell out, the whole time eyes fixed on his device. Norm so agitated he nearly dropped the phone taking it from his employee. Sutton kept looking at his screen. Looking at Connie. Back to the screen. Back to Connie.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Connie grinned.

"If it's nothing why are you giving me that dirty look?"

"Ain't dirty, mister."

"No?"

"No. Interested is all."

Connie looked at the short man until something gave. Sutton turned the pad around, the motion knocking one floppy string of his bolo tie askew.

Random video from what seemed hours ago. Recorded from Don's Automotive, aimed across the street, at Auntie's. A jittery image, heads in the way, voices asking who was in the car, who was the woman shooting, the crowd watching Millie sprint down the middle of the paved street out towards the woods. And then a tracking shot, another sprinter, Connie, giving chase. A dozen muffled voices asking each other whom the running man might be. No one knew. Someone tossing it on out there, could be an FBI agent. Someone else, voicing hopes the Fed didn't get shot. Someone else saying fuck the Feds then being told in no uncertain terms to shut up.

*

It had helped that the Deputy looked all of 12. Even with a mustache.

Still, Connie had been amazed he'd hoodwinked the cop. Convinced him he was just a stranger, giving chase after the woman with a gun, some sort of heroic impulse he didn't know he had in him.

The Deputy hadn't driven far out into the woods before figuring out Millie wouldn't likely run parallel to the road. He'd doubled back, set up a roadblock just south of the bridge over Little Creek. Like a dummy, Connie still standing there, Millie vanished, his breath caught, brain befuddled. By the time the Deputy started asking questions the oxygen had resumed flowing normal enough Connie could fib.

Stuck to the story he'd given the Zippy Mart clerk, just passing through, the car breaking down, and for the foreseeable future, he was on foot. Circumstances beyond his control dumping him off in Little Creek, further circumstances lighting some fire under him, putting him in pursuit of the crazy woman.

Connie acted the over-interested citizen. Peppering the Deputy with questions, asking if they knew the woman's name, age, occupation, marital status. The mustache blushed, sorry, but he couldn't confirm anything right now. Then urging Connie to head back to town. For his own sake. No way to tell if the woman might not pop on out of the trees, guns a blazing. Later, the Deputy's slip chilled Connie. Running after Millie, he didn't care if she'd been armed. But if the cop caught up to her, adrenaline overriding thought, he might've blown out the back of her head before realizing Ms. Armed and Dangerous had actually dropped her weapon back in town.

Walking down the pavement back toward Little Creek, Connie had tried calling Millie. No answer. He dialed her a dozen times and then what felt like a dozen times more.

The helicopter surprised him. He wondered if they had some ace marksman aboard. Even if they did, it took someone cold around the heart to put a bullet in a woman. His thoughts raced, he wondered if he looked around Little Creek, maybe he could find a pay phone, call the Sheriff, anonymously tip them to the high likelihood the woman was pregnant. Sharpshooters would be called off. A general call to take her in, but not kill her would go out. A dead baby? No law enforcement higher up wanted to deal with that pie in the face.

He'd seen Miss Bikini Top joined by friends. A sea of teenagers on the house back deck, he saw some kid bounce up into the air and then heard a faint ploosh sound. Pool party. Nice. Connie saw Miss Bikini Top pointing at him, telling her girlfriends how she'd seen him sprinting out just a few minutes ago. He waved. They waved back then laughed. Amused. Safe. Touching danger from a safe place.

The suit jacket lay on the roadside. He stepped past it, fuck it, then he stopped, went back, picked it up. Slung it over his shoulder and walked along the park. His phone rang. Tiffany calling. And calling. And calling again.

Sipe.

Back in Pendleton, Connie should've told him to fuck himself. The Wub was on the way? Big deal. Connie was moving on. Sipe a big boy, Sipe had done all manner of horrible shit in this life, why not have some horrible shit happen to him for once? Connie could've shoved him out of the condo, shut the door in his face.

Connie killed his phone, shoved it in his back pocket. Crowds drifted into Main Street. A few people looked at him, but most the attention was focused down westward, an ambulance had arrived, and Deputy Lueck was loaded on a gurney. A second official looking law enforcement rig - the requisite black SUV - parked behind the wounded Deputy's squad car.

No way they hadn't already run the license plates off Millie's SUV. A little violence in the middle of Buttfuck, Egypt didn't mean a thing to news gatekeepers but flutter 'Millicent Timbers' in front of them, and the floodgates would open.

That temper of hers. No one knew the source, not even Millie. She took prescription pills, mood stabilizers. She'd completed anger management courses. She visualized soothing images to remove the thorn when the thorn sunk into her paw. She didn't booze it up anymore. That was good. That helped, but she was angry even before the first drops of booze had ever graced her lips. So many Barbie dolls and Raggedy Ann's ripped limb from limb. Introduction into Little Millie's toy box like being queued up for the meat grinder. Could be, all those years ago, Bela Yalbo was an astute judge of character. He didn't want to sign up for a sure case of heartburn and heartbreak.

The first time they'd had sex, all of ten minutes after bumping into one another at a Santa Rosa nightclub - Connie and fellow Culinary Institute students cutting loose - Connie had been scared, afraid she'd snap his neck, bite his dick off, at the very least break his ribs the way she rode him, grabbing hold and essentially turning his whole body into a massive dildo. It turned her on that he didn't come first, in fact, she finished off four times, riding twice, once on her back, and then outside, braced against the car trunk, Connie finally tripping his magic wire hot on her heels. Wiping his mess off her crotch onto his shirt, she told him she'd been looking for him. For the man just the right size that could last like that. The Divine Hammer. Giggling, kissing him for the first time, telling him it wasn't everyday a girl discovered some myths were true.

Siren blaring, the ambulance had sped out of town, driving west, towards the Forest Service then beyond. The Jeep driving EMT still down at ground zero, talking to the Sheriff, on-lookers. A rumble noise sounded from Don's Automotive and a tow truck drove out, the driver beep-beeping until the crowds parted, allowed him to drive all of a half-block. Connie wondered where the impound lot was around here. Probably out of town. Maybe far away as Pendleton.

Connie noticed some in the crowd pointing at him. Looking. Showing their phones to one another. He faked an anthropological interest in the signs next to the propane tanks. Messages on patriotism. Black helicopters. Prescient on that one, if nothing else.

Connie knew, if not Sipe then someone else eventually would've transformed into a new Bela Yalbo. Years from now, they might've been married, 2.5 kids, Connie running his own restaurant, nothing but the good life, then something would hit Millicent the wrong way. A PTA meeting, a soccer game, a grocery aisle, a neighborhood block party, some simple, ordinary little event would transform into ground zero. Then it'd be, sorry kids, mom's got to go away, serve out 10-25.

Hours ago, before taking off for Timbers Athletic, Millie had asked if he wanted pancakes for breakfast. And Connie mistakenly scrunched up his face and answered in this grossed out voice, the way he'd regularly tease Susan years ago, feigning disgust when his aunt-not-an-aunt knew good and well pancakes were Connie's absolute favorite.

Millie's face had crumpled. It was like a big fat greasy turd had dropped into the telling of the fairy tale. Connie caught his mistake, hugged her, told her what it meant, his reaction, just autopilot, he didn't know where it had come from, and the thousand or so kisses he'd smothered her in seemed to heal any sign of wound.

Maybe it was better to have things go to Hell early on in the affair before they had spent time and energy on shoring things up. Before marriage. Before kids. Before a mortgage. Before forever started to really and truly feel like forever.

Connie ended up standing next to the Patriot's Kiosk, staring into space, a virtual twin to the sun-weathered mannequin in Revolutionary-era wear.

The next time Tiffany called, he'd answered. Let her know what was going on, and she updated things on her end of the persistently interesting day. She told him Norm would help out, especially after he knew Quinn Dobbs was up to his neck in it. Then Tiff had handed Sipe the phone. Before arriving at Pleshette's, Sipe asked Connie to stop inside The Outpost, check the restaurant out.

"We're going to have a meeting there," said Sipe. "If you think it checks out."

"Meeting?"

"With some locals. Me, the girl - Hope. Her former employers. About as neutral ground as they get around here."

"You want me to help? With the meeting itself?"

A long pause before Sipe said, "Maybe."

"Sure."

"When you're in there, want you to look around, see if there's someplace good to hide, uh, you know, a gun. Something similar sized."

"Thought you said 'neutral ground.'"

"Way it goes, you hope for neutral. Long as nothing happens, it's neutral. Everyone walks in, everyone walks out, no one has to utilize all the little ways you cover yourself, it's neutral."

"Right. Sipe. Uh, what does 'similar sized' mean?"

"You know. Palm sized. Handy."

Chapter 27

The stop at Henry's house was going to be bunny-quick. Gwen didn't want to take the chance of a cop pulling in behind her, stopping her, asking if she knew how Lori's car ended up involved in a car crash, and why some disgraced former Olympian took pistol shots at the car. Then, there might be questions about just what Gwen was doing with an underage boy.

All her bullshitting reserves were exhausted going through checkpoint Charlie a second-time post-planning session at Bug's. Smiling at the cop, telling him Heppner didn't seem like such a hot option with all the craziness going on in Little Creek. Gwen wanted to make sure she could actually get back in town. The cop told her it wasn't going to turn into the manhunt of the century. Deputy Lueck had a broken nose at worst, and Millie had run on into the woods unarmed. Probably a better chance she'd get eaten by bears or squirrels than she'd do any further harm.

Henry insisted he needed to do something at the house then they could drive up to Gwen's, stay inside the rest of the night. He wouldn't get into particulars.

Once Gwen pulled up and stopped, Henry got out and ran for the front door. She left the motor running, in the hybrid sort of way, the car going so silent it was like it'd shut off. Stared into the rearview mirror. Could see Old School Road rising and going uphill, could see part of the Forest Service building.

Next time she spoke to Lori, she'd tell Lori the truth. It was better for the soul if not for the friendship. If Gwen was really in the groove and feeling like lightening her load, she might reveal hooking up with Alec. Lori might just wave her hand, tell Gwen she already knew. It was sperm under the bridge. Didn't care.

She wondered what Henry would think if he came back outside and she was gone. Runaway Gwen. She'd done it before. There was probably another checkpoint on the east end of Little Creek. She bet if the media ever did arrive they'd find the one or two nuts in town and get that slant on events. Set up right across from the Patriot's Kiosk and get Don Jennings to pose with his rifle, his Paul Revere outfit, and spin things, this Olympian a real American hero, obviously the target of a liberal conspiracy.

All this tumult, most Little Creek residents would be a little restless, a fair share right on Gwen's wavelength, just needing a drink or some weed to settle on down.

The black car appeared.

Wasn't there. Then it was.

The surreal appearance assisted by a purpled world, the suns slow slide out of sight.

The black car's front headlights weren't on, but if they did flicker to life, Gwen convinced the light would be black, a dark world electricity sizzling at the beam edge.

Later on, she'd second-guess her actions. But the best thing in that moment was to listen to her inner voice, the one that had last spoken up during winter, screaming at her to decline Alec's nakedness, his behest she join him.

The voice said kill the engine.

Yoink the keys out of the ignition.

Get out.

Don't look back.

Slam the car door.

Don't look back.

Half-run, mostly run, to the house.

Open the screen door. Open the door-door. Swear at the knob, the slippery fucker. Go in. Get in. Shut the door. Lock the fucker.

Run and make sure all the other doors were shut and locked.

Stop in the living room. Pivot. Look down the hallway.

Yell at Henry. Tell him not to go outside.

Then those other doors. Get them. Fast.

The outer garage door.

The inner garage door.

The basement door.

Down in the dim basement, she looked too long at the pool table. The tiny pool cues. Weapons? God, did she need a weapon? Wasn't there an ax down here she'd seen at some point?

The ceiling squeaked. Henry. Going for the door.

Panic. She yelled at Henry.

She ran back up the basement stairs. Two at a time.

Scurried through the kitchen. Held up in the living room, her heart pounding, probably looking like a little rabbit, scared, its whole body moving with its breath.

Henry stood at the head of the hallway. Pointing towards the front door, blinking like he was fighting off sleep or fighting off dumb.

"Who is that?" Henry asked.

"Are you done?" Soon as she asked, Gwen knew it didn't matter. They weren't going anywhere. Henry could take alllll the time in the world for his errands. Those damnable errands that had doomed them.

Henry made the call.

Gwen made him stand in the hall. Gwen in Lori's bedroom, peeking out the curtains, feeding him the pertinent information. What the man looked like. What he was doing.

Henry hung up. It was ok, Henry related. Someone would be coming. Sipe, probably.

"What's he doing?" asked Henry.

"Standing there."

"Anything else?"

"Not so much," said Gwen. "Henry, please. Don't come in here."

"I'm not."

"I can see part of your head. If I can see, he can see."

"He can probably see you."

"I don't think so."

"If he's going to shoot anyone he'd shoot you."

"Henry."

"I'm just...Be careful."

"I will. I am."

Gwen not sure whose side of the bed she stood next to, holding the bedside lampshade with one hand, trying not to knock it over as she looked between the drawn curtains and the window out at the driveway.

Outside, the black man in the tan suit smoked, walked back and forth in front of his black car. He didn't look like a killer. He looked more like a concierge. Some retired businessman your widow aunt scooped up for companionship in her sunset years.

"What was it you needed to do anyway?" asked Gwen. "Henry?"

"Nothing."

"I'm not judging. Ok? I'm not mad."

"Nothing. I just thought. The house is messy. I don't want my mom to have to find it like that."

Messy. All he meant was he hadn't put the box back in the dresser. The box with the 'thing' inside it. The thing spilled across the kitchen floor hours ago. He'd touched it. Paul Salerno had a name for that family of personal appliance. Mother's Little Helper. He really wanted to call Paul. Tell him to check the news. Guess what? Maybe it was the middle of nowhere, but today, for once, Little Creek, Oregon was actually half-interesting.
Chapter 28

The bucktoothed Beeper fastened onto Bug's dashboard resembled some last-second compromise between career barfly and shaved squirrel. Draped across the ceramic figurine's practically skin-bursting bone work some slinky spaghetti-strapped dress in gross approximation to the number Marilyn Monroe made famous, the thigh displayer, whirling up over the air vent, only any sexiness on display here the kind appreciated by the genus of perv seeking release from improbable niche porn titles like _The Girls of Auschwitz_. The Beeper easily midpoint in the skin flaying process, some invisible sandpapery tongue wearing the dermis down in pursuit of a promised chewy candy core. Sipe wondered how Hope liked it, her latest would-be savior zipping around all points Little Creek, one of her parents' devised despicable dolls so prominently displayed.

The intersection checkpoint wasn't much of a hiccup. Some regular town folk had been drafted, wore Deputy badges, checking on vehicles before they were waved through. East and west travelers were few. It was those north- and southbound folk having to sit through a surprise wait.

The old boy peering in through the driver side window had known Bug by name. No problem there. The old boy performed a lengthy squint over Sipe. The sunglasses were left behind, back at the Collar place, in the Honda jockey box. Anyone in town that had seen the driver attacked by Millie would remember the sunglasses.

Bug noted the staring match between men. He cleared his throat.

"That's just Carver. Buddy of mine back in Kuwait," coming out flat and disinterested as if Bug were motoring towards town escorting a bag of groceries, not a guy sporting the mother of all head bruises.

Sipe just a lump, his head elsewhere, thinking about the too many moving parts in all of this. Once one stilled, another clicking clacking hissing steaming issue birthed. Connie ok, Connie doing recon, Connie securing Sipe's gun and wallet from Tiff and Norm's. And then, justlikethat, Gwen's call to Tiff. Panic. The black car. The bad man Sipe had told everyone about.

Sipe considered the possibility it might all be a dream, the snarl of incidents. Sipe actually still on his back on the brown grass, bees and flies and mosquitoes alight around the railcars the only players in orbit around him.

The traffic snarl still in sight in the rearview mirror, roof lights flickering on the cop car parked at a tilt, practically sliding into the ditch. The road ahead of them curved, that bisected hill directly in front of them. Two kids on bikes shot out around the curve. Laughing. Having fun. Off to watch the oddity. The roadblock.

Sipe waiting for his scalp to stop tingling, Bug said, "I can shoot. If you need me to."

"You want to?"

"No."

"Then don't offer."

"Well. The situation calls for sacrifice. Last time I aimed a rifle at anyone...Never here. Never stateside," said Bug. "But I could drop you off. Then easy enough head to Mountain Road, get to high ground, work my way down and have Henry's house covered. Five minutes tops."

Sipe thought it over. He thought fast.

"Doesn't have to be shooting," said Bug. "Sometimes just the potential of it is enough to keep everything from going all higgedly-piggedly."

They were through the hill. Little Creek spread out right ahead. The sign at Don's Automotive glowing, the highest point in town.

"If you want, now's the time to give the word."

"Drop me off. Up there. The road. On the highway. Then do your thing."

"You got it."

Sipe popped his seat belt buckle.

"What kind of signal you want?"

"Put both hands in the air," said Bug.

"All right."

Driving past the 'Entering Little Creek' sign, Bug took his foot off the gas. They slowed down even more.

"You don't move a lot, I noticed," said Bug. "Something that demonstrative, hands I mean, I'll know it's hit the point between you and this other fella nothing reasonable is going to be accomplished. Yep. When words die, bullets fly."

*

Gravel crunched under Sipe. Somewhere nearby a dog barked. A day ago he'd been driving. Connie talking him into taking a little side trip off the way home.

There were lights on inside the Forest Service, a modicum of illumination, security, to keep the tempted from breaking in. The living room light in Henry's house on. The basement window gave on a lit up room. The air smelled like dust, and this clean scent wafted in off the fields. Wheat. Barley. He bet if he closed his eyes he might move back through time, and if he wasn't careful, find himself back inside his little boy body, surrounded by so many things he'd known, common, familiar things. Greta and Roxanne, Mom and Dad, the million or so cats that used their place as a way station, the swing set, the old plywood hunk with a bull's eye painted on it, the target for Sipe the future all-star ace to throw at until his arm ached or he tired of running to gather up the whole three baseballs he owned.

The black sedan blocked in Gwen's car. Lexus. Like the Old Man owned stock in the company. Sipe didn't see any signs of life. The bedroom windows beyond Gwen's car were dark unlike the rest of the house. He wondered if the Wub would shoot him even if there might be an audience. But it wasn't the Wub. Unless Gwen was hallucinating.

"Hey. Sipe. Goddamn."

The chill encapsulated all his flesh. Caught with his pants down.

Sipe looked over his shoulder, towards the voice, the corner of the house. The man coming into view had scampered up that intense, steep mound at the southeast corner. Meaning he might've been watching the highway the whole time, maybe from the safety of the picnic table at the lawn edge. Sipe hadn't seen him. Neither had Bug.

Zeke crossed the lawn, his age, those bones, giving him a kind of rolling motion. His suit jacket off, hung over his forearm. Shadows, sweaty half-moons, soaked into his armpits. His hat was on, a short brimmed model like a '50s-era businessman would wear.

"Where's the Wub?"

Zeke laughed. "That's our Sipe. All business. You have the great misfortune to deal with me and me alone. Our buddy, our mutual friend is probably still barfing his lungs out."

Zeke came to a halt right on the edge of the lawn. He made a 'woo' noise like he'd been working his way uphill all day long. He took the hat off and swiped it through the air, fanning himself. Zeke smiling under the thin mustache clung to his upper lip. His mouth was long, and the lips were thin. One of those mouths easily graduated to a maw, wide enough it could accept an entire pie, tin included. He put his hat back on his sweaty scalp.

Sipe pointed at Henry's house. "They ok?"

"I don't know any they. There was a woman in that car when I drove up, but she scampered on into the house. I haven't seen anyone since then. I tried calling you, you know?" Zeke flicked his knuckles against Sipe. Zeke a toucher. He did it to everyone with the exception of the Old Man.

Sipe recited the number he'd seen on caller I.D. out at Bug's.

"That's the one. I tried all the numbers I had on file. Wasn't sure which burner you might have on you. My goddamn battery is so low though it didn't do a thing for me. There's something screwy with the charger I got. I'm trying to charge it up, but it might be a fat lot of good it's doing. I decided 'fuck the thing,' left it in my motel room."

"I thought the Wub was coming."

"He was. He started to come out, well, I called him, and he was already out near the airport. It was very serendipitous up to the point it wasn't. There's some Men's Warehouse down in SeaTac, and the Wub was helping his nephew find a tuxedo for a wedding. The kid's slated to be the best man at a wedding, and I guess they met down there, ate lunch right before the tux shopping. Whatever the Wub ate didn't agree with him. I called him about you, you and Connie, and even then, the Wub was having to talk, barf, talk, barf. In no shape to go anywhere except maybe the bathroom. So, me? All I've got on the docket is maybe going to a Mariners game. No one else available. No one I trust, not with Connie involved. So I bust a hump, fly to Walla Walla, and here we are. Doesn't matter. I didn't miss anything I would want to see. Caught it on the radio. M's got lit up by Milwaukee."

"Connie's fine."

"What's that?"

"Connie's fine."

Zeke waved his hand like 'c'mon, Sipe, everyone knew that.'

"I mean, things are messy. Connie...His lady went berserk. I mean, you know that."

"Me? The whole world knows that. She beat up a cop. You don't do that. I mean, you can, but if you do, you do it quietly."

"How pissed is he?" Not having to say who. Connie knew the 'he' in question.

"I haven't talked to the Old Man. Sipe, come on, he doesn't know who I am. If I worked for him another ten years, he still wouldn't know me. He wouldn't know me if I took a bullet for him. Closest to him I've gotten is Susan."

"What does she say?"

"What do you think she says? She says, 'Do your job, Zeke.'"

"And you're the closer?"

"Am I the closer?" Zeke made a pistol with his hand, the index finger the barrel. He squinted and produced an explodey noise.

"Consider yourself closed, Sipe. Permanently."

Zeke opened that pie-eating hole and laughed.

*

Before trying to get inside Henry's house, Sipe called Connie. Connie on the line, Sipe handed the burner phone to Zeke and let them arrange a meeting. Sipe handed Zeke Millie's stun gun. Zeke gave it a look like a caveman handed a hair dryer.

"Give it to Connie. Tell him to put it somewhere handy. The magazine rack," meaning this totem pole Connie reported acted as a magazine rack and hat stand on the way to the restrooms inside The Outpost. Zeke invited to join in on the night's meet up with the Butcher's Camp Massage crew, but Zeke brushed Sipe off, told him he knew an old hand like Sipe didn't need Zeke watching his every move. Zeke did ask about The Outpost's breakfast. Zeke loved a good breakfast, practically forcing Sipe to agree to a date in the morning before they left Little Creek for good.

Once Zeke backed out of the driveway and headed down the gravel road and turned left onto Main Street, Sipe called Bug. No answer. He left a message. He figured Bug already humping it back towards his truck after playing almost sniper. Then he called Tiff, got Gwen's number and called that. When she unlocked and opened the front door of Henry's house, she gave him perplexed.

"You could've just knocked."

"Didn't want to scare you."

"I'm not scared."

"Ok. Can I come in?"

She looked through the screen door past him like she didn't trust him. Zeke or whoever it might be posing a threat could materialize out of thin air and rush around the front of the garage and push in behind Sipe and then into the house.

"Yeah." She pushed the door open. "You can come in." Gwen still sounding about as friendly as Roxanne or Greta back in the day when little Sipe was tasked knocking on a closed bedroom door to try and usher them towards the dinner table or with a much steeper degree of difficulty, out of the kingdom of dreams. One time Roxanne feigned sleep so well she seemed dead and lured him in and grabbed him, dragged Sipe in under the covers where an almost completely naked lipless god waited to num and yum a little boy.

Henry sat on the lip of the couch. He didn't appear afraid of Sipe, but Sipe knew he needed to maintain a certain low level of movement and promise of movement otherwise the kid might go on high alert, anticipating some replay of the earlier living room struggle.

"So you know, it's ok," said Sipe. "That was a different guy out there than the one I thought was coming."

"Not the Wub?" asked Henry.

"No. Not the Wub."

"It's a nickname," Henry said for Gwen's benefit. "Like rub, but instead he can only say wub. He has a speech impediment."

Gwen nodded.

"Is there anyone else I need to worry about?" she asked. "Speech impediment or otherwise?"

"I don't think so."

"Zeke," said Sipe. "No. He's more reasonable. All he cares about is Connie being ok. And Connie's ok. So it's ok."

Henry stood up.

"So wait, so I don't have to stay with Gwen?"

Sipe shrugged. "I don't know."

"No," said Gwen. "No. We need to hold on here. You still need someone with you, Henry. At least right now."

"But Sipe said it's ok."

"There's a madwoman running around here. We've got cops all over."

"She doesn't want me."

"No. But."

"Look. She's out in the woods. She's not coming back to town. I mean, fuck, I can see the cop car from here."

"Language."

"Whatever. Look." Pointing out the window towards the woods, the south end of Little Creek. "You can see the cop's roof lights spinning. At least, you know, the reflection and all. If she tries to come back to town, they're going to shoot her."

"Henry. That's only part of it. Could you tell me, could you promise me that you wouldn't try and help Tiffany anymore tonight? Or Hope?" Gwen looked at Sipe. "You're still having your powwow?"

"Yeah."

"I know you, Henry. You'd try and help Hope or Tiff or try and help Hope because Tiffany cares about her. Your mom's car is thrashed, ok? I already have to tell her about that. I can't tell her the same thing, I mean, I can't face the possibility of potentially having to explain the same thing to her but have it be about you. Can you understand that? This meeting? Their meeting? It's not for you. It's not for me. Hope is the only kid that's going to be there, and quite honestly, given the little that I know or that I suspect she's gone through, she's left being a kid behind. And left you behind. And Tiffany. And, honestly, me, in a lot of ways. Where she is, where she's been, there aren't a lot of maps out there that cover getting through that kind of shit. Stuff. It's messed up. She's messed up. So don't ask me to let you just run loose. Because I can't. You know I can't. The meeting isn't for you. It's for him-" pointing at Sipe, "-and those other people directly involved. After tonight, after today, if it ends, God let it end, we can go back to how it's been. Hands off. You'll have the run of the house, and of the town, I promise. But right now, I've got you. And you can wiggle all you want, but I swear, the more you wiggle, you little fucker, I'm just going to grip you all the tighter."

*

Outside, Gwen walked Sipe down the driveway. Bug had called. Sipe told him he'd meet Bug down where Old School Road terminated at the asphalt.

"Can you tell me something? Mr. Sipe?"

He stopped and turned around. It surprised Gwen how just a hand on his shoulder had caused him to tense up so much like her hand had simulated tarantula legs aiming for the back of his neck.

"Sorry."

"It's ok," he said. "Long day. I'm jumpy."

"How's it going to go tonight? Do you know?"

"No."

"And you will keep Tiffany out of it, right?"

"She won't be anywhere near it."

"I'll try and call Norm. See if we can kill two birds with one stone and somehow watch Tiffany and Henry together. They'll hate that, but..."

Two kids on bicycles raced down Main Street and passed the line of demarcation. Little Creek shed. Shouting, reflectors hopefully keeping them safe as they humped it eastbound for the curve through the hill and then sight of the Zippy Mart roadblock. Sipe couldn't tell if they were the kids he'd seen earlier or a different enthusiastic pair.

"Did she tell you...Did Norm talk to you at all about her situation? Her mom?"

"No."

"She's alive," said Gwen. "The mom. The dad, too, it's just...You know _Chinatown_? The movie? No? Huh. That's always what I think of when it comes to Tiffany. Right at the movie's end it comes out the main female character's daughter is actually fathered by, well - I'm laughing. I don't know why. It's actually really awful, but it turns out the woman's been raped by her own father and so it's a question of whether this teenage girl is her daughter or her sister or both. And it's not quite that bad. Tiff is a product of lust, I mean, maybe some love, but definitely lust and definitely not violence. But it's...It was an uncle. A kind of crazy uncle. Tiffany's mother was all grown up, in her mid-20s even, and somehow she ended up falling in love with her own uncle. He left his wife for his niece. He was some sort of...I don't know. Both of them saddled with some artistic bent. I guess if you can make art then sometimes those social conventions fencing in the rest of the cattle don't mean as much. But the mother is in some halfway house or on the loose at some artist's colony over closer to Portland. I don't know where the father is. The uncle. Maybe he's with her. Maybe it's the fairy tale ending, but without the daughter. The niece."

Headlights glowing, Bug's truck rolled eastward down Main Street.

"You have to go," said Gwen.

"Lots to do."

Sipe started walking down the gentle decline towards Bug's truck, idling in the lane.

No cars drove down the westbound lane, but Sipe started to run for the truck. He didn't seem the sort of man who ran willingly or well. He looked like a funeral director desperate to catch a departing hearse before the still-open trailer gate led to certain fiasco. Running one of many activities he'd come off alien in performance. Opening Christmas presents. Doing laundry. From behind a podium, introducing a longtime inspiration. Sex. Any kind.

Gwen watched Sipe get in the truck and shut the passenger door. Something inelegant occurred, and Bug's truck gears shifted, produced a sound like a combine snared on a long forgot sprinkler system. Minor snafu. The truck lurched forward, and the men drove out of town.

Up in the house, the TV was on, muted. Henry wandered the kitchen in long loose figure eights, one hand to his ear, looking at Gwen the Fun-Killer, pausing long enough to relate, "It's Tiff. We're just talking, not plotting," then dismissing her, returning to his distracted geometry.

Chapter 29

Inside, the Pleshette's trailer home was dark and cool. Connie had showered that morning, but inside the home, the sweat solidified like an extraneous layer of skin, and he felt like he could use another. The closest he came to bathing the abundance of licks the little dog, 'the terror' so described by Norm, supplied.

Once Tiffany gave Norm the details, Hope's situation and how Connie could help, Norm supplied Connie the key to the house. Told Connie he trusted Tiffany. Plus, there wasn't much to steal from the little house anyway. Wheels on the oxygen tank had clicked over gravel, Norm conducting Connie towards the post office to go over the fine details, and keep his employee out of the loop. The chubby man like a cat constipated at a window when all the action was taking place just on the other side.

"I'll just tell Sutton you're a Fed," said Norm. "That'll keep him chasing his tail."

True to her word, Tiffany did indeed own a lot of comic books. Her instructions were spot on. The most hunting around Connie did was for a bag to stow Sipe's gun and wallet. The whole search he was accompanied by Pluto. The dog thought Connie might supply him with treats or pets, something.

On his way out, Connie was overwhelmed by the dog's wiggling and whining and started petting Pluto, then before he knew it, he was sitting on the living room floor, lavishing the dog in affections, careful to keep the bag with the gun out of Pluto's reach, muzzle, paws, any furry bit.

Boneless in a warm lap, the dog's bliss caught like a flu and Connie was restful like he'd slipped into a new dimension, and Millie and Sipe and the house on Lake Washington and the Old Man's certain demise and the handing over of the reins were issues facing some other version of Connie. For this Connie, the cool dark living room could be forever.

The little dog yapped through the shut front door Connie's entire walk towards the gate to the street.

*

On his lope back to Pleshette's, Connie took Sipe's call and agreed to meet Zeke. After he returned Norm's key, Connie walked to The Outpost. Rustic, that's the word Connie happened on. No driving, no bus. Little Creek allowed you to walk everywhere. It did present a certain charm.

Zeke already occupied a booth with a window view out onto Main Street. Across from the restaurant the lime-colored church, some decrepit building, then the tavern. The freckled waitress seemed so happy to see Connie he thought she might embrace him. She led him to Zeke, Connie on her tail, doing his best to not look obvious, checking out the carved faces on the multi-use magazine stand and hat rack. The obvious place to plant a weapon.

Supplied with a menu and water, promised the waitress' return in just a couple, Connie braced himself for a full dressing down from a member of the Old Man's honor guard, Zeke higher up in the organization than even Sipe.

"Got you something," said Zeke. "Well, Sipe got it for you." Zeke waggled his hand, the item wrapped in a clean white handkerchief. He slid it across the table. Taking it, Connie could feel the outline of something small and vaguely gun shaped. He put it in his lap.

"Oh," said Connie. "And I got something for you. Just picked it up in fact."

He slid the bag with Sipe's gun and wallet. Zeke didn't even look in the bag. Received it and set it on the booth seat.

"Didn't know you had a thing for athletes," said Zeke. "About a million years ago I was engaged to a tennis player. This is before I even knew your father."

Zeke had removed his suit jacket. The suspenders a constant since he'd dropped weight, a good 50 pounds, in between the time the Old Man sent him off to Alaska and his return some three years ago.

"Where is she?" asked Connie.

"Who? The tennis player?" Zeke grinned. Exercised his index finger up and down along the length of the wet water glass. "Oh, somewhere out there. Woman as fine as that doesn't have to give a young fool a second chance."

When the freckled waitress returned for their order, she said, "Ok. Now. What can I get you boys this afternoon?" Something crossed her face, right as it was out of the gate, but Zeke handled it with a deft touch. Just waited for the girl to lock on his mature negro face and he winked and smiled at her. A little don't worry about it, the 'boy.' Zeke asked her what she'd recommend. And he asked questions, specifics, how to make stuffed potatoes tasty without turning them into sodium death traps, and by the time it was Connie's turn to order her blush had dissipated.

After she left their table, Connie asked, "What does my dad say about all of this?"

"Hold on." Zeke moved the bag off his jacket and dug a pill bottle out of his jacket. An amber colored prescription bottle. Humming, he extracted a pill, replaced the bottle in his jacket, and washed the pill down his throat with water. "Helps with the digestion. Everything burns once it's in my guts anymore. Now. About this. All of this, what would you say about it?"

"What would I say?"

"What would you say. It's relevant. You're going to have to deal with things like this, Connie."

Connie laughed. Zeke showed neither encouragement or discouragement for the laugh.

"It's his mistake," said Connie. "All that fear. He doesn't want me to fly. His precious little baby boy, but if I flew, then there's no room for side trips and meetings at night. No time for Sipe to get sideswiped."

"So someone comes to you," said Zeke, "you, the boss, and they tell you, 'Hey, this is all on you, you big dummy,' how would you take it?"

"I'd admit my mistake."

"Even if you're the king?"

"Maybe especially because I am the king."

"How long does a king who admits wrong doing rule? Is a king a king if someone he rules comes to him and tells him in no uncertain terms he's made a mistake of gross proportion?"

"Calls him an asshole?"

Zeke smiled. A dark tooth prominent in the low-key grin.

"You're supposed to listen," said Connie. "Even to things you don't want to hear. You can't rule blindly. Or deaf. Or dumb. It can't be an echo chamber."

"And yet he has. And for a very long time. I mean, it's a big pie, with all kinds of profit generating interests, and there's a lot of slices to go around, and your father rules one slice the same way the Russians do and then those guys over in Billings and that woman down in Boise, they all have their slices, and on and on and on. But the reason he's still in charge is he shows no weakness. What he says is law. If I was with him, outside, any time of day, and he told me how beautiful the moon was, even if it's 10 a.m., and cloudy, and raining, and there's not even the chalky residue of a moon anywhere in sight in the sky above, I'm going to agree, yes, it is a very beautiful moon."

"Because he's king," said Connie.

"The king sees a moon, you see a moon."

"So what does he say about all of this?"

Water pitcher in hand, the red headed waitress zipped past their table, hit the brakes, replenished Zeke's water glass and promised them their food was on the way.

Still smiling after thanking her, Zeke looked at Connie. Then out the window. Drained half his water glass.

Connie waited, and once he had them, he held Zeke's eyes. Connie almost started counting all the freckles on the older man's cheeks.

"You didn't tell him," said Connie.

"Do you remember Midler?" asked Zeke. "Tall. Good looking cat. He drank a little too much, started going a little hunchbacked? Susan called him 'Tiny.'"

"Vaguely."

"Midler the one with you and your mom the day she got hit by the car, you got hit by the car. The Old Man directly blames your mom, 'cause she's talking on her phone, not paying attention, dragging you through the crosswalk. You'd think Midler would get his head handed to him. He's there. Present. Right behind the two of you. But Rydell is the one shown the door. Why? Rydell is Midler's boss. Midler screws up, it's Rydell's fault. You in the hospital. Your mom in the hospital. The Old Man for some reason blames just two people. Your mom and Rydell. Midler, he's with us another five years or so. Those other two," Zeke shook his head. Claimed more water for his throat, for his guts and the anticipated burning.

"You think he'd blame you for me taking off on Sipe," said Connie.

"I don't keep him in the dark. I told him," said Zeke. "I told him the car had difficulty. Something went wrong. A Johnson rod, you know? Some contraption on the engine only a mechanic would know. Somewhere in Oregon, the damn Lexus threw a Johnson rod. And I told him 'hey, I called the dealership' and told them about it. We just had it in for a tune up. And they're very apologetic about all of it. And they'll make it up. Fix it for free. And more importantly, I'm out here to make sure you get back. Sipe can stick around and wait for the car to get fixed."

Connie said, "Sipe thought the Wub was coming."

Zeke nodded. Then he laughed. Covered his mouth, his shoulders jacking up and down, the clamped down laugh a half cough, a wheeze like someone needing to go on a ventilator.

Settled down, surviving the scattering of diners interest in his health, and even having waived off the waitress, Zeke swamped his throat with ice water and then told Connie the Wub was never coming. Never in the picture. At any time.

"I told Susan a fib. She forwarded the fib to Sipe."

"Why?"

"He put his foot in it."

"So you get back at him by scaring him?"

"No. I gave him a reason to get the problem taken care of even before I'm in his midst, looking at him, demanding an explanation."

"Sipe thought the Wub would just show up," said Connie, "start, you know, doing his thing."

"Our friend Mikhail is like the cartoons, the Tasmanian Devil? You know, all grunting and spinning, tearing through steel and concrete? No one needs to unleash that with you in spitting distance of it."

Connie didn't expect to learn the Wub's actual real first name. Zeke not even noticing he'd let it slip said, "Soon as I got the call, I was out the door. By the time I'm at my car, I'm calling the airline, getting the next flight to Walla Walla, Pendleton, the next best thing to parachuting and landing down right here in this town. You know, I know where to go, exactly, Boog got the number for that little house off caller I.D. I didn't even have time to peruse wine country. Not even the winery your father owns. They just had a car waiting for me out at the airport, and soon as I landed in Walla Walla some kid told me how to get to Pendleton from there, and I was in the wind."

"You're pissed off at me."

Zeke smiled.

"Connie, you're going to be my boss sooner rather than later. I can't afford to take it out on you. I think we could agree that'd be exquisitely poor planning on my part. I can take it out on Sipe. He expects that. I mean, to tell you the truth, I think he's disappointed it's me and not the Wub shown up. He expected to perform the self-flagellation, with a whip? Maybe some spikes on the ends of the whip strands? And instead, it's like he's getting a stern dressing down from the assistant principal."

"You saw his face?"

"Bruise?"

Zeke shrugged.

"He's looked worse. Frankly, given how bad all of this has shaken out, the love of your life, the running amuck, the poh-lice, he should look worse."

"Are you going to help him?"

"With what?"

"The thing. The girl. Butcher's Camp. Those people."

"He doesn't need help. He needed help he'd have asked."

"He's stubborn."

"No. He's reliable. In some certain ways and in certain situations. You have a place just inside your door you put your keys, every time? That's him. Most the time."

"Unless the boss' son decides to fuck him over."

"Yes. Unless."

Outside, Sutton marched westward along the edge of the parking lot down Main Street, his phone up to his head. Connie suppressed a fear the man might look into the window, right at Connie, like he had the Sheriff on the horn, vomiting all suspicions.

The food arrived. The waitress bee-lined back to the serving counter and just left the ice water pitcher with them and asked them to let her know if they needed anything else. Connie looked around The Outpost. No one at the counter to his left. Behind Zeke, one man in a booth against the far wall. A few tables in the main dining area were occupied. He told Zeke he'd be right back, Zeke nodding, much more interested in preparing his baked potato than anything Connie had to share. Connie paused at the combination totem pole, hat rack, magazine stand, and took out a magazine, looked at it, and putting it back, palmed the stun gun with it, into the deep slot.

Business completed in the men's room, he paused at the totem pole and eyed the magazine, a crimped three month out of date women's health periodical.

"Sorry we don't have anything more current," said the waitress. "People have their phones, you know? No one looks at magazines anyways. It's a shame."

She waggled down the corridor towards the kitchen. Connie waited for his heartbeat to slow down back to something semi-regular before taking a step towards the booth, and Zeke, potato eating and smiling, having seen Connie nearly leap up to the ceiling in fright.

"Oh, young man."

A woman in a polo shirt approached from the dining room. The rest of her party watched her grip Connie's right arm.

"I saw you, young man," she said. "I saw you run after that woman after she was shooting all over. You were very brave. I thought, 'That man is very brave.'"

"Thank you."

"Are you related to the Bradley's? Over in John Day? You look an awful lot like one of their boys."

"No, ma'am."

"Well, I just thought you should know, what you did, that didn't go unappreciated. This is such a quiet town. So peaceful. And then, I don't know, out of nowhere, it turns into New York or Los Angeles. One of those places. I don't live here for that, no, I don't. I like it boring. I hope you don't tell people where you come from that Little Creek is like that all the time."

"No, ma'am. I wouldn't."

Her hold on his forearm tightened and relaxed.

"Bless you."

"Ma'am."

Once she released him and continued heading for the restrooms, Connie nodded at the appreciative faces taking him in from the dining area.

Zeke was doing his best to slice a single near transparent section off the butter square onto his potatoes. Steam rose off Connie's freshly arrived plate.

Not even looking at Connie, Zeke said, "Fan club?"

"I guess so."

The butter hit the potatoes and immediately began melting. Zeke stirred it up into the chives and the cheese.

"Quite the honor for me," he said. "Eating with the hero of the day and all."

Chapter 30

"See, I'm surprised is all," said Faye. "Way you make it sound, you always run around with the kind of people that take extra precautions."

"I have," said Quinn. "I do."

"Then why you go so white just now? It's all dark and still I can you see going whiter than white."

"I'm just surprised," said Quinn.

"Bush. Look now. Look. It's just a little gun. Make you feel any better, I know I'm just a dumb girl, so I looked it up on the Internet, how to set the safety and all so I don't accidentally shoot myself. Or others."

Faye laughed and reached over and patted Quinn's thigh. Her jacket and her pants black and vinyl. Shiny. Not leather. Every move and she creaked, all her soft tissues encased in petroleum-based materials. She looked like something off the cover of a Rick James LP, circa 1981. Superfreak. After the toke session before driving into town, she smelled like his college dorm.

"It's just insurance. I'm Portland's observer in all this. If they didn't want me to protect their interests in a certain manner, I wouldn't. But they do. So I do."

She hummed some tune, slid the gun in her purse, finished fishing the pack out, put a cigarette in her mouth, put the pack back in her purse, on top of the gun, and took her lighter out of an inner pocket on her jacket. Still humming as she lit up the cigarette and blew smoke out the passenger side window of Quinn's car.

The Outpost was closed, but it would open for the meeting. The owner, Merritt Lowry, being paid $250 for the favor. Another $250 coming his way if he provided cover for the Rucherts, Clay, Quinn, and Faye. Insurance. Another 500 big ones, silently slurped by Ty from his kids' college fund.

Even with everything going down in Little Creek right now, the extra police presence, it was still quiet. From The Outpost parking lot, they could hear the stereo every time a patron entered or exited The Up'n Up Tavern. Other than the occasional dog bark, they were in the midst of a ghost town.

"I hate being early," she said.

"I thought they were right behind us," said Quinn.

"They were. Bonnie wanted to change clothes or some shit. More likely they're trying to come up with some way to work it all even more to their advantage," said Faye. "They don't get how dumb they are. When she got the call, Bonnie just coming right on out and telling me Little Miss Beepers wants to make a deal. Like I'm her girlfriend, her employee. I'm supposed to be happy for her, and that's all. Dumb bitch gives me this look when I point out well maybe you ought to call Portland, let them know that ASAP. She says fuck Portland then she starts yelling at me when I start dialing Portland right there and then. Called me a Judas."

"What's going to happen?"

"Portland's going to get its money."

"No. Now. Tonight."

"Baby, that is tonight. Little Miss Beepers going to show up. Hand over her money. The money. Butcher's Camp Massage's money. Portland's money."

"But she's not coming alone?"

"No. She's got friends. A friend. Someone."

"Who?"

Faye made a little noise. Almost a laugh.

"What?"

"I almost think I know who, but I'm not sure. One of them a Bug. You know a Bug?"

"Shit. Really?"

"Some other guy, too. And I think I know it's going to be that little guy that came asking all about her today."

"I don't know that guy. But Bug, huh? Figures. She's desperate enough. But they have the money?"

"Mm hm. Money comes here then that money goes to the bank and through the miracle of 1's and 0's goes to Portland."

Quinn didn't ask so why are we here? If it's that simple, why make it so goddamn hard? He was jumpy. Going out to the cabin, twice, finding Bug and that kid, Alec's stepkid out there, getting into it with Bug all because Quinn couldn't find his fucking cell phone and thought he'd left it out at the cabin, making one last look around to make sure Hope hadn't hidden the $4200 someplace obvious. Then it turned out he had his phone all the time. Tossed it over his shoulder into the backseat at some point. You get pissed, you get stupid.

Faye had asked him to ferry her. She didn't have wheels. The looks Bonnie and Bret gave him when he picked her up out at Butcher's Camp, definitely a feeling like he'd stepped in it. Faye's pet now. Portland's man in Little Creek. Those days of hanging out with Bret and Clay might've come to an abrupt end. Truth of it, Quinn all done with Little Creek. Fuck 'em. Fuck every last one of them. If he was going to take off with anyone – no, actually, there wasn't anyone. The Little Creek bucket list, empty. The temptation to finger bang his niece oscillated into existence anytime he spotted her sauntering around the house in the current clinging to her young majesty's torso number, but he didn't want to deal with the potential fallout, Brandi's tears, Guy being pissed, cops rolling their eyes even when Quinn tripped out the genealogical chart, proved Guy not even a blood relative, so it wasn't like the stink finger was that big a deal. It would just take that turn for the worse, the cops guilty of banging underage tail out at Butcher's Camp, so they had to bring the hammer down on someone else, clear their collective conscience, clean the slate.

If Faye was going to Portland, for good, he might hitch up with her, at least for awhile, but she wanted to stay, force the Ruchert's retreat, run Butcher's Camp Massage on her own, then scoop up the swimming pool and hot springs, transform the whole little hub into some name getaway. They'd done it in Idaho. Celebrities owned homes in Sun Valley. Why not Butcher's Camp? She could change the name if she had to. Brand it Little Creek Massage. Little Creek Hot Springs. She'd have to work hard, she'd have to work even harder to eradicate that taint of 'whore' settled on her like scales on a stegosaurus. Stegosaurus could have those scales removed, but the lumps and bumps would remain no matter the number of surgeries to smooth and improve.

Five minutes shy of ten o'clock, Clay's Jeep and then the Ruchert's SUV pulled in and parked in The Outpost lot. Ty in Pendleton. One of his kids had some baseball tournament his excuse for skipping the meeting. Headlights and engines stopped, Bonnie, Bret, and Clay got out. The door at the top of the ramp opened, Merritt Lowry in there all this time and Clay clapped his hands, announced, "Let's do this thing," like it was a sporting event. Faye laughed, not out loud, tipping her head back, and sighing like she couldn't believe she'd spent so long enduring these simpletons.

Once the trio made it inside The Outpost, Quinn followed Faye up the ramp. Half the restaurant lit up. The other half, all the booth seating, dark. The handoff going to happen where curtains could be drawn over windows, the tables, the elegant dining section. Where civilized people sat and conducted business. Faye held up just ahead of Quinn. She pointed to the southwest corner of the parking lot, the lights in the city park kitty corner brighter than the parking lot lamppost.

"Who's that?"

"I don't know."

"He just walked right into the light. Like he's been waiting in the shadows. Hey. Honey." Faye luring Merritt out and away from doorman duties. "Who's the suit?" she asked Merritt.

"Couldn't tell you."

"Hm. Quinn. You want to go and ask, quell my curiosity?"

Back down the ramp. Quell her curiosity. See. She was more than a whore. She was a whore with access to a dictionary. At least she hadn't called him Bush.

The guy didn't move on Quinn's approach. Stood and stared.

"Hey," said Quinn.

"Hello."

"Help you with something?"

"No. I don't think so." He smiled. In daylight, a smile, but with the starkness of the lamppost light it edged towards intimidating. "Can I help you with something?"

Vaguely nasal, a lingering cold, allergies that couldn't be shaken off. Dude sported one big old honker. The nasaliness unavoidable.

"Don't think so," said Quinn. He pivoted, chucked his head over the right shoulder, indicating The Outpost, pivoted back. "In case you were wondering, place is closed. Just a private dinner going on right now, tonight."

"Oh. Nice. I thought it would be. Closed, I mean. I ate here earlier. Saw the sign, the hours. Little town like this, I bet nothing is open too late. Maybe the bar down the street, but..."

"Right."

"Well, I hope you all have a really good time. I recommend the Ranch Burger. And the fries are better if you dip them in the special sauce. I actually had them bring me some in a little bowl. Ketchup? No. Fries are meant for better things than simply ketchup."

"Oh. That's nice. Thanks for the advice." Quinn cleared his throat. "It's probably a nice night for a walk. That what you're doing?"

"Tell you the truth, I've walked a lot today. What's that they say, you know? That saying? My dogs are tired? Barking? Well, I know what that means now. My dogs are definitely barking." The guy lifted his leg. Waggled his foot. "Woof. Woof-woof." He put the foot down.

Goddamn, Quinn thinking he might have to forcibly get rid of this goofball. Then imagining Faye, the Rucherts and Clay, too, peeking out from behind a curtain just in time to see things go sideways, Quinn get his head handed to him.

Headlights appeared, heading east down Main, a truck, slowing, signaling then pulling into The Outpost parking lot. Bug Collar. He parked to the immediate left of the SUV, killed the beams then killed the engine.

Bug got out, and the passenger side door opened, and a man got out, and then Hope Logan got out.

The man shut the passenger door. Hope leaned in towards him, Hope about an inch taller than the guy, and said something, probably about how she knew one of the guys standing under the lamppost.

Quinn wondered what promises Bug had made Hope. How long before he came to his senses, realized there were only so many times you could pump that prime teenage puss before having to talk to her, put up with her crazy ass, poisoned the whole deal.

The little guy walked the passenger side then around the truck tailgate. Bug and Hope watched him. He stopped right in front of Quinn, putting Quinn in mind of this one ex-military dad he'd flitted into the wrath of ages ago. Mr. Cupps. Short, skinny, ugly, wound way too tight, but somehow he and his fat-bottomed wife had given life to gorgeous long-legged twins, and it was Quinn's hope to deflower them both in quick succession, maybe roll off Lila and right on top of Mary. One day, Mr. Cupps, mowing his lawn, spotted Quinn on the sidewalk, hailed him, and Cupps stopped the mower, marched over in his patented hip-locked manner, and leaning in close to 16-year-old Quinn said, "I know you. I was you. If you try to fuck my daughters, I'll skin you alive."

Only thing the guy ever said to Quinn. That on top of other circulating rumors - a necklace of gook ears, a jar full of sandnigger eyeballs - Quinn's orbit of unclaimed vagina forever after excluded the Cupps twins.

"You're Dobbs?" asked the little guy.

"Yeah. Who're you?"

"Go inside."

"Excuse me?"

"Inside."

"Hey, fuck you. Ok? Fuck. You. Who the fuck do you think you are?" Quinn looked over his shoulder, expecting support from his big nosed new pal. "Jesus. I mean--"

The smile on the big nosed guy wasn't in support of Quinn.

It was a smile in anticipation of a show. A short, but satisfying entertainment.

Big Nose didn't even have to say 'you probably want to go inside' or 'don't you know who this little guy is?' It was the look that put Quinn's acrimony on ice. All Big Nose was missing was a drink and some popcorn.

Halfway towards The Outpost, Quinn looked back over his shoulder. The little guy not even looking at him, now, deep in conference with Big Nose. Quinn dismissed. Meant as much to either of them as some blemish one finger pad smoosh away from permanent eviction off their dark suits.

Quinn walked past Bug, then along the front bumper of the shitty little Toyota truck. Bit down on the impulse to kick the bumper. He could feel Hope's eyes follow him, up the steps, then up the ramp, and through the door, held open, Merritt showing a touch of compassion, at least until The Outpost owner said, "You making friends out there?"

Quinn didn't tell him to go suck a dick. His look must've implied as much, Merritt shrugging like hostility wasn't his aim. People walked into the joint, you had to be chummy from the get-go. Don't blame the player, Bush, blame the game.

Chapter 31

When Sipe got up from the dining area table to go to the bathroom, Bonnie told Quinn to go with the little guy.

"Excuse me?" asked Quinn.

"Go with him." Bonnie without glasses, her hair loose from its usual bun, pregnant trying to look elegant, an almost attractive woman on the town, but definitely still a bitch.

"Why?"

"Because if one of us needed to go the bathroom, he'd send someone to accompany them. Am I right? Sipe. I'm right, right?"

All the heads on Team Massage turning to look at Sipe, already out of the dining area, standing off the carpet on linoleum at the mouth of the short corridor leading to the serving area, the kitchen, and then terminating at the rest rooms in the back. Sipe looking at the Clay carved totem pole more or less marking The Outpost's crossroads.

They were seated at two tables pushed into one. The table occupied on one side by Team Hope, backs to the window, the wall parallel to Woodruff Road, the Antler Inn across the street. Facing the windows, facing Sipe, Hope, and Connie (Big Nose), the composition of Team Massage: Bonnie, Bret, Clay, Faye, and due to the size of Clay and Bret, one chair at the table end angled, Quinn's seat. Standing beside Quinn the night's referee, Outpost proprietor, Merritt Lowry, proudly displaying his hip holstered pistol, arms folded over a solid swell of gut, almost like he was trying to outduel Bonnie's baby bulge. Outside, Bug and $4200 in the truck.

"I got that right, right, Sipe?" asked Bonnie. "We trust one another about the same?"

"Yeah."

"It's a given." She looked at Quinn. "It's fair."

"Send him." Quinn motioned at Merritt.

"I didn't ask him, Quinn. I asked you." Bonnie smiled. She thought it turned on her face. Made you forget her Toucan Sam nose. Quinn ought to tell her to just fucking use that schnozz, so big, she could smell Sipe picking up a gun or knife or grenade hidden in the toilet.

Sipe said, "I got no problem, someone wants to follow me."

"See?" said Bonnie. "It's no trouble."

"Only thing is," said Sipe, "you got to send him? I pee, I want to focus on that. I got concerns with that one. Either one of those other two aren't nearly so light in their loafers."

Clay laughed. Slapped his palm on the table. The napkin dispenser, the salt and pepper shakers rattled. He was loaded, still twitchy from dealing with Deputy Lueck earlier on in the day. Clay like an over excited dog when he recognized Connie. Did the one-armed hug, back slapping even. Connie could confirm for Bonnie and everyone else what a kickass job Clay had done on Lueck, life-saving even before the ambulance arrived. Each of Clay's exhalations like a Pabst factory had set up shop somewhere inside his ribcage.

"Hey, Sipe, Snipe, whatever, fuck you." Still, Quinn standing.

"Keep it civil," said Bonnie.

"Easy. He's just joshing you," said Faye.

"You actually talk? First fucking thing you got to say since we got here, Faye Shmaye."

She got a look on her face. Quinn had to lash out at someone, Faye probably the wrong target. Faye Shmaye what Sipe called her, doing the introductions for his young pal Connie before everyone sat. Quinn hadn't taken well to the look Connie gave Faye. Predatory. His eyes shredding her clothes, getting down to the dermis. Quinn having to bite down on the impulse to tell Big Nose all Ms. Shmaye had going for her were the legs. The ass pancake flat and what swell her tits lacked her gut held in abundance.

"You coming or not? An old man's bladder can't wait forever, you know?" Sipe out of sight, behind the totem pole, the bird and fish and Indian faces doing double duty as a magazine rack, a hat stand. High up top a price sticker marking the piece of art and commerce at the low-low price of $525. Clay had negotiated with Guy and Racine about using some Auntie's parking lot space for exhibiting totem poles, but they'd denied him. Still, they had Beepers on the front counters, parked along the top of the vintage Donkey Kong and Pac Man arcade machines, practically coming out of the slushie machine. Fucking double-standard, the Dobbs, the Logans, the Little Creek haves lording it over the have-nots.

Quinn turning round the totem pole, heading after Sipe, the little man from the big city already out of sight, the men's room door swinging shut behind him. Quinn walked fast, the steps jiggling the glassware stowed on the shelves on either side of the corridor.

Inside, Sipe stood at a urinal, unzipped. He looked over his shoulder at Quinn. Away. Disinterested. Same variety of disinterest on Hope's face, that pouting, above-it-all teenager thing. Her face looked fat. Hiding out at the cabin-to-be, then stowed away with Bug for another week or so, all her nourishment centered on processed snacks, that double chin threatening to solidify into a frog's chin bloat. Her cold hot dogs and sour cream and onion potato chips diet hideous. Begging Quinn to bring a microwave out, the cabin wired, she could at least nuke her snacks. Quinn putting that off, at least providing booze to wash out the remnants of her choice snack. He didn't want that pierced tongue slipping sliding around inside his mouth like a snake coated in debris rained down between bleacher seats.

"Is she fucking you, old man?"

Sipe's head turned just a little to the left. Still, locked into studying the wall immediately in front of him.

"Just to let you know, it ain't worth it. She's crazy. Even going for it for one time, wham bam, in and out, might not be worth it. Way she's getting porky, bet that pussy has a little double chin now, too."

Sipe flushed the urinal. Quinn almost certain Sipe hadn't produced any stream at all but could be the guy just had the angles all figured out, could pee silent.

Right out of the gate, Bonnie had given Sipe shit. Asked him if he was sure he wanted to sit with his back to the window. Weren't guys like him patently afraid of someone shooting them from behind? Sipe told her a place like Little Creek didn't concern him. It was like a vacation. All that was behind his back was the Antler Inn, and from what Sipe had heard, the three drunks that called it home wouldn't shuffle out of the Up'n Up until 1 AM or so.

Sipe washed his hands. Pumped the action on the paper towel dispenser and wiped his hands dry. He tossed the towels into the trash. The tin flap waggling on the hinge all the noise in the world as Sipe looked up and into Quinn's eyes. Sipe raised his right hand. Quinn flinched away from the hand. Wrong thing to do, but it was done.

"Hey. No. It's all right. It's nothing." Sipe lowered his hand. "I just wanted to touch. It pays off, all the work you put into that curly, pretty hair. You hit the salon once a week, or you do it on your own?"

"You're a weird little fucker, you know that?"

Sipe like some robot never issued protocols that lead to the formation of a smile. The machine knew to blink. The pupils to dilate. Pores to widen.

"I ought to pat you down," said Quinn.

"We already did that. Mr. Lowry did that for everyone."

"You were in here alone."

"For five seconds. Maybe six."

"Yeah. Alone is alone."

"Because you lollygagged."

"Still."

"You're right," said Sipe. "You know your stuff. Hours ago, I hid a shotgun under the urinal cake."

"You know what? In this light, I can see you. I can see how old you really are. You don't have that much gray hair, but you look old enough you could be someone's grandpa."

Sipe took a step back. His arms up, then, even higher, signaling a touchdown.

"You want to pat, pat."

Quinn just looked at him. Swallowed.

Sipe pivoted, facing the door, his arms still up like he planned on walking through the door, leaving a silhouette, his arms up over his head. Finally, he dropped his arms, and opened the door and walked out.

Quinn listened to Sipe's steps on the linoleum. Something fired in his brain, and he caught the slow to shut men's room door before tight hinges allowed it to shut all the way.

Chapter 32

Sipe was going to call Bug, but Bonnie said Merritt could get the money inside just as easily. Merritt didn't appear so pleased to be roped into some extra task, but he did it. Went outside, called to Bug, then held the door open for Bug and then followed Bug in. Bug set the duffel bag midpoint on the tables, unzipped the duffel bag so all the green paper could breathe, trying to make eye contact with Sipe or Hope or Connie but only making it with Merritt, come around the table and standing there like a server only no one, Bug could see, was eating, not even drinking. The dark skinned woman sitting left of Quinn Dobbs and Merritt the only people looking at Bug and only the woman smiling. Bug had started back towards the door when Bonnie spoke up.

"How's your mom doing?" she asked. Bug stopped up, already clear of the carpet, standing on the linoleum reflecting liquid-like with half the restaurant in the dark. He looked back.

"She's. She's fighting it. It's a fucker though, you know?"

"I do. My dad."

"Yep. I remember."

"You want to join us? You don't have to wait outside."

"That's nice, you to offer, but...Probably better I keep an eye out. Cops. Olympians. Shit. You never know."

Bug went back outside, bell on the door jingling.

"It doesn't look like much." Clay leaned forward, eyeballing the duffel bag contents. "You sure that's all of it?"

"It's $4200, dude," said Quinn. "Unless it's all singles..."

"Count it," said Hope. "You can count, can't you?"

Quinn laughed. Clay stared at him, and Quinn shrugged like go ahead, tell him that Hope being Hope wasn't at least a little amusing.

"Now," Bonnie said, "we have a problem. Do you know what that is?"

Looking at Connie, Hope, and Sipe, like they'd been called in to stay behind after the rest of the class was dismissed.

In the bathroom, Quinn insinuating Sipe was older than shit, Sipe felt the cold thing in his gut. It put in appearances, especially in the presence of amateurs. Amateurs thought the playing field transformed at their say so. This was why so many amateurs didn't make it to the transition point, turn pro. In all his years, Sipe never spoke up, never warned them. The Old Man liked it, watching fools run free. The payoff was the pleading once an amateur understood, oh, wait, there are rules. There is such a thing as only so far. As no.

"What is the problem?" asked Sipe.

"Interest."

"Interest."

"We owe a certain party interest," said Bonnie. "We wouldn't owe that interest and we wouldn't potentially owe an upcoming penalty if that interest hadn't been accrued."

Clay stared beyond Hope, at the wall. The even bigger one, Bret, studied the duffel bag. Quinn and Faye continued apace, Quinn sullen, Faye looking right at Sipe. Waiting for Bonnie to say something she disagreed with. Something Portland wanted done a certain way.

"This," Sipe indicated the duffel bag, "is what we told you we could give you. If you wanted something on top of that, you should've told us."

"It goes without saying," said Bonnie. "Surely. Given what you do, you'd know."

"And what is it I do? What is it I should know?"

Bonnie laughed. Looked around the table like _this guy, this guy, he's killing me_.

"See?" Sipe pointed at the duffel bag. "Now it's like you're telling me I've wasted my time and your time."

"That's not what I'm saying."

"You said 'problem.' You say 'interest.' You say 'a certain party.' You say 'a penalty.' These things add up."

"I don't have anything else," said Hope. "Honest. This is all I've got." She reached for the duffel bag and grabbed it, pinched zipper teeth. She looked at Bonnie. "I'm not holding back. I'm not. I swear."

"I know, honey. But you made a mess, all right? A big one."

"How much?" asked Sipe.

"We were loaned money. We're paying it back. Our loan payment late fee is set with 30% interest. At 30% interest, since the day Hope ran off with all this," said Bonnie, "all together now, right now, we need $44,538.90. If the $4200 is really here, all here, right now, then we need $40,338.90."

"What?" asked Hope.

Bonnie smiled.

"The interest, well, the penalty goes up each day. By 30%. You ever hear the story, in math class, about the man that hires a worker to work starting at a penny a day? A penny? Sounds like a deal. Caveat being, the wages double each day? Still. Sounds great. This guy willing to work so cheap is an asshole, obviously. Well. A penny becomes two cents. Four cents. Eight cents. Sixteen. Thirty-two. Sixty-four. A dollar twenty-eight. $2.56. $5.12. $10.24. $20.48. $40.96. And right there that's what? Day twelve. Of thirty. Here we are, on day...eight? Nine? And this is the penalty we're working on. Because of you."

She smiled again. Tilted her head at Hope.

"You want a pen? Some paper? A calculator? You can add it up. You can count, can't you?"

"Oh my god." Hope's shoulders sagged. Like rain in a movie, she started crying, instant tears down her cheeks, hiccupping, shuddering, the whole production, like that.

"What about the penalty?" asked Sipe. "On top of the interest?"

"I don't know," said Bonnie.

"It'll hurt." Faye spoke up, voice quiet. Knowing it drew attention to her, away from Bonnie.

"Ten grand?" asked Sipe. "Fifteen?"

"Ten is the base payment each week."

"Wait. So what about-"

Faye put a hand up, cut his question short.

"We – they – Butcher's Camp – covered the fifty-eight hundred last week. Portland only penalized the missing amount."

"But the penalty?" asked Sipe.

"They might go high as twenty-five."

"Maybe round up," said Sipe. "In this case. It gets bad like this. Make it a whole seventy-five you owe. Just so you feel it."

"Sounds right."

"When?"

"Supposed to be ten days in."

"Day after tomorrow?"

"Right."

Sipe closed his eyes. When he opened them, he said, "No. At that point, late fee on top of interest...They might ding you ninety. And if they're going to do ninety, why not go for a hundred grand?"

"How much?" Hope squeaking when she spoke.

"$100,000," said Sipe. The big guy in black stared at Sipe. Butcher Camp's muscle. The Old Man had a dozen like him. Portland probably about the same.

"At your peak, how much were you hauling in a week?" asked Sipe.

"Ten grand," said Bonnie.

Sipe ticked his head left, at Hope.

"And she took $4200. Your whole haul for that week?"

"Right. We've been...Borrowing from other sources. Trying to maintain our revenue. We're," Bonnie flitted her hands about, "rethinking our business model."

"And if we get enough to zero out the interest, get it to you to get it to them, this penalty you're looking at goes away?"

"Probably," said Faye.

"Probably or yes?"

"Yes," said Faye. She looked at Bonnie. "I talk to Portland all the time. They know GreenBlo's gone. They got some sense of reality. They're not monsters, not a hundred-percent."

Back at the other end of the table, Bonnie cleared her throat, smiled. Looking at Sipe, she said, "If you can do it, fine, but until then," pointing at Hope, "she has to come with us."

"Why?" asked Sipe.

"Collateral."

Sipe heard the snap on the holster. At least Merritt wasn't so dumb as to have a Velcro holster. Those things made so much noise it was like a baby shriek.

The Outpost owner looked at Sipe looking at him standing there with his hand on his hip, right above the butt of his gun. Sipe wondered which Clint Eastwood movie Merritt had studied, trying to perfect the look now informing his face. Difference being, Clint never looked scared.

Hope grabbed Sipe's left arm. It was like a nature documentary, one of those things you can't take your eyes off of, the python wrapped around the crocodile. Please, she kept saying. Please after please after please.

"What are you going to do with her? While she's collateral?"

"She can work if she wants. We've got customers, sorry, we have clients with certain tastes. Some miss her."

Hope moaned, her forehead pressed against Sipe's shoulder. At the other end of the table, Quinn snorted, dismissive of her whole routine.

"Hope," Bonnie had both forearms on the table, her head tilted a little to the side, almost informal, almost friendly-like. "Honey? It's the way it has to be. It didn't have to go like this. You did this. You did it to yourself. At any point in time, you could've stopped. You could've come to us, called us. It would've been a mess, still, but it would've been a lot less of a mess."

"What about Collar?" asked Merritt. "Bug."

"What about him?" A certain tone in Bonnie's voice like she could bat down minor annoyances all night long, but still, she'd let you know they were minor annoyances.

"He's with the girl, isn't he? I don't want to mess with him."

"It won't be a problem," said Sipe. He didn't look at Merritt.

"See?" Bonnie flopping her wrist, palm splayed at Sipe. "It won't be a problem, Merritt."

Hope released Sipe's arm. Wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Her entire head flushed, and beneath the blue swathed hair, the flesh the color of a pink eraser.

"I could. My parents. Maybe. If I told them." She swabbed snot with the back of her hand. Bonnie looked at her. Said nothing. "Quinn," said Hope. "Do something."

He produced a little snort, a quick look around the table like he was just as confused as anyone else, this girl, practically a stranger reaching out to him. Hope laughed. Sniffled. She didn't scream, she didn't ask him again. She got it. His abandonment of her out at the cabin, plus this, she got it.

"Well. This was nice. Civil." Bonnie looked down to the other end of the table. "Quinn. Could you get the bag, pretty please? Bret? Hope."

"I'm not going."

Bonnie looked at the girl. Delight informed her features.

"Hope. Hopehopehopehopehopehopehope. Honestly. All the options are ours. If you struggle and fight and somehow make yourself unavailable to do the work you need to do, then, we'll find your little friend. And scoop her right up. You know, the fat one. The fat one with the baby chick colored hair. The one with tits even bigger than yours, we get her and we take her out to Butcher's Camp, and put her in a room. Bret will break her in. Then Quinn, maybe. Then anyone else willing to pay for the pleasure of something sweet and fresh."

Sipe stood up. Before he stood, he put his hand inside the left inner suit jacket pocket, pinched the magazine Merritt Lowry had looked at minutes ago, during the pat down. That _People_ magazine Tiffany had been browsing hours ago, waiting outside Butcher's Camp Massage. Stepped on. Ripped. Taped together now.

"I gotta crap," said Sipe. "Somebody hold this for me?"

He threw it towards the table. Pitched it high. Center creased, it turned end over end and landed on top of the duffel bag. The same time everyone watched the magazine, Sipe reached inside the same suit jacket pocket and drew out Millie's stun gun.

The top of Bonnie's baby bump stuck up higher than the edge of the tabletop. She'd looked away from the landed magazine back to Sipe. Sipe almost nose to nose with her the moment he pressed the stun gun against her swollen stomach and pulled the trigger.

The sound she made like something from olden times. Surgery without anesthesia. The booze poured in, the leather strap between teeth not enough. You couldn't ever deaden the sensation of having a cancerous breast hacked off. Veins in her neck stuck out. Her wiring. A smell circulated. The chair, the carpeting, the duffel bag vinyl melting. Or maybe the fetus, glowing inside her womb, blue, like an alien baby, something shimmery and aquatic-like, otherworldly even, right before the blue gave away to a bright light, some static charge leaping looping feeding on itself, frying the unborn into something resembling a hot dog, a victim of negligence, held over a camp fire for far too long. Lava dipped. Seared. Burnt. Black.

The two big men to Bonnie's right were coming out of the shock phase. Sipe pulled the stun gun away from Bonnie's bulge, cupped the right side of her head with his left hand, gave her a temple a quick jolt. Let go of her, and stuck Clay in the side of the neck right as the big man rose up out of his seat. There were shouts. Bret getting up now. Movement, Sipe, if he wanted, could glance towards the north end of the table, some noise like a single pool ball rolling across the pool table. No time to check. Sipe stepped right, pulled the stun gun away from Clay, the big man slopped to the table like the rope holding all his heft severed.

Hope shouted. Not a scream. The sound something Sipe could recall hearing in sports bars. Uncultured. Primal. Back to when loose associations of apes protected resources from invading, alien apes. Negotiations accomplished by hand held rock and bone splintering, blood jetting.

Bret wobbled to a standing position. Clay still trying to solidify a hold on the table, maybe arrest his slide floor ward. Sipe didn't know how much charge the stun gun retained. He hadn't counted on it for an encounter with Bret. Bret the part of the plan that scared him most.

Sipe went down on his knees. Dropped the stun gun.

Bret's pants generous around the crotch. None too tight. Air for the boys to breathe down there. Sipe made fists, and started punching up, straight up, wherever the meat might reside. He hit something, he didn't hit it hard enough, and realized his mistake, he wasn't planted, the punches barely effective, how much more effective this would be if he latched on to Bret's belt with his left hand, and punched upwards with the right. Sipe corrected the technique. The boy's soft warm belly against Sipe's left hand, pulling Bret towards him, Bret's balls, his taint, his pecker, smooshed and smashed by Sipe's right fist. Sipe punching so hard the trail of muscles from shoulder to scalp tingled, threatened strain and rip if he didn't stop. Bret tried to dislodge Sipe's hand, slid into and clutching the space between belt and belly. The big boy's left hand swatted at Sipe's skull like he was doing the puncher a favor, brushing a spider away. Sipe visualized the testicles cracking, meat and seeds pouring out from compromised ripe melons. Bret lurched. Sagged. Sipe slid his hand out from beneath the belt, stood, stumbled back out of the way, tripped over Clay, pinwheeled, kept his feet. Bret gurgled, gagged, his right knee gave, 300 pounds tipping, gagging, dry heaving. Mr. Black collapsing. Sipe checked the rest of the room.

Seat vacated, stepped back from the tables pushed into one, Faye stood almost flush to the wall separating the dining area from the kitchen and restroom corridor. Her left hand cradled her purse, the right hand buried in the purse. Quinn still in his seat. Hope seated. Merritt Lowry lay on the floor. Connie stood over him. Connie looking at Faye, his eyes wild, pointing Merritt's gun at her.

"Hand out!" He said it again. And again. Her hand slid out of the purse. Faye looked right at him, right at the Old Man's kid, the gun, barely registering Sipe, coming over, sliding the purse off her shoulder, taking steps back away from her, putting the purse strap over his shoulder, taking the gun out, making sure it was loaded, then sliding the strap off, tossing the purse onto the table. On impact, a lighter, a lipstick, some loose sticks of chewing gum flew out. It almost looked like the purse and the ragged _People_ had been tucked inside the duffel bag at the last moment.

Bret spit some foamy relative to vomit onto his thigh. Clay lay on the floor, grunted. At some point, Bonnie had rolled out of her seat, bounced, and rolled, and now lay on her back, facing the ceiling.

"Are we good?" Connie a little amped up, still aiming the gun at Faye.

"We're good," said Sipe. "Keep it on her."

"You know it."

Hope reached across the table, across the duffel bag, and gathered one of the pieces of gum. Gum in hand, she sat back in her chair.

She started to unwrap the gum. She stopped. She looked at Sipe.

"Can I?" she asked.

He nodded. Produced enough saliva to get out a "Yes."

She stuck the stick in her mouth. Balled up the wrapper. The tear streaks on her cheeks shined like the foil. You couldn't see what she did with the balled up foil. If she dropped it, down onto The Outpost carpet, Clay might've seen the little wax ball drop, bounce, roll a little, rest, that one falling star out of every million that didn't burn up into nothing at all coursing through the atmosphere.

Chapter 33

Out in the parking lot, right after Sipe had dismissed Quinn, and the over-cologned, razor-goateed man stalked off towards The Outpost, Sipe had asked Connie, "Where is she? Millie."

"I know as much as you."

"I should've tied her up. In Pendleton."

"Yeah. Well. If it didn't go to pieces now it would go to pieces later. I'm not dumb. I know that much about her."

A cop car had driven westbound on Main. It didn't stop. The monitor inside the unit glowed. The lamppost light illuminated the lower torso and lap of the cop inside. A bare white arm balanced a Coke can on a knee.

"They probably don't give a shit about any of this, do they?" said Connie. "Us. This."

"Not right now."

"Let me help," said Connie.

"It could get ugly," said Sipe. "Violent. You don't want to do this. You don't have to."

"Then get Zeke."

Sipe shook his head.

"No?" asked Connie. "Why 'no'?"

"He's too quick to end things quick."

"What does that mean?"

"He has a gun. He likes to hear it go off. Likes to see what it does. He was like that. Years ago. But people don't change very much. Not when it comes to things they like."

"So if not Zeke, then who?"

"Me."

"What? Alone?"

"Yeah."

"Did you see who's in there? They're big." Connie pointed at Bug, a silhouette in a ball cap. "What about him?"

"Naw. Civilian."

"Hey. I'm a civilian if you hadn't noticed."

Connie tried to think of alternatives. Nothing took shape in his mind.

"I could do it. I can help."

"You already did."

"What, the-" Connie lowered his voice, "-the thing? Putting Millie's thing in the thing?"

"Right."

"I can do more."

Sipe touched him, a tap high on the chest.

"You're all here, right?"

"Yes."

"Not distracted?"

"No."

"Your girl, the cops, all of it..."

"I can compartmentalize."

"Ok. Ok. So. The thing..."

Connie whispered into Sipe's ear.

"It's in the rack. The magazine thing with all the faces. It's on the side like you're walking past it, headed for the bathroom. It's behind a _Self_."

Standing back from Sipe, Connie couldn't believe he'd been that close to him. The bubble. Then he realized Sipe had touched him. The finger barely into the chest. The first time in all their years they'd touched.

Continuing to almost whisper Sipe said, "When we're in there, when we're shaking hands and pretending we're all gonna get along just fine, I'm going to tag the target. Verbally. Ok?"

"Tag the target."

"There's two." Sipe made a 'v' with his fingers. "But the important one, the main one, they won't look like they got a gun."

"Jesus."

"These guys, these massage people, were way too quick to agree to meet here. That means whoever runs this joint is in it with them, or is being paid enough to just let them do their thing. He's Mr. Obvious. That guy will have heat. Mr. Obvious. You'll see it right away."

"Mr. Obvious. Got it."

"The person I tag-"

"Verbally."

"Right. I tag them by just fucking with their name. Listen for it. 'Quinn Win.' 'Bonnie Schlonnie.' 'Bret the Vet.' Like that."

"Right. Jesus."

Sipe held up his hand.

"Still want in?"

Connie had nodded.

"When things start to happen, when I start doing what I have to do, Mr. Tagged or Mrs. Tagged, they come second. Second, Connie. Your first priority is to take down the owner of this place. Mr. Obvious. Take him out, get his gun. You'll need it to deal with Mr. or Mrs. Tagged. Got it? My guess is once we're all inside there'll be some sort of pat down, make it look we're all even, but it's for show. We take it like we're chumps. Like we believe it's all even odds all around the table." Sipe sighed. "Ok. Repeat it back to me. The highlights. Let's make sure."

At some point, Connie realized Sipe hadn't told him exactly what Sipe's plan was outside of the stun gun, but maybe Sipe didn't know. Or did know, just didn't want Connie to look excited, give it away before Sipe could initiate it.

*

Afterward, Bret dragged Clay outside and put him in the SUV front passenger seat. At Hope's appearance at the front door, her whistle, her arm wave, Bug had gone inside.

Connie held a gun on the leather clad dark skinned woman, the woman standing against the dividing wall. Quinn Dobbs sat in his chair like the lone survivor of a New Year's Eve bash. Hope now had something like three pieces of gum going in her mouth, all smiles, some saliva dripping out around the grin. She stood close as she could to Connie. He made her feel safe.

Minutes ago, the shit hitting walls, she'd looked away from Sipe zapping Clay in the throat to Connie, an entire table wire rack in hand, running at Merritt Lowry.

So entranced by Sipe using the stun gun, she'd missed Connie standing, flinging glass bottled condiments at Merritt, then rushing him. The old man's hand flustering with the simple holster. The flap resisting attempts to get clear of the gun. Connie on top of him, swinging the wire rack, hitting him in the head, little sugar packets flying everywhere, then Connie gripping the napkin dispenser, the heart of the wire rack, and slamming it into Lowry's head. The old man forgot all about his gun and tried to protect his marbles, and still, he went down for good. Hope looked across the table, Sipe punching Bret in the crotch, and Hope didn't even notice Faye or Quinn until Connie had Merritt's handgun, pointing it at Faye.

A puddle had formed under Bonnie. Soaked into the carpet. Not blood. Bret lurched over his sister like he was trying to figure out where to grip her, where it wouldn't snap her in half.

"What is that?" asked Bug. "Her water break?"

"Help him get her out of here." Sipe pointed at Bret. The smear of ooze on Bret's pants, Bug wondered if that had come out of Bonnie, and when he crouched down, picking her up at the ankles, he caught a whiff off of Bret, and hoped the sinus-clearing scent hadn't come out of the pregnant woman. Sipe walked ahead of them, gun in his hand, and held the door for the men and the unconscious woman.

Outside, Bug still holding Bonnie's ankles, Bret leaned back, lifted his older sister and set her upper back against his chest and the side of his head while he opened the SUV driver side passenger door. He gathered her in both hands and then he and Bug pushed her in, on her back. Throwing a body on a slab, thought Bug. Bret slammed the door shut.

"Is she ok?" asked Bug.

All Bret said, he said "Thank you," and opened the driver door, climbed in behind the steering wheel, the rig sagging once all his mass settled. Next to Bret, Clay slung into his seat, facing the driver side. Bug reminded of basic training, the kid in the bunk next to his, at the end of each day during Hell week. Rode hard, put away wet. Bret shut the driver door, turned the engine over, and backed up, then turned in a tight angle towards the street. He turned left out onto Main Street, headed for Butcher's Camp. La Grande, maybe, depending on how sick Bonnie might be. Bug wondered if the cops had a unit outside of town, stopping anyone headed east. Everyone knew Bret, the SUV, he probably got the special service, waved right on through.

Back inside, Hope and Connie still had the leather clad woman under gun. Pale, limp, Quinn Dobbs sagged against his seat back. Sipe knelt over Merritt Lowry, watching the bloodied man secure ice in a cup against his ragged scalp.

"We won," Hope told Bug. "I hope we killed her fucking baby."

"He drove out of town. Bret," Bug told Sipe. Sipe stood up. Down on the floor, still on his back, Lowry turned his head a little back and forth, his chest rose and fell in what looked a normal rhythm of respiration.

"What're we," said Bug, "what're we doing with the money?"

Sipe pointed at the woman. "It's hers."

"Bullshit," said Hope.

Sipe didn't look at Hope. He rubbed a spot in between his eyebrows. Dropped his hand. Looked at the woman.

"You need help. Faye?" He pointed at Quinn. "Or is he going to help you get it out to your car?"

"She doesn't deserve it," said Hope. "Fucking skank. Bitch. Fucking cunt. Fucking mulatto. Half-breed piece of shit." If that wasn't enough, Hope spit her gum out towards Faye. The waxen lump's arc short-lived. She wiped the trail of spit off her lower lip.

"Done?" Sipe asked.

Hope wiped the spit off onto the leg of her jeans then crossed her arms under her chest. Connie had lowered his right arm. Faye no longer under immediate threat. Hope looked at the gun, dangling, but only looked. Bangs fallen into her eyes, she reached up and combed blue follicles away.

Faye walked across the room like the last few minutes, the delay, hadn't mattered. Girl only had one walk, and it was a saunter. Hope stormed out of the restaurant. Sipe asked Connie to follow her. He stopped just before exiting, marched back to Sipe and handed Sipe Lowry's gun. Sipe slid Faye's svelte gun into a suit jacket pocket.

Faye repacked her purse. Set it on the table and held the _People_ magazine up, looking at Sipe.

"Master of distraction," she said.

"Yeah," he held out his hand. Took it from her. Tucked it back inside the inner suit jacket pocket.

Faye grunted, dragged the duffel bag zipper shut. She looked at Sipe.

"You know you're costing me money."

"You got money. You secured that money. Portland ought to be happy about that."

"I don't know." She smiled. "I just don't know how you all run your business, in Seattle, right? But people I work for, they're very specific about the accounting. Receivables. Payables. They're older than the sun, those bean counters. Boys like you that shoot your guns, you come and go and don't mean shit. Bean counters? Baby, they'll still be around long after we're wiped away by worms and the wind."

"You're bright. Talk to them."

"They don't want to talk to me. They hear anyone from Butcher's Camp on the line they put the call on hold, in-def-in-ite-ly."

"They gonna put you in charge?"

"Ha. Those white boys want someone in charge they want them bright, right? I'm so bright, where's my gun? What happened to that gun of mine? I'm so bright, why aren't you the one on the floor here, something leaking out of your head, out of your pussy?"

She whistled at Quinn. A whistle for a dog. Said, "C'mon, Bush. Get up. Grab my money. We're going." And she walked out ahead of him, she knew he'd obey. The door's bell jingled upon her exit. Quinn not looking at Sipe or Bug, not when he stood up, not when he struggled with the duffel bag strap, not as he walked out, throwing his hip a little into the door to get it open, bell tinkling with his exit.

Sipe thought the quiet was lasting a little too long, and then the engine for the sports car outside turned over. He'd started imagining something more operatic. A gunshot. Hope unleashing a hidden firearm. Taking frustrations out on Faye in lieu of Bonnie's absence. The engine revved, driver's always revved engines on that kind of car, Quinn's kind, and then the noise got even worse, and then it sounded like they were racing away, 80 in a 25.

Sipe walked over to Merritt. Stopped. Looked down at Merritt, Sipe's hands braced on his thighs. Bug thought it looked a little like a coach in the middle of a game asking a player about the extent of an injury.

"How's the head?"

"Hurts."

"It should. Some aspirin. Some ibuprofen. You'll be ok."

Merritt nodded, swallowed.

"Married?" asked Sipe.

"Yes."

Sipe nodded.

"You knew they were gonna take her back?" When there wasn't an answer, hand remaining braced on the thigh, Sipe raised his left foot, poked Merritt's ribs. "You knew?"

"Yes."

"Ok. What about the other thing Bonnie was saying? You know. About Hope's friend. Kidnapping her friend, raping then letting other people pay to rape her. What about that?"

"That I didn't. I didn't. No. That wasn't. No."

"Ok. Ok, " said Sipe. "Look at me. Merritt. Mr. Lowry, look at me. I hear of anything happening to her, Hope's friend? I will come back here. I will cut off pieces of you. I will cook them. And I will eat them. And you will watch me eat you until there isn't enough left of you to keep you alive. Figure a couple pounds off you. Maybe more. And just so you know, so you can form a kind of loose timeframe, the duration of all of that, even before I start on you, I'll take Bonnie's baby, and I'll cook it. I've seen your pans here, in your kitchen. They're big. A baby would fit in a pan big as that. I don't know how long it takes to cook a baby on a burner. I could Google it, sure, but that's just hearsay, some random idiot's estimation. But we'd find out, how long it takes, you and me. What it smells like. What it sounds like. A baby. And maybe Mrs. Lowry, she can listen to it, too."

Chapter 34

"Can you spare one?"

Connie stood behind Bug's truck. He'd just lit his cigarette. The lighter still in his hand. Hope bounced towards him when he nodded, motioned.

"I know. Insert standard adult speech. Bad for you. Just a kid. Blah blah blah. Ooh. Marlboros. Nice."

She got the smoke going and handed the lighter and the pack back, and they both churned out blue clouds. Sipe and Bug were still inside The Outpost.

There were smokers down in front of The Up 'n Up Tavern. Down west, past the park, Auntie's lit up, but closed. Little Creek quiet, but people were awake. Doors normally left unlocked shut and locked, coffee being sipped, vigils being kept. Down at the intersection, Main and Mountain, brooms and dustpans had swept up and toted away debris, where the SUV smashed the still MIA Honda, but under the moon and stars residual plastic and glass shone, fragments confirming the bigger worlds intrusion into the ideal. The crazy woman unarmed. Fled into the woods alone. Disgraced Olympian dangerous, but not armed. Officials said one thing on one side of the mouth and another on the other, you could be sure they were keeping something quiet. Anyone subscribed to Don Jennings's Twitter couldn't help but ponder kernels of possibility, the cops too pussy to intrude into the green, corner and bag one female Rambo. Don heard extra-sensitive chatter. Feds were coming. Black helicopters. Little Creek on the tipping point of transformation into a Bilderberg Group wet dream, an internment camp that didn't recognize the jackboots for jackboots, mistook the cell door clang for protection.

"You were pretty cool in there," said Hope.

"That was nothing. I do that all the time."

"Really?"

"No."

She laughed. It started out as 'ha-ha' before transforming into something a little less derivative. Hope walked over to Clay's abandoned Jeep. Held onto the driver side door and looked inside like opportunities abounded. She spun on her heel. Walked back towards Connie.

"You guys should've shot 'em."

"Like a movie?"

"It was like a movie. That guy, Sipe? Did you know he was going to do that? To Bonnie, I mean?"

"He's a quiet guy."

"That was the shit. I would've jammed that thing up between her legs and just held it there."

"You're not her biggest fan?"

Hope leaned against the truck tailgate. Considered the truck bed.

"She's having a Nazi's baby. Who would be her fan?"

"You've got Nazis around here?"

"I don't know. Probably. We don't have any fags. If we do, they're smart enough to shut the fuck up about it. We don't have any blacks. Jews. No Jews. Well, my mom is like half-Jewish, so I'm what? A quarter. Rita will tell you it's the quieter racism around these parts. I do bad things, enough bad things, people don't care what my blood is. I've eaten pussy. A lot of pussy. But you know, girls. Girls do things with other girls. Guys like it. Do you like it?"

"What?"

"Girls with girls?"

"Whatever makes you happy."

"I know, but I'm asking you."

"I've...seen things."

"Jacked off to them?"

"Jesus."

"Jilling off. Jacking off. Everyone does it, you got to call it something."

"I've seen it. That kind of thing. Girls. But not in person. I guess I'm kind of behind the rest of the crowd," said Connie. "What do you call it? I'm not very cosmopolitan."

"Cosmopolitan." Hope said it a number of times. She liked it. The kind of word she was surprised she hadn't heard from Tiff. She asked Connie for another smoke. Once she had it going, she affected what she thought would be a cosmopolitan accent, kind of British, and said, "Cumming makes me happy. In a cosmopolitan sort of way."

"That makes most people happy."

"I know. I've seen guys cry after they do. Not guys. Men. One guy - man - had me slap his dick after he came. His dick and his balls. One guy wanted me to crap on him."

"Jesus."

"He didn't have the money for it. Plus, I'm like, ok, do you see anything in this room that you can clean up with? Fuck. It's always the guys that are dressed really well or that are kind of old that want the weird shit."

"Or just shit."

She laughed. Tapped ashes off onto the parking lot.

"Small town life," said Connie. "At least it's interesting."

"Try living here."

"That's ok."

"Uh huh. It's cool as long as you don't actually have to do it."

"I don't know. Maybe someday. I wouldn't want to run into people though. If I was having trouble with them."

"Like Bonnie? Me and Bonnie?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"Her, my mom, ok, both my parents, then Hitler. That's the top three most evil in all of history. In descending order. Whoa. Wait. No. Four."

"What kind of math they teach out here?"

She slugged his arm, laughing.

"That's pretty bad though," said Connie. "More evil than Hitler."

The bell jingled. Sipe and Bug walked out of The Outpost.

"Where are you guys from?" Hope asked Connie.

"Seattle. But I've been gone. I just got done with school."

"College?"

"Culinary school."

"Culinary? Cooking?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

One of the old men coming down the ramp walked at a ponderous gait. Mr. Heavyfoot. Such skinny bastards, the pair of them, Connie wondered which one was guilty. Bug probably. Boots instead of sneakers. They stepped off the ramp, stray gravel clicked and crunched under heel. They came around the driver side of the truck. Neither of them saying a thing.

"So now what?" Hope exhaled. Pushed off the tailgate and crossed her left arm under her breasts, right elbow balanced on top of the left hand, cigarette pinched between fingers on the right hand. Second nature at this point to exhibit the bad girl quality the bad girl knew the saps would pay for.

"We go home," said Sipe.

Hope snorted. "Meaning what?"

"You call Tiffany?" Bug asked Hope.

"No."

"You ought to call her."

"She'll start crying."

"She's probably worried."

"She's used to it. It's her thing. She's like one of those mom's, they hurt their kids, make them sick and shit and then go to the doctor. They want the attention."

"No she isn't," said Bug.

Hope shrugged. "Close enough. That's why she likes Henry so much. Perpetually shit on, she'll take you under her wing."

"I got to sleep," said Sipe. "Just a few hours then we can get out of here."

Connie nodded.

"You're welcome back at our place," said Bug. "Hope's got my room right now. I'm in the guest room, but we got another room. Enough room for a cot, easy. And the couch is kind of comfy."

"Waldo," said Hope.

"Waldo. Right. Mom's wiener dog might fight you for the couch."

"It's fine," said Sipe. "We can go to the motel."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Sipe, let's just go with them, ok? I don't want to check in. I don't want to, to, to...It's just a hassle."

"Yeah. It'll be nice. Oh," said Hope. "I can make breakfast!"

"See," said Connie. "We'll get a nice breakfast out of it."

Sipe pondered just what was it with people and this over fondness for breakfast. He ought to call Zeke. Tell him to forget The Outpost, instead head over to Bug's tomorrow morning.

Hope still laboring the topic. "Eggs. Bug you have eggs, right? Or pancakes. I've made pancakes. If someone helps, I promise I won't burn them or anything."

Sipe could just start walking. Pass the tavern up ahead, the post office, Pleshette's, and he might just keep walking once he came alongside The Sleepy Bear Inn. He was a machine, according to the other guys. Out of the Old Man's crew, on stakeout, Sipe the one that could stay awake without the support of cigarettes or coffee or pills. Some voice related that if he walked all the long way out to Butcher's Camp, Faye would welcome him with open arms. His choice of rooms. His choice of ghosts.

"Sipe? Hey." Connie in his face. "You ok?"

"Yeah. Tired."

"I know. Hey. You heard me, right? I'm going for a walk, all right?"

Hope popped into view around Connie's left arm.

"Me, too."

"Ok. We're going for a walk."

"I want to surprise Tiff," said Hope.

"Fine."

"And then we'll come out to Bug's," said Connie.

"Make Tiff poop her pants, then come home," said Hope.

"Ok."

Connie and Hope walked towards Woodruff Road.

"Wait," said Sipe. "You're going to walk out there?"

"No. Fly, stupid," said Hope. She put her arms out in front, the Superman thing, and making a fart in the bathwater noise, ran up the side street, out of sight. Connie shrugged, walked in her wake. She called after him like he was a party pooper. Sipe could hear her running, it sounded like in figure eights, looping from one lane into the other.

*

Rolling through the Auntie's intersection, Bug looked left, south, down Old Woods Road, and thought he spotted some sort of mass way down the length of road, but no lights. Maybe, the cops were working subtle, going infrared, waiting for Millicent Timbers to poke on out of the woods innocent like a deer or a bear or a coyote sniffing on the rim of man.

The Forest Service parking lot glowed amber, courtesy lampposts and the footlights rimming beauty bark.

Lights on inside the last house in town. Tiffany and her uncle, the boy and the tall woman, Gwen. Bug wondered how long Hope would fuck around town before dropping by, letting her friend know she was ok.

"I think you scared the shit out of Lowry," said Bug.

"Probably."

"How much of that did you mean? Literally?"

"Just enough to get my point across," said Sipe.

"Where does that come from? Telling people stuff like that?"

"I don't know. The job. My sister."

"Let me guess," said Bug, "Older sis? She picked on you."

Sipe didn't answer. They were fast coming up on the intersection, the Zippy Mart.

Bug relieved to see they'd be the single vehicle forcing a Deputy out from his unit at the checkpoint. Lucky as shit the woman had dropped Lueck's piece, only broken his nose. The law enforcement presence would be a touch too much otherwise. Now, once he'd miraculously slung all his slug-weight out the unit, Deputy Gunderson would ask where the Logan girl went, Bug would say she was watching movies with a friend, then tell Gundy to expect him to come back through in a bit, pick her up, potentially some guy, too, some wunderluck struck castaway until his car got fixed. Yep. Bug and his ma practically running a motel anymore.

Beneath the cloudless sky, every particle of the world brushed blue. Up high on the wind towers signal lights blinkered to ward off collision with the potential low flying night flier. The wind tower blades still. Come morning, the breeze rode sidesaddle with sunrise, straining its fingers through brush, hay, and elderberry bushes, and those giant blades would rotate, plug juice into the grid.

Given Deputy Gunderson's blessing, Bug plugged on through and passed the Zippy Mart lot, slowed, and signaled and turned onto his property. He parked beside the beat up Honda and turned off the engine. The porch light left on. Inside, Waldo's ears would be perked up. No barking. Waldo wouldn't want to wake his sick mistress. Bug punched his seat belt loose. The seat creaked as he reached for the door handle.

"We ought to move the car," said Sipe.

"What car?"

"It's at the gas station. Have to wait. Connie's got the keys."

"All right."

Bug could sense that Sipe had something more to say. It was like high school. Killing a six pack out at the railcars, Ty Ruchert doing impressions, of TV people, teachers, his siblings, then getting down to it, the nitty gritty, about his future, blowing Little Creek for good, how he felt for Tanya, his future wife. Ty the king of pauses.

"Thing of it is," said Sipe, "when I talk to people like I talked to Lowry like you heard me talking, I don't know if I'm talking to her."

"The sister?"

Sipe nodded.

"Like I see her instead of the person right there. Or if I think I am her and I'm talking to me, the little kid version. Trying to piss him off, or rile him up enough he finally really lets her have it. I don't know."

Bug nodded.

"She still alive?" he asked.

Sipe didn't answer. Bug thought the other man hadn't even heard the question, too involved in sorting the evidence that would reveal who he was when he acted like the devil's spokesman.

Eventually, Sipe said, "I think so," and Bug wondered how many horror slides Sipe had shuffled through before he could fly the determination one way or the other.

Chapter 35

The hair freckled blanket made Millie's skin itch. The weak light from the lamp producing enough illumination she could make out the dark swathes of hair and pluck them or brush them off. Some of the hairs refusing to pop off even after she'd snapped the blanket over and over again. Given the absence of clouds, she knew once night fell the heat would rise, making the woods cold. Hairy or not, the blanket was a gift.

Running through the woods, she'd been delivered to the unfinished cabin. Another gift.

Upon her entry into the woods, the gravel road she'd veered off from had disappeared. She'd lost track of which direction she ran. South. West. She might've been running in circles. Too much adrenaline. Fear. She had to put distance between herself and the cops, anyone interested in finding her. Connie. Even Connie.

Some guiding hand helped. Finally kicked in. The gravel road attracted towards the path she'd chosen. Magic almost.

Hiding behind a tree, she'd viewed a side road forked off the main graveled vein, a stone marker, something you'd buy then bring out and mount at the head of a driveway. It had held her attention, Millie sagging against the tree, trying to catch her breath. The marker promising a civilized place to hide. Busting a move through the trees she'd tripped, nearly lost an eye once, freaked out by the helicopter, trying to run and look up at the same time. Dumb.

Waiting until full dark, she tromped down the steep hillside, across the main road, past the pretty tower of stones then moved through the brush alongside the driveway. Stars and moon combined light allowed her to make out the unfinished cabin. It looked empty. Inside, second and third guessing herself she'd performed several loops through the building, looking for an alarm system. Just because nothing of value was stored out here yet, it didn't mean the house wasn't wired. The place already had electricity, enough to fire up the lamp.

Someone had been out here. They were gone now. If they came back, they came back. It might all work out. Some mysterious force providing for her so far. Not everything though.

There was nothing to eat. The single lamp, on the floor beside the blanket, displayed the fact plenty had been eaten. Empty hot dog packages, potato chip bags, and several containers of Nestles Strawberry Banana Quik. And then the question of the hair. Quite a lot, honestly. No scissors. She wished for scissors. Some sort of weapon. Not to kill but as a potential negotiating instrument.

Hearing Connie, seeing him, it'd cleared her head long enough to let her realize what she'd done. Punching the cop. Then shooting at Sipe, at his car. Worse, she remembered nearly running Connie down, plastering him all over the road as she drove into Little Creek. Locked, the mechanism was impermeable. Millie all about the mission.

She'd ditched her phone. The GPS thing. Stopped running through the woods, looked around and hucked it, let it land wherever. Let some squirrel drag it into a tree, store it. It could only get her in trouble. She suspected if she called her mother it'd be like something out of the movies. Cops present. They'd have already told mother to stretch out any potential conversation, let their electronics work, so they could fix a location on Millie, get her, bring her in, for her protection, before anything else happened to make the situation any worse. Before events whirled out of even law enforcement's control and Millie wasn't just a disgraced former Olympic athlete, and now former business owner, but now dead, dead as Bela Yalbo.

Why couldn't there be enough mystery hair left here in the chilly, mostly roofless cabin for her to weave some sort of wig? Some squirrel had gathered just enough scissored off hair to leave her wanting. On its own, a wig wouldn't do. She'd have to shed six inches, muscle, pounds, bone density. Post-Olympics, pre-scandal, her would-be acting agent had insisted Millie be realistic, none of the leading lady parts in any of the piss poor prospective screenplays would ever go to her. Best friend roles, sister roles, weird foreigners, the bad guy's trusted female companion, those were the only parts Millie qualified for.

Owls, tree tilt, Millie clearing her throat, the sounds out in the forest tonight. It seemed too much trouble to stand and spit out a window. Simply, the floor was closer. Besides, the lamp had shown dust and bird droppings galore, boards coated in a putty knife resistant crust, the unfinished roof allowing nature maximum access. Her spit would dry and meld with the other splotches. Her bits of lung. In prison, she could imagine the lung cancer would rear its head. Or a pregnancy. All day long something she'd spaced on, something important. All the goop Connie had fountained into her in a matter of hours, and she'd forgotten the pill. So baby, and blackened lung. Both. Twine the two and she might bear a molten mutant chemo-baby. It wouldn't even wait for the normal processes of birth. Milling about in the fenced in yard with other convicts, Millie sporting the Lex Luthor-do, and without warning, the little one would melt clean through her abdomen, through the prison grays, roll onto the grass or concrete and then drop right on through, searing surface then dirt, worms going up like black snakes on Fourth of July, and like a slender seam of mercury cannonballing through the layers of a child's ant farm, the baby's irradiated descent forming a permanent notch in the geologic record. The plummet slowing somewhere shy of the planet's heart, nursing on liquefied mantle, imprinting on the glowing inner-core, a nickel-alloy mother of circumstance.

Potential future molten baby aside, she still wanted a cigarette. Back before her first Olympics, several of her teammates/competition, girls under Veronica's wing, smoked in secret, drank not so secretly, and it was pure coincidence that at the qualifying event some Bela Yalbo trained sticks, uniformly blonde with eating disorders and overbites/and or dimples, spotted the coven and the cloud of smoke, and ratted them out. Back in the auditorium, Veronica way pissed, and before the most important competition of her life, Yalbo giving Millie a triumphant look, most his smile lost in the walrus mustache, those eyes twinkling, like all those years ago, denying her discipleship, he'd suspected she'd mistreat her holy vessel, something in Millie driving her towards self-destruction, hampering any slender chance of victory already pushed out of reach by virtue of her slabular, swim meet unfriendly torso. The Czech, such a presumptuous student of human psychology, mistaking Millie's reaction when anyone attempted to inject her with fear.

She nodded off, sitting on the floor, back against the wall, blanket covering her shoulders, and woke with water dripping on her, into her scalp, Bela Yalbo just arrived courtesy a permeable glitch between life and death, space and time, water logged, and dripping from the mustache the pool water buoying then drowning him during his fateful fatal cardiac event. Hovered above her, a buzzing and wet clucking in his throat, honestly, not all that different from his normal speaking voice, but here, a gift from the forgiving, benevolent dead to the slabular living on the lam, if only Millie understood not Czech, but how to translate the most foreign language out there, the dead's wretched tongue, she'd know then how to air swim, outwit gravity, porpoise with purpose, muscling right through roadblocks, the cops losing sight of her, the foam, the chop, like heat made waves off asphalt she'd make waves, the cops Keystoning after her, only to discover the escape route tailed off like jet contrail, abruptly divorced from its source, levitating and disintegrating, segmented, loose loops like disinterested question marks.

The impression of dripping pool water just her brain and skin working in collusion, summoning cold flashes. The competitive drive. The residual damage after three decades of constantly setting sights on competitions. Giving her ghosts when skin and bone villains were wanting. Right now, they weren't wanting.

The little man. That ugly little man.

Last night, after dropping Sipe with the stun gun she should've kicked him harder in the head. Maybe not kill him, but scramble his eggs enough to put him in a hospital. Why couldn't Connie just let Sipe hang? Who cared what happened to someone short, someone who looked like a lonely farmer, an undertaker, one of those faces from Great Depression-era photographs, men lined up for jobs, any job, grateful for a plate of watery thin gruel filled to the rim.

Her mother would tell her to talk to God. God was probably tired of hearing her mother yap. By this hour, Mom hitting her stride, even rocking back and forth, babbling, leaking tears, asking Him to keep an eye on Millie. Some Pendleton cop on detail secretly recording the old bird while she begged the lord to provide Millie the good sense to turn herself in.

She'd give herself up. Soon as she knew Connie was gone. If he was really truly gone, she'd walk out of the woods, walk right on up to the first fat fuck local cop waiting for her. If justice actually provided for the low on the totem pole, maybe she'd get cuffed by the double-chinned douche she'd dropped. He'd sport raccoon eyes, a purpled nose. Reading her rights, he'd sound like someone with a cold. Doo haf da wight doo un attoony. It'd be really hard not to laugh.

She'd sleep. Then wake up, head back towards town. Do her best to avoid eye hungry branches, and animals hungry for the whole human.

She'd told Connie they'd be free, but she'd bungled it. Should've taken off from Little Creek last night, the athletic club already left in her partner's hands, mom told she was taking a vaykay, and just played it all by the seat of the pants. Two young lovers with the world in front of them.

The blanket betrayed her. Every time she shifted, putting out cold spots like fires, a new swathe of the surrendered hair sprouted, irritated her bare skin. The blanket spawning new hair like it'd been seeded. She stood and flapped it out again like she was trying to shake the dyes out. Settled back to the floor, once she unplugged the lamp, confident it could be gripped and implemented as a club at a moment's notice, she felt soothed. Safe.

Even though Millie hadn't taken a sip of water in hours, the need to pee pushed her up out of the blanket. She thought about wearing the blanket outside, it was that nippy now, and the weakness implied pissed her off. She tossed the blanket down. Walked through the house, the light from the night sky showing enough in her path she didn't stumble too much.

She didn't walk too far from the unfinished cabin. Just around the side. Stared at mounds of beauty bark striated by moonlight. Piss out of her, she pulled up her yoga pants and went back inside. Rubbing her arms, she made a left when she meant to walk down the hall and tripped over something. She screamed. It'd been a dull thump. She laughed. Swore. Hunched down, trying to make out shapes she heard a dial tone. She patted the floor. Felt floorboards, a phone base, but no phone.

She went back to the room with the blanket and the lamp. Picked up the unplugged lamp, plugged it in and dragged it far as she could. It barely made it into the hall. The light didn't bleed far enough down to the front of the cabin to help even a little.

Back in the tripping room, she followed sounds, kneeling, searching thoroughly, her hand finally settling on the hands-free phone. Launched from its base by Millie's foot, the phone had flipped over, the caller ID screen facing the floorboard. Some robot voice telling her if she'd like to make a call she needed to hang up then dial again.

She shut the phone off. Set it back on the base.

Of course, she knew Connie's number. She wasn't an idiot. She recited it.

She walked to the back of the cabin, got the blanket, shut off the lamp. Left it sitting there at the head of the hall.

What she'd do, she'd meditate. Call Connie when it felt right. When she knew he'd be awake. And they'd talk. If Connie wanted her back, they'd figure it out. And if he didn't, if he was gone, already in Seattle, then that was just the way things worked out.

A swathe of shorn hair ended up in her hand. She rubbed it. Whoever it'd belonged to, now it belonged to Millie. Her version of a rabbit's foot. She sniffed it, but all she could smell were her own fingers and a faint forest sourced scent.

Chapter 36

Picking the phone up almost soon as it started ringing, Susan looked at the caller ID. She sighed. Swung her legs out from under her trunk and set them on the living room floor. She stood up from the couch. The third and fourth rings sounding before she answered.

"Hey-hey," said Zeke.

"'Hey-hey' yourself. What's going on?" Susan on automatic. Making it sound almost like she'd been waiting for Zeke's call. Briefly, back in L.A., early L.A. Susan, long before the Old Man scooped her up, she'd dipped her toe in the phone sex trade. Trick to it, besides aceing the suck and slurp on a phantom cock, producing the perfect invitational tone to the customer ready and willing to part with $3.99 the first minute and $1.99 each additional minute.

"Just checking in."

"Pretty late check in for an old man."

"Or old woman."

"Right out of the gate. Mr. Charming."

"Ha. Aren't you the one, telling everyone who cares to listen how rough it is, staring down the barrel at fifty?"

"Naw. I'm used to it at this point. Squeezed all the juice out of the topic."

"Look forward to it at all?"

"Resigned to it."

"Probably better off. Wait until you look in the mirror one day and realize you're north of sixty. That one is the one that shakes you up."

Zeke warming her up with glimpses of his mortality. Sometimes the late night calls a drink-fueled bootie call, sometimes he couldn't sleep, but wouldn't own up to it. Just wanting to talk to someone. Briefly, he and Boog owned a club in the SoDo district, and Zeke got used to the late hours, trailing off to sleep right before dawn. The Mariners still had Junior back then, no one knew an Ichiro from a Pikachu. Other words, it'd been awhile. Still, Zeke kept the hours, even if he rarely had things to fill them with.

"Any word?" asked Susan.

"Word?"

"About the package lost in Oregon."

"Funny," said Zeke.

"Funny?"

"Guess where I am?"

Susan stood beside her cat tower. The calico that claimed the upper tier slit her eyes while Susan's hand slowly rubbed fur. Susan's hand slowed. Realizing.

"Oregon," she said.

Zeke laughed.

"I thought you sent Mikhail."

"Uh-uh. No. Nonononono. Something like this you don't send a fist. You send a guiding hand."

"I told him..." She sighed. The black cat on the lower tier murped at her. Well-trained, Susan abandoned the calico, started petting the younger cat, not confused about the Oregon-deal, realizing immediately Sipe had probably freaked out thinking the Wub was headed his way.

"I know," said Zeke. "Asshole move. Sometimes you got to be the asshole. The adult. But it's worth it. Best thing about it, hold on. I'm gonna send you a picture. There's these things all over the goddamned place. Had 'em at the restaurant, in the motel lobby, and even got 'em in the rooms. Hold on." Zeke's voice getting distant like he was carrying something. "Going to set 'em next to the lamp. Plenty of light. There's two of 'em in here with me."

Miracle of technology, almost instantaneously, Susan looked at the photos Zeke forwarded. Given the mattress cover, the particleboard looking headboard, it was a motel room. And dolls. Figurines. An old man with a white beard, cradling a jug of whiskey. A little girl, two beaver-like front teeth, a rash of freckles, hugging the world's ugliest alley cat against her scrawny, definition of the waif frame.

"What am I looking at?" asked Susan.

"Beepers," said Zeke.

"'Beepers'?"

"Apparently they're all the rage."

"They're ugly."

"Oh, yeah, shit yeah, but so were Cabbage Patch Dolls. So were those, what were those? Beanie Babies. Those were ugly, too. People still lost their minds."

"You looking to invest, Zeke?"

"I don't know about that. I invest in something, I invest in mutual fund like things. Sure things. The boring stocks. Slow churners, solid earners. But Beepers, I tell you what, I think they're kind of cute." The way he said it, Susan could tell he was looking right at the Beepers in his motel room, maybe even had one in hand, the little bucktoothed girl, giving it the once over.

"What does Sipe think of Beepers?"

"Didn't ask. Besides. You know, you ask Sipe most things, all he does is shrug."

Susan smiled. That was spot on.

"The package?" she asked.

"Secure."

"Good."

"You been watching the news?"

"No."

"Susan. Shit. This little town, Little Creek? Ground zero. Connie's girl flipped her shit. Tried to kill Sipe. Again, I mean. She shot up half the town then ran into the woods. And I mean literally ran. That's how close the town is to the trees."

"Connie's ok?"

"That's what I said."

"Sorry. Is Sipe ok?"

"Half his face is a bruise. He's alive. Hiding out from the cops. Well, they're looking for a car, he hid it from 'em. They don't know to look for an ugly little guy made uglier by bruises."

"Connie? I mean. Not his body. But...How is he? Emotionally?"

"Mean is he a basket case?" said Zeke.

"Right."

"What's the word I'm looking for...Chagrinned? I think he knows he was listening to his dick more than his brain. Learned a lesson. You can dip your dick in the sweetest honey, but if there's too many bees about, or the one wrong bee, you got to say goodbye."

Susan had turned on the TV. Muted. Flipping for one of the news channels even though she knew the best bet Googling. Once she was off the phone, she'd get up to her elbows in Little Creek, Millie.

"How much does the Old Man know?" she asked.

"Ask him."

"Well, what did you tell him before you flew out?"

"Car trouble."

"'Car trouble'?"

"That's what I said."

"You told him what? Sipe and Connie had car trouble, and it necessitated you going out all the way to Oregon?"

"I'm expediting the process. I get down there, get Connie home, Sipe deals with the car shit. That's what I told him."

"And what did he say?"

"I interrupted his nap. That's what he said. 'You interrupted my nap.' Then, now that I got him awake, he wants me to time him, walking up those goddamned stairs, worried about his knee. His nap. His knee. More important to him than his kingdom crumbling down. More important than Connie."

"What do you tell him now? Now that it's a mess?"

"Mess? I don't care about any mess. I don't see any mess to care about. Connie'll be home tomorrow. Some crazy shit happened in the town, some crazy shit happened in the town. What do we know about it? Pure coincidence."

"Wow. I wish I was as cool as you."

"Most do. Suze, see, thing is," said Zeke, "and don't tell me you don't know this, because you know this, we all know this, the Old Man is about to lose two, three, four, maybe four brain cells, and then he'll be dropping turds in his pants and using them for Crayons. He isn't hard of hearing. He's hard of understanding. Everyone knows that. Anything we do, we're doing it out of respect for who he was. Not who he is. What I'm doing right now, what I did, fuck Sipe over a little, who do I run that past? A shadow. A ghost in a shell. Honestly, I run it past Connie if anyone, problem being, Connie doesn't want to acknowledge it. He thinks he has options. He _thinks_ he has options."

"And if not Connie, then who?"

"It's you or me," said Zeke. "Tell me who else is in the running?"

"I don't know. Not me."

"Right. But you could be. See. You don't want it. That's why people come to you. Run things past you."

"Apparently not everything."

Zeke laughed. "No. Not everything. If it was something else, Alaska related, Aberdeen related, Pullman, sure as shit, I need numbers crunched, numbers verified, invest in this, cancel that, boom, you're my first, you're my only call. You're all business. You have no agenda. People get that about you."

"Maybe my agenda is coming off as having no agenda."

"Shit. Wouldn't put it past you. But see me, it's not me either. I know it's not. I know I was never in the running. Maybe we're more accepting, this day and age, put a man of color in charge, but I'm old. Too old. I'm older than the Old Man. See, that's the thing that chills me. He's a feeb, an honest to God feeb, and I've got five years on him. Makes me wonder, ponder, you know? When I go, when the lights go out, but I keep going, the body at least, how fucking long do I keep living, the living that isn't living?"

"But think of all the art you'll make with your turds."

Zeke laughed. Susan smiled.

Once Zeke settled down she said, "You could've told me."

"About what?"

"The Wub. Not sending him."

"No. See. You would've told Sipe."

"That might've kept things at a low boil."

"Sipe knew I was coming out, he would've sat and waited. But, Sipe thinks the Wub is coming, he's going to move his ass and get his house in order."

"So we're talking dominoes."

"Yes. Wait. Dominoes?"

"They're all set up," said Susan. "They fall soon as you knock one over. If Sipe thinks you're coming, he doesn't touch the first domino. The Wub's coming, boom, he instantly topples that first domino, and it plays out, all the way to its natural conclusion. Including a town getting shot up. Including Connie being put in harm's way."

"Probably."

Susan laughed. "That's a problem. Right? Tell me you see that that's a problem."

"Shit happens."

"Zeke? Fuck. I mean, just...Fuck."

"Connie'll be home tomorrow. Is that the most important part of all of this? Yes or no? Yes? Or no?"

"Yes."

"Then it's all good."

Susan stared at the TV, some commercial for a car playing.

"I got to find one thing out for sure though."

"What?"

"They were telling me when I was checking in, there's a shop here, honest to god, sells nothing but Beepers." Tone to his voice, Susan could tell he'd slipped on his little half glasses. The ones he didn't want anyone to see him using. "Let me see here. These things got a sticker? A 'Made In China.' Oh shit. Here we go. Orley."

"Orley?"

"Mmm-hm. Orley, Oregon. We're going to check that place out. Come on home, Connie, me, Sipe, and who knows? Maybe enough Beepers in the goddamned car six months from now we can all retire. Fuck the Old Man and his knee and his stairs climbing ass. How does that sound?"

Chapter 37

Confused, Sutton woke in the dark. The phone was ringing. Not his smart one, the old one, ringing from the kitchen. He'd peed his normal schedule through the night. Several trips. It flowed fast once he started, and barely dribbled at the end. He paid careful attention to dribbles, a good thing to track and report back to his doc. And it was good sleep in-between interruptions, something he always expressed to Doctor PeePee, over in La Grande. The last name Papanowski, but Sutton thought PeePee easier to pronounce, besides the doc the variety of prim and proper that would get all bent out of shape should he ever learn of Sutton's foolery. Sutton didn't need one long uninterrupted strip of sleep. Just needed that high quality when he was out like a light.

The phone wouldn't stop. He'd never learned how to set it, so it cut to the message after a handful of rings Definitely not the smart phone.

He rolled out of bed, the springs squeaking.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, hold your horses. Your britches."

He always set his glasses on the dresser so he could just snatch 'em on his way by, either for the bathroom or for ease of acquisition in the morning. His mother, bless her prognosticating soul, had told him young he'd end up a little moleman just like his papa. Vision so poor he'd need a pair of glasses to help him find his glasses.

Wearing an old thin nightshirt, he could feel his buns jiggling, the house cooled down from overnight, the living room windows and the window over the kitchen sink left ajar to let the air seep in. Sutton betting the call a wrong number or some inmate calling or some son of a b in India trying to convince him the IRS had his ass in a sling. The inconveniencing bastards could at least call his smart phone, let him roll over and stay in bed while he dealt with their bullshit.

Humming, finding the kitchen floor tiles nice and cool, Sutton picked up the phone. Stared at the caller ID. Local. Hell if he recognized the number. He put honey in his voice, same as answering a call at Pleshette's.

"This is Sutton," he answered.

"She's here!"

"Hello? Who is this?"

"Peevie! It's Peevie, damnit! Sutton! She's here! The crazy woman. Millicent Timbers. She just set the MacAvoy place on fire."

"Come again?"

"I see her. But she saw me. I called 911! They didn't believe me, I don't think. Call 'em, Sutton. Wait. Oh shit!"

Something shattered.

Peevie screamed.

Another sound of breakage.

Peevie grunted and gulped into the phone. The poor old bastard got around on a cane. Each time they'd spoken on the phone yesterday Sutton could imagine Peevie waggling his cane, making a point about this or that regarding Millicent Timbers.

Peevie lived southwest of Dale, up a crooked road off the Pendleton-John Day highway, the house poised on what Peevie had coined Rattlesnake Bluff. He remained mobile courtesy of an elderly Ford Focus, rusted over so much the whole car looked like it'd been used to swab out a chili bowl. Poor Peevie well on his way to needing someone to feed and bathe him. Sutton could only begin to imagine the clutter inside the tar paper shack, Peevie having existed more or less alone since halfway through the first Clinton presidency, his wife plucked off the face of the earth by the breast cancer.

"I'm going for my gun," said Peevie. "I'll shoot her if I have to."

He must've moved the phone away from his mouth, maybe turned and aimed his face away. It sounded distant, Peevie shouting, "I got a gun! I'll defend my home and my property! I saw you light up the MacAvoy's, you she-beast!"

"Peevie?" asked Sutton. "Peevie?"

"Oh no," said Peevie. Back close to the phone. Intimate. Whispering now. "She's on the porch. She sees me. Sutton. I-"

Click.

"Peevie? Peevie, you still there?"

Sutton hung up. Peevie. He needed Peevie's number. He turned in a circle and another circle before fixing on finding his smart phone. There was a high pitch noise in the house. It was him. Good god. Like a leaking balloon from living room back to the bedroom. Trembling, he picked up the smart phone. Trembling fingers dug up Peevie's number. He called. No answer. Called again. Nothing doing. He went through it again. Same result.

Sutton called 911. Told the operator all he could and hung up and sprung into action. Shed the nightshirt and slipped into a clean shirt and undies and then pulled on yesterday's pants and suspenders. Sliding on socks and sneakers he kept an ear out for the landline, but it didn't ring. He wasted a valuable 5 seconds pondering whether or not to bring the smart phone charger. Jesus God, in 5 seconds time Millicent Timbers could likely wrench one of Peevie's old arms clean out of the socket. And eat it.

He was on top of things enough he popped out the brick from the kitchen sink window and shut and locked the window. He turned around in circles trying to make sure he didn't need to do anything else before leaving the house. Coffee, cereal, it'd have to wait. What about work? What about it. This was bigger than any loyalty he owed Norm Pleshette. This was about public safety. Right before heading out the door he snagged his hat off its hook.

The truck turned over on his first crank of the engine. Backing out, he knew the best thing to do, expedite the process, drive like an Indy 500 racer down to that blockade at the Zippy Mart. Tell the cop all about Peevie in short, sharp reportage. A quick, quality burst, just like his night pees. Youngsters like Gunderson or Lueck would believe him although he wondered just how quick Dougie would be back to action after yesterdays thumping.

Those 15 miles between Little Creek and Dale would zip right on by. Sutton imagined showing up, helping catch Millicent Timbers, maybe even be the one to wrestle her to the ground, knock her out, like some action hero.

Motoring past Auntie's and Don's Automotive, Sutton noted the light on in the repair shop window. He could one hand a phone call courtesy the touchscreen. The car wobbled northward in the lane a little, and Sutton giggled, imagining crashing his car more or less where the SUV and the Honda had collided. That old woman would wring his neck if he popped through her fence and flattened those petunias.

Not a surprise that Don didn't answer at the repair shop. Henderschott ran that particular kingdom anymore. Sutton gave him the down low, the MacAvoy's place exploded, and now poor Peevie's plight. Sutton hung up on Henderschott, not wanting to prolong the conversation just get it across that he – Sutton Welter – was driving into the jaws of who knew what? Bonus being - his default setting - Henderschott blathered more than your wine soaked aunt at a wedding reception. Come noon, hell, come 8 a.m., Sutton's selflessness would be known to every man, woman, and child. A goose to that potential mayoral run. Besides, Sutton couldn't keep Henderschott on the line. He was driving right up on the blockade.

North, the big blades on the wind towers perambulated on the last vestiges of the night's air. The deputy – Sutton squinted, couldn't quite slap a name to the face – stood on the driver side of his unit, talking into a CB or on a mobile phone. In the blue tinted pre-dawn light, the kid's eyes looked planted in big black circles. A sleepless night for everyone.

Sutton pulled up to the stop sign and looked at the boy. From the look on the kid's face, Sutton could guess, Peevie's 911 call plus Sutton's 911 call were having an effect. Sutton waived, made a motion, asking should he sit and wait for the kid to come over and give him the 'go' sign or what?

The Deputy waived him through. Not even seeing him really. Sutton signaled and turned south, towards Dale.

Not even 5:10 a.m.

By this time an hour from now, he might have Millicent Timbers down for the count.

Soon enough, Sutton was rolling on his seat, rolling the steering wheel around the tight curves running parallel to Snake Creek. He saw the flashing lights in his rearview mirror. He wasn't sure if he should slow or go faster, get to one of those few and far between straight stretches so the cops could slip on past. They surprised him. Scared the shit out of him. Just shot right on past on a curve. One-potato, two-potato, three-potato, all the law enforcement you could want. They could've crunched front bumpers with a logging truck or some old timer heading out for some fishing.

Sutton watched the taillights, the sheriff's department cars vanishing from view, caught his breath, and slapped his foot down on the gas pedal. It was like he watched himself do it. But the out of body Sutton approved. Peevie needed him. Absolutely. In a situation like this, you didn't just take the bull by the horns, you took that mothereffer by the balls, too.

Chapter 38

The final few veins of sunrise pink were dissipating into the blue sky. The old men gathered on the gravel between the Patriot's Kiosk and Don's Automotive were energetic, practically vibrating. Tiffany put in mind of children on the brink of Christmas morning.

They told her the cops had pulled out. Abandoned Old Woods Road where the asphalt degenerated to gravel. An inquiry out to Zippy Mart confirmed the cop's abandoning that post, too. Miss Millicent Timbers had been spotted over in Dale. Had attacked some old timer and set fire to someone's backyard.

The old boys nattering and clucking in excitement, some of them had probably been awake for hours now. Tiffany made eye contact with Merritt Lowry, gone pale amongst his brethren at sight of the girl. His head bruised, but no one seemed to care, not with this latest turn of events. None of the others noticed the silent transfer of knowledge going on between the teenager and the owner of The Outpost. Hudson and Henderschott, brothers-in-law some 30 years now, easily the most agitated of the other four men.

"There was a TV news van out at the Zippy Mart," said Hudson. "They took off with all them cops."

"Going to alllll that trouble. Dale even, they're about to be disappointed," said Henderschott. "There's no woman there. There might be a fire."

"How would you know?" asked Hudson.

"Dollars to doughnuts, Peevie set the fire."

"Who's a Peevie?" asked Tiffany.

"Purvis," contributed Don Jennings. Don's lips clenched around his pipe stem. Solemn. Providing one-word contributions at the most.

"Purvis Owens," Hudson told Tiffany.

Henderschott nodded. "He hates that couple living across from him. Couple of hippies. Hated them for years. Been looking for some way to get to 'em. They host some sort of caravan once a year. Bunch of drum circle enthusiasts stopping by on their way to Burning Man. You should hear him go on about it, sounds like a 12-year old trying to recount his first porno."

"Who? 12-year-old?" asked Abel Walker. Abel was ancient. The town Moses. Wore a long sleeved shirt and plaid patterned pants every day for as long as anyone could recall. He cupped his ear, a permanent pose, even though a hearing aid was plugged on into it.

"We're just saying," Hudson started in, "Peevie's got issues with his neighbors."

Abel said, "Oh," like that clarified everything. He nodded the patented solemn Abel Walker nod.

"Poor Peevie's seen it all," said Henderschott. "Naked girls, naked men. Their kids running around like little Indians, hooping and hollering, pooping and peeing right next to the trickle of a creek out there. Peevie's got a gun, but he isn't quite that crazy. But it's about time it burst on out. I bet you he hit himself in the head with a plate then called 911. Probably started the fire before that."

"What about his wife?"

"Marie? Shit, Hudson. She's dead. If she were alive, wouldn't take much for Peevie to convince her to hit him in the head with something. Peevie was born ornery."

They all nodded. Tiffany felt like there was something she should ask. It was too early. The half can of Diet Pepsi she'd downed after donning jogging duds wasn't widening blood vessels nearly fast enough.

Henderschott nodded, contemplating the length of Old Woods Road, down towards the timberline. "They should've napalmed the forest."

"Oh, that would make sense," said Hudson. "Then how you going to get out to fish? Napalm would kill fish soon as anything else out there."

"We're talking about a threat. You pussy-foot, you pay the price."

"A threat." Hudson motioning to the audience. "A girl is a threat?"

"You see that gun, Guy Dobbs picking it up right on over there yesterday after she dropped it? You see her shooting up the town before all that? Ask Dougie Lueck. She nearly took his head off."

"She broke Dougie's nose. According to Racine, he's back at the job already," said Hudson. "That's hardly-"

"She was just getting warmed up at that point. Millie Timbers? All those drugs those Olympians pump on into themselves, she could've cleaved right through this town like a butter knife. Gone all Terminator on us."

"Just like Ah-nuld? I did see," said Hudson. "I saw she couldn't hit the side of a barn."

"Well, napalm, no napalm, I just hope she makes it."

"Makes what?"

"Makes it! Eludes those fools."

"You just like her ass in them yoga pants, Reginald." Right after he said it, old man Hudson got a look on his face. Nodded to Tiff. "Sorry, young 'un. Forgot a lady was here."

"Oh, don't even bother apologizing," said Henderschott. "Poor kid, everyone knows Norm blasphemies every other goddamned word anyway."

The old men all chuckled at that one. Abel, too, with only a slight delay.

Tiff felt a little uneasy walking away from them. Wondering if the old men were checking out her butt, not that the baggy shorts really gave away every dip and doodle.

One of the group called after Merritt. Asked him to toss some blueberries into their pancakes this morning, once The Outpost opened up. Tiff looked back. Merritt walked down Old Woods Road, trailing her. He froze, noticing Tiffany noticing him. His house was right across from the south end of the city park. Tiffany reminded herself that had to be his destination. Scared as he'd looked, he didn't seem primed for trailing her, kidnapping, holding her until the Butcher's Camp Massage crew appeared. She bit down the temptation to wheel around, threaten to call Sipe on him. She quickened her pace. Started her run short of the track.

Loping down Old Woods Road, she looked at her phone. A news flash on the KREM news site, an upcoming update on Millicent Timbers, but that was all. Just the promise, no details.

The cop car wasn't the only thing missing out on Old Woods Road.

Bug wasn't at the railcars. Henry wasn't at Mason's. Sipe wasn't passed out on the grass.

Bug might still be in bed with Hope. Hope had told Tiffany last night, she'd been sleeping with him, but just sleeping. Hope wouldn't have a problem with, you know, doing it with him, she really liked Bug, how fussy he got, like a little old woman about certain things, but he wouldn't touch her in her girl places. One night last week she couldn't sleep, went to his bedroom and got into bed with him. Spooned him. She'd been spooning him ever since. One time she reached over his hip and grabbed it, it _it_ , and he did a full body spasm. Told her no, not ever. He called her laugh wicked. She told him he ought to tell her something she didn't already know.

Hope was free. That was the important part. To do what, that was the question. Tiff had woken up, tired, then happy, remembering how yesterday turned out, stretching, putting on her clothes for the jog – today she'd actually start – and then that question popped up in her head. Hope's options. Hope's lack of options.

The Beeper's making, that creative node, passed on in the genes to the single Logan offspring. Hope made things up. Last night, after scaring Tiff and Henry with all that basement door pounding, she'd told them about Sipe, Tasering or whatevering the holy shit out of Bonnie, zapping Clay, punching Bret in the balls. And Connie grabbing the gun from Merritt. It was awesome. It was like a movie. Tiff had quashed the impulse to tell Hope all about Sipe almost ripping her arm clean out from the socket. Hope wouldn't hear it. Too deeply enmeshed in her high. Tiff wanted to talk to Sipe. Ask if it was true, Bonnie threatening to kidnap her, had that had been the thing sending him into attack mode. He wouldn't tell her what had happened. Not in detail. He'd be terse. The polar opposite of Hope or Tiff's mom if Tiff called when the happy drugs, the _really_ happy drugs, were controlling the joystick.

Things. Sipe's complete report. What had happened at The Outpost last night? Things.

Last night, before Hope arrived, it'd been weird with Henry. In his basement, they could hear Gwen and Norm chatting away up top. And Norm had voiced reluctance, he didn't know Gwen, but before they'd left the little house for Henry's place he'd even put on a real shirt, buttons and everything, brushed his teeth. He didn't go to that much trouble before heading out for his "massage."

Henry hadn't asked her about the kiss. The smooch right before she rode to Pendleton with Sipe. Henry kept his mouth shut. She nattered away at her regular clip, but eventually, she cycled down to his low ebb, the two looking at videos on their phones. Footage uploaded by Little Creek residents. Millie running through town, Sipe driving away, Millie shooting at him, Millie dropping the gun, sprinting out of town, Connie running after her. Poor Connie. Guy Dobbs picking up the gun, town folk circling him like he'd sliced the arm off a mad god or something, saved them all. Great press for the Dobbs, for Auntie's. Poor Uncle Norm.

Something shattered inside one of the railcars. Tiff went rigid. At least she had on the right garb if she needed to run.

She looked at the railcars, left to right, searching for movement in the doorways. It could've been nothing more than random settling. The inanimate animated, floorboards giving way, too many years with abundant crap just sitting, getting wet, getting heavier until the wood just couldn't bear the weight anymore.

Some doorways were dark. Closed off. Mattresses, bedsprings, sinks, inner tubes, mannequins, shoved inside, random crap eating the light. Some of the doorways provided straight line of sight, nothing blocking the view, she could see the trees in the background, or fields, even the forest line out behind the Zippy Mart and Bug's.

It was light. Morning. Birds making song. Tiff all the way over on the asphalt. Someone or something would have to own the longest arm in recorded history to grab her and pull her inside one of the railcars. It felt like something was watching her. Bonnie. Clay. Hope's revelation from last night getting to her. Yep. It was that elaborate. The Butcher's Camp Massage people knew Tiff was trying to lose weight, and despite getting thrashed last night, here they were. Merritt had called, and they'd magically prepped a kidnapping.

Even crossing the bridge, starting down the graveled decline towards the combination track and baseball diamond, Tiff kept looking back at the railcars. She should call Henry. See if he was awake. Yesterday a little too out of the ordinary. She shouldn't interrupt his sleep. Phone in hand, she walked onto the track. Looked around the loop. They ran in gym class. According to Mr. Lyle, Tiff shuffled. She couldn't shuffle anymore. Shuffling wouldn't melt the pounds. She couldn't sprint either. 50 yards in she'd suffer a coronary. Slow and easy wins the race. Don't be the rabbit. Be the turtle. Was there a turtle superhero? Duh. There were four of them. Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo, and Raphael. Green. She had green stuff, didn't she? Not just pants, but tops. She could wear a little mask, just like they did. At least until school started.

She lost a few minutes Googling, researching ninja turtles. The cool air was being fast supplanted by warm.

She put the phone away. Looked around the track, determining her marker, her starting spot, her finishing spot. Ten laps sounded good. Five? Maybe she should just do one and see how close to death that moved her.

Looking west, left, across empty field, towards the bridge, across Old Woods Road, she could see a couple of the railcars.

Someone stood in the doorway of a railcar. Hopped out. Someone else poked out. Then went back inside. The other person climbed back up. Tiff squinted.

All those videos recorded yesterday presented the action from a distance. The actors never really close up. And she'd never seen Millicent close up. Closest had been with Sipe, watching Millicent walk from Timbers Athletic to her SUV.

The blue top, those red pants. There they were, over at the railcars, on display in the doorway, just for a moment before the figure moved back inside, and the someone else hopped on up into the doorway and vanished.

Chapter 39

When the burner phone rang, Sipe was thinking about showering. He could smell his odor. His bare skin seemed to glow, the grease from settled sweat conducive to the early morning light. He sat up from the bed and picked the phone off the bedside table, rotated on his rear and put his bare feet on the bedroom floor.

"Yeah?" he answered.

"Sipe? It's me," said Tiffany.

"Yeah."

"Are you with Connie?"

"No."

"I think he's here. Out here, I mean. I'm at the track. I can see the railcars from here."

Sipe stood up from the bed. The pine board floor cool on the soles of his feet.

"I think she's there with him. Millie."

"Millie?"

"I can't. I mean, I'm pretty far away, but it's the top and the, the pants. They look right, what she had on yesterday."

Sipe had slept in a room on the second floor of the Collar place. He walked across the room. Over at the window, he looked down the roof overhang at the front of the house, the parking spots. Late last night, Connie back, they'd moved the Lexus from the Zippy Mart, parked it in front of the Collar's, beside Henry's mother's car. The black sedan was gone.

"Fuck," said Sipe.

"You should know something. The police-"

Sipe hung up. Putting on pants, socks, shoes, he thought about the time he was losing by not having dressed very first thing, by not getting up when the loaner alarm clock had first gone off. A round clock, cow themed. He never fell back asleep. Never. He had.

Part of the problem a sleepless streak in the middle of the night. He'd gotten up and used the upstairs bathroom. Entering, he'd turned on the bathroom light, shut the door. Halfway through emptying a stream into the toilet, he'd noticed a companion.

A Beeper, nudged into the corner of the shower stall to his right. The shower curtain dragged back, showed off most of the shower. Soap. Shampoos. The Beeper on the tub edge featured bone white hair, eye slits, body bent, a hunchback, balanced on a cane, the mouth tooth deprived. The lips sucked in, deep crevices, crannies, formed in vertical strips between the mouth and nose. He was nude. A sea star planted over his crotch.

Done pissing, Sipe inspected it. Picked it up. Turned it around. The old man striding from the ocean it looked, what looked like foam-capped waves along the back of the figurine. A lipless god. A denture-less sea deity. Sipe fought the impulse to set the figure back and pull the curtain or to pick up the Beeper, smash it against the tub, or take it out onto the porch, pitch it, listen for the impact.

Back in the strange bed, he'd been wide-eyed in the dark, thinking about Roxanne, his sibling smiling somewhere, sensing Sipe's discomfort, pleased she'd left so deep a scar.

Now - his jacket, his shirt, his holster, slung over his shoulder or squeezed tight in his hand. The burner phone shoved in his pocket ringing. He yanked the bedroom door open and ran down the dark hall and ran down the stairway.

*

Sipe cut the wheel to the right. The Honda's tires bounced off asphalt and skidded into a gravel lake. He glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the wounded fence, the flowers and elaborate landscaping behind the impact point, where Lori's car had spun and hit yesterday.

Driving up Main Street towards the Auntie's intersection, he hadn't seen anything. No oncoming traffic. He'd turned off anyway. This alternate route just seemed stealthier. No cops at the Zippy Mart intersection either. From that intersection into Little Creek, he'd driven the Honda fast as he could handle. Slowing down to 60 mph when he passed the 'Entering Little Creek' sign. The vacuum, the sudden absence of cops felt queer. Tiff had been trying to tell him something about that. He did mental projections. If Tiff got out to the track, and Millie and Connie were at the railcars, the cops weren't assembled around the railcars, settled in for some sort of long-term negotiation.

He steered left, the first left, off Mountain Road onto Gompers Street, following the same route he'd taken when fleeing Millie. Now driving towards Millie.

Bug's mother had been the only person awake and in view in the house when Sipe had run through the living room. The dog at her feet, snuffling, bubbling, cleaning its crotch, the woman resting in a chair. She said something to Sipe, but he was already out on the porch, the screen door screaming, the house door swinging shut behind his pulling it closed.

There. The car, the black Lexus, parked parallel to the gravel street, in front of one of the houses on Gompers Street. Two houses west of the intersection. Connie had parked and walked. Ran probably. Not wanting to draw attention. But doing that, leaving so alien and shining an object right there, likely drawing attention.

Sipe turned southbound onto Old Woods Road so fast he cut through the northbound lane. He cut back into the south, then slowed, the railcars coming up into view on his right. He remembered Tiffany driving Norm's truck off the asphalt, onto the field, right at him. He took his foot off the gas, applied the brake, slowed down, and steered the car off the asphalt, onto the field. The front bumper lowered and lifted. The top of his head glanced off the cab ceiling.

The car suspension translated all the ground irregularities into the cab. Sipe slowed and stopped the car, killed the engine, took the keys out of the ignition, and grabbed his wad of clothes and shoulder holster off the front passenger seat and got out of the car.

He shut the driver side door. It was quiet. A trail of car disrupted dust trickling back down to earth. Everything bright. The sky scrubbed free of clouds. A dog was barking. He drew his shirt over his arms, buttoned hit and miss, scanned the world around him. Slid his arms through the shoulder holster, adjusted it, and slid the suit jacket on. The shirt hem stuck out over the top of his pants. Sweat pooled in his armpits, on the ribs where his arms touched the torso.

Tiffany shouted. He turned and looked. She was down south on Old Woods Road, just coming up from the hill, and then running for the bridge, running towards the railcars.

The couple walked out from behind the railcar closest to Sipe. Connie first, Millie behind him.

Sipe acting on instinct. His hand reaching under the suit jacket for a gun.

Connie had given Millie his suit jacket. She dangled it in her hand, the jacket dragging across the ground. Millie stopped. Connie sensed she stopped. Looked back at her. Put out his hand. She dropped her chin towards her chest and took his hand, let him walk her forward. About ten feet shy of Sipe Connie stopped. Millie stopped. She had cuts on her face. Her arms. The crimson yoga pants blotted with stain. Her face puffy, worn down, victim of not enough sleep.

"Connie," said Sipe.

"Pretty day," said Connie. He pointed, smiling. "I don't think I've ever seen you look so frumpy. You missed some buttons."

"What's the plan here?"

"I don't know. That's the plan."

Both men looked southwards, Tiffany crying out as she stumbled off of the asphalt, regained her balance and kept down the decline and onto the scrub.

"Where's the cops?"

"I don't know," said Connie. "They were gone when I drove out here. I mean, I parked where I parked, and started walking and the cop parked down there just took off, shot down the street with his lights going. Scared the shit out of me for a second. Thought he was coming for me or something."

"You were just gonna drive right on through them?"

"I mean, yeah. I did. To get into town. They didn't give a shit. Just waived me through," said Connie. "To get out of here, to get us out of here, I was going to put her in the trunk."

"How were you going to get her past the cop out here?"

Connie smiled. "Improvise."

Millie showed nothing. No reaction. Too tired to comment on Connie's never implemented plan.

"Hey. You guys." Tiffany's face flushed with her efforts. Once she joined up, standing in concert with the adults she exhaled mightily and bent over, palms spread just above her knees.

"Millie called me," said Connie. "I don't remember. 4? 4:30, something. She said if I didn't want her she was going to turn herself in."

"On a phone? On a cell?"

"Naw. Cabin. Had a phone. It's just up in the woods there."

Tiffany made a noise. She got it. Millie using Hope's hideout.

"How'd she get here?" asked Sipe.

"Crawled." Connie pointed to the timberline. "It was still dark. She just got down and crawled from there to here. Took her an hour or so. Just like swimming, just on the ground though. Cop had no idea." Pride in Connie's voice.

Sipe looked at Millie. She looked at him. He had that gun. And her stun gun in his jacket pocket. Still, it felt like he would need more to stop her if she dropped the subdued routine and resumed her Godzilla impression.

"I thought for sure you were going to hear me, Sipe," said Connie. "Getting up. Talking to Millie on the phone. I almost left the car and just hoofed it, right? But then, I did that, how do we get out of here? Hitchhike?"

"We're supposed to go back. Seattle, Connie," said Sipe. "We should be on the road."

"I puked last night," said Connie. "When I went off walking with that girl, Hope? We got up to the school, and I just heaved. It was too much. Hitting that guy so many times to get him to go down on the floor. And I kept thinking about Faye, Faye Shmaye. Shooting her. I mean, I almost did. If she'd taken her hand out of her bag any differently. Any faster or...I would've shot her. Maybe just at her, I don't know. You guys had me take all that practice, but. It's different. Shooting a target is different."

"If you go, where are you going to go?"

"I don't know." Connie looked at Millie. "Where do you want to go, baby?"

"Wherever."

"Yeah. Yeah. Wherever. I always wanted to go there, too."

Sipe thought about the wallet. Tiffany didn't have it. Connie didn't. Zeke had it. All the cash.

"You got money?" asked Sipe.

"Enough," said Connie. "You figure my dad will ever talk to me again?"

"I don't know him very well, Connie."

Connie laughed. For Tiffany and Millie's benefit, he said, "Sipe's worked for him longer than I've been alive, and he doesn't know him very well. That's something. That's really good. Probably right."

A phone buzzed. Tiffany goggled, embarrassed, then looked at her phone. She looked past Sipe to the street. Henry stood in front of Mrs. Mason's. Mr. Regular As Rain. Showing up for the work just a little later than yesterday.

"It's just Henry," said Tiffany. "Texting. He was wondering what was up."

"If you're going, go." Sipe rubbed the back of his neck. Henry's appearance some precursor to the entire town waking up. "People are going to start getting up, going to work. All of that. The cops will be back."

"They're in Dale," said Tiffany. "That's where they think Millicent is. Some guy went crazy over there. Said it was her doing it."

"Where is that?" Sipe asked her.

"Like 15 miles away. You turn left at the Zippy Mart."

Sipe told Connie, "Don't go that way. The Zippy Mart. Go the other way out of town. Past Pleshette's, the motel. Go that way."

"Ok. No squirrel. Got it." Connie put his hand around Millie's wrist. "Ok. Ready?"

She nodded.

"You should put on the jacket," said Connie. "Maybe it'll do some good. We'll get you some other duds later on." Nodding, Millie put the jacket on.

"Bye," said Tiffany.

Connie smiled at her. He smiled at Sipe. He walked past Sipe. Millie broke free of Connie's grip and stepped back and faced Sipe.

Her eyes bounced back and forth like they followed a connect-the-dots forming the outline and the details of Sipe's face. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned down, her left hand raised off the shoulder to brace Sipe's right cheek, holding it steady while her lips touched his, then locked on his lower lip and squeezed and sucked and then released.

By the time Sipe turned to watch, Connie and Millicent were running, up out of the field, up onto the roadside and picking up the pace, headed north towards town. Connie hailed Henry. On the other side of Old Woods Road, in front of Mrs. Mason's, Henry raised the Lawn Buddy, answering in kind.

Chapter 40

When the beat up Honda rolled off of Gompers and barely kept all four tires earthbound turning onto Old Woods Road, Merritt was walking from the house to start the morning routine at The Outpost.

Tilda had asked him where he thought he was going without smooching the top of her head. Every day he smooched the top of her head, Tilda twisted up in some yoga pose, but still always receptive to a kiss, then off he went, and fifteen minutes later – Tilda the fastest shower taker in all the west - off she'd go to the Forest Service reception desk.

The car veered off the road and halted down at the railcars. Merritt backed up as far behind his houseline as possible while still maintaining a view of the railcars. Watching dust rise, he dialed Clay's phone.

Late last night, sitting inside The Outpost, the lights off, all the cars gone, ice pressed against his head, Merritt, collapsed in his office chair, had taken a call from Clay.

Several stiff drinks had softened the pain from where the tall kid with the big nose had bashed Merritt. After the pain, Merritt was dealing with the shaking. The realization that just for the sake of pussy, and paying for that pussy, more and more people kept getting hold of his balls and the potential for squeezing if not outright ripping them clean off. Tilda was beautiful. Blonde going all white, and some deal with the devil paying off, wrinkles here and there, but she was still capable of looking across a room, meeting his eyes and emptying his lungs. Thing was, she just wasn't a screamer, a squirmer, and she'd stopped giving him head shortly after the wedding. Out at Butcher's Camp Massage, he'd paid to experience those options. Multiple times.

When Clay called late last night, Clay was at the hospital with Bret. Post-stun gun, Bonnie wasn't doing so hot. On the drive to La Grande Bret had pulled over, stopped, thrown open the back seat doors and jammed his thumb into his sister's mouth to keep her from biting off her tongue. Recovering from his stun gunning, Clay immobile in the front seat, only able to hear Bonnie make noises. Once arrived in La Grande, all sorts of hospital tubes were hooked up to Bonnie. Monitoring. The baby might be fine. The little heart might still be beating a trip hammer beat, but after the stun gun experience, the brains might be a ruin.

Clay had given Merritt a simple job. Merritt spots that piece of shit, he calls Clay. That's it.

Dialing Clay, Merritt looked up the street towards Auntie's. The old boys crew holding forth on gravel had disintegrated down to just Hudson and Henderschott.

Clay answered after three rings. "It's Clay," he said.

"It's me. Merritt. I think I see him."

"Who?"

Merritt supplanted the impulse to rip Clay a new one.

The Pope. No, Merritt was calling to tell him the squirrel from the Zippy Mart sign was at it again, dry humping the Patriot's Kiosk.

"Sipe."

"Where?"

"The railcars."

"What the fuck's he doing there?"

"Ask him yourself. I'm done. I did what you wanted."

"Watch him," said Clay. The signal quality frayed, turned watery, went mineral and echo-like, Clay in a satellite orbiting earth.

"That's all I'm going to do. And you can have the $500 back. For last night. I don't want it."

"Is anyone with him? No. Fuck it. Fuck it. I don't care. Fuck it. Bret. Me and Bret. Payback time. Like a bitch."

Over the phone, Merritt heard an engine turn over. Then a high pitch shriek. The Jeep roared to life. Merritt could almost picture some high-density explosion, something apocalyptic, Clay in Jeep flying out the fireball towards earth. He hung up.

Merritt walked the usual route to The Outpost, west to east, along the city park.

He looked over his right shoulder at the old Ruchert place. Far as he knew, when the big boy wasn't out at Butcher's Camp, Bret still lived there with his mom. Nothing big and slow lumbered out from under all the tree limbs out into the light.

Merritt turned left and walked north on Woodruff Road towards Main Street and his business. Some days Tilda drove to work. Just to have the car handy. He looked back at the Ruchert house. Placid. A moss licked shingle shack hunched behind weeds, and low slung cedar limbs.

From The Outpost parking lot, he looked southwest, past the city park brick barbecue, the see saws, the jungle gym, the epic pine tree, towards the far corner, waiting to see Tilda, either on foot or driving their car. Earlier, right before heading out to join up with the boys for that morning coffee, he'd looked out the picture window, across the park, seen Clay had claimed his Jeep from The Outpost parking lot at some point. Tilda had snuck up on him. Leaned her chin on his shoulder, asked what was so interesting out there in the big bad world.

She'd already asked so many questions about his bruises. She didn't approve of his stoicism, not wanting to bring cops into some broil up in front of the Up'n Up late last night after wrapping up a favor for the Rucherts, hosting their business meeting. Merritt had made up something chivalrous and human, demeaning, a drunk and his drunk girlfriend getting into it, Merritt trying to play peacemaker, instead getting thrashed on by both parties, the woman the more violent of the two. Come to his senses the man had pulled his lady off, apologized to Merritt. Both short and fat, near lethal. You just never knew people. What they were capable of. Tilda had laughed and told him that wasn't always true. She knew him. Knew him through and through.

Watching his wife of 20-odd years walk across Old Woods Road onto Gompers towards her job he wondered what Tilda would think about those plans for Tiffany Pleshette whipped up by Bonnie, and Merritt, only too ready, too scared, to comply.

Chapter 41

Looking at her phone, texting Henry, Henry still standing down in front of Mrs. Mason's, texting Tiffany, the teens were practically twins. Looking at the phone, Tiff asked Sipe where he thought Connie and Millie would go.

"They didn't go anywhere. They're both standing behind you."

After a second she looked up at him.

"You're testing me, aren't you? I can do two things at once. Well. Maybe not the head-pat, tummy-rub thing, but I can do other things. Seriously though. Where would they go?"

Sipe shrugged. Tiffany screwed up her face like she was thinking it through, could see Connie and Millie driving past snow flanked mountains, igloos, throwing snowballs in spur of the moment play battle with tiny Eskimo children. Then she went back to looking at her phone. The Old Man would've walked over, slapped her phone out of her hand, slapped her. Putting punctuation on the level of rudeness she was exhibiting.

Sipe brought Zeke's cell number up into the burner phone queue. He dialed. Ignoring the little boy voice pleading in the back of his head not to tell. Looking up, turning, he faced the railcar with 'HOPE' spray painted in squat letters across the weathered planks.

"This is Z," answered Zeke.

"Sipe."

"Thought so. You alive? Connie alive?"

"Yeah."

Zeke laughed. If he were standing next to Sipe, the kind of laugh come accompanied with a shoulder pat.

"We still on for breakfast? You think those people at The Outpost, they'd make some hash browns fresh if I was persistent enough? Hash browns make or break a breakfast. Otherwise, it might just be that frozen shit, right out of a bag. Mickey D's only place that serves you that and it's edible."

"Maybe."

"Then let's meet. Unless it's all shot up. You wreck it last night?"

"No."

"Not even a little?"

"No."

"'No.' Mr. Low Key. Sipe, my man." Zeke laughed. He was in a good mood. "It all went all right last night?"

"Pretty much."

"Hicks didn't know who they were dealing with. Thought so. Good for Connie. Dip his balls in it. Get a little adrenaline rush like that. I think he wanted me to be there, too, but I knew you had it in hand. Connie up yet?"

"He's gone."

"Come again?"

"Connie's gone. Him and Millie."

"Millie. Millie the-the-the Olympics bitch?"

"Yeah."

A long pause. Zeke made a noise Sipe himself had produced at least once, like a physical therapist had hit on some buried hurt, eliciting a sensation one-quarter pleasurable with a definite vocalization component.

"Damn."

"She got hold of him," said Sipe. "He got her, and they took off."

"You weren't watching him?"

"We didn't bunk together."

"You didn't have to lay down and wrap him up in your motherfucking arms, man. But you're supposed to have him on a leash."

Sipe didn't argue. He wasn't hearing anything with which he didn't disagree.

"Cops?" asked Zeke. "What about all the cops?"

"Took off. They thought Millie made it over to some other little town around here. Dale."

"Ok. No cops. There's that. I guess. But fu-uck, man. Where they going?"

"I couldn't tell you."

"The fuck you're not going to tell me."

"No. They don't know. They didn't tell me. So. I don't know."

"Which way are they going? Driving? Walking? Hitchhiking? You know that much?"

"East. Probably drove past your motel a couple minutes ago."

A sigh.

"Sipe. Sipe. Man."

"I'm supposed to shoot him? That's about all that would stop him. You tell me what you would do, those were the options."

"Shoot him or let him go? Fuck. Might as well just shoot yourself," said Zeke. "Or her."

"I got out here just before they took off."

"Where's 'here' at?"

"Railcars. You're coming into town from the motel, turn at Auntie's, head left."

Sipe listened. Waited. He didn't hear anything. Zeke not caring to end the conversation or so pissed off he was trying to figure out something to do with the phone other than smash it.

Chapter 42

Sipe put the burner phone in his jacket pocket. For a second his knuckles pushed against the stun gun prongs. He looked at the Honda, the reflection blinding, the sunlight bouncing off the windshield. He looked past the car at Henry, then turned and looked at Tiffany, both kids, still texting.

"You ought to go."

He said it again, stepping towards Tiffany. Given the influence of the sun, her baby chick hair glowed, an other-worldly yellow.

"Hm?"

"Go talk to Henry. Actual talk. Not that. That's your thumbs talking."

Giggling, she looked at Sipe.

"I still have to run. Damnit. I swear. I'm never ever going to get started doing that. I'm never not going to be the blob. The blob that ate the world."

"Then go. Go get your running over with."

"Yeah. Probably should." She looked at him. She could ask maybe one or two more questions and then he'd have to shove her off the grass towards the asphalt. Before Zeke arrived, she had to be gone. It'd probably been a good decade and a half since Zeke had cleaned up a mess. Right on out in broad daylight. Sipe knew only a few men that pulled a trigger in that setting and didn't let it get to them, the possibility of things turning on them, variables. Zeke radiated enough irritation enough he'd shoot until he wasn't irritated.

"What's going to happen to Hope?" asked Tiffany.

"I don't know. Didn't you talk to her last night?"

"Yeah. But. She just thinks summer isn't going to end. Her parents are pissed at her, at each other. I think she thinks it's an excuse. She can put things off forever if she wants. Like she's a god or something."

They both heard the roar, but Tiffany spotted the source first. Her brow lowering, trying to make sense of what was coming down the street, right towards them.

*

The Jeep didn't slow down. Once it made the turn off of Main Street and started rolling south, the vehicle had only put on speed. A second and a half past the Dobbs place, Clay jerked the steering wheel to the right and the Jeep launched, bounced, wiggled on impact, and he jerked the wheel sharp and to the right, missing the butt end of the northernmost railcar, then maintained mastery of the steering wheel and looped around the back end of all of the railcars.

Sipe had grabbed Tiffany and pulled her towards him as he backed up, towards the Honda, then he stopped, let go of her and stepped in front of her, gave her a little push and told her to go, but her eyes bulged, her legs locked. Fear. It was like they were circled by something from out of textbooks, something pre-historic or future-historic, a sabertooth tiger or its steel, glittering, nanotech descendant.

The Jeep peeled around the southernmost railcar and then turned north and accelerated towards the two. When Clay applied the brakes the Jeep's rear end slid towards them. Almost like the Jeep was going to spin a full revolution. It stopped. Dust fluttered out from the tires tearing the blond, green, brown flesh. The Jeep coughed to a halt, the passenger side angled towards Sipe and Tiffany.

Clay climbed out from the front driver's side door. He held his bow in one hand, the quiver looped across his chest, left shoulder to right hip. He held an arrow in his left hand. Some glass bottle left near the base of the railcar nearest the Jeep shattered under his weight, his boot. He notched the arrow. The bow black, fiberglass, the same composition of materials utilized for submarine hulls, satellites. Clay's eyes moved left, his upper body moving with the look towards Tiff, Tiff drifting away from Sipe, towards the railcar on her immediate right.

"What are you doing?" Sipe clapped his hands. Took a step at Clay. Clapped the hands again. "Hey."

Got him. Clay lost interest in Tiff.

"What's this about?"

"What do you think it's about?"

In a smooth motion, Clay notched the arrow and released it. The arrow shot through the air towards the Honda and shattered the front passenger side headlight.

By the time Sipe looked back at Clay, another arrow was notched. Tiffany frozen to her spot, halfway between Sipe and the railcar.

"Again. You got to tell me what's wrong. I can't read your mind."

Clay swiveled to the right. Aimed at Sipe then past Sipe. Let loose another arrow.

Henry ducked. He stood dead center of the asphalt. He dropped the Lawn Buddy and kept his hands up. The endpoint for that second arrow unknown. No screams sounded. Clay didn't want to hit the kid, just wanted to scare him, keep him distant, up on the road, away from getting down here with the rest of the party.

Sipe wondered how many arrows Clay could waste. The notched third aimed now at his skull.

"You trying to kill kids?"

"I hunt deer in the fall. I fish anytime. With this. Squirrels, anytime. Some dumbass kid isn't much sport. Trust me. I want to put an arrow in something it goes in."

"You want to talk?"

"I want to watch you bleed."

"Ok. There a reason?"

"Are you really this stupid?"

"This about last night?"

Clay laughed.

"We can talk. You and me."

"No shit. We can talk. We can talk, she can listen. Little Miss Beepers' pal can listen."

"I'll talk right now if you want to talk. But it's unprofessional to talk in front of too many people."

"Ok, fucko. How professional is it to stun gun a pregnant woman?" Clay spit.

"She lived."

Clay laughed. He reapplied tension to the bow.

"Two for the price of one. That's how you figure it? Scramble the mother, scramble the baby. 'She lived.' She's had a dozen convulsions."

"Maybe you ought to be at her side."

"I will go back to her side. I will. After I kill your ass. That ugly bruise? Your face? Best bull's eye I ever did see."

"You kill anyone, you'll never see her again. You'll never see the baby."

Clay stared at him. The bow had started to move up and down with the rest of him. He bounced inside the boots. The more agitated he got, he ceded that area of calm the bow resided in.

"I could wound." Clay turned. Aimed at Tiffany. "Take out one of her big titties. Deflate it. Lose its air. How about that? Is that professional? Anybody asks I can say you drew on me and I lost my grip."

"You don't want to hurt her."

"She's an angel? She's so pure? Really? She hangs out with shit. Little Miss Beepers. You. Maybe she deserves to lose a titty. Maybe both of 'em. Flat and fat from here on out."

When Sipe pulled the hammer back on Faye's revolver, Clay looked at him, out the corner of his eye socket, but he didn't alter the arrow's aim.

"That was fast. I didn't even see you get that out," said Clay. "You think that's smart though?"

"You're upset," said Sipe.

"I got people that know where I'm at, dumbfuck. You shoot me, you die."

"I shoot you, you don't have to worry about anything that happens to me."

"All right. All right. Well," said Clay, "I shoot first...You get to have her on your conscience the rest of your life."

Sipe took a step towards Clay.

"Stop. Right. There. The fuck you think you're doing?" asked Clay.

"Maybe I know this close to you I can shoot an arrow out of the air."

Clay laughed. Snot shot out of a nostril. He let the little thumb of liquid gold congeal where it'd leaked.

"Oh. Look. Lookie there. Here comes some of my people."

Sipe didn't turn around. He couldn't hear an engine. Tiff's phone buzzed. Clay told her to answer it. Go ahead. She could look back at town if she wanted. Just don't run. Like he said. Remember. He liked moving targets.

"It's Bret." Tiffany looked over her left shoulder back towards town. "Ruchert."

"On the phone?" asked Sipe.

"No. Walking."

"He's the big one?"

"Yeah." She looked at her phone. "Phone is Henry. Wants to know if he should call the cops."

"No," said Sipe. "Under no circumstances."

She texted. Looked back, shaking her head like Henry was dull headed enough the message needed that additional emphasis.

"Oh. Sipe. Someone else is coming," she said. "Car."

Chapter 43

The black Lexus drove past Bret Ruchert legging it down the road shoulder. Henry backed up into Old Woods Road's northbound lane and watched the shiny car go past.

The car pulled up parallel to the railcars and the center of activity. Rolled up and stopped, not even trying to pull out of the southbound lane. The engine shut off and the front driver's side door opened. Sipe kept looking at Clay. Clay kept his center of self aimed towards Tiffany, but his eyes had lost interest in the girl. Far too interested in this newest character and their vehicle.

Zeke got out, shut the driver side door and walked around the Lexus front bumper and down the slight declination onto the dirt and grass. He'd turned on the hazard lights. Just to cover that little bit of ground should a cop appear out of nowhere. Cops, Zeke knew, all about making sure the public dotted I's and crossed T's.

Smiling, checking out the sun through his sunglasses, looking back at the railcars, still walking, Zeke asked, "How we all doing this morning?" No answer. Zeke sighed, his shoulders drooped.

"That's close enough," said Clay. Zeke put up his hands and stopped. He looked right. Gravel clicked, the big boy in all black now stepping off the road shoulder, lumbering down the slope, then across the flat towards the railcars.

"Who's Goliath?" asked Zeke.

"Bret Ruchert," said Sipe.

"Friend or foe?"

"Clay's friend."

"Clay the one here playing Robin Hood?"

"Yeah."

"Clay," said Zeke, "you really need to be aiming an arrow at a little girl?"

"Fuck you."

"I'm just asking. Most the time, in my experience, you have issues with someone, you deal with them directly. You deal with them directly you get results."

Bret slowed down. Stopped behind Sipe and Tiffany, on the passenger side of the Honda. He looked down at the arrow, the mess from the shattered headlight. His face purpled from the exertion. The black suit not helping him out so much, but a big guy like that, moving like both knees were reconstructed, half metal and screws, he would ooze sweat even stripped down like a sumo wrestler.

"We can talk this out," said Zeke. "People are angry, yes, I see that, but we can always negotiate." Zeke kept an eye on Goliath. Goliath now rested his left hand on the Honda hood. Zeke swore the car suspension squeaked on each of the big man's respirations. "We're not at the point that there's been a spill. The worms are in the can. That's good. There's still time to put the can back on the shelf. Leave it there. Talk. Peel back the layers and get to the real issues here. Talk is good. Talk is magic."

"You done yet?" asked Clay. "You sound like a fucking commercial."

"Sure. Tell me, what's the problem?"

"Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

Not that Clay looked, but Zeke pointed at Sipe. "His boss."

"He fucked my woman up. Bonnie. She's in the hospital," said Clay. "She's pregnant. I got a baby in the hospital."

"I'm sorry."

"'Sorry.' He did it. So he's got to pay. I take it out of him. Or I take it out of her. This little teenage twat."

"She's a girl, right? You see that? She's not a body part."

"Twat. Pussy. Cunt." Clay spit. "Gash. Slit."

"You want to keep going? Or did you run out of index cards there?"

Clay remained silent.

"Why not let her go?" asked Zeke.

"Naw. I've gotten used to her. I think she stays."

"She hurt your friend? Bonnie? She hurt your baby?"

"She's..."

"Why threaten her? This situation is going to be the same one way or the other. You can aim your bow and arrow at me if you want. I've known Sipe forever. Been plenty of times I could've let him die. Left him out to hang. I didn't. I'm much more responsible for your situation then this girl could ever be. Just, let's, let's rearrange this. Why include her? Why threaten her?"

"Why not?"

"Look-"

"Hey. Nigger? Nigger-Morgan Freeman-fuck? Shut up. Shut up, or you get to watch someone die. Then you can talk about that. Peel that back. Those layers. Peel that back all you want."

"How's Bonnie going to feel, even before she gets out of the hospital, and she already knows she's got to raise the baby on her own?" asked Zeke.

"She'll manage."

"How about this, you hurt this girl? After we kill you, we kill Bonnie. Don't even wait for the baby to be born. We shoot Bonnie in the gut. Let her bleed out. That way, while she's dying, she's got her blood, your baby's blood all over her, on her hands and everything. Sometimes, people shot in the stomach, it lasts a long time. A long time."

Tiffany looked at Zeke. He knew there wasn't a thing he could ever do in this lifetime to erase this first impression. Goliath giving him a look, too.

Clay said, "I know what you're doing."

"Please. Tell me. What am I doing?"

"You ever sit in a stand?"

"No. Like deer hunting? No. Never."

"Dawn to dusk, right? Dawn to dusk. Just waiting. Barely moving. You can go days without seeing, hearing anything. Out in the woods, surrounded by animals and none of them come on by. I sit so still sometimes frost forms on me. On my eyebrows. Up my nose sometimes. So go on. Go on, keep going, keep going, until you run out of your own fucking index cards. Keep telling me all the big bad things you might do. You ever hear someone try and swallow their own tongue? Hear them flopping around on a backseat behind you, and you can't move, and you can't do anything, can't even talk to them, just kind of groan at them? Try and scare me. Please-please-please. Pull all the worst you can come up with out of your guts. I want to see what you can come up with. Because whatever your worst ends up being, keep in mind, I've already got the bar set. I've got it set high."

Talking, the tension relaxed on the bow. Shooting Clay in the head or neck, Zeke thought the very angry bald man would still apply the tension and send his arrow off before his lights were clipped. This close to Sipe and the girl the shaft would land where he wanted.

"Sipe," said Zeke. "Behind."

Sipe looked over his right shoulder, leaving his gun on Clay. Bret walked past Sipe. Not even looking at Sipe or Tiffany. Probably the way sharks encountered sperm whales, whatever the biggest whales were. Must be a different kind of life to be the kind of big where you didn't have to acknowledge what everyone else out there considered a predator.

"Hey, bro," said Clay. Bret not even nodding. Just turning, facing Sipe, and Tiff, and looking off to the right, considering Zeke, Bret nonplussed like some monk tending to his grapes and considering a shadow and then the cloud up above throwing the migratory dark spot down upon the earth.

"You got your piece?" Clay asked Bret.

"No." Bret's eyes so tiny. Sipe thought the kid ought to wear sunglasses. More of a Terminator vibe would work wonders.

"That's ok. Don't need it. We're going to do this my way. You got it. You got it, Sipe? You got it, Mr. Peel Back The Layers? She's coming with us. Blondie. We're not going to do anything to her. We're going to wait. Bonnie's ok, my baby's ok, then Blondie'll be ok. If they're not..."

"Clay." Zeke got that far. Sipe raised his left hand. Telling him to stop. Shut the fuck up. Zeke down with that. Truthfully, he really didn't know how to negotiate, not with bow and arrow folk.

Something moving in Zeke's peripheral vision. The sunburned kid with glasses, the Kmart reaper's scythe looking thing in his hand, walking off the asphalt onto the dried out flat. Soon enough, the whole town might be down here, thought Zeke. And when he'd woken this morning up the biggest thing in front of him was whether or not he'd get fresh hash browns. God. Damn.

"Kid. Stay the fuck back." Clay spit. "You want to see how your little girlfriend's doing, she's fine. But not if you get any closer. And put that fucking weed whacker down, Jesus H."

"Henry." Tiffany didn't turn around. She kept looking right at the arrow aimed at her. "Just." Nothing else came to mind.

Sipe kept watching Clay's elbow. It moved, changing the tension on the bow. It went back. It moved forward. Back was bad. Back tiptoed about this vertical red line Sipe could see, a line of demarcation the bone knob didn't penetrate. The moment it penetrated the red line, that moment Clay would shoot the arrow. Sipe would fire the moment that happened. Everything else around him attained a hollow, blurred consistency. He was addicted to the elbow, its laconic orbit. Sipe could put a bullet in both these boys in the time it took Clay to start to spit. He just had to do it in a miracle moment.

Zeke started yelling something. Not frantic. Just getting progressively louder like a teacher trying to calm down a classroom gone deaf.

One time, Sipe had tried to get this just fired kid, Woodley, off the Lake Washington property, and Woodley wasn't complying. He was drunk, so? Not the first time. Poor Woodley had an old lady that was a real piece of work. About all they had in common was drinking and Woodley too dumb to catch onto that. The Old Man didn't need a drinker on payroll. That morning, Woodley had knocked something off a table in the Old Man's office, nothing broken, but the noise of it dropped the curtain over his employment. The Old Man told Sipe to get rid of Woodley, and Sipe walked Woodley to his car and told him to go. Woodley started giving Sipe his life story, up to and including last night, banging some chick not his old lady and catching hell because back at the apartment she could smell the pussy on him, and right when Woodley seemed calmed down some, like he wouldn't spin right on up into the atmosphere, 11-year-old Connie sprints across the driveway right up against Sipe, gangly, braces, wanting to show off some toy Auntie Susan had bought him down at Pike Place the day before. A Hulk doll. The kid's happiness like a thorn with multiple sharp little points, all jabbing Woodley right at the same time.

Henry walked in front of Sipe. Right in front of the gun. And then stopped, turned, planted himself, right in between Tiffany and Clay Boyle.

Clay laughed. The black bitters of chewing tobacco flecked across his bottom lip, on his teeth.

"Look at this little shit," said Clay. "Little fucker. He's got balls. He's got the biggest balls of them all."

"Henry," said Tiffany.

Clay mimicked her voice, more like he split it, clothed himself in a keening high pitch and tried to pass it off as Tiff's voice.

"This your old woman, Poindexter? No? Not going to say anything? Man, you got balls kid. It's too bad, too. You line up with the right folks, those kind of balls would get you somewhere, isn't that right, Bret? But no. You choose Grandpa here. And Mr. Nigger Out In The Sticks. And this cunt. This fat little bitch."

Henry threw the Lawn Buddy at Clay. Threw it. Didn't hold onto it and take a whack at him like he was a weed or a small tree. Reared back like a pitcher and chucked it. Clay skittered back. Tilted the bow and pulled it back against his chest and shuffled, avoiding the Lawn Buddy's flight, petrochemicals and metal slinging through the space between Clay and Bret. It bounced off the Jeep and landed on the ground. Clay stared at the Lawn Buddy.

"Goddamnit!" Announcing his conclusion and resuming his archer's pose, his face flushed with blood. The elbow tripped the vertical line. Sipe sucked in a breath. Ready to breathe out and pull the trigger.

A hand breached through the vertical line. The rest of Bret followed.

He grabbed Clay and the bow, the two big men struggled for possession of the weapon. The arrow shot, pegged off the railcar and dropped to the ground. Clay yelled. It sounded like Bret was tugging on the zipper keeping Clay's soul in one piece. Sipe thought of cats screaming at night. Woken by the sounds, Roxanne already in his room, at the window, mimic-screaming back at the feral cats, telling Sipe the only way they'd shut up is if she fed them freshly sliced pieces of little boy. Bret ripped the bow out of Clay's hands. Threw it back behind him. It rolled half of a roll and flopped to the ground, almost on top of the Lawn Buddy. Clay lunged after his bow. Bret caught him from behind, dragged him, and hooked his arm under Clay's chin, and put his other arm around Clay's forehead. Clay's head turning a dark red, purple. Spitting, no longer brown, no longer tobacco infused, just foam. Clay's hands reached out, fingers exercising on the knuckles like robotics under test in a lab, describing the amount of tension necessary to flatten an inflated ball.

Sipe couldn't tell if Clay was passed out or dead or just out of juice. His eyelids still partially open. His limbs loose. Bret knelt, pulled Clay down with him, and when Bret loosened his grip, Clay slumped.

Sipe lowered his arm. The gun. Bret sat down on the ground. He looked at Clay and at the dirt and grass and the nearest railcar, and when he looked up and made eye contact with Sipe, there was something to it that betrayed weakness, like Bret realized for all his just now displayed power he'd need assistance getting back up.

Some sort of snuffle sounded off from Sipe's right. The kids were hugging. It was a thing, this morning, everyone out at the railcars breaching personal bubbles. Sipe and Zeke would be next.

Head tilted, Tiff looked at Sipe from over Henry's right shoulder, hair down into her eyes. Sipe couldn't gauge the thoughts behind the eyes. Tired. Freaked out. In love, maybe.

"We got to go," said Zeke. "Now. I wanted to make a stop, but that isn't going to happen."

"Stop for what?"

"Beepers. I mean I got some. All right. Stole 'em, but I left some money in the motel room. Guess I can order more online."

Sipe wondered if Zeke's Beepers were in the trunk or in the backseat. Wondered if one of them might not be a carbon copy of the lipless one from Bug's bathroom.

Tiffany sniffled. Henry stood near her, but they were giving the hugging thing a break. Henry's cheeks were wet.

"You're going?" she asked.

"We're going," said Zeke. "We need to. We need to be gone already. Hey. Sipe. Let's shake a leg, you know?" Zeke pointed back towards Little Creek. "I don't know for sure, but something like this, all of this, even early in the morning, I feel ears and eyes all over us."

"Yeah."

The girl stepped towards Sipe.

"You don't, you don't text, do you?" asked Tiffany.

"Not so much."

"What about email?"

"No."

"Can I call you?"

"I'm going to ditch this phone."

"Right. But your phone. You have a real one, right?"

"Even if...Look. If I got, if I ever got, you know, cops, if they ever got interested in me, they'd be interested in any number I'd called, been calling me."

"Right."

Sipe dug the Honda keys out from his pocket and handed them to Henry. The little girl looked sad. The boy looked pale like he might shiver, later on, realizing what he'd done here this morning. What had almost happened. He stared at the Jeep, stared, not blinking, holding the Honda keys in hand.

Sipe stared at the big boys, two piles of flesh on the ground. Bret seemed to be considering whether or not to employ the Lawn Buddy as a kind of crutch to get him back up on two feet.

Reaching out, knowing he needed to shake Sipe out of the reverie, Zeke looked past Sipe. Zeke grunted. Head tilted, he flicked his hand at the railcar.

"Sipe. The fuck does that mean anyways?" asked Zeke. "'Hopf'? The hell is 'Hopf'?"

THE END

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