

# The Four Hour Rule

A novel

Robert Daniel Brooks

And Wiley Dean Barnard

#

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Robert Daniel Brooks & Wiley Dean Barnard

License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free eBook. Although free, it remains the copyrighted property of the authors, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the authors' imaginations and are not to be construed as real.

Cover design copyright Janis Thill Brooks

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

# Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

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

PART TWO

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 44

CHAPTER 45

PART THREE

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

CHAPTER 73

CHAPTER 74

EPILOGUE

#

For brother Brad

# PROLOGUE

"Ya'll know the rule. Keep away from it, at least four hours."

Several of us watched wide-eyed as the body of the copperhead flailed and twisted, his head separated minutes earlier by a single stroke from Pa's axe. It wasn't uncommon to have fat poisonous snakes—copperheads, water moccasins, and even rattlers in our neck of the woods. After all, we shared their world. But when our paths crossed and they became a threat to the kids, Pa would step in and take a head. He'd hang the body of rattlesnakes on a clothes line after chopping off its head and the rattles would carry on shaking and making a racket for a good long while. "That's him telling the other snakes to stay clear," Pa explained with a half grin. With non-rattlers, he'd simply let them end their lives thrashing on the ground.

We'd watch with disbelief as the angry head of the copperhead, its eyes wild and mouth wide open with fangs exposed, stared wildly at everything and nothing at the same time. He was agitated as all hell, certainly pissed enough to bite a kid, which was the reason for our grandfather's caution.

Pa invented the four-hour rule after those decapitations; something akin to waiting an hour after eating before going in swimming, he explained. Usually four hours turned into much more, since by then we'd be on to some other distraction and away from the danger. And Pa would have found time to bury the thing by the time we got back to investigating. But on some lazy summer days we weren't real busy and waited around to watch the life ebb out of the twisting snake. We knew it was a goner the minute the head came off, but there was some inner life force at work that lived on for some time. Eventually the snake would lose its edge, gray down, and then give it up altogether. At that point it looked sad, even pitiful, which somehow seemed a shame since it'd been so full of piss and vinegar before. Like a bully hauled to the principal's office, all the sudden it didn't seem so tough after all. But by then we didn't gloat so much as wonder at its downfall.

I don't know if it was because Pa had Indian blood, but he always told us in advance of wielding the ax that he regretted the life he was about to take. He said, "Those snakes have the spirits of warriors." We could see how he thought that. They were fierce. And there's something biblically unnerving to most people when it comes to serpents. Still, we felt safer after the deed was done and the fat carcass disposed. But Pa, to his credit, saw the bigger picture, his final word on the subject not so much a threat as a reminder. "Just because a body's dead," he told us, "don't mean they can't hurt you."

Pa's four-hour rule. Over the years I'd learn his lesson the hard way. The dead can hurt you plenty, even if they aren't snakes.

***

There were detours and excuses along the way but I was finally getting around to it; bringing closure, honoring a dying wish. I'd kept his ashes on a bookshelf in my den, its presence somehow comforting, but guilt at not laying him to rest finally moved me to act. After all, a promise is a promise. So here we were bouncing over angry whitecaps in Styron's fishing boat as an August storm threatened. Squinting into the fading sun as the bow of _The Grand Old Osprey_ slammed against the chop, I thought back, amidst muddled emotions. It'd been two years ago but felt like yesterday. In those last few moments as Ray's life and blood was draining from him I'd held his hand, watched his scared gray eyes glaze with tears, and lied. Told him everything would be okay, knowing damn well it wouldn't. "Pelicans," he'd said. _Pelicans,_ for chrissakes. Who the hell would chose that for his last words? Stunned at first until I remembered the promise I'd made several months earlier—on that almost perfect afternoon on the water when he'd asked that if something happened to him that his ashes be scattered here in Perdido Bay—where the pelicans nest.

The spray from the boat splashed my face. The salt stung my eyes and wet my lips though from the bay or tears I couldn't tell which. And I thought back too, to those first magical weeks in Moon Mullet when I'd led a simple life as a fishing guide. One of the few times in my life where time and I seemed to get along, where there was some sort of fit between me and the world. Though Moon Mullet's not much of a place, cut out of the woods on the south coast of Alabama; an inconspicuous sliver on the Perdido Bay. It's off the beaten path alright—Perdido is Spanish for 'lost', after all. Moon Mullet's another world. Nothing but a general store, a marina, a clutch of run-down houses, a few dozen FEMA trailers and the ever-present smell of sea and swamp. I certainly hadn't gone looking for it. Instead, Ray and I'd inherited the connection from the old man. Most of our lives had been spent in Nashville, but one rainy afternoon on a trip home from New Orleans I took a long detour just to have a look.

Something about the place called out so I decided to stick around. Without a job there was no timetable for moving on, so I bought a used fishing boat, a twenty-five foot Parker with a Yamaha motor in bad need of repair and moved into a trailer. An experienced guide, a quiet sunburned fellow named Styron befriended me and helped get me started. Garcia, a huge dark dock hand, liked me, too, probably for no reason other than I bought him a couple beers that first week. The big man had a contagious laugh and gentle disposition, but he could be a real son of a bitch when he wanted. Prone to violence, his specialties are the Bowie knife, which he kept honed with a fine edge, and his fists, the size of hams. Between the two, he can inflict a lot of damage and in a hurry if or when he has a mind.

Things went along smoothly for the most part, the fights mostly stories from the old days. We fished, drank, and made a living, but just barely. Ray sometimes visited from Nashville and we'd spend endless hours on the boat planning for the future and reminiscing about our childhoods. Drinking, fishing, and laughing, sometimes until our sides hurt. The good times. Though when you're in the middle of the good times, it's not always so obvious.

The boat slapped monotonously against the bay and I checked my watch; still another twenty minutes to go. I stole a glance at Rosalita, her face downturned, her expression cold. Then I turned and looked back at Styron and Garcia, both standing grim-faced, mouths pursed, not talking unless they had to. Styron holding on to the wheel and steering, smoking a cigarette. Garcia's monstrous hand grabbing the stanchion as he stared ahead, looking pissed and sinister. He noticed me watching and gave a nod of understanding. Years of the sun has transformed Garcia into the color of mahogany while it'd painted Styron's face with a permanent tomato hue. I faced the bow again as the wind whipped stronger, and drifted back to those early days in Moon Mullet. On fishing trips, we'd anchor and Ray'd talk about his new gig as a private investigator in Nashville. "Making the real money now, son," he'd boasted. Said he'd worked for some of the town's big shots, including a state senator and a big-time music producer. God, could he spin some tales. Most of it was bullshit, of course, but reflecting back now I regret not taking him more seriously.

Rosalita—she insists on being called 'Rose' nowadays—visited Moon Mullet back then, too. Even under these grim circumstances I marvel at how beautiful she is; how the golden afternoon light bathed over and painted her with a radiance you'd normally see in a portrait gallery. She originally befriended Ray, but they never consummated the deal. They liked each other well enough, but each said it felt strange, like they should be brother and sister. Ray thought she and I might hit it off so brought her down to Moon Mullet one weekend to see if it'd take.

I heard a muffled grunt and look back. Styron's pointing toward the tip end of the island; the storm was moving in quickly. The pitch of the engine changed as he gave it more juice. We needed to get a move on.

It didn't. _Take_ that is, I mean that first weekend with Rose. A few months later, though, I ran into her in a Nashville restaurant and we clicked. It worked nearly perfectly too, until all the troubles came. Rose, the love of my life. How could anyone with half a brain let her slip away? Now we couldn't be further apart, though there she sits a few feet away, ignoring me, trying not to make eye contact. Bitter tears on her cheeks. She's here for Ray alright, surely not to comfort me. Funny how we'd gone from soul mates to estranged couple in a matter of weeks; as if we'd been through a bitter divorce though we never married. And now here we were taking Ray out on this familiar bay, carrying his cold ashes to dump in these churning, uncaring waters.

A dolphin surfaced off the port side as we passed over one of our favorite fishing spots, a sure-fire hole that yielded many a trout. Then a tune rose from some distant place and ran through my head. Something from a better day, etched in a crease of the brain reserved for the best memories. It started with a snare drum, two years ago at the Belcourt Theatre in Nashville. The three of us, Ray, Rose and I, had tickets to a Buddy Miller gig, and it'd been a night to remember. Not your daddy's country music. Not modern country sugar pop. Rather an auditory assault of the first magnitude. Miller playing scalding dissonant notes on a modified Italian guitar he'd picked up in a pawn shop. Riffs so sublime they'd make you smile and the next phrasing so disturbing it'd make you cry. Ray loved the stuff, said it made him see colors, calling it "absolutely fucking symphonic." He called it the future of country music or that it _should_ be. We agreed. We were on top of the world that night. High on music. High on life. Even at the time, it was one of those rare moments I knew I'd remember a long time. Despite my many obvious flaws, even I pay enough attention on occasion to appreciate the present for the gift it is. But whatever positive forces of nature were at work that night, the sun always rises and with it comes some new curve ball headed your way. It didn't take long. It was the very next morning when things began to unravel. For Rose and me, and especially for Ray, the descent announced itself rudely with a banging at the front door loud enough to wake the dead.

# PART ONE

#

In the dog days of summer, one stifling afternoon on the Tennessee River drags on like the next. On the bluffs near the Natchez Trace, life slows to a crawl and an oppressive stillness transforms the summer sky into a glaring white canvas. Great snappers and fat water moccasins bake in the sun and take their stand on rotting logs, refusing the watery plunge unless life itself depends on it. Pollen floats through shafts of filtered light and paints the world with a jaundiced sheen. The Deep South in summer can be lazy with the fragrant embrace of honeysuckle or brutal and mean with death a snapping jaw away. Pa always said your fate depends on who you are and what you are. And sometimes even on which side of the bed you roll out of.

* * *

I'm a sleeper, a deep sleeper, and always have been. Once unconscious, I'm usually out for the count and it normally takes a freight train or meteor coming through the ceiling to budge me. So on a hot Saturday morning in August with no reason to get up before noon, I'd planned to sleep in and catch a late breakfast. Deep in the embrace of one of those amorous morning dreams of which I'm particularly fond, I was in snooze heaven. But as we all know, dreams have a habit of changing quickly and my little trip to paradise was interrupted, not by the pleasant seduction of a siren's song, but by a loud and persistent pounding. The distraction started deep in my subconscious, but grew in intensity until my eyes reluctantly surrendered. I stared up at the ceiling; the same wobbling fan squeaked lazily. Must be a dream, I thought, and closed my eyes again in hopes of rejoining the regularly scheduled broadcast.

But the pounding started again. Someone was definitely beating on the door and making no attempt to spare the neighbors. I rolled over, saw Rosalita begin to stir and through bloodshot eyes glared at the clock—7:20—an obscene hour on any day, but especially egregious for the weekend. With a curse, I stumbled out of bed and as I made my way to the front door, a familiar voice was heard bellowing above the frantic knocking.

"Danny, open up, man! Get yer ass up!"

I jolted the door open in anger, ready to take his head off, and at that moment realized I was wearing nothing but boxer shorts—the white ones with red hearts that Rose had given me as a Valentine's Day joke. In a glance, my loud-mouthed brother was quieted.

"Nice shorts, bro."

"For god's sake, Ray, what the hell you want?"

Ray switched back to urgent mode as he pushed his way through the door. "You and Rose need to get out of the house. Get out of town, _now._ " He glanced back at the street through the curtains as if he were being followed. "Put on some clothes and get the hell out. Don't take a guitar, a toothbrush, anything. Your lives may be in danger." Ray had that distracted, crazed look with which I was all too familiar.

I knew he had melodramatic tendencies, but this was over the top even for him. "What are you talking about?"

Instead of answering, Ray rushed down the hall into the bedroom. Ignoring Rose's state of undress he rousted her too. "Rose, get dressed. You and Danny need to get out of Nashville right now. _Go._ "

Rose wore the same stunned expression that was plastered across my own face. She pulled the covers over her shoulders with one hand, brushed the hair out of her face with the other, and glared questioningly.

I'd had enough. "Okay, Ray, _okay,_ because you seem so damned determined. We'll go, but you've got some explaining to do."

"The short version's simple, Danny. I've had two death threats against me in the last twenty-four hours. I don't have time to explain right now, but I don't want you guys caught in the middle. Just go. Please."

Rose reluctantly threw the covers off and got out of bed. I grabbed a shirt and pulled on some jeans. "For chrissake. Okay, we'll leave. And we'll be at the river house tonight. But you sure as hell need to call me and let me know what's going on."

"I can't tonight, Danny. But I'll drive down in the morning and explain everything. Now get!"

#

The Sunday morning after our hasty departure was already sticky and humid when Rose and I awoke. After breakfast, I went for a smoke and a stroll around the old property. It had been some time since I'd been back to the river house, but things don't change much in these parts. The last couple of years had found me drifting a lot, spending time in Moon Mullet and then several months here at the cottage in Monticello, atop a bluff overlooking the Tennessee River. The view was great, but the best part is that it's not close to anything. Muscle Shoals, Florence, and Waterloo are the nearest towns and each of those are a twenty-minute drive.

The little house in North Alabama with it's laid back ways is the opposite of Nashville and the next best thing to Moon Mullet; a place of solitude and refuge, where the closest neighbors are a half mile away. Good, normal, God-fearing folk, the type who "brung 'em up right," who shoot at trespassers first and ask questions later. Of course, winging trespassers is better than a clean shot through the head, since that way the culprits live to spread the word that it's "best not to meddle with that un." Where the sheriff's nickname is Hot Tub, and most everyone, whether dealing moonshine or meth or just normal folks, is on a first name basis. Where the "Waterloo Torch" has been used with great effect over the years to burn down the homes of unwelcome Yankees, Yuppies, and Jews, leaving only charred foundations and chimneys, monuments to remind outsiders who might want to come that they'd be wise "to give it another think." To live there meant you belong, that you or your ancestors were born in the area. The latter was the sole qualification for residency by Ray and me, having come by the house through an inheritance.

In his will, our Uncle Bill left us the small house and five acres of hardwoods that came with it. It isn't worth much, more a run-down cottage than a house, but we liked it. As a smart and talented gay man, Bill couldn't handle living in the middle of Nowhere, Alabama, so he'd shipped off at the age of nineteen to New York City. He was a professional dancer, a talented one, too and eventually managed to make a decent living dancing in Broadway and off-Broadway shows. We were proud of Bill in a distant sort of way, and always looked forward to his colorful letters and occasional visits. He lived the good life in the big city for years, but when he learned he was terminal with cancer Bill decided to come home. During his too brief time back in Alabama, we got close to him again. We were deeply saddened to see him pass and while we hadn't asked him to bequeath the little house, it was how we'd ended up with the place. We were eternally grateful for the gift.

Being so remote, the river house has its disadvantages of course. Two months earlier, the grass in the backyard had been laced with gasoline, set on fire, and blackened into the shape of a human skull. Ray and I'd tried to decipher the symbolism but finally gave up, just thankful the house survived. Though it might not have made it except for the neighbor kids who were out hunting. They took a few shots at the yard arsonist and ran him off _. Good kids_. To be on the safe side, a Winchester 94 and Colt 45 were always kept in the house to keep the peace, and we regularly practiced shooting in the backyard to sharpen our aim.

I lit another cigarette. Lost in thought, I watched horse flies work off whatever morning energy they had left. The knee-deep weeds were brittle as glass, the baked ground hard as rock from the sun. I made a deliberate attempt to stay in the shade, to avoid the morning glare and as I stamped out the butt, I heard the sound of a vehicle crunching up the steep gravel drive. Tubby and Sis, my huge Black Lab and raptor-like Airedale recognized the familiar worn out Land Cruiser and were practically run over in the process of welcoming Ray. Tubby's a hundred twenty pounds of Labradorean zeal, black as pitch, with a head the size of a bowling ball. He'd determined somewhere along the line that his mission in life was to butt people in the forehead whenever they bent over to pet him. Based on the number of friends I'd found rubbing their noggins and commenting on this peculiar quirk, Tubby had perfected the craft.

The Airedale, Sis, is fifty-seven pounds of wiry muscle that could flush out game on a moment's notice and chase a hapless victim half the night—or all night on those occasions when the moon is full. Whenever I was in Nashville, the two dogs stayed at my cousin's place in nearby Florence. My loft apartment above a downtown photography store just isn't big enough for such large and rambunctious animals, but when I'm at the river house, the dogs are my constant companions.

Ray got out of his truck, his eyes shining red and watery even from a distance. The dogs closed in, tails wagging, as we shook hands.

"Come on in. Rose just put on another pot of coffee."

"I could use it," Ray said, "Good to see you, brother, and thanks for heeding my advice. Let's go inside and I'll fill you in."

#

Death arrives at the most inconvenient time. Ma had found Uncle Bill lying dead still on the sofa with _The New York Times_ just after sunrise. He'd been feeding Amy and Eloise by hand when he apparently decided to drift quietly across the vale, not even bothering to say goodbye. We liked to think he didn't want to wake anyone up. His arm was stretched off the edge of the sofa, kiblets in a cold porcelain hand, his last act on earth serving breakfast to two poodles, groomed so much they looked like those cheap concrete ornaments you see for sale around the interstate ramps in DeFuniak Springs.

I wasn't any older than ten and Ray about six, but remember like it was yesterday. The dogs began howling at the sirens even before the ambulance pulled into the drive. A few minutes later the driver and his partner entered through the front door, pushing a stainless steel gurney with wobbly wheels. The partner looked like Haystack Calhoun, a local TV wrestler known for his underhanded tactics in the ring; only the big bull pushing the gurney through the front door was female. She and the driver lifted Uncle Bill up light as a feather, as if he had no more bulk than one of those balloon dogs that magicians twist into shape at a kid's birthday party.

The gurney creaked loudly as they rolled Bill out and we followed them to the ambulance to make sure he was transported in a dignified manner. Ma smoothed back Bill's shiny black hair one last time, knowing he'd have wanted to look good for his last earthly ride. He did look good, kind of like Cary Grant in pajamas, not so much like he was dead as just off for a spin around the block. And the robe suited him, too; there was something about chenille he always favored.

We walked back to the house and Ma started wailing again. Pa put an arm around her in a vain attempt to comfort. Pain filled the small kitchen as the four of us sat, stunned into silence. Through the sobs, we heard the poodles in the other room finishing off the last remaining kiblets sprinkled across the den floor. "There's nothing worse than your baby dying before you do," Ma sobbed through her tears.

I didn't know it then, but Bill's leaving us was a turning point. One by one the family began to die, not all at once, but slowly. The faucet in the kitchen dripped monotonously, the sound echoing drop by drop down the drainpipe—steady, like a drumbeat—relentless as the passage of time.

* * *

Rose poured coffee and we sat down at the kitchen table. Ray had come for a reason.

"Danny, it looks like I might need your help on a case."

"As long as it pays. What've you got?"

"Something different. And a little strange. It appears somebody's gone and kidnapped a mule."

"A _mule-_ napping _?"_ I said, trying to contain a laugh. _"_ That's right down my alley. It doesn't happen to be a red one, does it?"

Ray almost spit out a mouthful of coffee. "How'd you know that?"

"I don't. Let's just say I've got a weakness for reds. It goes back years ago to when—" I caught myself and stopped.

"When _what?_ " Ray asked.

"Nothing. It's ancient history now. I was just gonna say it goes back to Uncle Percy. He had a big ol' red mule that saved the day when the Tennessee River froze over and three of us kids were caught out on the ice. You were too young to be there. Ever since then I've had a fondness for red mules. Long story short, if I was looking to kidnap a mule, I'd go after a prize red."

"Well, it looks like I came to the right fellow. This mule _is_ a prize red, one that's worth a lot of dough. And a guy's offering me eight grand to get him back in one piece. I'll split it with you if you can help me. I wouldn't ordinarily ask but I've got another case in Birmingham I'm working."

"Sure, I'll help. But why all the drama with having us hightail it out of town so fast?"

"Cause I believe the guys who stole the mule might know I'm on the case. I've had two threatening calls and don't want anyone to know you might be involved. One of the suspects I have in mind can run pretty hot."

Rose raised an eyebrow. We made eye contact and she nodded in the affirmative, as if asking _why not?_ But I'd already made up my mind, too. "Alright, Ray, you've got a deal. Now tell us about the mule. And more importantly, tell us about the guy who's going to pay the money."

* * *

Of the two Cantien brothers, (pronounced _Canteen_ ), I'm the older by four years. At an even six feet, I'm two inches shorter than Ray and slightly heavier in build. Ray still runs regularly for exercise, but I'd given it up several years ago in an effort to save what's left of my knees. In our youth, I was the athlete and class clown, Ray the artist and student. Ray always loved art class and even from an early age he'd churn out several canvases a month. He was also a history junkie, his favorite tales being those of the great conquerors and civilizations of the ancient past. As a child, he had an obsession with the Egyptians and bigger-than-life figures like Alexander the Great and Tamerlane. Listening to Ray, Ma said, was like hearing an epic Poe poem or reliving tales from the Arabian Nights. His stories were often filled with swordfights, romance, flying carpets, and ancient battles in Persia, Karbala, and Baghdad.

Ray'd grow up to be a Marine and fight on some of that very same ground during the First Gulf War. But he learned that the legend of past empires lost its romance when confronted in person. He suffered a serious wound to his right leg in a fierce fire fight in Khafji, and was airlifted to Germany, where they operated and managed to avert amputation. The war was over for him and he rarely spoke of it, but I'm sure there was hardly a single day that passed when he wasn't somehow reminded of it.

After not painting for years, Ray took up the brush again and used painting as a form of self-therapy. He finished dozens of canvases, giving most away to friends and family, and stored the others in every room of his house. His specialty, since childhood, was abstract renderings of farm animals, and after years of practice he'd become an expert in the style. The paintings were good enough that a large gallery in Memphis once exhibited his work.

Though we'd grow up together, Ray was an enigma to me. My younger brother was tough as nails, his experience as a Marine had proved that. But there wasn't a gentler person on the planet, a warrior with the heart and soul of an artist. It wasn't until years later that I became aware of how unique Ray was. He was a special case alright—tough and artistic, a combination many women found irresistible.

Fast forward to the present and neither of us is overly successful in a financial sense. Ray at least had his own business as a private investigator with clients and a semi-steady income. And the work was unsavory at times which is why I acted so quickly on Ray's plea to bolt from Nashville to the river house three hours south. I'm the opposite of what corporate America would define as a model employee, having drifted from place to place and job to job. I've been told I have problems with authority. But I'd always figured it was the other way around.

* * *

"The man paying the money," Ray explained, "is the record producer, Quentin Lee, known around town simply as "Quinn". Millionaire many times over. Office on Music Row. Lives in Leipers Fork on a hundred-acre spread. Keeps thoroughbred horses and at least one top-notch mule. Trophy wife. Seventeen-year-old boy from a first marriage, just moved back in with him a couple months ago after living with his mother the last five or six years. Quinn's successfully produced countless country artists to come through Nashville the last twenty years. He's definitely good for the money."

Ray sipped his coffee and continued. "So far as the mule, his name's Buddy and he stands sixteen hands. Nine years old, big boned and steady, a bright sorrel red color and a full tail. Distinctive white slash on his nose. From what I've heard, he's damn smart and more sensible than your everyday variety. Quinn says Buddy's gentle to a point, but would've tried to kick the hell out of anyone he doesn't trust. It wouldn't have been easy to walk off with him unless the culprit knew him. There's a ransom note giving until Friday midnight to come up with fifty grand, and since he only paid ten for Buddy in the first place. Did you catch that Danny, _only_ ten thousand?"

"Yeah, I got it, Ray, go on."

"Well, the point is, he must love that mule an awful lot to pay such big bucks to get him back. _Our_ job is to find Buddy and rescue him before Friday night. If we can do that, our cut jumps to fifteen thousand."

I whistled. "Fifteen thou... _Jesus_. Sounds easy enough. What else you got?"

"Not a lot. There's a stable hand on site name of Homer Carr who lives near the Lee farm. He's been taking care of Lee's animals for the last four or five years. Quite a character and seems distraught that Buddy's turned up missing. You should pay a visit to the farm, get to know him. He's definitely old school. Could be useful in learning more about Buddy's habits, which might help us track him down."

"Any chance this guy Homer's behind it?"

"Nah, I checked him out. You'll see he's incapable of telling a lie. Must be in his mid seventies and acts like a mother hen around the barn and stable. He looks after four or five horses and a couple other mules. There's also a half dozen goats, including a real surly son of a bitch with big horns. By the way, don't turn your back on him."

"Alright, Ray, I'll drop by and see the old guy. And I'll watch out for the damned goat. But we can't stay down here all week. I've got to be at work tomorrow in Nashville."

" _Work?"_ Ray spit out, like it was a four-letter word. "I didn't know you had a job these days. Where're you working?"

"That photography shop on 2nd Avenue, a couple blocks off Broad, just around the corner from Hatch. I'm Assistant Manager. It's how I ended up with the loft apartment. The rent's part of my pay to manage the joint."

Rosalita, silent until now, interrupted. "And do you mind if I get back to my job tomorrow, too? This Bonnie and Clyde routine's wearing thin. I've got clients to see in the morning."

"Sure, you guys go ahead back. Sorry for bringing you down here, but I needed to make sure. You see, there's one other thing I haven't told you. There are actually two solid suspects. One is a guy who worked at Lee's stable, a fellow by the name of Tred Calloway. And the other is state Senator Dalton James. Ever hear of him?"

Rose shrugged, "Senator James? Of course we know the name. He's always in the news for some cockamamie scheme or other."

"Ray, can you get good intel on both?" I asked.

Ray dug into a brief case. "I'm way ahead of you, brother. Here's a file on each I pulled together last night. Your homework assignment's to visit the farm and find out all you can about Tred Calloway. Meanwhile, I'll dig into Dalton James and we'll compare notes in a day or two. We should be able to find out pretty quickly if Calloway's involved, but if it's _not_ him, the senator will be a harder nut to crack."

Rose frowned. "Isn't there some previous connection between Dalton James and Quinn Lee? Seems I read in the newspapers a while back there was a feud brewing between them."

"You might say that," said Ray. "Bad blood for sure. Five or six years ago, Lee's wife at the time, whose name is Eve, had an affair with Dalton James. She apparently had a thing for James going all the way back to high school. I guess she finally figured out that being a politician's wife and living downtown would be more exciting than living with Quinn in the country. It got pretty ugly and she ended up leaving Quinn, taking their son, and eventually marrying James. I had the fortune, or perhaps the misfortune, of being the guy Quinn hired to trail the couple and document their affair. My notes and photos ended up costing Eve a lot of money in the divorce settlement. Of course, it saved Quinn about that same amount. He pocketed enough to pay me pretty well. So you might say Quinn's a fan of mine and Eve and Dalton James hate my guts."

"Noted and filed," said Rose. "A money-grubbing bitch that left a big-time music producer to marry a blood-sucking politician. And now that her son has reached an impossible-to-deal-with age, she ships him back to the old man for father-son bonding. Anything else we should know?"

"That's about the gist, but it goes a little deeper," Ray said. "Dalton James is up for re-election in November and things aren't looking too rosy for the old boy. Turns out the worm is about to turn on his nouveau-liberal political agenda and James is sweating. He also placed heavy bets in local real estate several years back and you know what's happened there. My guess is that Dalton James is nuzzling up real close to an economic and political meltdown."

"So why steal Quinn's mule? As if that would be the answer to his problems."

"Well, it'd be a quick fifty grand for starters. That's the ransom, you'll remember. And while fifty thou isn't much in the grand scheme of things, I happen to know he owes about twenty on a real estate note due in several weeks. And the other thirty can grease a lot of palms in the upcoming election."

Rose chimed in, "So this guy James first steals Quinn Lee's wife and then goes after his mule? Is that what you're telling us?"

"Yep, that's the theory."

"Damn _,_ " I said, "I can see stealing a man's wife, but making off with his prize mule, now _that_ should be a hanging offence."

"Amen to that, brother," Ray replied flatly.

Unable to allow such callous chauvinism go unchallenged, Rose injected a curt, "Assholes."

Ray contained a smile, ignored her, and continued. "One last footnote. Dalton James has a couple of goons working for him. Real hard cases. Dangerous guys who pack heat. That's the main reason I wanted you out of town. But I did some snooping today and they're hanging around James' condo in downtown Nashville. I wanted to make sure they weren't tailing me, and didn't have you under surveillance. I've confirmed they don't."

"Downtown condo, eh?" I asked.

"Yep. Nicest damn condo in Nashville."

#

We always knew we were in for it when our old man, Ray Daniel, better known as R.D., started to pull off his belt. After we'd screwed up and done something stupid, something that pissed him off. Half the time he used the belt for dramatic effect, but the other times he actually gave us a good stropping. The whippings had a kind of matter-of-fact quality, as if that were just the way things were done, and we accepted it without crying. That didn't change the fact we still hated him for it. After it was over, the one who'd caught R.D.'s wrath took off his pants and shirt and showed the other the red welts on his backside. "Spare the rod and spoil the child," the punishment of choice for a thousand generations. But Ray and I knew we'd survive it. And it worked for R.D. on one level, kept us under control, at least for a time. Though one day we knew the shoe would be on the other foot, that we'd get our turn and we made a pact to be ready when it did. In the tool shed one evening, in the light of a dying candle, we not so carefully nicked our palms with a razor, recited a sacred vow, and shook on it. It was thus decreed: Ray and I were blood brothers. "Twice blood brothers," our exact oath.

* * *

The next morning was typical of mid-summer in Nashville. As the morning gathered strength and the sun became oppressive, people downtown already felt the smother. Buses belching diesel fumes rumbled into and out of the Deaderick Street transit mall, picking up and dropping off their human cargo. An old man in a wool coat swept paper flyers in Printers Alley, the stench of stale beer and urine worn into the damp brick walls so prevalent the man no longer smelled it. In the distance, the blaring horn of a barge easing down the Cumberland River competed with the metallic clank of a trash truck as it backed up and beeped along 2nd Avenue.

In his downtown office two floors above the street, Ray spent the morning digging deeper into the long and contentious relationship between Dalton James and Quinn Lee. He'd gathered stories on-line from the local newspapers, along with other internet research, and it didn't take long to learn about the financial and political woes of Dalton James. The senator bought into the real estate boom, hook, line, and sinker and the jig was just about up. The twenty grand he owed on a downtown investment property was just the start. Ray learned the two body guards working for him were named Hal Clamber and Carter Jenson. Both were legally registered to carry concealed firearms and each appeared to be card-carrying members of the Gorilla of the Month club.

Ray reviewed his file on Dalton's wife Eve, the former Mrs. Quinn Lee. Eve had always known a life of privilege. In her youth she attended the prestigious Harpeth Hall School for girls at the same time Quinn Lee and Dalton James went to the all-boys school, Montgomery Bell Academy, just five minutes away. At a spring social bringing the two schools together for a dance, both young men met and immediately sought the affections of the blue-eyed blonde. Apparently the battle to win her was fierce as the rivalry carried on for the next two years. But when Dalton graduated from high school and left town for the University of Tennessee and Quinn and Eve both enrolled at Vanderbilt, Quinn won the battle by geographic default. They dated each other exclusively the last two years of college and were married right before graduation, though Eve apparently never got over her first crush on Dalton James.

Ray poured another cup of coffee, lit a cigarette, and kept studying.

A couple years after Quinn and Eve were married, a son, Damien, arrived. The boy went to Nashville's best Montessori preschool and later followed in his father's footsteps at Montgomery Bell. In the meantime, Quinn had become a well known force in the world of music publishing. His genius for pitching Nashville's music talent to powerbrokers in New York and Los Angeles became legendary. Sure, a young person breaking into the business needed to be able to sing, but that was a given. Nowadays, image was king. Under Quinn's direction and others like him, Nashville country music evolved from the early days of Hank Williams, Loretta Lynn, and Roy Acuff, to the golden middle years of Waylon and Willie and the boys, to today's cowboy-hatted, air-brushed, country-pop stars. Ray often complained that the Nashville "sound" had fallen flat in recent years; over-produced and formula-based. But he knew the only thing that mattered was that it sells. And Quinn was one of the kingpins who saw that it did.

After the divorce, Quinn dated a couple years. Eventually a twenty-three-year-old vixen named Jamie Foster snagged him. Strawberry blonde, curvy and athletic, Jamie had quite an appetite for life, a "high-maintenance dame." Quinn swallowed Tums and Viagra in equal measure just to keep up with her. And the plot had thickened the last few weeks when Damien was moved out of his mother's condo and shipped back to the country house to spend the summer with Quinn.

#

Dalton James was behind his desk at the law offices of Jefferson and Cleese when the receptionist buzzed him on the intercom. "Mister James, Phillip Macaulay's on line three."

James knew the grand old man of the Tennessee Democrat party wasn't calling to exchange pleasantries. "Thanks Betty, I'll take it." He gathered his thoughts and picked up the phone. "Hello Phillip, how're you doin' this fine morning?"

"I'm okay, Dalton. Sorry for being short but I've got a meeting in five minutes. I wanted to let you know that I got a call a few minutes ago from that reporter at _The Cumberland Scene,_ Greta Simpson, asking me for a comment about you—about that whole business with the billboard contract. She had some incriminating information, Dalton, the stuff we'd talked about earlier that shouldn't ever see the light of day. Just a head's up that you better watch your back. And _mine_ for that matter. I told her I had no comment and no idea what she was talking about, but this one's not going away. We'll talk later, but it's not good, Dalton. Not good worth a damn."

James felt his blood pressure rising but kept his voice even. "She's got nothing, Phillip. Its bullshit and she's trying to bluff you into saying something. How about I meet you at Bowman's Grille after work and fill you in?"

There was an audible sigh of frustration at the other end before Macaulay spoke. "I hope you're right for all our sakes, but I can't see you tonight. In fact, it's probably best if we're not seen together for awhile. We've both got too much riding on this election to have to put up with this distraction."

"Sure, Phillip, I understand. But don't worry, this Simpson gal doesn't have jack. My team and I've got it covered."

"Just see that you do," Macaulay said curtly and hung up.

Dalton James absentmindedly held the phone to his ear for a moment as the dial tone hummed. With the election coming, he knew he should be focused, but his mind lately had begun to drift.

He'd been working hard to cover his tracks on the billboard contract and thought the situation was under control. Apparently it wasn't. But he'd tie up the loose ends soon. "Might be time," he mulled, "for Clamber and Jenson to pay a visit to Greta Simpson." But then he thought better of it. That would be too over the top, even for him. That could backfire and worsen the situation. His mind drifted. He wasn't engaged as he should be, as he normally was. There was too much going on. The election, the billboard scandal, his marriage hanging by a thread.

He thought back over the last few years. What a blur. Graduating from UT and Vanderbilt Law, clerking at Nashville's top law firm Jefferson and Cleese. He'd done well, specialized in class action litigation, and rose quickly through the ranks. With friends in commercial restructuring and bankruptcy, he'd taken full advantage of the connections, investing in a series of successful, speculative ventures. "Sure things," he and the young sharks who met regularly for drinks on West End Avenue, called them. By nature, Dalton James was a Republican, but nothing clicked when he made overtures to the party leaders. Instead, a senior member of the Democratic Party, Phillip Macaulay, had run into him at a Bowman's Grille, a favorite watering hole, had taken an interest and convinced him to run for State Senator as a Democrat.

Phillip Macaulay—Nashville's venerable mover and shaker and the most competent politician in the state. With his trademark seersucker suits, bushy eyebrows, and two-tone black and white shoes, Macaulay was an unusually persuasive and charismatic man, whose connections ran wide and deep. Some thought him the last of a dying breed, but nobody underestimated him. Like an aging alpha lion, he was still strong, still powerful. He seemed to be everywhere and found great pleasure in entertaining VIPs with trips to the Caribbean and box seats at the Tennessee Titans games. But most of all, he found pleasure in directing the political machinery of the state's Democratic Party.

The time had flown quickly. It seemed to Dalton that one year he was an entry level law clerk and the next a state senator running with the big dogs. As he reminisced, he thought again about the calls from that meddling reporter and the other media hounds nagging him. He wanted to tell them all to screw themselves. He'd love nothing more than to escape to his beach house in Pensacola Beach and go fishing. Instead, he gathered his thoughts and picked up the phone. There was work to be done. He needed to reach his chief of staff, Nelson Benning, right away. The fishing would have to wait. Dalton James was fighting for his political life.

#

It was the second week of June and several weeks before Buddy went missing, but temperatures were already pushing the mid-nineties. Even at the farm in Leipers Fork, the large oaks and open fields provided scant relief through shade or breezes. Summer had arrived early and was poised to deal its heaviest hand of the year.

Dante, with yellow-brown eyes glaring, chewed his cud and stared stupidly at his world. The sun baked his brown coat and his large horned head was motionless, save for furrows in his cheeks caused by steady mastication. His eyes fixed on the scene in the yard and field. Wired with contempt for everything that moved, he eyed the only visible female, Miss Fortune, looking prim and matronly with her two new babies, Lupe and Lil, not ten weeks old. The little ones bounced in frolic. _Idiots_ , Dante thought. Such a waste of energy. Miss Fortune, in the throes of motherhood, seemed none too interesting these days to the virile goat. The other females on the north side of the barn, well, that was another matter. He made a mental note to catch up with them later. The four horses were still penned, stamping and cutting glances. Fed earlier by the thin two-legger who made soothing sounds, they now wanted out. The other two-legger, the fat one that made loud noises, hollered at the dogs as they dug moles next to the garden. Neither the fat one nor the two curs made any sense to the goat. Dante wanted to butt all three of them, wanted to butt 'em good. The fact is he itched to butt anybody and everything. He took a bite and began another long and steady chew. His eyes wandered.

_The chickens._ How he hated the chickens. And the confounded roosters, especially that big one. Their grating noises, the smell, the incessant scratching and strutting. If only there was a goat god. But the chickens were kept at a distance for a reason. The quiet, two-legger knew. Yes sir, he knew exactly what was on Dante's mind.

Then there were the mules, the three of them. The dark red one, Buddy, with the white slash on his nose. He'd look Dante straight in the eye, daring him to cross swords. Dante, for all his brashness knew better than to get behind the red one. The white mule, called The General, was another matter. Dante had his number and harassed him whenever he got the chance. He knew The General had poor sight in his left eye and the wily goat made a habit to sneak in on him from the weak side. But the white one could kick. There was no doubt The General could kill with those hooves and had a disposition nearly as bad as Dante. Finally, there was Cajun, the mustard-colored mule. The yellow one fancied himself a horse and liked the saddle. Of course, the horses could have cared less as they had their own pecking order and it didn't include the yellow pretender.

The thin two-legger was leading the red into the barn. Dante watched as the big animal was brushed stem to stern. The old man talked quietly, reassuring the beast. The red was passive for the most part, occasionally shifting hindquarters from one side to the other with a clop of hooves. The fat loud two-legger finally shooed the horses out of the pen. Despite the heat, the four took off at a run into pasture. The young stallion led the way, racing through the browning grass, circling and cornering with an athletic lean, the turf spit by pounding hooves. The two mares chased gaily behind, while the older gelding lumbered out of the pen and got down to the business of finding shade and grass to eat.

Dante's world existed courtesy of the two-legger called Quentin Lee. The man lived in a large white house that had been in the family for sixty years. It set square in the middle of a field with a canopy of ancient oaks offering ample shade. A large wrap-around screen porch in the rear and side of the house had rocking chairs perfect for wiling away long summer evenings. The concrete landing pad and small hangar housing the Bell helicopter spoke of money and modernity, and belied the otherwise antebellum feel of the place. A long, straight driveway shot from the road to the ornately columned mansion, constituting a stately entrance. On the windward side of the trees was a large gray barn with a new tin roof, and next to that an air-conditioned stable for the horses and mules. And nearby were two more concessions to the old days—the goat pen and chicken coop, with the pen being a little too close to the coop for Dante's liking. A large pond, stocked with bass, lay several hundred yards to the south of the house and was a favorite spot for passing water fowl and lazy afternoons of fishing. The manicured acreage, set entirely in pasture, was surrounded by a white wooden split fence. The only exception being a knob set off to the north, ridged with hardwoods and pines where a foreman's cottage set.

Quinn Lee worked long hours so all the manual labor at his Leipers Fork farm was done by hired help. Homer Carr was the mainstay, a seventy-something gentleman who had most of the knowledge and twice the experience of a licensed veterinarian, but without the degree. Soft spoken, gentle and never in a hurry, he had the demeanor and skills of a sage and was worth several times what Lee paid him. Homer had seasonal workers reporting to him but his main assistant was Tred Calloway, the son of a cousin of Lee's. Tred was the exact opposite of Homer; twenty-three years old, loud, pink, fat, and ignorant; a redneck in every sense of the word. The only reason he was employed at all was as a family favor. He couldn't hold a job anywhere else so Lee had agreed to take him on with a probationary period. Tred had only been on the job a couple of weeks and it was already a disaster for the most part. But his brute strength had come in handy to Homer on more than one occasion. On this mid-June morning, a couple weeks before the troubles started, he was helping with the chores and trying his hardest to exert as little energy as possible. After letting the horses out to pasture, he called out to Homer that he was going to the barn to clean the tractor. Inside the shady coolness of the loft, he took several long draws from a hidden whiskey flask and peeked through the slats to watch as Homer finished with Buddy and led him to the stable. _Buddy._ That damned high-dollar mule Homer spent endless hours grooming and keeping happy—handsome animal surely, but hardly worth all the attention. With the coast clear, Tred pulled out the blanket stored for such occasions, spread it along the hay behind the tool wall, stretched out, and fell asleep.

Outside, Dante stood motionless, yellow wolfish eyes projecting scorn across his domain. His brown powerful body lent a primitive confidence to his posture. Pride lived in the warlike horns, aggression checked, but just barely—just temporarily. His mind blank, his strong jaws undulating as he chewed.

#

It wasn't common knowledge, but Pa was a moonshining man. Neither proud nor ashamed of the fact, it was just something that came with the territory back in the day. Pa and his brother, Percy, ran liquor stills in Paint Rock, in the northeast corner of Alabama. They were pretty wily about it and never got caught, though they had plenty of close encounters with the law.

One evening, when I was about ten, he took Ray and me in that old DeSoto of his to see his workmanship. We'd gotten a late start so didn't arrive at the edge of the woods until dusk. It took a while to hike back to the hidden site, and by then it was getting quite dark, but walking through the forest we were helped by a full moon. In the distance as we walked, an owl the size of a Bobcat hooted loudly, sounding like some sort of over-sexed howler monkey. Pa led us through the woods following the sound, and eventually we reached a small clearing bathed in moonlight. It felt eerie, like we were being watched, but Pa was unbothered. "Well here it is, boys," he announced matter-of-factly.

We looked around and saw absolutely nothing. That's not quite right. We saw we were right beneath a parliament of owls holding court. They stared with round poker faces, silent as the grave.

"Not the owls," Pa said, "they're always here—look further up." We followed the path of his eyes higher, far up in the trees. And there they were—dozens of jugs, hoisted with pulleys and rope, illuminated by the shine of the moon. "There's about a hundred gallons of prime shine resting up yonder," Pa whispered proudly. It was a memorable sight alright, all that moonshine bouncing off all that moonshine. As we left, Pa called out, "Ya'll owls say anything to the law and I'll have your asses," and then winked at us. Even the owls knew better than to cross Pa when it came to his shine.

* * *

The boy walked through the woods hefting a heavy camera pack and tripod, perspiring from the heat. He was lanky and tall, all legs and arms with oversized hands and feet. His long legs covered ground easily though he walked quietly and without purpose, as was his nature. Thoughts collected, formed, and vanished and none stayed too long. He came to the woods often, for it was only there and alone that he found himself less troubled. He brought the camera and tripod just in case, though there was not really much to shoot in these middle Tennessee woods. But the boy found art where none otherwise was evident. He had a photographer's eye, an instinctive gift for composition. By nature a loner, his reaction to the stress of life and his parents' breakup was to withdraw, becoming dark and bitter toward all but a few people.

He shot frame after frame of images most would find of no interest—tree bark, old fence posts, barbwire, dilapidated barns, exploring the limits of the camera and technology. Testing how far he could push the lights and darks, playing with ISO settings, shutter speeds, and white balances. Shooting digitally was next to free so it didn't matter if he wasted a hundred exposures to find three or four he liked. Damien Lee also carried a film camera. An older Nikon F100 he saved for special shots. For these, he'd set up the tripod and do it the old fashioned way. And always shot in black and white.

He passed the time wandering, lost in angry thought. His parents had split when he was eleven and until the last few weeks he'd spent the previous six years with his mother. After the divorce she married his step father, Dalton James, an attorney and state senator. They lived in a large condo in downtown Nashville, allowing Damien a close-up view of the other world, the fun one. During eleventh grade, Damien tested the limits at home. Skipping school, failing math, getting caught with cigarettes, and buying beer with a fake ID. In a couple weeks, he'd turn eighteen and he reveled in the thought that he'd be legal. Born in early August, he'd been one of those kids held back in first grade, his mother thinking it "best for the boy." It had its advantages, made him one of the oldest kids in his class, but now he resented the fact that he'd wasted a year somewhere along the way. Of late, Damien couldn't stand his mother, Eve, most of the time, and had no use for his stepfather, a wannabe U.S. senator, who commanded even less respect. Damien didn't care much for school at exclusive Montgomery Bell Academy either.

After one too many shouting matches, Eve declared enough was enough and phoned her ex-husband. "Quinn, you take him for a while or he's going to military school." Given his busy schedule, Quinn Lee had little time for his son, but guilt over the last six years managed to catch up with him. In a moment of weakness, he agreed to take the boy for the summer to see if things would improve. So far they hadn't.

Four years after the divorce, Quinn married a young woman named Jamie. She drove a white Cadillac SUV and laid it on thick with the makeup, pearls, and perfume. _What a joke_ , Damien thought as he walked, a stepmother just seven years older than he. The old man sure better be getting something out of it because it was obvious to everyone she was milking Quinn for the dough. She strutted around the house half naked, and delighted in torturing the boy with a twisted blend of pseudo-maternal and sexual innuendo. Damien tried never to be alone with her in the same room, though there were times, when alone in the house, he'd sneak a pair of her panties out of the dirty clothes hamper and sniff them as he masturbated. The smell of her sex clinging to the flimsy fabric got him hard as a rock, but everything else about her turned him off.

Damien thought about his parents as he walked. "To hell with 'em," he mulled. He caught sight of a felled, rotting tree. It caught his interest and he bent down and looked closely. Termites feasted on the damp residue. "Once a proud and mighty tree," he said aloud to himself. "Probably lived a hundred years. Now look at you." He passed on the photo opportunity and continued hiking up a steep hill. A spooked blue jay rained taunts and Damien cawed back loudly in mimic. He crested the knoll and saw the house and barn from the sanctuary of the woods. It caught his eye—a "nothing" shot, but he decided to record it anyway, partly out of boredom and partly because the composition and light pleased him. He took the time to set up the tripod, hoisted the Nikon and took several exposures, finishing the roll. Not that he cared for the farm. It was hell living in the sticks. His only escape was proffered courtesy of a beat-up Prius his mother had handed down after her short love affair with the environment. After the price of gas dropped, she went back to her SUV, along with most of the other socialites in town. The Prius wasn't much to look at, but it was quiet, allowing him to slip out silently from the farm after midnight. He was lucky to be driving. If it hadn't been for his stepfather calling in political favors he wouldn't even have a license after the beer buying episode with the fake ID. Just goes to show that connections and money work in Nashville as well as anyplace. Sometimes even better.

So far, Damien had avoided most human contact at the farm for the better part of two months. It was easy to duck his father since Quinn Lee was constantly away, the perennial man about town. Flying his chopper to Nashville, spending long days and longer nights at his office on Music Row or else in New York or Los Angeles. His stepmother made herself scarce too, roaring off in her big honking Escalade to Green Hills to spend Quinn's money. She loved shopping and getting her nails and who knows what other body parts buffed. But playing tennis was her chosen passion and she was out several times a week in that pursuit. That left only Homer the foreman, Loretta the housekeeper, Tred Calloway, and the seasonal guys working around the big rambling place most of the time.

Homer was a strange one, the boy thought. The older man had tried to cozy up to Damien when he first arrived, but Damien shunned him. Homer didn't seem too bright anyway. The way he poked around in that slow and deliberate way, shoveling out stalls, brushing the horses and mules, talking to the goats and chickens, wandering down to the pond to fish. Since his presence was irrelevant to Damien it was easier to give the guy the cold shoulder and steer clear. It took Homer a couple weeks, but he got the message. He acknowledged Damien if their paths crossed, but now the old man cut him a wide berth. On Homer's part, he sensed something deeper than typical teenage angst churning within the lanky young man, and saw a look of hurt in his eyes bordering on hatred. The look was well known to Homer, having seen it in his own eyes as a young man. Homer had the boy pegged. Damien was a troubled young man.

Damien thought Tred Calloway a complete buffoon. Well over six feet and pushing three hundred pounds, he felt the hulking man-boy was a lunatic who belonged behind bars or at least in an asylum. They were somehow blood relatives, but Damien was afraid to ask how. On occasion, he spied on Tred as he did chores. Even simple things like starting a tractor or hitching the mules to a wagon was good for a laugh. The old white mule, The General, kicked and bucked and had Tred running for cover every time. And the always agitated billy goat, Dante, had a special vendetta for Tred, too. Of course, the goat seemed to have it out for everything that moved. Who in the world had come up with that for a name anyway? It was fitting, though—the goat from hell.

Damien finished up with the landscape photo and packed up the camera and tripod. Just a few more weeks and he'd be back in town at the condo. He knew the election in November was a big deal for his stepfather and would set the stage for the future fortunes of State Senator Dalton James and his mother. And for him. Even from his limited perspective as a rising senior in high school, Damien was aware his stepdad's chances for re-election were getting slimmer by the week.

The boy sauntered down the ridge past the foreman's cottage and crossed the pasture towards the house. He figured he'd hole up in his room and spend the day surfing the net. But something inside him nagged to spend a few more minutes outside. As the four horses and most of the other animals were in the pasture, he decided he'd take a photo or two in the stable. He didn't know why, but found that he liked the feel and smell of the place with its scent of leather, wood, and hay mixing with manure. He had to admit the old guy kept the place nice.

He ambled into the stable quietly. Nobody was around and he quickly got down to the business of shooting. He'd been at it only a minute when he heard a snort—it was the red mule. Quietly sitting on a stool in the shadows was Homer, examining the animal's rear haunch. The two made eye contact across the barn. Neither blinked, the boy breaking his gaze first. He put the lens cap back on the camera and began to pick up his bag and tripod. Damien stared outside the stable with his back turned to the old man and started to leave without a word. Then, for some reason, he stopped. Maybe it was simple boredom at the prospect of going back to his room alone. Instead, he turned around and faced the old man. They stared awkwardly for a few seconds and Homer could see the boy was at a loss.

Finally Damien spoke. "Whatcha doing over there? You liked to scare the hell out of me."

Homer's face, concealed in shadow, creased with the hint of a smile. He kept his eye on the mule's flank and stroked the animal's leg. "Sure didn't mean to do that, young man. I'm just looking at Buddy, here. Seems he might have sprained his right rear leg. He's been favoring it lately."

"That's the mule worth so much money, isn't it? The red one?" Damien asked.

_The one the old man would trade me for in a New York minute,_ he thought _._

"Yep, he's the one alright," Homer replied. "I s'pose he's worth a lot more than some people, financially speaking. After all, he was Reserve World Champion at Bishop Mule Days in California, which is quite an accomplishment. But there's a lot more to him than just dollars and cents."

The boy took a step forward. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, it's kinda hard to say unlessn you been around mules as long as I have, but there's a kindness and nobleness to this animal that's rare to find in man or beast. Course there's a huge amount of stubbornness and fight in him, too. Reckon I'm just partial to the combination."

The boy wanted to leave. He hated the mule and everything it stood for.

Kindness and nobleness, what a crock.

Suddenly he couldn't stand the sight or sound of the old man and his aw-shucks attitude. His disdain reminded him that he hated his father and mother too, not to mention his stepfather and stepmother. A burn of anger built quickly.

"Old man, that's the most fucked-up thing I ever heard. If my father had paid one-tenth the attention to me that he does that mule, I'd have been the happiest kid in the world." The forcefulness and honesty of his outburst surprised even Damien. Now embarrassed, he turned for the door to beat a hasty retreat.

Homer didn't respond at first, but as the boy stepped into the glaring sun, he heard a quiet voice behind. "You're probably right about that, young man."

Damien stumbled over his own feet as he heard the old man's words. Tears welled as he first walked, and then ran, bolting through the front door and up the steps to his room.

#

The truck jostled and bounced through the mountains, shocks squeaking, straw scattering in our wake. Music hissed weakly through the truck's tinny radio as we crossed the ridge and descended toward town. I was barely six years old. In the pen just minutes before, the animals had exploded with brays, bleats, and protests. Now Uncle Percy was driving like a madman, yelling at the top of his lungs, his voice distant and muffled, as if hollering under water. Though in a fog, I could tell he was asking about Ray but I didn't say a word. With mind and heart numb I clutched my frozen, lifeless, three-year old brother and stared mutely. Somewhere above, a ghost hovered, my spirit drifted, and for the first time in my young life I prayed to God.

* * *

Rose didn't normally leave the office for lunch. With her busy schedule, taking time to eat in the middle of the day wasn't a priority. At only twenty-nine years of age, she was already a state certified psychologist with her own busy practice. On any other day with time in the schedule, she'd have gone to the gym for a quick workout. But it was Deena's birthday and they'd made it a tradition to treat each other when one of their birthdays rolled around. They left the office early to beat the rush and drove to Hillsboro Village.

Deena was a breath of fresh air to Rose. Older by almost twenty years than most of the staff, she was the office manager and a perfect complement to the rest of the five young professionals who worked there. Though Rose was the superior in their working relationship, they related as equals on a personal level, something Rose greatly appreciated. They stared at the menus as the waiter dropped off their iced teas and told them he'd give them some time to decide. After a few moments of silence, Rose sighed.

"The chicken salad, again?" Deena asked.

"It's so good I keep going back to it. You sticking with the Monte Cristo sandwich?"

"As usual. Are we in a rut, or what?"

"Depends on how you look at it. Maybe we just like sticking with something we can count on."

Deena poured fake sugar into her iced tea and stirred the glass with rhythmic clinks. "So tell me the latest. You're still seeing him, aren't you? The minimalist?"

Rose smiled, "Danny? Yes, still am. I'm surprised you remember that. It was months ago when I said it."

"How could I forget? It's a great expression."

"It's Danny's description. I certainly won't take credit. In fact he's rather proud of it, in a Zen-like way. Though I'm starting to see the cons as well as the pros."

"Minimalist...as in he doesn't have much and never will?" Deena asked.

"That's pretty much it."

"That could be fun, sometimes, even romantic. Putting materialistic priorities in their right place and all that?"

"Yeah, sometimes. But it doesn't pay the bills," Rose said with a sigh.

The waiter came, took their orders, and the place began filling up with the lunch crowd; the usual assortment of suits and working stiffs. They people-watched silently until Deena spoke. "I don't think you've ever told me how you and Danny met."

"Oh boy, where do I start?" Rose closed her eyes and searched for the memory. "Let's see, the first time was down at the coast, in Alabama, a little place called Moon Mullet. I had just started seeing his brother, Ray, a great guy by the way, and his family has connections down there. So Ray took me down one weekend to go boating. We were supposed to go fishing too, but never got around to throwing a line in the water."

Deena's eyebrows rose, "Wasn't that a bit tricky? Dating a man and then switching to his brother?"

"You'd think so, but not in this case. Something just didn't click with Ray. I liked him a lot. Still do. And he seemed to like me, but it just didn't work for us. Ray's moved on, apparently to greener pastures."

"What does that mean? Is he gay?"

"No, nothing like that," she laughed. "Last I heard he was dating a woman named Carole. I'm not exactly sure why but it didn't work with us. He's great looking and very sweet. But I kissed him once and it felt like I was kissing a cousin or a brother. It was really odd."

"So he introduced you to Danny—was it love at first sight?"

"No, not at all. Danny seemed aloof at first. I _was_ with his brother, after all. But I did feel a warm twinge inside. I thought it'd be nice to know him better, though I would have never acted on it. But there was something about him right from the start."

"What was it?"

"Part of it's that rugged, outdoorsy thing he's got going on—you know I've always been a sucker for that kind of thing—but it really started with his eyes. Dark gray, almost black, easy to get lost in. And his voice. You've heard it, so rich and soulful; Southern, but without any real accent."

"He _does_ have a nice voice." Deena agreed. "Rose, I don't mean this in a disrespectful way, but Danny's pretty darn _sure_ of himself, isn't he?"

"That's an understatement. He doesn't lack confidence, and I like that in a man. But one of the oddest things about him, and it's a complete mystery to me, is his almost photographic memory when it comes to literature. Ray's got it too. But Danny can quote poets and writers at length and doesn't seem to consciously try. He's so taken with certain passages that even months or years later he can hit 'replay,' and cite it back to you, almost word for word. It's uncanny."

"A poetic man _,_ " Deena said. "Just like in one of those old romance novels. It's been a long time since I heard of a guy using poetry and prose to sweep a girl off her feet."

"The funny part is he isn't. I'd like to think that, but he just loves the sound of well-crafted words so much that he'd be speaking them out loud to the walls if I weren't in the room."

"He's different, isn't he?" Deena asked.

"Sure is. And it's what makes our relationship special. And difficult."

"So if you two didn't hook up that first time on the coast, how'd you get to the next level, so to speak?"

Rose sipped her tea and reflected. "It was a couple months later, just a few weeks after we lost Deb..." She stopped speaking and reached into her purse for a tissue.

Deena had known Rose's younger sister, Deborah, a beautiful young woman, an avid and competitive rider, who was thrown from her horse in Lexington and killed at the age of twenty-seven.

"I'm sorry," Rose said, dabbing tears.

"That's okay, honey. I know. Take all the time you need."

Rose composed herself and continued, "It was a couple months later. I'd gone into City Pie—you know that little lunch joint over on Division Street?"

"I know it all too well," Deena said with a laugh. "My ex-husband used to drag me there all the time. He loved it."

"Anyway, it was my first time there and I was standing in line. I don't even know why I went, couldn't quite come to grips with actually eating there and was thinking about leaving."

"You mean the meat-and-three special didn't entice you?" Deena joked.

"Let's just say I was having second thoughts. I was rummaging through the forks and knives, trying to find some that didn't have water spots on them, when a voice from behind chimed in and said—and I'll never forget it, 'Best not to look too hard at the silverware, Rose, those spots are just part of the restaurant's charm.'"

" _Charm?_ " Deena said, "City Pie? He really _is_ a poet."

Rose smiled, "Yeah, that's the word he used. But I was glad to see him and have someone to talk with. We got a table and I yakked his head off non-stop for the next hour. He knew everyone in the place and introduced me to several famous musicians."

"Anybody I'd know?"

"You know I'm terrible with names. One of them played with the band, Alabama. They were all nice, all regulars. Everyone in the place seemed to know Danny, too. The timing was good for running into each other and I dumped pretty hard on him. Spilled my guts about my parents coming from Mexico and settling in Monroe, about Deb and me getting scholarships, about college in Chapel Hill. About Deb's love for horseback riding. And her accident. He was a good listener, still is most of the time."

"Sounds like you guys had a good chemistry right from the start," Deena said. "It's good that he actually listens to you. That's rare these days."

The waiter brought their meals and they began to eat.

"There _was_ a good chemistry. Like I said, still is for that matter. My mother thinks I'm wasting my time on him, keeps bugging me to get married to someone with prospects and have babies. I wonder sometimes, myself. You've seen my house off Murphy Road; it's a great little place. I got a good deal on it. Put in a new kitchen, even re-did the master bath. Hell, I should be building my future these next few years, and yet I spend half my nights at Danny's dingy, little bachelor pad. A loft apartment over that photo store on 2nd Avenue."

"There's nothing wrong with that. Whatever makes you happy is what's important."

"I know. 'Whatever makes me happy.' That's what I keep telling myself, too, on good days. It's true he doesn't have much talent for making money, but one thing's for sure. He's real. Sure-footed and real, and that counts for a lot."

"It does, Rose. So many men are flakes these days."

" _Tell_ me about it. He's not a flake, but he does march to a different drummer. He's..." She'd lost her train of thought.

"A _minimalist?_ " Deena said with a wry grin.

"Apparently," Rose said, and smiled back. "Thanks for listening, Dee. And for caring."

They ate in silence, though Rose continued to think about Danny. Maybe the attraction did have more to do with her own insecurities. She wondered if she saw him as one of the almost hopeless, yet salvageable cases she encountered at work. After losing Deb, she'd found comfort in his strong and loving embrace and she was definitely attracted to his sense of humor, contrary charm, and rugged good looks so there was some kind of karmic glue at work. Why else would she have stuck with him for over two years? The truth of the matter was she loved him. And there were times she awoke in the middle of the night crying. And cursing herself for it.

#

For some strange reason my dogs, Tubby and Sis, are always in the dream. Others from my past join the solemn room, too—the porter from the Hummingbird, the janitor from Joe Patti's, the walker from Selma, arm in arm with the angel from Montgomery—all come to pay their final respects. The receiving room, lit by electric candlelight, fills with more visitors; a mule, a goat, a rooster, and several of Tom Finn's fat, slick cattle grazing peacefully on the green pile carpet, while two-leggers eat powdered cookies and sip ladled punch. And the dogs are always there, always smiling, peaking over the edge of the coffin, copping a lick. And I'm smiling back at 'em because that's the way they fixed my face for the journey through eternity. And people talking in hushed tones, looking at their watches, ready to shove off at the first chance. And the dogs circling and scratching, happy as clams, tails wagging, looking for handouts and a place to lie down and rest.

* * *

"John, do you mind if I knock off for lunch a few minutes early?"

John Wallace, the owner of 2nd Avenue Photo, looked at his watch. "Again, Danny? This is the third time this week."

"I've got some errands to run."

Exasperated, Wallace answered, "Alright, but give it ten more minutes and then you can go. And make sure you're back no later than one this time. I've got to make a bank run."

As Assistant Manager, I knew I should step up more than I did and actually assume an active role in managing the place. After all, jobs were scarce and mine was even rarer in that it included an apartment as part of the arrangement. Still, it was a job and I tended to treat every one I'd ever had as a necessary evil. Disdain for regular employment seemed to be etched into my character.

The photo shop off lower Broad did a brisk business with tourists and working professionals and carried an extensive line of camera equipment and services. But while the focus was on digital photography, the store still carried film, even black and white, and had a complete lab for processing and printing. The color prints were made using modern equipment churning out multiple prints in minutes. But John Wallace was an old style photographer at heart, with a weakness for the art of true black and white. He still kept a darkroom active and, for a considerable fee, a customer could have John or me make prints using the traditional enlarger and chemical baths. The black and white operation was a break-even operation at best, the prints made one at a time. But the darkroom was one place that I did enjoy my work. I'd rather lose myself there for several hours than deal with rude, overfed tourists at the counter, and jumped at every opportunity to enter the peace and quiet of the darkroom.

A few minutes later, I peeled out of the shop, rounded the corner and found myself at Hatch Show Print. My urgent errand was to pick up a print. And check out the pretty girls who worked there. Good old Hatch. Since the late 1800's they've been doing business in the big town, their posters seen by the old folks, the bankers in suits, the drunks, the church ladies, the homeless, and other denizens of Broadway. Over the years, all manner of people had passed through the store, heralding the changing city, chronicling the evolution of country music. From Hank Williams, to the anti-Hank, Barth Rivers, to the nineteen-year-old country pop phenom, Tonya Quick, to the redemptive Buddy and Julie Miller; all had been recorded in block prints, apple wood, and maple.

The door squeaked as I entered and I squeezed past tourists milling in the store entrance. "Hey, Donna, how's it going?"

"Great, Danny," she answered from behind the counter. "How's business?"

"Slow. How about you guys?"

"Crazy, which is fine with us. We're running behind on the artwork for the Levon Helm print and Ron and Magdalena are in the back trying to get caught up. She was asking about you earlier, says she's got your John Prine poster ready to pick up."

"Great, that's what I was hoping." I passed around the far side of the counter and through the small swinging door separating the working area of the store from the visitors' side. Across the room I saw Magdalena and Janie intently working, along with Ron, the manager. "What is this, pretty girl day at Hatch?" I announced loudly.

The three turned around. " _Dan-ee!_ " Magdalena said enthusiastically with that sultry Italian accent, "good to see you. The print ees ready."

" _Bon journo_ , Magdalena, good morning, Janie."

Ron's face was all business.

"And good morning to you, Ron," I added, more subdued.

I loved the place. The women who worked there drew me like a magnet. Magdalena, the Italian beauty, with a body that'd make a young Sophia Loren do a double-take, wearing tight jeans and flattering low-cut blouse. And Janie, a modern day Texas Ruby right down to her husky voice; sporting jet black dreadlocks, a flattering blue skirt and red tank top, she'd have fit right in dancing with the Grateful Dead at the Pyramids. Though in love with Rose, I have a weakness for pretty girls and sexy foreign accents and not above flirting. Magdalena and her coworkers befriended me like one of the chubby cats that lay around the store. Something about the place has always appealed to me; the scent of printer's ink, the wooden floors, the unique clientele. It brings a sense of comfort and peace.

"I'll be there een a moment," Magdalena called out. "I need to finish here first."

"Sure, take your time. I'm in no hurry."

I stood back and took in the scene. It was always a treat to be in the back part of the store. The posters, going back a half-century or more, are a feast for the eyes. Hank Williams, Bill Monroe, Roy Acuff, Johnny Cash. On the right side of the store are artists' proofs of Elvis, Roy Orbison, and the Kings of Leon. Behind the counter, a striking primitive painting of Waylon Jennings is lovingly displayed. There are hundreds of posters, some lesser known names, but each important to the roots of country music and every bit as interesting: Uncle Dave Macon, a star of the early Opry. Rose Maddox, known as Ramblin' Rose in her day, a highly talented and under-appreciated Alabama songwriter and fiddle player. Whitey Ford, the "Duke of Paducah," whose famous tagline was, "'I'm going back to the wagon, boys, these shoes are killin' me." And "Bashful Brother Oswald," a famous musician for years, who popularized the use of the resonator guitar and dobro, and later played with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band on _Will the Circle Be Unbroken_.

There are dozens more, too many to name: Dolly Parton, Hank Snow, Jim Reeves, Duke Ellington, Minnie Pearl, Cab Calloway, Louis Armstrong, Willie Nelson—a veritable Who's Who of the rich heritage born and nurtured at Hatch. I'm always humbled at the sight. I stood over at the left wall of the store, where shelves from floor to ceiling held wood blocks. To the right are work tables and hand-rolled presses. I scanned the big room trying to absorb as much as I could, though still found time to periodically send appreciative gazes at Magdalena and Janie. They were focused on work, though Ron occasionally glanced at me with something resembling a glare. He knew Magdalena would want to kill fifteen minutes on a smoke break with me and they were too busy for such shenanigans.

Magdalena eventually found a place to pause from her work, walked to a bin of finished prints and came back with a large frame. Her hand swept her hair back. The perspiration on her face glistened, making her even more beautiful, as she unwrapped the brown paper around the picture. "What do you theenk?" she asked.

I looked her straight in the eyes. _"Belissima."_

"About the framing job, you flirt," she blushed.

"That's what I was talking about," I responded with mock innocence. "It's absolutely perfect, as usual. Thanks for getting it done so quickly. I know you guys have been busy lately. You don't have time for a quick smoke, do you?"

She looked over her shoulder at Ron and Janie, both working diligently with heads down. "Not today, we're trying to get caught up."

"I understand, maybe next time."

"Sure," she said, disappointed. "Enjoy the print, Dan-ee. Just pay Donna up front. And we'll see you again soon?"

"You can count on it."

I stood in line as three older tourists from Germany settled in front of the counter to buy postcards. Finally I got to the register.

"How'd the poster turn out for you Danny?"

"It's great, Donna, I love it."

"Let's see," she rang up the charge, "with tax, that'll be $71.35."

I blanched for a moment. All I had until payday was about ninety bucks. "Did you figure in my frequent flyer discount?"

"Yep, it's in there."

"I was afraid you'd say that," I answered, and passed over the money. "It really _is_ beautiful," I added, justifying the purchase to myself.

I wandered out the front door into the bright sunshine, lit a cigarette, and leaned against the wall. Hatch Show Print is a special place, all right. There, I spend money I don't have on prints I can't afford and fantasize about women I'll never bed. I wondered idly why I spent what little money I had on framing prints. _Because they're cool and deserve to be seen_ , is the best I'd come up with and that's apparently good enough. I smoked and watched the scene on lower Broad. Fat chicks in cowboy boots, fat boys in shitty hats, tour buses blowing gritty diesel fumes. Cops everywhere, three or four in a group. Something was definitely up. I overheard somebody say a bum had assaulted a tourist and stolen the guy's food. Probably a damn corndog, I thought, as I watched two cops zero in on a scrawny homeless guy. I finished my cigarette, stamped out the butt, and waded into the river of cowboys floating down the sidewalk.

#

Rats scurry out of holes and gutters as the moon rises over Nashville. Cowgirl Janes and hustlers in Manuel jackets pour onto Broadway, sucking the oxygen out of the air, offering tourists a short-breathed tour of the Ryman. A greenish neon haze illuminates the street, while bar room lights blink and splatter Red, White, and Pabst Blue Ribbon across wet brick walls. The sound of a thumping drum and bass from Tootsies Orchid Lounge filters into the sleeping alley. In the back of the old auditorium, when the moon is rich and her light lands flush on the Johnny Cash stained glass windows, the images awake and come to life, making you grateful you were alive when The Man in Black graced the Earth. And when the atmosphere's just right—when there's a mist and it's near freezing and the sky hangs low on the street like a blanket—holes poke through the felt, and light trickles through the milky fog until raindrops condense in silhouette of the lost ones: Hank's ghost in the alley, laughing out of control, standing next to Townes, who's higher than a kite. Porter's humming a piece of Skid Row Joe and Marty Robbins is looking fine, sporting a Big Iron on his hip. If you knew how, you'd hear Jim Reeves begging to Make The World Go Away or Dotty West, who never did make it to that last gig, confide that Love Is No Excuse. Try all you want, you won't hear them. The old ones are just vapors now, apparitions in the damp.

Spirits line the street between Tootsie's and the Opry, their hands outstretched, beckoning fat Germans, skinny Japanese, and newlyweds from Arkansas. The wind rolls off the Cumberland, the tourists pull their jacket collars higher. They stroll, they gawk, and if the merchants are lucky, they buy. But what the hell are those people gonna do with all those ukuleles anyway?

* * *

Ray and I spent most of our lives in Nashville, but originally came from Ridgetop, Tennessee, our mother Ruth having grown up there. She met R.D. shortly after he returned from the Korean War, when he moved up from south Alabama looking for work. At the time, the thin young combat vet was a welder and would-be entrepreneur who chain-smoked Pall Malls and had a hair-trigger temper. He also had a weakness for women, Jack Daniels, and stock car racing, pretty much in that order.

Mom was an elementary school teacher whose life had started well enough. But being unwed and three months pregnant in Ridgetop would untrack almost anyone. Her good looks stood out in the small town and some thought her too pretty by half, like she didn't belong. Her gray-blue eyes, which Ray would inherit, reflected a twinkle and permanent hint of mischief, and her aquiline nose cast so graceful a profile that perfect strangers caught themselves staring. But there was more than good looks to Mom. She had a strong mind and an even stronger will. Despite being so blessed, there was one fatal flaw. She came from a long line of alcoholics and couldn't break the mold, what she called the curse of the "alcohol seed." Her independent spirit only worsened the situation. She was self-confident to the point of delusional concerning the problem. One thing was certain; she was bound and determined not to be saved by religion despite the best efforts of our grandparents.

With the unplanned pregnancy, the marriage started on the wrong foot and only got worse over time. With both lives dominated by drink, the Mom and R.D. bounced off the rails so often that getting along became the exception rather than the rule. They got divorced and farmed us kids out early to R.D.'s parents, whom we affectionately called Pa and Ma. The two raised us as if they were their own. Pa, the tall, silent type, was a dead ringer in appearance to the actor Walter Brennan, strong as a bull and with a character that was pure country. "Sometimes the best thing to say," He often reminded Ray and me, "is nothing at all." He had a hundred such sayings, and while his grammar was often skewed, we always knew exactly what point he was making.

Ma was the opposite—petite, noisy as a canary, and with twice the energy. She was always busy canning preserves, working the garden, selling eggs, or making quilts. She spent a good portion of her life serving the church and had a surprising sense of humor for one so devout.

Uncles and aunts took an active part in bringing us up, too, in particular Uncle Percy and Aunt Margie from Pensacola. At the beginning of each summer we were brought on the L&N _Hummingbird_ train or else in our grandparent's cavernous DeSoto to one or the other of our "other homes." Ray and my lives in the early days were simple and spare. Maybe that's why we felt at home in Moon Mullet and the rural South where so many people had next to nothing. By the time I met Rose, I was thirty-six and Ray thirty-two. Still young, but we were old souls when it came down to it. We could clean up good if we had a mind or the odd occasion called, but both worked hard to make sure that calamity didn't occur too often.

#

The alarm clock blared loudly, announcing to the world it was once again 5:00 a.m., but Homer Carr had already been awake the better part of an hour. Sleep hadn't come easy lately. Despite his advanced years, he worked long days at Quinn Lee's estate. Some might call it work, but Homer actually looked forward to getting up and going to the farm. He enjoyed physical work, but also found plenty of time for fishing and reading. A widower now for five years, he still missed his wife, Ada, terribly. They'd been together over forty years and losing her had been devastating. He always figured he'd have been the first to go, but fate or God apparently hadn't seen it that way.

He awoke that morning from a dream. In it, he and Ada were very young, but in the dream it seemed like yesterday. They were in the kitchen of their first house, the rented one in Franklin, and she was telling him she was pregnant with their first child. Her eyes shone and her face flushed with excitement. Never in his life, even on his wedding day, had he seen such a beautiful woman. They made love right then, him picking her up and whooshing her off to the bedroom. _Like I was Sidney Poitier_ , he smiled to himself.

The morning light had not yet filtered through the window and Homer stared at the dark walls, lost in reflection. She had come along just at the right time and saved his life. He lay there thinking of her, still remembering their years of companionship, their passion. He finally rose, peered out the window to check the weather, made coffee, and then shaved and showered. Every morning he put on a clean shirt ironed the evening before. Ada had always seen he was properly dressed and he owed it to her memory that her standards be maintained. He buttoned his work vest and brushed his white hair, checking as he did daily to see there was still a good amount up there.

He was walking out the front door when he was caught by the ringing phone. His daughter. No one else would be calling at this early hour. Charlene was a physician, alternating between River Hills Regional and Carson Medical Center, working the emergency rooms much of the time.

"Hi, Dad, how're you feeling this morning?"

"I'm fine, darlin', how about you?"

"Good here, too, though it's been a long night. A couple of car accidents, two pretty bad gunshot wounds, a kid with a broken arm. Situation normal, I guess. It's a zoo out there."

"It is for sure, honey. You sound tired. When do you get off work?"

"Not for another four hours. And the way we're short-staffed, I may have to pull a double shift."

"Charlene, you work way too much. You're always fretting over me, but it should be me worrying about your health. I feel fine."

"I know. And that makes me happy to hear, but don't forget you have your checkup with Doctor Jamison tomorrow."

"I haven't forgotten. I told Mister Lee I'll be taking tomorrow afternoon off. I'm going to pick up some supplies for the animals while I'm in town so it won't be a total waste of time. Buddy has a sprained leg and I've got to buy some wrap. I'm also going to see Michael. You know he always asks about you."

"I know. About Michael, tell him. _Tell him..._ well, I'm not sure what to tell him. Just that I said 'hi.' Look, I've got to go, but you be careful, and we'll talk tomorrow."

Homer went out the door, paused on the front porch and looked up. The stars gazed back weakly, watered down by the haze. Even in the pre-dawn darkness, he could tell the day was going to be a scorcher. Wiping his forehead already moist with perspiration, Homer got in the truck, slid an Oscar Peterson CD in the player, and started the fifteen-minute drive to the farm. Charlene came immediately to mind. He was so proud of her, but concerned that she worked too many stressful hours. He thought also of Ada, and couldn't get the erotic dream out of his mind. He drove, lost in thought, as the lower half of the eastern sky awoke and glowed pale yellow.

* * *

He was a professional trumpet player back then, she played classical and jazz piano, and they met during session work in San Francisco. At the time Homer was living the hard life, lots of women, booze, and all-night parties. Though he partied hard, he did have his moments, working with some greats, including Chet Baker, Oscar Peterson, Stan Getz, and Otis Redding. He even met Satchmo a couple times. Homer was convinced the trumpet would be his life's work until he ran headlong into reality. He'd finally put himself in position to really make his mark, having been contacted to record with Otis Redding, when some up-and-comers called The Memphis Horns came along and put him in his place. They recorded _Dock of the Bay_ with Otis and the rest was history. At first Homer resented that his gig with Redding had been scooped, but after much anguish he came to the realization he simply didn't have the chops to play with the greats.

Musically, Ada was more talented than Homer. Her family originally came from southeast Alabama, near Gee's Bend. She won a one-year scholarship to the New England Conservatory in Boston when she was seventeen, but after the money ran out she quit school and moved to San Francisco. A friend helped her find temporary work as a session musician and that's how she crossed paths with Homer. The two ran into each other the second time at one of the sessions and after some maneuvering, he finally caught her alone.

"Remember me?" he asked.

"You're the one who wears that funny hat and plays the drums aren't you?"

He was sober, but she'd caught him off guard. "No _way,_ you got me confused with Johnny Sheffield and..."

"I'm just teasing," Ada said. "I know who you are, Mister Carr."

" _Mister_ Carr? Last time somebody called me that was the junior high-school principal when he hauled me to the office for a whupping."

"Then maybe its high time you had another," she said.

That got his attention. He'd never forget that evening. When the session ended, he got her to walk outside, where they talked in a gravel parking lot for an hour, finding any excuse to touch hands and bump into one another. Despite the sober charms he displayed that evening, she wasn't sold. But Homer eventually wore her down, swore he would turn over a new leaf. And for the most part he did. She became his salvation for he knew, even at the time, that if someone or something didn't come along and give him a reason to live, he'd be dead by the age of thirty. When Ada eventually said yes they moved east, to Franklin, Tennessee. Four days after her twenty-fourth birthday they married and three years later they'd scraped enough money together for a down payment on a little house with three acres. The house where he still lived.

Charlene was their first child, Michael the second. Ada and Homer raised them both the best they could, making sacrifices to see the kids had the best possible education and upbringing. Music was always in the house: Coltrane to Chopin, Hank Williams to Glenn Gould, with a liberal dose of gospel and Mahalia Jackson tossed into the mix. They loved it all. Homer had a couple years of community college, but never did get the chance to finish. Once Ada was pregnant, all thoughts of going back to school were dashed, though he loved biology and vowed in his next life he'd be a veterinarian. He put the horn down except for the odd occasion, spent evenings studying textbooks and medical journals, and seemed born with the curiosity and discipline required of a doctor or vet. Maybe it was in the genes after all, since Charlene took to it from the start. As early as the second grade she announced her intention to become a doctor and she had done exactly that. In the early days, the family never seemed to get ahead financially, but with scholarships and straight A's Charlene had been able to attend Vanderbilt, first as an undergraduate and then as a medical student. She poured heart and soul into the effort, rarely dated and had never married, though she was well north of thirty by now.

Michael's story was altogether different. Born two and a half years after Charlene, he got off on the wrong foot right from the beginning. Handsome and devilish, his good looks came from Ada's side of the family, his cocky demeanor straight from Homer. School never seemed to take for Michael and, of course, following in Charlene's footsteps wasn't easy. At first he tried to compete with her success, but by fifth grade gave up. During middle school and high school, Homer and Ada spent countless anguished hours worrying about him and regularly received middle-of-the-night phone calls from the police. Michael played guitar with a band and his inherited musical talent was apparent from the start. Homer and Ada knew all about the temptations that came with the music business and worried about the company he kept. By the time he was nineteen, he'd been arrested three times: for burglary, carrying a concealed weapon, and possession of pot.

.

Homer stared out the windshield of his truck as the morning sky lightened. He thought about Michael's eyes that seemed to stare back from the dirty windshield as he drove. The hurt, the anger, the fear; the same hurt and anger he saw the day when he encountered Damien in the barn _—_ the same look in his own young eyes, so many years before.

Funny thing about all that resentment and anger, he thought, years ago he'd resented the hell out of some of his fellow musicians. Maybe it'd been nothing more than testosterone and professional jealousy. Now he ran into some of the old timers regularly in Nashville and they got along fine. Just goes to show a person can change. He knew some people could, he just didn't know if his son was one. Michael was in his thirties now. It seemed if he was going to change, it would have already happened. Now he was in jail again, this time for at least five years unless he got out early for good behavior. The old man wanted to cry, but some profound inner strength kept him from it. In the end you're either lucky or not, he thought. Maybe it was in the genes. Maybe Michael'd picked up Homer's own dark side.

He turned off his headlights and drove up the long driveway to the house as the sun broke over the horizon, bathing the farm in a warm morning glow. Loretta's rusting brown Thunderbird was parked next to the house. She must have come in early to fix Quinn breakfast. He got out of his truck and caught sight of Quinn doing a pre-flight walk around the helicopter.

"Morning, Homer," Quinn said, as his gentle foreman approached. "I've got to leave town for a couple days. Taking the chopper over to Nashville and then catching a ride in a friend's Lear up to New York. Do me a favor, will you? Keep an eye on Buddy. He's got a slight limp."

"Yes, sir, I noticed that, too. I gave him a good look yesterday and it's not too bad. I plan to tape his leg for a few days, though."

"Thanks, Homer. You know I love that beast. Something in his nature really speaks to me. Something in his eyes. Damn if it's not almost like he's got a soul."

"I know what you mean, Mister Lee. I see it in him, too. There's sure something special about Buddy."

"Guess there's no substitute for good genes, is there Homer? They _do_ seem to right a lot of wrongs in this ugly old world, don't they?"

Homer thought of his son, Michael, and for a moment was at a loss for words. "Yes sir," he answered, "I reckon they do."

#

Now into their second summer of dating, Danny and Rose were spending even more time together. They enjoyed going to movies and dinners, clubs and concerts, and weekend outings to Old Hickory Lake. He'd become a regular overnight guest at her house and she still occasionally stayed with him at the loft. They awoke early one Sunday at her house and felt the urge, made love, and then slumbered in morning's half-light. Rose surfaced first from dozing and watched Danny as he slept. She drifted to a memory of her sister Deborah, years ago, at a horse farm near their home in North Carolina. It was the first time Deb realized she'd had a passion for riding. Rose had watched her seven-year-old sister from outside the fence with their father. She could still hear Deb's voice.

" _Look, Daddy. I'm riding all by myself!"_

Astride their gentle roan mare, Celia. And Daddy so proud and encouraging.

" _I see, honey. You're doing great!"_ he answered. _"Try to relax Deborah. Imagine you're part of the animal...that's right..."_

Danny's breathing became quieter as he climbed toward consciousness. Her remembrance interrupted, Rose held his hand, running her finger along a scar on his palm, looking closely at it for the first time. "I never noticed, but there's a scar on your palm half the length of your life line," she said in a half whisper.

Danny stirred awake, still sleepy. "Yeah, I know. It's been there awhile."

"How'd it happen?"

"Ray's got one, too. We made a pact years ago. As kids. Decided we'd be blood brothers. _Twice_ blood brothers, in fact." Even half asleep he wore the hint of a smile.

"A pact? About what?"

"Nothing, it was a long time ago. It's not important now."

Was he just sleepy or was there more?

They were quiet a few minutes, comfortable with the silence, with each other.

Finally she spoke. "Danny, what are we doing?"

He rolled closer. "What do you mean 'what are we doing'? We just made wild, passionate love. And it was fantastic. As it always is with you."

She lifted her head from the pillow. "No, that's not what I..."

"I know what you're talking about, Rose."

She rolled up on one elbow, searching his eyes.

"I've wondered the same thing," he said. "All I know is that it seems right to be with you. With us being together. I have trouble explaining it myself sometimes, but I know I'm crazy about you. — I love you." Danny was scrambling. He kept wondering when she'd finally figure out he wasn't right for her, wasn't good enough, successful enough. But he'd committed just now, hadn't he? Told her he loved her. He knew he'd start babbling if he kept talking so passed the ball, relieved to get it out of his court. He stopped short and looked at her surprised face. "Um, what do _you_ think?"

"I love you too. You know I do..."

Danny felt a 'but' coming and she confirmed it in the next breath.

"But 'it _seems_ right to be together' doesn't really cut it anymore. At least not for the long term. It seems to me, and you know I don't like to push you on this type of thing, but it seems to me that this needs to go somewhere _._ That is, if we're going to continue to see each other this much."

He felt a sinking feeling coming on. "Of course it's _going_ somewhere. I mean, it _will_ —"

She interrupted. "Well, I sure hope it is. Because you mean so much to me."

He stared at the side of her face and waited.

"Especially since Deborah..." She wanted to say more, but lost her train of thought. She pulled the sheet close to her face. "I told you she was going to be married next year, didn't I? To a long-time friend of the family?"

"Yeah."

"Frank. Frank Thompson, from North Carolina. Good guy. Same year of high school with Deb, back in Monroe. I heard from him yesterday. He called the office and sounded as low as I've ever heard a soul. Like a person drowning in grief. It was pitiful. I'm sure he's on sedatives the way he was rambling. Even after three months he's a mental and physical wreck." She wiped her face of the sudden stream of tears. "Not that I'm not.

Danny didn't quite know what to say, so figured it best just to listen.

"All that crap about time healing wounds. I can tell you it's not working for me, and it's playing hell with my emotions." Then, as an afterthought, she added, almost in a whisper, "which makes this whole affair with you that much more complicated."

Danny squeezed Rose's arm and went for a change in tone, going for levity to cut the tension. " _Affair_? Is that what it is? Thanks, Rose, you make it sound almost like a promotion. I thought we were just dating, but this brings a whole new legitimacy to it. An _affair?_ " he tried out the word again, "as in, _an affair to re-mem-bah?_ "

"Don't joke. Not now. This is serious. Frank's torn up, clinically depressed, and so am I." Then, finally, she smiled. "But I have to admit you do render a service," she said, "and a dear one at that."

He raised an eyebrow suggestively.

"I'm not talking about _that_ kind of service." Rose punched him lightly on the arm. She struggled for words, "What I'm trying to say is, that whatever service you do render, and I'm not quite sure what it is, but you always find a way to make me laugh. And that makes me feel better."

Rose's eyes shone in a way Danny had never seen. "Danny, you make me feel special. Alive, and loved. And I really need that right now. I really need you right..."

"Right now?" he asked, "only for now?"

Rose was speechless, busted. "Well, maybe longer."

Now it was his turn to be serious. He held her chin up with his right hand and looked into her eyes. "Listen. I'm not going anywhere. There's never been anyone like you in my life and I'm sure there never will be again. I want it to work. I'm doing everything I know how to—"

"I know that, Danny. I know."

"But if I'm doing something wrong, tell me," insisted Danny. "Tell me what to do _different,_ and I'll do it. Or at least I'll try."

.

Rose didn't answer. She thought about what attracted her to the man. His attributes were unquestionable. Most endearing was his ability to live in the moment, to embrace life without pretense. And to celebrate it on a daily, even hourly, basis. She thought too of his shortcomings, ground plowed many times before. He'd never be in position to provide the financial security she sought. She was no gold digger, far from it. But as her friend Deena had pointed out on more than one occasion, she deserved more than spending her life supporting a man, especially if he wasn't committed to reversing his bleak financial condition. As cold as the simple fact was, Rose had to face it—her dream to have a couple kids and own a house in the country would only happen if she moved on and found someone else.

#

Homer went to the goat pen and checked on Dante and the ladies. Tred was supposed to feed them but it would be two hours before he showed up. The old man walked into the barn to get the feed and to his surprise came upon Damien sitting on a crate in the darkness. The boy was settled in like he'd been there for hours and, for once, didn't have his ever-present camera with him.

"Sorry, young man, didn't mean to interrupt. Looks like you're thinking."

"No, just sitting. Not thinking. Just sitting."

Homer walked past the boy to the goat feed, picked up a sack and headed toward the door. "Well sitting's fine. In fact, it's one of my favorite things. But right now Dante out there is giving the world the evil eye 'til he gets some food in his belly. So I'll be movin' along."

The boy watched the old man walk out of the barn and toward the goat pen. He studied the way the man moved. Old, Damien thought. _Older'n dirt_ , but moves like a young guy. Fluid. Homer passed through the gate and into the pen. The female goats hovered, the two little ones bouncing and playing on stiff legs.

A smile stole over Damien's face as he pondered the prospect for a barnyard attack. He could see that the big brown goat, Dante, was eyeing the old man with suspicious aggression. The contrary billy with the big horns was smart enough to know breakfast was being served, but Damien could also tell he had half a mind to charge Homer anyway. The old man made sure never to turn his back on the surly goat, which was no doubt the secret to why he and Dante got along so well.

More than a little disappointed that the goat didn't strike, Damien stood up and walked slowly out of the barn. He stood under one of the big oaks and studied how Homer interacted with the goats, then when he was done went back to the barn to get feed for the chickens. The boy didn't know why he spoke, he certainly hadn't planned to say anything. But out of the blue, he sputtered, "You need any help?"

The old man didn't miss a beat. He knew it didn't come easy for the kid to speak up. "Sure, that'd be good. Why don't you grab that pail over yonder and we'll fill it with feed."

They worked together, mostly in silence, as the sun rose higher and filtered into the barn. The old man gave a grunt or a nod for directions. It wasn't hard for the boy to figure out what needed to be done; feeding chickens ain't exactly rocket science, after all. The biggest rooster, the one Homer called Foghorn, jacked himself up on the fencepost next to the goat pen, pulled out his wings, puffed his chest, and crowed to the Almighty. This provoked the hell out of Dante and suddenly the brown beast charged the post, holding just short of a full butt. Foghorn jumped at the last second, landing light as Baryshnikov, in the chicken pen, then scratched the ground and strutted, showing off to the hens. The boy laughed out loud at the histrionics.

Homer glanced at Damien with a smile of his own. "How'd you like to lead one of the mares from the stable to the pen?"

"Sure. I guess," he replied.

The horses took note of the newcomer and at first the mare shied, her head lifting and shaking in protest. The old man calmed her with his gentle touch and soothing voice, and showed Damien how to pet the mare's face to establish a bond. The boy's own touch was tentative at first, the animal large and intimidating. But within a minute or two he had her relaxed and ready to be led outside to the pen. The old man led the way with the stallion and then they returned for the other mare and gelding.

It came time to take out the mules and Homer stopped a minute, took off his cap and scratched his head. "Maybe I better take the mules out myself. They can get real jumpity around new folks."

Damien, feeling emboldened after the positive experience with the horses for some reason, volunteered. "Before you do, can I pet the red one? Can I pet Buddy?"

"Sure," said Homer, "I don't think he'd mind."

Homer rubbed Buddy's back gently and stroked softly down his right haunch to the sore leg. He motioned the boy to come closer. In a confidential tone he leaned in close to the mule's face and spoke. "Buddy, I'd like you to meet Damien."

The boy smiled. It was the first time Homer had called him by name and it sounded funny to be formally introduced to a mule. He carefully touched the top of Buddy's head and the big mule snorted.

"I think he likes you," the old man said.

Damien continued to stroke gently. "What makes you say that?"

"Look in his eyes."

Damien peered at the mule's huge black eyes and didn't see a thing.

"Keep looking," Homer encouraged.

The boy refocused on the dark penetrating pools and long eyelashes of the animal. Something within him stirred. There was kindness and intelligence, yes, but there was something more. Forgiveness? Whatever it was, the boy couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't find the right word. He was intrigued and uncomfortable at the same time. He and the red stared at each other another minute, as the old man watched expressionless.

"I think Buddy would be fine with you leading him out to the pen. Go ahead, put the lead on him. I'll get The General."

Damien carefully slipped the rope over Buddy's head and Homer did the same with The General. The white mule predictably rebelled, kicking both rear feet, and the man and boy cut him a wide berth.

"Doesn't much matter who touches The General," said the old man with a chuckle. "He just loves to kick. Stubborn too, but you know what they say about mules."

Homer knew a thing or two about how to deal with the white one and took control. With Damien and Buddy in the lead, the four walked out to the pen. They stood leaning quietly against the fence, for several minutes. It was the first time in a long while that Damien had felt comfortable in the company of an adult. Finally, he broke the pleasant silence.

"What makes you want to work out here so much? It seems a man your age has earned the right to take it easy."

"No doubt about it," said Homer, nodding. "I work quite a bit. I've got plenty of bills to pay, that's for sure. But I enjoy the work, and have learned over time how to take it easy, too. I head down there fishing," he pointed to the pond, "every chance I get. I take an hour or so most days, too, to read...in the chair over there...beneath that big oak."

"Fishing's okay," the boy said. "And I guess reading a book won't cause you to break out in a sweat neither."

"Depends on the book," Homer answered. "And the body reading it. Some folks would do just about anything to avoid reading a book. Or sit quietly in a room all by themselves for an hour."

The boy shrugged. "Reckon they're too busy, I guess," he said. A long pause followed as both stared at the animals. "How come you never look like you're in a hurry?"

Homer chuckled. "Well, that's not a hard one. The way I look at it, if life's a race, then I want to come in dead last."

The boy laughed.

"The truth be told, I do pretty much what I want. And if you're doing what you like, why in the world would you want to be in a rush for it to be over?"

Damien didn't respond. The logic struck him like a hammer. He couldn't imagine someone doing what they wanted with their time. With their life. Damien thought about just what he'd do with his own life if that were the case. He didn't know what to say, so continued to stare mutely at Buddy. The big red mule grazed contentedly, all the while keeping one eye of his own on the boy.

#

Quinn Lee kicked off his boots, stretched his long legs and made himself comfortable. The Learjet had taken off minutes earlier from Nashville headed for New York, where he had a noon meeting with executives from Sony Music. He sipped coffee and stared out the window as the sun rose over middle Tennessee. They were signing another big country music star, one certain to be a new Nashville sensation, a young man out of the UK named Nigel Winston. He had the look, the voice, even the intangible "smell" that comes with stardom, and sang with a polished country twang despite the limey speaking accent. Quinn knew the formula for success and the kid had it. They'd plop him in the music machine, set the cycle in motion, and like a magic centrifuge the money would stick to Sony shareholders. Quinn had run the numbers. The kid was good for three to five years at the top, maybe even longer. Quinn's own cut would probably net two, maybe even four million by the end of Winston's run.

The numbers were good, but Quinn was a country boy at heart and at times felt almost trapped in his gilded cage. But he had enough sense not to quit, not that he'd know how. Truth was, despite his gift for recognizing talent and making money, he'd rather be on horseback than sailing in a jet at thirty thousand feet. He'd grown up with horses, mules, and cattle and loved it. Quinn took another sip of black coffee and checked out the shapely rear end of the flight attendant as she served the pilots up front. He thought about Buddy and the limp, and his mind drifted to Homer. He worried if the old man was going to be able to hold up much longer knowing how much he depended on him.

He looked through the window at the crystal blue sky and reflected back on how he'd come to own Buddy. The handsome animal was bought two years earlier, right after taking first place at the annual Mule Days competition in California. He'd paid ten grand for the four-year-old, right after his divorce with Eve, but Buddy was worth every cent. Quinn smiled. Thanks to the work of Ray Cantien, his private investigator, he hadn't paid a huge divorce settlement, which made spending the money on Buddy all the sweeter. Other men in his same situation might have celebrated by buying a new boat or a Porsche. Not Quinn. He'd rather have the big red.

For all Quinn cared, Dalton could keep Eve. He was glad to be rid of her. He still had Loretta, the family's faithful cook and housekeeper. She was practically a gourmet chef and he hadn't missed a meal yet, despite the fact his young wife could barely scramble eggs. Jamie's version of housecleaning was to pick her clothes up off the floor and throw them onto a chair, so having Loretta stay on at the house after Eve left had been a godsend.

Quinn had missed Damien, especially at first, but rationalized it was best the boy lived with his mother. As a record producer, he traveled constantly and would never be able to keep an eye on his son, to raise him properly. Not that Quinn was the nurturing type by nature; he'd struggled from the beginning with fatherhood and had picked up his own father's style of childrearing—stern and aloof, with an emphasis on obedience and performance. Unconditional love had never been part of the family creed. Sure, there was a natural love and affection for his son, but it was buried deep. Quinn felt more comfortable with the four-legged variety, like Buddy, creatures that respected and appreciated him for what he could provide. People were far too complicated, far too needy. Homer had Buddy five days a week, but on most weekends Quinn enjoyed training, riding, and spoiling the red himself.

The big mule was constant, loyal, and smart. And there was something else about him Quinn couldn't quite put his finger on. It was as if Buddy could sense pain in his owner. And just by being with him, talking to him, and riding the mule, Quinn's pain was eased. Quinn attempted to understand it and failed. But it was real. He denied it at first, but after several months it became so obvious that he confided to his soft-spoken foreman. Homer, practically a holy man when it came to working with animals, told Quinn he knew exactly what he was talking about. Homer took off his hat, laughed a rare, big belly laugh, and assured him it was real. After that, Quinn relaxed, lost his self-consciousness and embraced the healing power of the animal. For reasons God only knew, Buddy was a walking, equine miracle, practically a drug for Quinn, and his primary link to sanity.

#

Tred Calloway arrived at the farm right on schedule, which is to say about two hours late. Homer didn't scold him; he didn't care enough for the man to do that. Instead, he directed him to the morning chores. The fence around the goat pen needed repair and for once Tred was anxious to get on with it. But the big man seemed a little _too_ enthusiastic and Homer's instincts were alerted. "Just mind Dante," was the only advice he offered as he showed Tred where the materials were stored in the barn. But Tred didn't need a reminder about Dante's disposition, having learned firsthand how aggressive the crafty billy could be. "I've got a doctor's appointment in town," Homer continued, "Gonna pick up some tape for Buddy's leg, too. You okay for a few hours while I'm gone?"

"Sure," the young buck said, scratching his unshaven chin. "Ever'thing's under control. You back this afternoon?"

"Yeah, probably by three or four. Got a couple other errands to run while I'm there."

"Well, don't worry 'bout a thing. I'll have the pen mended real good in the next couple hours."

The door to the house opened and Damien came out. He was loaded down with the tripod and camera bags. "Morning, Homer, g' mornin', Tred."

"Mornin', Damien. Looks like you're off to shoot some pictures," Homer replied.

"Yep, looks like a fine day for it. Ya'll have a good one. I'll see you later."

Homer continued his instructions as Damien started his car and slipped quietly down the drive. "When you finish with the pen, take a look at the pasture fence next to the knob. There are four sections of fence I saw needed fixin' when I was out riding the other day. Best if you hitch The General and Cajun and carry the boards you'll need in the wagon."

"Will do. I'll take a look at those and see they're fixed, too. Now you go on and don't worry about a thing here. Have yourself a good check-up down at the doctor's. We'll have her buttoned down _real_ good when you get back."

Homer was looking at Tred suspiciously when the door to the house swung open a second time and Jamie, _Missus_ Lee to the hired help, bounded down the stairs. She was decked out in pressed tennis clothes as if she were off to a match, but wearing a string of pearls and a week's worth of makeup more befitting a cocktail party. Had they been closer, they'd have noticed she smelled awfully good, too. She stared through the men as if they didn't exist, climbed into her Escalade, checked her makeup in the mirror, fired up the beast, and sped off like a rocket.

Homer returned his gaze at the man standing before him. He wasn't comfortable leaving Tred alone and wasn't sure quite what to say. His assistant _did_ seem more coherent than usual, though. Homer looked at his watch, not wanting to be late for his appointment. "Alright then, I'll see you in a few hours." The old man got in his truck, headed out the long drive to the main road, and turned toward town.

Tred watched as the truck pulled out of sight and then dropped the fence wire looped over his shoulder to the ground. "No need to rush and do a half-ass job," he considered aloud. But then all of a sudden he felt a mite peckish. He wouldn't want to start his chores feeling that way, now would he? A little nip might be just the ticket. _Just one_ , mind you. Tred went to the barn where his stash was expertly concealed, and took a swig. It felt good going down, so he took another. On the way back, his eyes spied something lying half-covered in the hay. He picked it up for closer examination and saw it was a flare pistol, the type used if you got lost at sea. He figured Mister Lee must have brought it back from his yacht in Mobile Bay and accidentally dropped it. Tred stuck it in his tool box for safe keeping and would decide what to do with it later.

"Now where was I?" he wondered. He decided in the interest of productivity that it would be more efficient to carry the bottle with him rather than wasting time going back and forth to the barn. He slid it in his back pocket, picked up his tool box, and shuffled to the gate of the goat pen.

Just then Loretta came out of the front door, her housekeeping done for the day. She saw Tred across the yard, and something about his body language tipped her off that he was a bit out of kilter. But then again, something was _always_ out of kilter with Tred.

"G'morning, Tred," she shouted across the yard. "Where's Homer?"

"Gone to town, Miss Loretta. Said he needed to run some errands and see th' doctor."

"Hmm," Loretta muttered to herself. She considered whether she ought to leave the property without someone around to keep an eye on Tred. But if Homer had left him on his own, it was probably alright. "Well, you have a good day, then. And be careful out in that pen. You know how Dante can get." She climbed into the old Thunderbird and started her up, a belch of blue smoke puffing from the end of the tail pipe.

"Yeah, missy, I know all too well how that blamed goat can get," Tred sputtered to himself as her car pulled out. He hoisted his tools and stepped through the gate. Inside, the ladies looked at him cautiously. The old billy, Dante, was staring at him from the far corner. The bastard had butted him his first day on the job and Tred still had the scar to show for it. Hunched nearby, too, was that infernal big rooster, sitting atop the fence post that separated the chicken pen from the goat pen.

The big man took another swig from his flask, and walked, or rather listed, to the far end of the pen while Dante and Foghorn eyed him suspiciously. With considerable effort, he re-dug and re-set the broken post, the job requiring the type of strength with which he was blessed aplenty. While he labored, the sun grew oppressively hotter, and he broke out in ample alcoholic sweat. All the while he kept his face toward the evil-doers across the pen. Both were still. In fact, _too_ still. Dante chewed his cud in that normal slow fashion of his and Foghorn was stiff as a ceramic statue. Tred's repair went without incident and once it was completed, he was full of himself, having done the thing so quickly and without getting his ass gored.

Tred collected his tools, backed out of the pen and closed the gate. Once outside he took a breath of relief, then sat heavily in Homer's reading chair beneath the big oak. The success of the repair certainly justified a brief respite before proceeding, he calculated. He pulled up the stool to get more comfortable, took another swig and through inebriated eyes took in the heavy summer morn—the lush trees, the still lake, the absence of breeze, and the animals settling down in anticipation of a hot afternoon. All was well with the world. He slid farther down into the chair, and it wasn't long before he'd fallen into a deep sleep, none the wiser that he hadn't quite fully latched the gate.

#

Damien drove downtown, parked, and walked into the 2nd Avenue Photo Shop. John Wallace, the owner, greeted him, "Mornin'. Can I help you?"

"Ya'll still have the darkroom to make black and white prints?"

"Yep, sure do. You got some film to drop off?"

"Just a roll. I need a contact sheet and four-by-fives for the time being. And I may want some enlargements, depending on how they turn out." He filled out the paperwork and handed over the exposed roll of film. "How long you figure it'll take?"

"My assistant's working in the darkroom right now. When he comes out, I'll give him this one. Shouldn't take long. We can have it ready for you tomorrow afternoon, maybe even late today."

"Tomorrow'll be fine." Damien thanked the man, slung his camera over his shoulder and walked out. He had time on his hands and wondered what to do with himself. No reason to hurry back to the farm just yet. Maybe he'd stop off at Percy Warner Park. There were plenty of woods and hills to hike and lots of places to shoot.

* * *

About the same time Damien left the photo shop downtown, Tred awoke from his nap in Leipers Fork. Still half-drunk, he remembered the fence needed repairing. Shuffling to the barn, he led Cajun from the stall, hitched the yellow mule to the wagon and went back for The General. The white mule predictably raised Cain with his kicking, but Tred eventually hitched him up. Exhausted from the effort, the big man sat down and it wasn't a minute before he'd dozed off again.

As any fool knows (though most people agreed Tred was no ordinary fool), mules get impatient when they've been hitched for work and forced to wait. Cajun and The General soon began stamping and carrying on, anxious to get on with it, and as they waited they got rambunctiously loud. But it wasn't the sound of the mules, but the high-pitched bleating of the billy goat that finally woke Tred up. Once half conscious, he quickly noticed something out of the norm: Dante was _outside_ the pen, rather than inside. Another funny thing: That infernal rooster, Foghorn, was sitting atop a fencepost outside the pen as well. Through bloodshot eyes, Tred couldn't quite process the significance of these transposed geographies. Instead of chasing the animals back into their pens as he would surely have done under more sober circumstances, he hoisted himself up in the wagon, straightened his cap, picked up the reins and hollered, "Gittyup!"

The mules pulled in harmony, poetry in motion at first, but then it occurred to Tred, albeit a little too late, that he had hitched himself to over two thousand pounds of mule D10 caterpillar. The big animals lowered their shoulders, dropped their asses, and started pulling him along. Within a minute, he felt like a passenger on a runaway ski boat.

Dante, free of the pen, saw a rare chance to settle an old score with The General. The goat began a series of torpedo runs at the wagon, stampeding the mules in a dead run through rough pasture. Foghorn the rooster was in cahoots, too, egging the goat on, cockling his high-pitched doodle-doos and encouraging Dante to do his worst.

Tred was not without resources or valuable experience as he struggled to cope. Years earlier, he had spent two full weeks as a Boy Scout (before being caught for throwing rocks at a police car), so he knew the motto, "be prepared."He suddenly remembered the flare pistol he'd found in the barn and, with great difficulty, reached down and grabbed it from the toolbox. There are many difficult feats a person must perform in this lifetime, but one of the _most_ difficult is to hit a maniacal billy goat with a flare gun from a bouncing wagon seat. Tred tried his best to hold the reins, aim the pistol, and bring the wagon under control, but he was thwarted as he juggled up and down, yanked like a puppet on strings. In a flash, he was on the ground, thrown from the bucking wagon. The mules, now freed of the reins, began to kick and buck and flail, aiming for Tred's head, groin, and any other parts of his body they might gladly disconnect. From his prone and vulnerable position, Tred let loose a loud curse and fired the flare gun wildly. The last thing he remembered before passing out was the mules kicking, the goat charging, and the rooster blaring like the Seventh Cavalry.

#

"Pa, we've got the limit, shouldn't we push on home?" nine year old Ray asked.

We were on a lake just a few yards offshore, fishing for striped bass in my twelfth summer. Pa shrugged non-committal-like, the way he often did.

I spoke up. "Ray, that's just like you. We got another two hours of daylight and plenty of fish left for the taking. We might as well pick up a few extras, right, Pa?"

"Well, it is a little early and Ma's not expecting us for another hour. I guess it wouldn't be too bad to take in a couple more. Ten more minutes and we'll go home and clean 'em up. This mess of fish will last a month of good eatin'."

Pa and I threw our lines in the water and hadn't been at it two minutes when Pa whispered, "Shit fire, boys," under his breath. I looked up and saw a man with a green uniform and badge on his cap walking towards us from a hundred yards out. It was a ranger.

"Hurry," Pa said, "Start cutting those fish loose. A LOT of them, and quick!" The boat rocked with nervousness, water splashing, as Ray and I sprang into action. Pa did the same. The uniformed officer walked toward us faster and now with purpose. We'd heard the fines for over-fishing were steep. Our hands flew like engine pistons; cut-dump, cut-dump, dump-splash, ca-whoosh. A lot of fish went overboard and they went quick. By the time the man was within thirty feet, we were safely under the limit, yet I felt sick at my stomach. Ray appeared to be, too, his face white as a cod from fear.

"How ya'll doin?" the ranger hollered in a friendly voice, "Catching many?"

The bastard was obviously patronizing us before the big bust. Our hearts raced as he drew closer, but it was just then that we finally got our first good look at him. His uniform was not that of a law enforcement officer, but one belonging to a Texaco gas station attendant.

"Not too bad..." Pa said in his lackadaisical manner, then casually spit over the side of the boat and added, "We've done better."

* * *

Homer was early for his appointment with Doctor Jamison, and they kept him cooling his heels in the waiting room for a half hour. Eventually he got in and, after poking and prodding his old body and reviewing the blood tests that had been sent to the lab the previous week, the doctor smiled and summarized. "Homer, I don't know what you're doing, but keep doing it. Your blood pressure's a little higher than last year, but not much. I don't recommend changing any of your medications. Go on back to your life and enjoy it. The way things are going, you'll probably be around as long as I will. Probably longer."

Homer thanked the man and got out of the office as quickly as possible. Once in his truck, he eased through downtown, and after battling stop-and-go traffic on Murfreesboro Pike, finally reached his destination on the outskirts of town. Knowing Michael was in the gray, sterile building always gave him a chill and caused him to worry, realizing that only through the grace of God and Ada had he stayed out of the same kind of place when he was younger. He parked and checked in at the window. The staff knew him by now, knew he was a regular visitor. The heavy traffic had conspired against him and visitation was half over. They brought Michael in wearing the same prison outfit he'd been in long enough now that the color was fading. Normally, his son looked depressed and angry during their visits, but today was different. "Dad," he said through the glass, "looks like they're gonna let me out! Can you believe it?"

"That's great news, son. When?"

"Within the next thirty days, according to my lawyer. Something about overcrowding. They got some budget cuts or something and said they need to make room for what they call more hardened criminals. We all know they never had much on me in the first place—that trumped up case, that cracker judge."

Homer knew the case alright. He knew it inside out. Michael had been involved in a robbery, but according to his story he was _only_ the driver. It was his buddy, DeMar Davis, who'd been the trigger man. DeMar fired once at a convenience store clerk and missed. The clerk fired once at DeMar and dropped him deader 'n Lincoln. Since no money was actually taken and DeMar was in no condition to testify, the case against Michael was largely circumstantial. He could have driven off that night without anyone knowing the better, except a cop happened to see him, double-parked, and looking just a little too interested at the time the shots rang out.

"Well, I'm real pleased with the news. I hope this time you'll pull it together, find some kind of work and stay out of these places. If you don't, they'll ruin you sure as the world or, even worse, kill you."

"I know, Dad. I know. But it ain't all bad in here. Some of the guys are turning it around, praying to Jesus and Mohammad, and finding strength through prayer. I tell you I've been praying, too. This time it's going to be different, you'll see. I know I'm not cut out for school like Charlene, but I know I can make something of myself. I _know_ it."

"Son, you don't know how proud that makes me to hear."

Michael's face was covered with a grin. "And when I get out, we're gonna celebrate. I'm coming over to your place and we'll burn some chicken and burgers on the grill, have us a few beers, too. Call Charlene and all the relatives, those that are still around. We'll have us a time." There was a long pause where they just smiled at each other. "How is she, Dad? How's Charlene? Does she still ask about me?"

"She always asks about you." He shook his head. "She works all the time. Still up at the hospital, spending most nights in the emergency room. I talked to her just this morning and she said to say hello."

"I can't wait to get out of this place. You'll see," Michael said again. "It's going to be different this time." They talked for awhile longer, until the guard signaled time was up. Homer rose and reluctantly said goodbye through the glass, appreciating how a different light now shone in his son's eyes for the first time in years. The hurt and hatred had magically vanished.

They parted and Homer went out to the truck. He sat a long time and eventually looked into the rearview mirror. His old eyes stared back glistening with tears. "Ada, I wish you could be here today," he said, "to see Michael right now. I know you'd be jumping for joy."

.

It was almost four in the afternoon when Homer returned to the Lee farm in Leipers Fork. As he turned into the drive, something out of the ordinary caught his attention. Out by the ridge, Cajun and The General were grazing, and halfway between them and the house, the goats, every last one except Dante, were out, too. Somehow they'd gotten loose from their pen. Homer pulled up by the barn and caught view of another odd sight. The wagon was tipped over and gear was strewn all about. Chickens were scavenging next to the house and had gathered in a small clutch. Homer saw Tred's truck, but there was no sight of the burly assistant. He was about to holler for Tred when he got a closer look at the chickens and what they were huddled around. Hard to recognize at first, but sure enough it was Foghorn lying there, or the body of what used to be Fog. Charred to a crisp, golden brown; a roasted color that would have warmed the heart of Colonel Sanders himself. The hens circled Foghorn as if in mourning, and skated aside as Homer moved in to take a closer look. Seems the old boy had taken a single shot square to his ever-puffed chest. It was clear that whatever hit him had packed a powerful punch. Homer shooed the hens back in their pen and latched the gate. As he walked back to the truck, he saw the flare gun lying on the ground near the overturned wagon.

"Tred! Where are you? Come out, show yourself!" he called. There was no response. Homer walked into the barn and yelled again. This time he heard a groan from the haystack. It was Tred, laid out on a blanket, his shirt and pants torn, several bruises and scratches painting his face.

"Son, what in the hell is going on around here?"

Tred pulled himself up and stared through bloodshot eyes. "That's a good question Homer. A damned good question. I tell you it all happened so quick it's a little blurry to me, but _..._ "

Homer stared at first without saying a word. Then encouraged Tred to continue by repeating the man's last word. " _But...?"_

"But...that's exactly right. I finished with the goat pen, which I fixed real good. And then I hooked up the mules, see, just like you tole me. But somehow, that damned Dante got loose and charged the team. I got throwed off the wagon and them two mules and the goat took to stompin' me. That's when I let loose with the flare gun. I didn't burn nothing down, did I?"

"Just the rooster. He's burned. And he's down."

"Well, I didn't care too much for him, anyway, though it wouldn't hurt my feelings if I hit the goat. Where is that bastard anyway?"

"I don't know. Haven't seen him, yet. He's around someplace, I'm sure, unless that flare gun's a six shooter." Homer attempted to reel in his wrath. "You in any shape to help me right this wagon and bring Cajun and The General back to the stable? They're clear up by the knob. All the goats are still loose in the pasture, too, and need fetching."

Tred grimaced and held his back in exaggerated pain. "I don't think it would be such a good idea right now if I was to do more work today, Homer. My back's feeling fairly poorly."

Homer looked down his nose with disgust. "Well, go on home then, I'll do it myself. Get yourself cleaned up and I'll see you in the morning. But I can tell you one thing. Mister Lee won't be too happy with all this mess. Not happy at all. Now, go on. Git."

Tred picked himself up and hobbled to his truck. On the way, an empty liquor bottle fell out of his torn pants pocket and shattered on the drive. Homer pursed his lips. "On second thought, Tred, don't bother coming back in the morning. I've got a feeling you're through working here."

The young man's face grew even redder than it already was from a day of sun and drinking. "You don't have that say, old man. Only Uncle Quinn does."

"I know that. He'll make the call. He's supposed to phone me in the morning to check on Buddy. I'll tell him you need the day off tomorrow for your wounds to heal, and then let him make the decision as to whether to keep you on after that."

Tred stepped forward a couple paces, drew up his chest and raised his voice in anger. "Why, you son of a _bi_..."

But just then, Dante, who had been grazing unseen upon some nearby azaleas, decided to charge the big palooka one more time. Tred's hoped-for diatribe cut short, he scrambled for dear life, jumped into the truck, and slammed the door as the goat wheeled up short at the last second. "You horned devil, I'll kill you next!" screamed Tred. "And _you_ —you rotten old SOB," he spat at Homer, "If you cost me this job, I'll make your life miserable!"

Homer walked over, grabbed the goat with one hand by a horn and held firm. Dante went tame all of a sudden; probably just exhausted from too much excitement for one day. "Don't you go threatening me, son. I'm too old to be scared by the likes of you. Now I said _git!_ "

Tred's truck belched smoke as he cranked the starter. He wheeled and turned, then burned rubber as he sped down the drive, running up on the grass, and almost slamming into the mailbox. Homer watched as the pickup sped off. It wasn't a half minute later he saw the boy's car turn into the drive. Damien parked and got out. "What happened here?" he asked, staring at the burnt carcass.

"Long story," Homer replied. "You don't happen to be hungry for some roasted rooster, do you? I can't verify it's finger-lickin' good, but it's definitely well done."

"Um, no thanks, Homer. I had lunch in town."

"Damien," Homer said, amused. "I was only kidding."

The boy looked again at the roasted carcass of the dead bird. "That's not Foghorn, is it?"

"Yep, a shame, isn't it?" Homer said. "I kind of liked the old bird, despite his rambunctious ways. Fortunately, he had all his feathers numbered for just such an occasion as this."

The boy's eyes drew blanks; he didn't have a clue what the old man meant. Damien gazed at the overturned wagon and saw the goats and the two mules standing several hundred yards away. "You want some help?" he asked.

They brought the goats back first, then the mules. All the beasts were skittish, but relieved that someone finally had come for them. The General lifted his hind legs in an obligatory kick, but it was half-hearted and not delivered with the usual gusto. "At least Buddy's alright," the boy offered as they led Cajun and The General up to the stable and were greeted by the big red.

"You're right about that," Homer answered. "The one saving grace." After we finish here, I gotta wrap that leg."

#

Quinn called the next day just before noon. It was official. Tred was done. "To hell with my sister-in-law, that boy's gone, kin or no kin."

"He was pretty bitter about the idea of losing his job, Mister Lee. Do you suppose he might cause any trouble for us?"

"No, Homer, he's harmless. All bark. But that leaves you without a strong back to help around the place. Can you check with Miguel to see if he'd be interested in coming back and working with us full time?"

"I already did, Mister Lee. I checked yesterday, just in case, and he said he could start tomorrow. He's a good man, always did an honest day's work when he worked with us before."

"Well, that's good. It'll be good to have him back. How's Buddy?"

"Much better. Whatever was bothering his leg isn't bad and the tape's already giving him the stability he needs. I expect he'll be right as rain in a week."

"Good. How about the boy? You see Damien around the place much?"

"Yes, sir, and he's warmed up quite a bit. He's still out taking pictures most the time, but he helped me considerably in cleaning up that mess yesterday. He seems to have also taken a shine to Buddy, and vice versa."

"That's interesting, but I'm glad to hear it. Who knows, there might be something to the boy after all. And Missus Lee?"

"Oh, she comes and goes like she always does. I think she was out playing tennis yesterday, based on her outfit."

"She _does_ play tennis a lot, doesn't she?

"Yes, sir," Homer said, "she does at that."

Quinn nodded. "I guess it could be worse. She could be blowing through even more of my money at the mall."

"I guess you're right about that." Homer said with a chuckle.

Quinn rubbed his chin and peered at Homer like he wanted to say something more about Jamie, then seemed to change his mind. Instead he took a long look at the sprawling pasture and said, "So long, then, Homer, I'll be home Saturday evening. See you then."

.

It was lunch time so Homer took his sandwich out to the chair under the oak and pulled out his book. He was deep into the story when he heard footsteps come up from behind. Damien pulled up a stool and sat beside him. "Whatcha reading?"

"Something by Thomas Wolfe," Homer replied, " _Of Time and the River._ "

"Any good?"

"Yeah, very good. I recommend Wolfe, if you've never read him."

"I don't want to read any old man books," Damien said with genuine disdain.

Homer smiled. "They're _not_ old man books. Wolfe was a young man when he wrote them. In fact, now that I think of it, you bear a strong physical resemblance to him when he'd have been about your age. He was a smart man and brilliant writer. If you have the mind, I'd suggest starting with _Look Homeward, Angel._ "

_If I had the mind, my ass_ , Damien thought. But to humor the man and feign politeness he asked, "What does he write about, anyway?"

"A young man growing up in a dysfunctional family. And figuring out what to do with himself."

Damien laughed sarcastically. "Hell, I could write that book myself. I've had a belly full of growing up in a 'dysfunctional family.'"

"Well, you should do that. _Write,_ I mean. Check out Wolfe. He might just inspire you."

"I can tell from right here that book has too many words and no pictures. And I've got more important things to do with my time than read and write."

"Suit yourself," Homer said, "but if you get the chance, give it a read. It'll put your shit in the street."

Damien laughed out loud. "I wouldn't expect to hear you say something like _that_ , old man. But for the sake of discussion, maybe one of these days I will get around to it. My shit could stand to get out in the street."

Homer smiled. "You do that, son. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my book. You off to shoot more pictures?"

"Not today, the light's too hazy. I'm headed to town to pick up some prints. See you around, Homer. Enjoy your old man book."

#

The door swung open to the 2nd Avenue Photo Shop and a lanky dark-eyed teen walked in with a camera bag slung over his shoulder. I finished ringing up a customer and turned to the tall young man. "Can I help you?"

"Just here to pick up some black and whites I dropped off yesterday. Last name's Lee."

I searched the bin. "Sure, got 'em right here."

Damien took them out of the package. "Let me take a look right now. I may want to have some enlarged." He spread the photos over the counter. There were several of downtown, a couple of the river, a few night shots of the full moon against the Nashville skyline, and two or three of a house and barn. I'd printed them the day before and was impressed with the composition and exposure quality. The kid obviously knew what he was doing. My face feigned a disinterested look, respecting the boy's personal space. "You've got a good eye," I finally commented.

Damien ignored me, intent on studying each print. "Can you make an eight-by-ten of this skyline shot and the other one with the house and barn? There's no rush. I'll drop by next week to pick them up."

"Sure, we can do that." We settled on the cost and the boy collected his prints and left the store. A few minutes later John Wallace returned with coffee and bagels. "Here's your cinnamon raisin. Anything going on?"

"Sold a battery. And a tall kid named Lee came in, wanted a couple black and white enlargements."

Wallace sipped his coffee. "Sounds like the same guy who dropped the film off yesterday. It's slow this morning. Why don't you go ahead and knock 'em out?"

I was more than happy to escape the front counter to work in the darkroom. I set up the enlarger and prepared the trays, first printing the boy's photo of the Nashville skyline moonrise. It took several attempts to get it right, but it was a beauty; perfect composition and dramatic silver and gray tones. This kid's _good_ , I thought. Then I moved on to enlarge the photo of the barn and house. It was less inspiring, but still well composed. As the chemical bath did its job, the image clearly revealed itself and came to life—a big antebellum house, stately oak trees, an impressive barn, a few chickens, goats and a couple mules or horses. The photo was not artistically special, but was pleasing to the eye in a rustic way.

#

"Homer, how did Tred take getting fired?"

"Mister Lee, he didn't take it too well at all. He thinks I stabbed him in the back and said he'd make us pay."

"That's what he said? He'd make us pay?"

"Well sir, not those exact words, but that's pretty much the sentiment he ended up on."

Quinn Lee laughed. "Well, all I can say is good luck on that one. I'll have a word with his mother and let her know in no uncertain terms that I'll personally kick his sorry ass if he so much as sets foot on the place. How's Miguel working out so far?"

"He's doing fine. Always here on time and a good steady worker."

"You teach him well, and make sure he understands how special Buddy is. You're in good enough shape to be around here for years, but it's always good to prepare an understudy."

"Yes sir, I understand that, too. I've already started up his lessons."

"Thanks, Homer. You're the best. Can you help me get Buddy saddled up? I'd like to go for a ride this afternoon."

#

In his dimly lit office Dalton James reviewed a real estate contract, diligently looking for a loophole that he _knew_ had to be there. He just needed to look hard enough. The rest of the offices were dark, the staff from Jefferson and Cleese having left hours ago. So far, he'd been unsuccessful in the effort, but that had never stopped him in the past. Slowed him down maybe, but stopped him cold, never. Finding loopholes was what James did best in life. He hated to lose; in fact he had a physical revulsion to it. The option he'd purchased on a prime commercial property on Demonbreun Street was set to expire in a week and he needed to find a crack in the contract or else come up with a quick twenty thousand. Otherwise, he'd lose the hundred and thirty he'd already sunk into the project.

If that wasn't enough, it was already mid-July and the election was less than four months away. The campaign reports from his staff were ugly. His latest poll numbers, despite his incumbency, were running at forty-three percent and his opponent, Wilson Frazier, was at fifty-two. The salary for state senator wasn't great, but the connections made the office very desirable, and it was a job he couldn't afford to give up. They were at the point where his campaign reserves were sorely in need of some fast cash. And while there were plans underway for a "redirection campaign," their invented term for negative campaigning, that required cash, too. In the plus column, his capable chief of staff, Nelson Benning, was on the job. Benning recently had uncovered rumors that Frazier was gay. After all, Frazier wasn't married, and was more often seen in the company of men than women. It wouldn't hurt to nudge the impression along with the voting constituency that the young up-and-comer might be a little light in the loafers, whether it was true or not. "Nashville _is_ in the Bible Belt," Benning rationalized to the campaign team, "and you sure as hell don't want a faggot making public policy, do you?"

Six months earlier Dalton James would have sought guidance and money from Phillip Macaulay, the senior Democrat who first helped him get elected, but that well had run dry. James, who had a habit of passing his business cards to every state, county, and city employee he ever met, had recently stepped into a mess. Over the years, he'd developed a reputation for motivating political decisions based on his subtle interference in local government's personnel decisions. But lately Macaulay had been turned off by James' shameless self-promotion and his walking the edge of political expediency. _The Cumberland Scene_ had weighed in early and often on the relationship between the two men and made quite an issue of their apparent falling out. It all came to a head when the Metro Council scheduled a vote to award contracts for city billboards. Dalton's old buddy, Michael Chewmore, a state legislator who ran the town's biggest billboard business, asked if Dalton "wouldn't mind making a few calls to remind key people of the upcoming vote." James got in touch with several Metro Council members, "as a courtesy, just to check in with them," and while he had their attention, happened to mention the importance of the upcoming contract. Conflict of interest charges soon flew around the state capitol like bees swarming a hive.

Of course, Dalton James denied any conflicts of interest. "There was absolutely _no_ pressure applied to anybody. Just a friend talking to friends," he said in a statement to the press. "I didn't do anything for them that I wouldn't do for you, or any other tax-paying citizen." And it was true. James would have done it for any of his constituents—who happened to be rich or well connected. He was just that kind of friendly guy. But in this case, his over-reaching had backfired.

James' cell phone buzzed. It was Eve. His wife seemed irritated and got right to the point. "You coming home tonight? Or what?"

He was expecting the call and had been for awhile. "Sorry, honey. I'm still at the office. I've got to work something out on this damned contract even if it takes until morning. You know what's at stake. I'll probably order a pizza and work through the night. I've gotta find something to keep us from losing what we've already invested."

"That's what I thought you'd say," she answered. "I'll be turning in early tonight. It's been a rough day."

Dalton started to say something, but was interrupted. "I spoke with Damien this afternoon. He says he hates being at the farm. And I'm not crazy about him being out there alone so often with that young wife of Quinn's. The little vamp. He wants to know if we can bring him back to town instead of leaving him there all summer."

"Eve, we can discuss it later. And I wouldn't worry about Damien. Jamie's a grown woman and he's a boy. Nothing's going to happen there. Besides," he laughed, "Quinn would kill them both if it did."

"Dalton, that's not funny."

Dalton quickly swallowed the laugh and changed the subject. "And it's just a few more weeks that he'll be there anyway. MBA isn't the cheapest tuition around and my income's going to get cut big time by year end if I don't figure out a way to win this election. We might need to put him in public school."

"You talked about sending him to military school in Virginia if he didn't shape up. And that's as expensive as Montgomery Bell, or more so."

"True, but if we send him off to boot camp, I've got a friend there who'd get him a partial scholarship. Listen, Eve, I've just about had it with Damien. The kid should be working this summer. Instead, he's driving all over town, taking pictures and burning up gas."

Eve jumped to her son's defense. "You know he's tried several times to get a summer job and nothing worked out. I would have thought you'd have been able to arrange something."

Dalton grimaced at the suggestion. "Let's talk about it later," he said again. "I've gotta go. I'll be home by morning, but it might just be for a change of clothes."

They said their goodbyes coolly and hung up. James took off his reading glasses and stared at the contract lying on his desk. Disgusted with his lack of progress, he walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured a whisky and took a sip; then picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hi, sweetie, when you coming?" cooed a sweet voice on the other end.

"Hi, gorgeous. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Start your engines." He hung up and smiled. On the other end of the line had been Sarah Baldwin, a young attorney who worked on his staff. Thirty-two years old, shiny brunette hair, killer eyes, smart as a whip, and a terrific body. She had it all, including the latest Victoria Secret's lingerie and a sex drive that wouldn't stop. Sparks had flown from the first time they'd laid eyes on each other and he still couldn't keep his mind or hands off her. The feeling seemed mutual, though he knew the relationship was wrought with danger. James had no idea where it would end. How he would deal with the situation with Eve or the media, if they found out. Lately, he didn't care. He only knew he was crazy about Sarah; hopelessly drawn.

"Addicted" was probably not too strong a word.

Dalton straightened the papers on his desk, packed an overstuffed briefcase, then finished his drink and turned out the lights as he left. He rode the elevator down, checking his reflection in the glass. There were bags under his middle-aged eyes and his hair was graying at the temples. But what the hell. He was still not a bad looking guy, he reflected. For his age _._ He let his mind drift to Sarah's soft firm skin and to how, despite the age difference, she appeared to genuinely love him. He knew he was in deep, but he might as well go whole hog at this point. After all, something would work out. It always had before. .

The elevator door opened at the parking deck level, and Hal Clamber, one of his two body guards, was waiting. The burly man in a pinstriped suit stood and greeted his boss. "Good evening, Senator."

"How's it going, Hal? Is Carter still in Memphis?"

"Yes sir, he is. Should be back by noon tomorrow." Clamber then added in a confidential tone, "He's taking care of that situation you asked him about."

"Good. I thought about sending both of you, but that would have been overkill. Don't want to hurt anyone, after all, just wanted to let them know we mean business."

"I'm sure Carter will get the message across clear as a bell sir. He always does."

Dalton James smiled. "Yes, he does at that."

It had been a stroke of genius to hire Hal Clamber and Carter Jenson. During law school, the thought of having a couple of thugs as body guards would have seemed melodramatic to James. Cliché. Something you might see in Miami or Las Vegas. But, in reality, they more than earned their keep. Their presence lent respect to the office and made the town and the whole state aware that Dalton James was a man of substance, a person to be reckoned with. Eve didn't care a bit for the pair. And Damien absolutely hated them for their constant spying and informing on him to his stepfather. The boy learned they were the ones who'd busted him for the fake ID and the beer fiasco, and that hadn't endeared him to them. But Dalton James found them both trustworthy and loyal. Not the brightest guys on the block, but certainly bright enough for the job. And the fact they both had gun permits and were former law enforcement officers provided the senator additional assurance that nobody was going to cross him.

"Hal, you can go ahead and knock off," he said. "I won't need your services for the rest of tonight."

"Yes sir. Can I drop you somewhere first?"

"No, that won't be necessary. I've got my car and have some things to work out on West End."

Clamber knew exactly what that meant. The boss would be coming in late tomorrow. Probably walking a little bow-legged, too, Clamber mused to himself. That Baldwin chick must be something else in the sack. But he knew better than to share such dangerous thoughts with the boss. Instead, he offered the standard reply. "Then have a good evening, sir. I'll see you tomorrow at the office."

#

Uncle Percy—Pa's gentle brother who made his living as a mussel fisherman on the Tennessee River. A hundred years after the Cherokee relocation to Oklahoma, Percy had access to every burial cache along the flooded Tennessee valley. Points, bones, and skulls came easily into his possession as did a wealth of knowledge that dwarfed his sixth-grade education. Percy was part Indian himself and knew the Cherokee trails along the river banks like the back of his hand. His backyard was a magical place; where the Flint and the Paint Rock Rivers converged into the rebel known as the Tennessee.

Percy's wife, Margie, ran Cash's Fish Camp before there was a dam at Guntersville, before they paved the highway. They were simple folks. Though Percy and Margie's son, Arthur, broke the mold and got a real education, earning a full-ride scholarship at Harvard before moving to Malaysia, working for the World Bank, and making something of himself. But Marge and Percy barely left the county their whole lives.

There were three things Uncle Percy loved the most—farming the bottom lands, running his prize hunting dogs, and working his mules. When the bottoms were flooded, Percy hunted to provide for the family. Deer, bear, and raccoon were all fair game for the table. In later years, unable to run with the dogs, he'd let them loose just to hear them sing. His "Midnight Opera," he called them. I was grown by then, and some nights would drink clear liquor with him on the porch. We'd rock back and forth, sipping hooch, getting so drunk we could feel Mother Earth, herself, expand and contract as she breathed. Numbed by the drink, seduced by the glistening stars or a haloed moon, sometimes we'd yammer like parrots and other times we'd fall silent the better part of an hour, embraced by the summer air, the marriage of drowsy currents in the valley and crisper drafts settling down from the mountains.

When he'd hear the hounds catch a scent, he'd perk up. "Listen, Danny! That's ol' Grady a-leadin' 'em— just listen! Ain't that the purty-est sound you'll ever know?"

And the dogs were howling and chasing and I'd agree it _was_ the purty-est sound there ever was. And he'd pour a little more of that juice in our jars, and for a time we were the two happiest souls in Alabama. Sometimes we'd sit there all night, drinking till dawn scaled the bluff across the river and lit the graves on Grant Mountain.

And then there was Houston, Uncle Percy's favorite mule. Years before, when the Tennessee iced over, the big red pulled those two young boys out of that icy hole, brought Ray back from the dead and earned a hallowed place in family lore for the rest of his life. I can still see it like it was yesterday—Ray, dunked in that frozen river, a goner for sure. And then miraculously hauled out by that big red mule. It was a day none of us would ever forget in this lifetime or the next—the afternoon of Ray's second, and final, baptism.

* * *

Eve turned off the windshield wipers and stared down the interstate. It had been raining torrents when she left Cookeville and the sky to the east still painted her rearview mirror a grayish black. But just ahead, the sun glared so bright she used her knees to drive so she could rummage through her purse for sunglasses. It was the better part of an hour back to Nashville and she was grateful for the time alone, though her recent marital difficulties with Dalton weighed heavily as she drove. Her mind drifted, as it had done often lately, this time all the way back to high school. Had it really been twenty years? No, even more. _Twenty-five_. She thought back to that last year at Harpeth Hall and the memory still warmed her.

Dalton James, the dark one—chestnut hair, brown eyes, and the kind of primal good looks teenage girls eat up with a spoon. Quinn Lee, her other suitor, with light complexion and blondish hair. Scary smart; the guy you knew would succeed in life. But at the time, success was a concept for the distant future. And Dalton was just insistent and confident enough that the future didn't seem so important, especially with her hormones screaming.

In his parents' guest room when they were out of town.

She'd never felt so alive and gave herself freely. For the first time in her life, she'd felt fulfilled, empowered. She and Dalton dated during their last year of high school and grew very close. After all the competition, after all the jostling, Quinn was left on the outside looking in. Dalton made it clear to everyone that he cared deeply for Eve, but he made it equally clear that he was proud of besting Quinn and winning the pretty blonde.

She looked at the speedometer as she barreled down I-40. Seventy-three and steady. She checked her mirrors and the traffic. Everything looked normal. She was safely between the white lines, in the right lane, with good spacing between cars, but she couldn't help wonder how she was driving so well when her mind was a million miles away. She couldn't remember seeing the road the last twenty miles. She turned on the radio to bring her back to earth, but it didn't work. In a few moments she'd drifted back. Back through time, to that second year at Vanderbilt, when Dalton had asked if she was sleeping with Quinn...

I'm not even going to answer that, Dalton. You're the one who said we should start seeing other people.

That awkward sophomore year when they were no longer kids, nor 'real' adults yet. They were both moving on, growing up. Learning what they liked and wanted in a partner. Then, two years later, right before graduation, it came to a head, the late-night phone call when she told him she was getting married to Quinn. There was a long, dead silence after she gave him the news.

Dalton, are you there? Talk to me. Don't you have anything to say?

What do you want me to say? Congratulations? Hell, Eve, that I'm happy for you? For him? Christ, don't do this. I love you.

She looked in the rearview mirror at her watery eyes, flanked underneath by dark crescents. Middle age is hell.

She'd tried to let him down easy. She did care for him, even still loved him in a way, but at the time, she just needed it to be over, some sort of resolution. She cried as she drove. One hand clutched the wheel, the other a tissue. The rain started again, first in fat intermittent splats, and then the same torrents as before. She turned on the wipers full bore and they slapped at the rain as her eyes blurred.

Damien was born a couple years later. Quinn began his meteoric rise in the music world and life in Leipers Fork on the farm seemed wonderful in those early days; that is until Quinn became addicted to work and apparently allergic to spending time with his family.

She ran into Dalton at a Democratic campaign fund raiser at the Opryland Hotel nine years later. He'd lost the scraggly, college look and gained a few pounds, but he still had it; the looks, the charm, that unabashed confidence. He was a partner with Jefferson and Cleese by then and shared with her his thoughts about running for political office. Out of sight of the crowd, in the back of the auditorium, he stole a kiss. She was taken aback by his brashness at first, not expecting the ambush, but instinctively kissed him back. Tentative at first, but then hard, feeling that familiar magnetism, pressing her body against his as hard as she could; like she couldn't get close enough. They unlocked from the embrace and took a step back, sizing each other up again. It'd been a long time. After all those years, she was still in love. And he was, too. The affair followed, and then the divorce from Quinn. She and Dalton got married. She got custody and brought Damien to town, to live with a stepfather who was his father's lifelong rival. It seemed for awhile that the fairy tale just might work—that whole "love conquers all" scenario she'd seen in the movies. But there were major cracks in the dam. She thought at first that it was a case of Dalton, the man, not being the same as Dalton, the boy. But then she figured it out; he _was_ the same and she'd just been too naïve to know it. Being a typical politician, Dalton found campaigning was a lot more fun than governing and evidently, courting was a lot more fun than being married. He strayed more than once, not only with women, but with the law, and regularly crossed the line. The recent conflict of interest charges surrounding the billboard contract was the latest in a long string of similar incidents. On top of everything else, Dalton and his moody stepson, Damien, had recently clashed. Reality had set in and it wasn't pretty.

Eve wasn't one for regrets. She'd learned the hard way that second chances don't always work. In hindsight, she knew it was a mistake to leave Quinn, but she'd never admit it to him or herself. Still, she thought, even if Quinn _was_ a workaholic, at least he wasn't a cheat.

The exit for Charlotte Avenue came into view. Eve sat up straighter, put on the blinker and eased on to the ramp. She had planned to meet Dalton for dinner but he'd called and said he'd be late again. "A sudden meeting's come up." His tried and true excuse. As dusk settled over the Nashville skyline, she made her way downtown to the empty condo where she'd once again dine alone.

#

Damien's Prius glided noiselessly into Percy Warner Park, a gorgeous forest refuge in Nashville with miles of narrow, winding road. As he pulled into a deserted parking lot, he saw an SUV and a couple of pickups, but there weren't many visitors for such a pretty day. Though he generally preferred the hustle of town, Damien found solitude in the woods, and the big park seemed like it could provide plenty of places to get lost. He parked and got out, took out his tripod and camera, and decided to take a hike. Consulting the map on the information board, he saw there were three horse trails featuring three-, seven-, and eight-mile loops, and dozens of walking trails. He took in the view and settled on a path that meandered up the small mountain.

It felt good to stretch his long legs and he climbed for a half hour without stopping. Below, he saw there was plenty of water and even more lush woods. Given the beauty of the place, he wondered why there weren't more people around. He hadn't encountered another soul, and that intrigued him. The solitude might have felt eerie except for the daylight, though by late-morning the woods were already shaded dark by the tree canopy. Not much in the mood for the camera, he followed a horse trail, thankful for its noticeable lack of horse droppings. Despite his subdued mood, he stopped occasionally to squeeze off a few shots. Near a ridge, off the path about fifty yards, he spotted the shadow of a small building, partially covered in ivy. He approached closer and saw a simple barn-like emergency shelter, no doubt built for hikers to hole up in during a sudden storm. It had a certain amount of appeal so Damien took a few pictures. In the middle of shooting, his cell phone rang, rudely interrupting the peace. His mother's name appeared on caller ID.

"Yeah?" he answered.

"And good afternoon, to you, too. Is that any way to answer your mother?" Eve didn't wait for an answer. "I've just been talking to your stepfather. I know you don't like it out at Quinn's and I've finally got Dalton leaning towards bringing you back to town a couple weeks early. Just don't do anything dumb and I think we can pull it off."

"Don't do anything dumb? _Me?_ "

"Damien, you can drop the sarcasm. It doesn't help a bit."

"Alright, Mom, tell you what, I promise. I've got absolutely _nothing_ dumb planned before September first. Just get me out of Leipers Fork, okay? Living out there's killing me."

"Don't fuss with me, Damien. I'm just trying to help. You know Dalton's stressed over the election and that's all the more reason for you to keep yourself together and not cause any waves. He's got his hands full with the media, and that business with the billboards and the Metro Council isn't helping, either."

_The dumb son of a bitch deserves to lose_ , the boy thought, but kept it to himself. If Dalton James did lose in November, his own situation would only worsen. Damien needed to buy one more year, just one more, and then he'd be off to college. He didn't know which one yet, but it didn't matter. Anyplace other than Nashville would do.

"I'm in the middle of a photo shoot, Mom," he said, eyeing the small shelter with a sudden inspiration. "I'll see ya later." He closed the phone.

#

Michael Carr sat with his attorney before the parole officer and judge. His case was being heard to decide on the possibility of early release. Carr's lawyer made a compelling case. The young man had been a model prisoner and the case against him had been largely circumstantial. The smooth-talking attorney reminded his Honor of "the overcrowded nature of our penitentiaries," and then finished with a convincing argument that one in nine of Tennessee's poor, young black men were in prison and that too many were wrongly stereotyped as hardened criminals. It was an easy argument since it was true. Despite that fact, the judge agreed, and scheduled Michael's release for the last day of August.

Michael called his father as soon as he could. "Dad, it's official. I'm being released the end of August! What do you say we have that cookout on Labor Day? You, Charlene, and any else of the family you can rustle up."

"That's great news, son! It's a date. I'll call Charlene and your Aunt Julia and we'll set it up. We'll have some of your cousins over, too."

"I can hardly believe it, Dad. I'm looking forward to seeing you. I've got some ideas to share about maybe working with you at the farm."

Homer's heart skipped a beat. The thought had occurred to him, too. The big question was whether Mister Lee would support it. Miguel was doing a good job, but in a place with that many acres and animals, an extra strong back was always needed. Homer was almost scared to say it. He spoke quietly. "I've been thinking the same thing. I'll talk to Mister Lee this week and see if we can work something out. But whether you get the job or not, you're welcome to stay with me at the house, at least until you get on your feet. I've got a spare room and it'll be good having you here. It gets pretty lonely sometimes."

"I was hoping you'd say that. It'll be great to get outta here, but I want to get away from town for awhile, too. You know, clear my head. I'm sure working out in the country would do me a world of good. And I know I can learn a lot by working with you."

"Well, don't count yer chickens just yet," Homer said, surprised but pleased. "I need to get Mister Lee's buy-in. Though I feel pretty sure he'll go along with it. But Michael, if I make this happen, we got to have an understanding. You've got to play it absolutely straight. That means no drugs, no funny business at _all_. We understand each other, right?"

"Yes sir, I understand." Michael got quiet. "You once told me you turned things around, that you were troubled yourself before you met Mom. It's my time to do the same."

Homer felt practically giddy at the thought. It _was_ possible, after all. It just might work. _Maybe it was all those prayers._ He nodded to himself in agreement. "I'll talk with Mister Lee, then, and will see you on Saturday at the regular time. Charlene'll jump for joy when she hears this."

"Thanks, Dad, I love you. And say hi to Charlene for me."

#

Damien returned to the farm late Saturday afternoon from Percy Warner Park and pulled around the back of the house to hose off his car. Months of neglect had left it so dirty that even he couldn't stand it any longer. He took off his shirt in the hot sun, filled the bucket with soapy water, and made some half-hearted swipes with the big sponge, not taking much care in the effort.

Dante watched impassively from the pen, chewing his ever-present cud. A small rooster sat perched on the goat's back—the new one, named Fernando that Homer had brought in to replace Foghorn. Every henhouse needs a stock of good roosters, after all. But in temperament this young one was the opposite from the dearly departed Foghorn. For some strange reason, Dante had accepted the presence of this newcomer and they'd become inseparable. Damien took note, but paid only passing attention to the budding animal romance. He finished washing the Prius, and decided to leave it on the back side of the house where the sun would dry it off. Thirsty and sweaty, he turned off the hose, picked up his shirt, and went inside.

The big house was deserted as it often was on the weekends and he liked it that way. Quinn was in Memphis working a music deal and Jamie was in town playing tennis. Damien drank a half liter of Gatorade and went upstairs to clean up. He showered, paying the usual, thorough attention to his private parts, and before long his thoughts drifted and he was half aroused. He got out of the shower, dried off, and knowing he had the house to himself, strode naked to his father and Jamie's room and into her closet. He rummaged through the dirty clothes basket, where sure enough he uncovered a pair of her tiny panties. He sniffed and wasn't disappointed, as the scent of her sex filled him with desire. He was just about to borrow them and head back to his room when the front door slammed. Damien froze, and then panicked as he heard the distinctive sound of someone running up the stairs. Naked and with no place to go, he closed the closet door and stood perfectly still, with Jamie's thong still in his hand.

As he peeked through the louvers of the closet door, Jamie strolled into the room, hot and perspiring in her white tennis outfit. She took off her shoes and peeled off the sweaty top. She was an athletic young woman with strawberry blonde hair and her face was flushed from exercise. In an instant, beautiful plump breasts and dark nipples were revealed and Damien's eyes widened in disbelief. He realized suddenly that his car wasn't out front where he normally parked, so she'd be unaware he was in the house. A moment later she had the tennis skirt off too, and was now clad only in a pair of sky blue panties.

Damien expected her to head for the shower, but instead she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes as if she were going to take a nap. His heart raced with fear and voyeuristic lust, but he thought if he stood perfectly still, she'd eventually fall asleep and he could slip out.

Jamie lay on the bed and daydreamed. She should get up and shower, she thought, but it was too nice to just lie there and relax. She'd just finished a doubles match with two girl friends and their tennis instructor, Mitch, a thirty-something hunk who, after years of constant workouts on the courts, was in amazing shape. Tanned and tall with strong legs and a tight butt, she sometimes had trouble concentrating on her serve when he leaned forward at the net. With Quinn gone so much of the time, she often had desires to be with another man, and in her fantasy Mitch was at the top of the list. So far, that's all they were, fantasies upon which she'd never acted. Mitch was spoken for after all; one of the other girls in the doubles foursome was dating him. And besides, she was married. But on the drive home Jamie had thought of little else besides being in bed with Mitch, undressing him, and now thinking about it really turned her on. Where _was_ Quinn, anyway? Memphis? It didn't matter; he was _always_ out of town.

Riveted, Damien, with eyes bulging in disbelief watched from the closet as she made herself more comfortable on the soft bed linens.

With thoughts still on Mitch and his tight abdominals, Jamie let her left hand stray to her right breast. She pulled and pinched, first one and then both nipples, as her right hand slid across her belly and down the front of her panties. A soft moan escaped her lips.

Damien swallowed hard and his mouth grew dry as Jamie began to touch herself. A moment later she pulled her knees up, peeled off her panties and tossed them over the side of the bed to the floor. He heard her sigh as she adjusted the pillows—and then watched intently as she licked her fingers and slowly began fingering herself. The effect was instantaneous and there was no way Damien could keep from stroking his swollen cock. He struggled to do so quietly, but it was next to impossible. She carried on for several minutes until he watched with amazement as her body finally arched and heaved with a wrenching orgasm. Then she collapsed and rolled over with another big sigh.

Damien, still very hard and on the verge of exploding, quit stroking himself with great difficulty. There was no way she wouldn't hear him if he continued. He prayed she'd fall asleep and then waited, willing himself to settle down. Five minutes passed that seemed like fifteen and he thought she'd finally slipped into a slumber. Holding his breath, he put his hand on the door to make his escape.

But just then Jamie rose abruptly providing a view of what he thought must surely be the most beautiful rear end in the world. A muffled gasp escaped his lips as he watched. Thankfully she didn't hear it. Instead, she went to her dresser, dug into a bottom drawer and came out with a large vibrator.

Holy shit, Damien thought, you've got to be kidding! She stepped over to the rear window to draw the blinds.

And that's when she saw it—his car parked in back of the house.

.

Jamie stopped in her tracks, grabbed a bathrobe from a chair, put it on, stashed the vibrator back in the drawer and tiptoed toward her open bedroom door.

"Damien?" she called down the hall. Damien, are you here?"

She padded quietly down the hall toward his room, looked in the hall bathroom, and then scurried back to her bedroom. There she bent down to check under the bed, feeling stupid, but had to make sure. Nothing. She glanced around the room with her mind racing. _Hadn't the closet door been open when I left?_ With eyes fixed on the louvers she paused for a moment.

Damien froze. Suddenly Jamie strode from across the room directly to the closet and yanked open the door. When she saw him inside, the entire house reverberated with a loud scream.

Damien, red-faced and with mouth open, stood with both hands wrapped around Jamie's panties, trying his best to cover his crotch.

.

To come face to face with a completely naked Damien in a closet would be a surprise to anyone. But to his young stepmother, it was a lot more than startling. To say she was beside herself would be an understatement. "What in the hell are you doing in there, you little shit! Were you—? Ohmigod! Get the hell out!"

Damien stood a head taller than she, and didn't say a word at first. Then she looked at his crotch, her panties in his hands, ineffectually attempting to hide the evidence.

"That's disgusting," she sniped. "You didn't—you _didn't_ , did you? Because if you did, I swear to God I'll—"

"No," Damien rushed in. "No, I—"

"Then give 'em to me." She didn't wait and reached over and grabbed them. "And get the hell out!"

Damien didn't need to be told a third time.

She almost took his head off as her arm abruptly pointed to the door, but in a flash she realized she wasn't done with him yet. "Stop, dammit!"

Damien froze in his tracks. Afraid to stay, afraid to go.

"Wait just a minute. Tell me something first. How long were you in there? Did you watch me? Did you see me just now while I was—?"

Damien stared down at the pristine white carpet. Unable to speak, he had a sinking feeling, his manhood now anything but erect.

She eyed him and had to admit he wasn't a bad-looking kid. Thin, but big boned, dark, wavy hair. Big hands and feet. _How old was he anyway, eighteen?_ And it was hard not to have noticed that swollen cock of his.

Damien shifting from one foot to the other finally decided the best approach was to tell the truth, embarrassing as it was. "Yeah."

"Yeah, what?"

"Yeah, I...I saw you."

"Let me get this straight. You were in my closet, watching me and jacking off with my panties?"

"Well," Damien stuttered, "I...I...if you want to look at it that way. I mean, technically speaking..."

"Shut up!" And don't give me that crap. Have you ever done that before?"

"What—jacked off?"

"Hell, no, you little perv, have you ever watched me like that before?"

"No! Course not. I mean...that was the first time."

"Well, you can bet your sweet ass it's gonna be the last, too. Dammit, anyway!"

Damien made a move to exit. He couldn't wait to get out. The shit was sure to hit the fan when his father—

But Jamie was still talking. "Come over here and sit down."

"What?"

"That's right. You're not getting off this easy. I need a minute. I've got to think this through. "

"Can...can I put on some clothes?"

"Absolutely not. You've humiliated me! You come over and sit down while I think what I ought to do. If I should tell your father." She pointed to the edge of the bed.

Damien sat as instructed, watching nervously as she came over and stood directly in front of him. He could smell her sweat from the tennis and the musky scent of sex and something inside him began to stir. Her robe was tied so she was covered, but he was naked and feeling damned vulnerable.

She glared at him for a long minute and then started cussing him up one side and down the other, her voice rising practically to a scream. As she berated him, she edged closer and closer, doing all she could to keep from slapping him. She felt angry and embarrassed, but there was something else going on inside her, too. She worked her way closer until she was brushing against his knees. Finally, she could contain herself no longer and slapped his face with all her might.

The reverberating crack of her hand against his cheek rang out, and then everything went quiet except for the heavy breathing. And then an odd thing happened. Jamie put her right hand gently on the top of Damien's head, and sighed. He held his breath, afraid to move.

Slowly Jamie's forced her breathing to even out. Her tirade seemed to have run its course. He was only a boy, after all, she rationalized, and she made a conscious decision to regain her composure. To deal with it like the adult she was.

Wordlessly she trailed her fingers through his hair. When she spoke again, the tone of her voice had curiously softened. "Jesus Christ, Damien, you're twisted _._ But I can understand how a boy your age is curious. And horny. Hell, I was your age once myself. And you can see I get to feelin' that way, too, sometimes, especially with your father gone so much. A girl needs it, too, you know."

_My Father._ Now there's a timely topic, fretted Damien. But he didn't have long to cherish the thought. Without another word, Jamie untied the loosely knotted belt that held her robe and parted the fabric so that her front was completely exposed. Damien stared straight ahead at her gorgeous breasts, her firm smooth stomach inches from his nose, but wasn't brave enough to look further south. He took in her intoxicating smell and his penis involuntarily began to stiffen again.

"The way I figure it," she said seductively, "you're going to meet a girl soon enough," Damien felt himself blush, "and it's probably best when that happens that you know what's _what_ when it comes to the landscape of the female anatomy—if you know what I mean." She took his big head in her two hands and brought his mouth up to her breasts. Damien looked up in disbelief.

"No, really," Jamie smiled. "Go on. It's okay."

Bewildered, Damien stared into his stepmother's beautiful blue eyes.

"Jamie, listen. I'm not, I'm not sure we should be doing this."

"Damien! You shut up and do as I say. Unless you want me to tell your father you've been jerking off in my closet—in _his_ closet. That's right. Now go ahead."

By now Damien was fully aroused and his hardness pressed against her warm thighs. She held his head as he kissed her breasts and then pushed him lower so he would kiss her stomach. He complied and she pushed him still lower.

"Jamie, _please_. This isn't right."

"You're right," she answered with a smile. "This isn't right. Let's try something else." She pulled him up face-to-face so that his long, naked body draped fully over hers. Then looked him straight in the eye and gave him a long and tender kiss. A moment later she took his cock, touched it to her wetness, and all further argument ceased.

#

Quinn Lee drove up to the house around seven that evening. After being gone for a week, it felt good to be home. He was looking forward to a stiff drink, a little Saturday night action with the missus, and a good long ride with Buddy on Sunday. The house was quiet when he entered, and he was surprised to find Jamie cooking in the kitchen. Or was she warming up one of Loretta's dishes? He hoped for the latter. Most Saturday evenings they dined at the country club since their talented housekeeper usually took weekends off. Whatever was cooking in the kitchen didn't smell like one of Loretta's dishes, but it smelled pretty good nevertheless.

"Well, this _is_ a surprise," Quinn announced, as he hung up his jacket and joined his young wife in the kitchen.

"Hey, sweetie. Welcome home. Life's just full of surprises, isn't it?"

"Sure is," Quinn said, moving in for a kiss and a hug. "Something smells awfully good. What's for supper?"

"Rump roast, potatoes, and carrots. I put it in the crock pot a few hours ago and poured some red wine in with it. Making a big salad, too."

"Sounds perfect," he said, surprised that she was actually cooking a real meal. "I sure am hungry." He gave her another kiss. "How was your week? I know it's hard when I'm not around."

"You're right," Jamie agreed with a sigh, "I get lonely as hell around here sometimes, but I try to keep busy. Got my hair and nails done Tuesday. And went shopping with Elizabeth Finn in Green Hills on Thursday." As Jamie spoke he admired again that lilt in her voice that he loved so much. "Even played tennis three times this week," she added, "and my game's definitely improving."

"I miss you when I'm gone too, honey, but you know how it is. The music business never slows down. But I'll make it up to you tonight, I promise. We've got some catching up to do." Quinn gave her bottom another squeeze and kissed her again.

"You better believe it, Buster. You owe me."

Quinn grinned in return, a gleam in his eye. "Is Damien around? I didn't see his car."

Jamie pulled the lettuce out of the fridge and began washing it in the sink. "Why, yes, I believe he's upstairs. He washed his car this afternoon, it's parked out back. Last I saw him was a few hours ago and he looked pretty tuckered out. I haven't heard anything up there lately, so maybe he's taking a nap."

"You two getting along any better? Any sign that he's warmed up to you at all?"

"Well, yeah, maybe a bit. More than a bit, actually. Really, he's not a bad kid. He's got a lot of potential." Quinn looked at her skeptically, but she went right on shredding lettuce leaves. "He just needs to work things out, grow up a bit. And it probably wouldn't hurt if you showed him a little more attention." Jamie said this last bit carefully. She'd learned to tread lightly with Quinn on the topic.

"Yeah, I know. It seems we never got off on the right foot when he was a boy. I worked so much. And then there was the divorce with Eve." Quinn sighed. "At this point, I don't know where to start to make it better. Now that's he's older, every time we're alone together, it feels awkward. Like we don't have anything to say to each other."

"I know what you mean," Jamie said, empathizing. "I went though it with my parents, and I'm sure you did, too."

Her words were a grim reminder of Quinn's own experience. "No doubt about that. Especially with the old man."

"The main thing," Jamie suggested, "is to find something he likes to talk about and just listen. Sometimes you just need to be together, even if you don't say a lot."

Quinn poured himself a generous scotch. His wife was right, as usual. "Thanks for the good advice, honey. I'm going up for a quick shower and then I'll be right back. Dinner smells great. And since you're putting on such a fine spread, I'll see if Damien wants to join us."

"Please do. Tell him there's plenty enough to go around."

Jamie heard Quinn knock on Damien's door and the two conversing. She poured herself a third glass of Caymus Chardonnay from a bottle in the refrigerator and took a sip. What an afternoon. Of all the crazy things. Seducing Damien! What _was_ she thinking? Of course he had it coming, the little pervert, lurking around in her closet. Though it probably did the kid good to get laid. Not that she didn't need it, too, she mused. And tonight she'd have at it again, this time with her husband. Sometimes it's fun to have dessert before the main course, she thought, as she sliced a big round tomato. That made her think of the question now looming: would they do it again? She knew it was dangerous, and best they stayed away from each other, but the tingle from their afternoon encounter still lingered. She opened the top of the crock pot and gave the roast a poke with a long fork. Whether it was the wine, or the afternoon sex, her thoughts were on the muddled side. She didn't need to decide right now, she thought as she took another sip. That delicate question would be put on hold, for awhile anyway.

.

Quinn was in an ebullient mood as they sat down to dinner. Despite the old man's sudden cheerfulness, Damien felt understandably uncomfortable as Quinn passed the roast across the table. He knew Jamie hadn't spilled the beans or his father would have been staring him down with a shotgun instead of asking him to pass the salad.

Quinn had decided to heed Jamie's advice and take a more active interest in the boy. Damien's antennae went up right away as the old man seemed just a little too eager. Quinn asked about his interest in photography and seemed pleased when it brought his son out of his shell. Damien knew the drill; he'd seen his father try it before. But to Quinn's surprise Damien put down his fork and talked animatedly with both hands about the challenges and rewards of black and white film photography. He was especially enthusiastic about his efforts with night photography and the difficulties of shooting a perfect full-moon shot over the Nashville skyline.

Quinn sipped his wine, trying to look interested without appearing too interested. He'd learned from the past that tactic scared the kid into clamming up. But this evening was different. The more he listened the more he realized that Damien was no longer a kid, but was a young man with his own ideas. Once he got started it seemed Damien had opinions on just about everyone and everything, especially about the goings-on around the farm. He chatted non-stop about Homer, Buddy the mule and Dante, the crazy goat; about Tred and The General and poor old Foghorn. Normally silent and sullen, his son seemed almost giddy to share his thoughts, running at the mouth with a relish that became almost disconcerting. This certainly wasn't the dinner companion they were accustomed to.

Jamie hadn't said much, but when a pause in the conversation arose at the end of the meal, she jumped in. "So, tell us, Damien, are there any special girlfriends in the picture?"

Caught off-guard by the question, Damien almost spit out his Coke. He checked himself, and wasn't about to give anything away with a look. "No. Nobody right now. Jamie shared a wholesome smile across the table with Quinn. "Well, I'm sure someone special will come along one of these days soon. Right, Quinn? Damien's far too smart and good-looking for some pretty girl not to scoop him right up."

Damien looked across the table and, for the first time, directly into her eyes. "Well, they tell me that's the kind of thing that comes along when you least expect it. So I figure best thing is to not go looking for it. Who knows? Maybe it'll find me."

"That's very wise, son," Quinn chimed in. "Very wise. Best to concentrate on school at this time of your life, not girls. A good education is the best way to get ahead in this competitive world. And you know we've worked very hard to see that you get that."

"Yes sir, I know," Damien said politely. He'd hardly touched his dinner, but needed to escape. The conversation was quickly becoming unbearable. He dismissed his plate with a practiced, teenage push and addressed his father. "Look, I've got a few photos I want to grab while it's still light outside. Can I be excused?"

"Sure, son. If you've had enough to eat. But be careful, and don't stay out too late."

#

Down at Donovan's Pub, I was in serious hot water with Rose. I was an hour late for dinner at her house and supposed to have picked up some groceries to help finish the meal. She called my cell and as I vainly tried to conceal it, but it was apparent I'd had a few drinks.

"Sorry, honey. I'm just here with a few amigos," I said, trying to play it causal. I angled my body away from the rest of the table and spoke quietly so they couldn't hear. "Ray and his girlfriend, Carole, and her friend, Lisa, from Atlanta are here, too."

She could tell I'd had more than a few. Hell, I was drunk and drifting, half intelligible.

"What's that? What about Ray?" Rose asked.

"You wanna say hello to him?" I sputtered.

"No," she said, not bothering to hide the irritation in her voice. "I don't want to say hello to Ray. Did you forget I was grilling for you tonight? Halibut. I busted my ass to get off work in time to get home and cook."

I tried to pull it together. I'd had a couple too many and my tongue felt like a roll of toilet paper. I swallowed hard and tried to re-group. "No, I didn't forget," I lied brazenly. "I'm jus' running a li'l late. I'll leave in a few minutes, 'n be right there."

Rose heard the blaring music and women's voices in the background. I didn't blame her for her patience wearing thin. "You sound pretty loaded, Danny. Are you sure you shouldn't just stay downtown tonight? You're just around the corner from your apartment. And sure as hell can't afford to get a DUI. We'll just do this another time. When you're not so damned drunk."

I straightened up in the chair and drew a breath, took a look at the clock through bleary eyes. It was already after eight. I looked at the fresh beer the waitress had just brought and gazed at Terri Morrison, the pretty woman who worked at the stationary store, across from the photo shop. She was smiling warmly at me through shining eyes. I kept my voice as low as he could. "Don't be mad with me, Rose, honey. I'm sorry. I really am. But you're right. No need to risk it. How 'bout we meet for lunch tomorrow?"

"I can't tomorrow, Danny. I'm busy." She was pissed and wanted me to know it. "Okay, then. I'll take you to some place nice for dinner. Tomorrow night. Lemme make it up t' you."

"That won't work either."

About this time I was getting tired of the conversation. It was too hard to focus. "Won't work? Why not?"

"I'm pretty busy the next few days, Danny. I'll be staying out here at least through the weekend. I'll give you a call in a day or two.

"But..."

"Listen, I'm going to hang up. I can't hear with all that noise in the background."

"Rose?" Despite the drinking, I knew I was on thin ice. "Okay, Rose. I'll call you tomorrow. Have a good evening and I'll..."

But I was talking to dead air.

* * *

Rose hung up and looked at the kitchen table. Tears stung her eyes. An unlit candle stood between two place settings. That was the last straw. She had to admit it. It just wasn't going to work and she had to cut it off. She'd wasted too much time already. She looked at the newly opened bottle of merlot and started to reach for it. Somebody with an ounce of ambition. Somebody with an eye on the future. Somebody more like _me_ , she thought _._

Suddenly the merlot wasn't what she wanted. She went to the cabinet, poured a healthy shot of Jameson whiskey, drank it with one gulp and shivered as it went down. Then she calmly put the half-cooked meal in plastic containers, stuck them in the refrigerator, and pulled out a cold squash casserole. In the glare of the overhead light, she picked at the food and fumed to the empty room.

"I can't believe he stood me up like that. Maybe I should take Jim Patterson up on his invitation to go out." She ran Jim's credentials through her mind—decent-looking, successful attorney, has his own place, divorce finalized months ago. At least he had prospects. In fact she owed it to herself to give him a chance. Who knew? She still had time to get married, maybe even have a kid or two. Danny was a good guy and she loved him, but the writing was on the wall.

She poured another shot, this one larger. Now a bit tipsy, she took it with her to the bathroom where she ran a steaming hot bath. She looked at her puffy eyes in the mirror, before stripping off her clothes. Then she eased into the tub and nursed the drink slowly as she soaked for a good long time.

#

After Jamie's pot roast dinner, Damien couldn't get out of the house fast enough. It was hell to watch the two of them fawning over each other and exchanging flirty glances. As he drove towards Nashville, all he could think about was Jamie's warm, sexy, body and how freely she'd given herself to him a few hours earlier. The smells, the taste, the exquisite feeling of being inside her; nothing else in this cold, ugly world would ever compare. He replayed the episode over and over in his mind and still couldn't believe it had happened. He was completely confused. It's not like he wasn't horny enough on a day-to-day basis, but knowing he and Jamie would often be alone in the house was already driving him nuts with guilt and anticipation.

"She's my father's wife," he said aloud to the empty car. "My _father!_ I'm screwed. It's a Greek tragedy or a scene from some shitty movie." He raked his hand through his hair. "It definitely qualifies for burning in hell."

He finally stopped ranting out loud and drove in silence, but nothing could shut off the internal dialogue. _He knows. I know he knows, especially the way I was running my mouth at dinner. I saw him staring at me, reading the guilt. But why the hell should I feel guilty? The old man never gave a damn about me before. Not that it makes a difference. He's gonna kill me if he finds out._

Damien's mind swirled in an emotional storm as he drove aimlessly for hours. Twice he passed his favorite spot for shooting the skyline, but took no photos. Exhausted, he returned to the farm and found the house completely dark. _"_ Fuck 'em," he muttered, fumbling with the key to get it into the lock. They didn't even have the decency to leave the porch light on.

Still, he was careful to enter quietly. He didn't want to wake them and have to talk to anyone. In the kitchen, he poured a glass of water and as he drank, he heard a muffled sound from the master bedroom above. A bump. And then another. He put the glass down quietly, turned out the kitchen light, took off his shoes, and tiptoed up the stairs, avoiding the creak in the middle of the landing. A dim light shone beneath the door of the master suite. From within, he heard moans of pleasure. Jamie's moans. The same passionate murmurings she'd shared with him just hours before.

Flushed, Damien ducked into his room quickly and closed the door, not even turning on the light. Feeling very much alone, he stood like a statue for a long time in the dark. Raw emotions coursed through his body as he fought to deal with the fact that Jamie and the old man weren't fifty feet away, doing it in the same bed where he'd been that afternoon. Suddenly he knew he didn't belong there, in the big house with its creaking wood floors; with Quinn, the all-powerful master, lording over his sprawling country manor. This wasn't his home. Not anymore.

The bedroom in which he stood was the same one he'd occupied as a boy, before the divorce. But everything was different now. The cowboy lampshade and bedspread had long ago been replaced with a neutral décor more befitting an upscale hotel room. Personal photos from his childhood had been replaced by expensive Chagall and Monet reproductions. In the moonlight his gaze fell on the only thing mysteriously left in the room from his childhood, a cowboy holster holding a toy pistol. Memories of simpler times flooded over him. It seemed a lifetime ago since it was just him and his parents. When things were simpler and everyone seemed happy.

He'd never really understood why they'd divorced but somehow, he figured it was his fault. Something he'd done. His mother had tried to assure him otherwise, but he was never really sure. Now she was living with a sleaze-bag politician downtown and his father was in the next room having sex with the same woman he'd lost his virginity to just hours before.

He stood still for some time, his legs seemingly incapable of movement. His head swam and he felt drunk, though he'd had only snuck a sip or two of wine at dinner and that was hours ago. He felt nauseous and wanted to get in his car and drive back to town, to his mother's condo. To get the hell out _._ But he couldn't muster the spirit or strength to walk back down the steps and through the front door.

The spell finally broke. He crossed the room and switched on the table lamp, his eyes recoiling from the light's glare. He kicked off his shoes and sat on the bed, and his gaze fell upon a book on his desk, the one Homer had loaned him. _Look Homeward, Angel._

Damien cast his eyes around the room, eager for any distraction. He cursed himself for leaving his iPad in the car. He listened intently to pick up any more sounds from the room down the hall, but there were none, thank God. He thought he should go to bed, but was too buzzed to sleep.

The old man's book glared at him. _What a dumbass title_. "Why the hell don't they have a TV in here? Even a cheap-ass one would do, for chrissakes," he muttered. His eyes were drawn once again to the book. Reluctantly he picked it up and opened it. Copyright 1929, he read. _This shit's ancient. What could Homer possibly see in it?_

Despite his reluctance, curiosity took hold and he glanced at the magical opening page. His eyes landed on something he didn't expect: "Naked and alone we came into exile," he read, "Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?"

Though from another time and place, it seemed the author was writing directly to him—directly for him. He read for hours until his eyes blurred and words became black streams. Finally he gave up, marked his place and fell into a deep sleep.

#

It was just past daybreak a couple mornings later as Homer got out of his truck at the farm and stretched, shaking off the stiffness that comes with age. For the first time in weeks there was a welcome coolness in the air and it felt good to be alive. He had just talked with Charlene to let her know Michael was coming home and she was delighted to hear the news. It warmed him to know the three soon would be together again as a family.

As Homer walked across the yard, Dante the goat, along with the ladies, stared from the pen. The little ones, Lupe and Lil, were happy to see the man, too, springing friskily in anticipation of food. Homer noticed the new rooster, Fernando, was once again balanced atop Dante. It was curious how the scrawny young bird and gruff old goat had taken such a shine to each other. He took a moment to pause and look around at the fields glistening with dew, and consciously made an effort to enjoy the freshness of the new day. As was his habit, Homer went first to the barn to take care of the goats and chickens. Afterwards, wiping his sleeve across his brow, he headed to the stalls to muck them and tend to the horses and mules.

The moment he entered the barn, he sensed something was wrong. The gelding snorted, The General stamped jitterishly, and the mares and stallion were staring in muted silence. Homer looked in the direction of Buddy's stall, and panic made his blood run cold. The big red mule wasn't there. The old man's mind raced as he tried to calm himself and make sense of it.

Did Mister Lee get home last night and take him out for an early morning ride?

But Quinn's SUV wasn't there, nor the helicopter. Maybe he came back early from New York and caught a ride home with someone else.

The pressure in Homer's chest rose as he stood in front of Buddy's stall. The gate was ajar. His eyes weren't playing tricks on him. Buddy definitely wasn't there.

Homer hurried outside and looked again across the pastures, his eyes scanning up to the knob. Nothing. No visible breaks in the fence through which the mule could have wandered. As he stood surveying the pasture, a familiar green truck pulled up the drive and Miguel got out. He could see right away Homer was upset. The old man always greeted him with a smile and there was nothing but distress etched on his face this morning. He hurried over.

"What's up, Mister Carr?"

"It's Buddy. He's not in the stable."

"But he's got to be around here someplace," Miguel answered, disbelieving.

"You'd think," Homer said anxiously, "Let's split up, see if we can find him. We'd better hope Mister Lee took him for a ride early this morning—or we've got a big problem."

Miguel nodded once, ran back to the truck and drove toward the back pasture. Homer went to the front door of the house, knocked loudly and then rang the door bell. A few moments later an upstairs window opened. Damien, groggy from having apparently just woken up, shouted down, "What's going on down there? Why all the racket?"

"Did your father come home last night?"

"Not that I know of. Haven't seen him. Why?"

"Buddy's missing. He's not in his stall."

"Buddy's _missing?_ Holy smokes. I'll be right down."

A minute later the door burst opened and the boy came out with shirt untucked and hair disheveled. The three mounted an all-out search, but turned up nothing more than a missing sledge hammer and several empty whisky bottles Tred had left behind. The gravity of the situation hit home. "Homer, what's Dad going to say?" Damien asked.

"I don't know, son. But I can tell you this here's going to upset him plenty." Homer took a deep breath. "I'd better call him right now." He pulled out his cell phone and hit speed dial two.

Quinn Lee answered in New York. "Morning, Homer, you just got me. I'm about to go to a breakfast meeting. Can I call you back in an hour or so?"

"Well, sir...that would...I mean... _no sir,_ that won't do in this case. I've just come to the farm and something very disturbing's happened."

Quinn stopped in his tracks as he was about to walk out of the hotel to catch a cab. "Disturbing, did you say, Homer?"

"Yes sir. I hate to give you bad news, but the plain fact is that _Buddy's not here_. We've checked the entire property and...he's not here. He's nowhere to be found."

There was dead silence a few long seconds. Homer was about to check that the connection was still good when Quinn bellowed, "Not there? Of course he's there. He stays in the stable at night. It's locked. He's got to be there. You saw to him last night, didn't you?" Suddenly his voice changed. "Hey, are you okay, Homer? You're not having some kind of episode, are you?"

"No, sir, I'm fine." Homer hurried to reassure him. "I'm here with Miguel and Damien, but I'm telling you, Buddy's _not here_. Somebody must have taken him in the night. He's been kidnapped _,_ sir _._ Should I call the police, Mister Lee?"

Quinn Lee turned the news over in his head. He was due for breakfast at the Waldorf with several executives from Sony Music in thirty minutes. They were putting the cap on the contract for Nigel Winston, the English kid. Now was not the time for a major distraction. Or, in this case, a major catastrophe.

"No, don't do that. It's probably Tred, playing a stunt on us for getting fired. And a bad one at that. He said he'd make us pay. Tell you what, Homer, I'll make a call and have a man come see you. His name's Cantien. Ray Cantien. He'll know how to handle this discreetly. If it is Tred I'd rather leave the police out of it for now—unless it becomes necessary. This Cantien fellow will be in touch with you right away. Cooperate with him in every way. I'm sure we'll get Buddy back. And afterwards I'm going to squash that fucking Tred like a bug."

"Yes sir, Mr. Lee. I'll wait to hear from this Cantien fellow. I'm awful sorry about this."

"It's not your fault, Homer. And don't worry, like I said, we'll get Buddy back."

After he hung up, Miguel tried to reassure Homer, but the old man was visibly shaken. Damien helped Miguel and Homer finish the morning chores and then went back in the house. By mid morning, the old man had settled down a bit though he asked Miguel to go to town for straw and feed as he wasn't up to the task himself. Afterwards, lost in thought, he sat in the chair under the tree and stared vacantly into the distance.

# PART TWO

#

Styron handed me the phone. We were on his boat, fishing near Moon Mullet, and Ray was on the line, calling from Nashville. It was in that second year after he'd come back from the war. The first year with all his physical rehabilitation had been a disaster, though he seemed finally to be pulling himself together. Or at least trying to.

"Danny, I've got it all figured out," he'd said. "I'm going to open my own business—a private eye company. And I wanted you to be the first to know."

"You—a private dick? Jeez, that sounds kind of sleazy to me."

"Sure, it can be sleazy, but it doesn't have to be. I think I could be good at it. Maybe even help a few people. And there's good money it."

"I don't know. It's just not the sort of thing I'd figure you for."

"I never thought about it either, but I've got to do something. It's time to take a chance. From now on, I gotta live on my terms. I'm never gonna work for anybody else again."

"The economy sucks, man. You sure the timing's right?"

"You kiddin' me? The timing's perfect. I've got a hundred and ninety-three bucks to my name, a beat-to-hell car with two hundred and forty thousand miles on it, and no job prospects. I'm sleeping on friends' couches, and my girlfriend for the last sixteen months just left me. For another woman. Of course, I want to go through with it. Bad timing, hell...I've got the world _exactly_ where I want it!"

* * *

Senator Dalton James placed his favorite order—Barbeque on Cajun cornbread with a side salad, one of the specialties of the house at Bowman's Grille. The restaurant in Belle Meade, with its dark and manly wooden bar and hearty food, is a prime meeting spot for politicians, music bigwigs, after-work girls, and trolling ne'er-do-wells. From the minute you walk in the place, the pecking order's evident. The bar stools might as well be emblazoned with patrons' names, reserved for the regulars, the chosen ones: Nashville's movers, shakers, wannabes and could-a-beens. Like Dorian Gray, the clientele doesn't change much, each with the wisdom of three lifetimes if you believe half their bullshit. The worn grizzled face wearing a _Salty Dog Café_ t-shirt sits comfortably next to a smooth-talking suit from downtown. The pleasant clink of silverware, plates, and glasses mixes freely with laughter and pleasing aromas. And in the late afternoon, a sepia haze illuminates the room and provides a warm embrace. But spend enough time in Bowman's Grille and the seduction is betrayed. There's always more going on within those four walls than meets the eye.

James sipped his beer while his chief of staff, Nelson Benning, ordered a bowl of white bean soup. Two tables over, Hal Clamber and Carter Jenson, James' bodyguards, eyed the same menu. Hal had his eyes on the smoked ribs and Carter was mulling over the catfish. They wouldn't normally eat at the same time as their boss, but this was one of their favorite spots, too and one where the senator felt secure. They were there "just in case," but not sitting close enough to crowd the senator.

After Benning placed his order, Dalton James leaned in and spoke in a confidential tone. "Can it be done, Nelson? Can we still throw the election our way despite the late date and lousy poll numbers?"

Benning smiled that pompous grin of his, grabbed a warm roll from the basket, and slapped a dollop of butter on it. "Of course it can be done. This is Nashville, for chrissakes. I've managed three successful elections where the numbers were this bad. Or almost this bad. We've got a great angle on that faggot, Frazier. Nothing to it, just leave it to me...talk about low-hanging fruit. But it's going to require some hard cash. Cash that's not on the books."

"I'm aware of that. How much?"

"At least three-fifty for starters, maybe half a mil. Just to buy the next thirty days. But that's chump change. We can use your campaign finance fund for TV, radio, billboards, that sort of crap, but we'll need some out-of-state cash for the..."

"Don't talk to me about _billboards,_ " James growled, reminded of his trouble with the City Council and the recent allegations of wrong doing.

"Alright, alright, sorry. Forget the damn billboards. But the point is, the cash will take care of some other things. Under the table type things. It won't buy anybody off, but it _will_ be a down payment, to let people know we're serious."

"We should have that much in the next few days," said James. "Just keep it quiet, though, or we'll both hang."

"Relax, Senator. It's me you're talking to, the kid from Dover. Look, if we stick to the playbook, there won't be any risk. I'm telling you, it's a sure thing. You remember."

"Yeah, I remember. The sure thing's what got us here. But there's been a lotta water under the bridge since the early days. Times change and sometimes the unexpected jumps in and whacks a plan all to shit. Just make damn sure it works this time."

The hostess walked by the senator's table followed by an attractive Hispanic woman and two men.

"Dammit to hell!" cursed the senator in a whisper.

"What's the problem? Who's that?" asked Benning, licking his finger of butter as it oozed off his roll.

"Ray fucking Cantien, that's who. Of all the joints in Nashville, what's he doing here? It's a perfect example of what I was just talking about, Nelson. The unexpected."

Aware that people might be watching, he composed himself and gave only the slightest head nod to Hal Clamber and Carter Jenson seated a couple booths over.

They got the message right away. Ray Cantien's earlier private investigative work had caused hell for the boss in the past; the whole mess with Eve, and then the divorce and troubles with the kid. Now, here was Cantien again, obviously snooping on the boss's latest affair with Sarah Baldwin. They knew he was good, but this was fast work even for him. Clamber nodded to the senator in acknowledgement.

"Don't worry," his eyes said to James, "we've got it covered."

* * *

"So that's Dalton James in real life?" Rosalita said as she put sweetener in her iced tea and eyed the politician across the restaurant. "Not bad. He's actually a lot better looking in person than on TV. Who's the stiff with him?"

"Nelson Benning. Chief henchman and executioner," Ray answered. "Mister Dirty Tricks to the people who know him well. And did you catch the two behemoths a couple tables over to the left? Clamber and Jenson. Check 'em out in a couple minutes, but don't be obvious. They're staring a hole through us right now."

"How'd you know James would be here?" I asked.

"I didn't, Danny. Swear to God, just a coincidence. Though I do know he eats here a lot."

"Hey, check it out," my eyes darted toward the exit. "Don't look now, but that's Emmylou Harris walking through the door. Man, she's still got it, doesn't she? Sings like an angel and still pretty, too."

"She's a jewel alright, a national treasure," Ray agreed. "But I bet she likes it here for the same reason Dalton James does. Because people leave her the hell alone. So _no_ staring, okay? You'll embarrass me."

"I'm cool. It's not like I'm some sort of star-struck kid, or something."

Rose smiled. "Don't deny it. When it comes to Emmylou, you are."

"Well, maybe a little," I admitted sheepishly, and stole one last glance.

The waitress came, took our orders and we got back to the business at hand. "Look, other than the fact he's got money troubles and is down in the polls in the upcoming election, we've got no solid evidence Dalton James is responsible for stealing the mule," Ray said. "I think the best approach is for me to follow up on the conversation I had with Tred's mother this morning and head south to the river house in Monticello. I'll set up surveillance on Tred and see what I can learn. I'm guessing he's got Buddy squirreled away somewhere down near Muscle Shoals."

"What do you want us to do in the meantime?" Rose asked.

"Just low-key it for now. But, Danny, it would be good if you went out to the farm like we discussed to speak with Homer Carr. And if the situation arises and you've got the time, put a tail on Senator Goofball over there. Rose, probably best all around if you kept in the background. No reason to raise your profile yet. We may need you later."

"Don't drag me into this, guys. This mule-napping gig belongs to you two. Remember I've got a real job and just along for the ride. Besides," she added, slightly flattered to be included in the evolving drama, "they're looking at me right now, I don't see where I could be any use to you now that they've seen me."

"Come on Rose, be a sport," Ray said, "We need you. And besides, you've heard of disguises, haven't you? You ought to know by now a man sees what he wants to see when it comes to looking at a woman. Put on a wig and a change of clothes and those idiots wouldn't have a clue it was you. But no need for theatrics just yet."

My thoughts wandered. The TV blared as sports commentators rehashed the Titan's last year's playoff game, the painful thrashing by Dallas. I stared at the tube, but wasn't listening. The bar filled up. The situation with Ray and the mule had stirred other thoughts, raised other ghosts.

Ray noticed the far-away look and elbowed me. "Hey, Danny, you in there, buddy _?_ Looks like you're drifting on us, old timer."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here, Ray. This town really gets to me every once in awhile. I was just thinking about the good times that we used to have in Moon Mullet—you know, when we'd get over to New Orleans on occasion for the food and music. The food's not nearly as good in Nashville, that's for sure. And everyone assumes New Orleans is corrupt, but lately Nashville seems every bit as bad. Makes me wonder why we're even up here. Hell, I was thinking about heading back down to Moon Mullet, maybe do a little fishing with Styron and Garcia."

"Danny, now's not the time for that. We've got to get this thing solved with the mule and bring him in for the reward. You can go fishing in a couple weeks. After payday. But now that you mention Styron and Garcia, maybe there's a way they can help and give 'em a chance to pick up a little dough at the same time. I know they could use it with the fishing business sucking so bad down there."

"I'm not sure that's such a great idea, Ray. What've you got in mind?"

"Nothing just yet, but those goons over there give me the willies. Wouldn't it be nice to have Styron and Garcia covering our backs? Call it an insurance policy, to even up the odds."

Rose's laugh lightened the mood. "Styron and Garcia aren't goons. They're not even in the same class as those two Neanderthals. Give 'em a little credit, will you?"

Ray shrugged. "I know. But they're big and tough and they don't take shit off of anybody. Not that we do, either. All I'm saying is we should keep an open mind...you know, in case we need to expand our personnel roster."

I smiled and sipped my beer. " _Personnel_ roster _..._ You're so full of shit, Ray."

The crowd at the bar got noisier as the lunch hour progressed. The food came and the three ate without speaking for several minutes. Finally, Ray broke the silence.

"Danny, tell me the story."

"Story? What story?"

"You know the one. About Uncle Percy. And the mule. And how it saved those kids from falling in the ice. Whatever the hell story it was you mentioned the other day when we first got started on this mule-napping caper."

"Oh _that_ story." I rubbed my eyes, not wanting to go there and not wanting Ray to see it. "There's really not much to it, Ray."

Rose's eyes narrowed, giving me her best "don't go there" look. But Ray was persistent. "Come on, man, I'm tired of looking at two goons and two bent politicians and watching the Titans get their asses kicked again. Tell me the damned story."

I avoided Rosie's eye and began, but reluctantly. "Well, it _was_ a long time ago. And very traumatic for everyone."

Ray took another sip of his beer and grinned. "Now you _do_ have my attention, brother. Go on."

"Okay, okay." I cleared his throat. "I remember it was really cold that day. Colder 'n hell, though it was already the middle of March. The river had frozen solid that winter between Guntersville and New Hope and spring was late in coming. We were down in the bottom lands at Uncle Percy's place and playing on the ice. There were still patches of snow on the ground, but I remember the sun was bright and warming up just a little."

I looked again at Rose but she had her eyes closed as if in a dream. I continued. "The south slope was completely free of snow, allowing Percy to work the mule. Just like Buddy, this was a big red one, too, and his name was Houston. They were clearing stone, getting the pasture ready for spring." I felt like I was someplace far away as I continued. "The dogs were barking, carrying on, sniffing out a muskrat as I recall. Pa used to set traps for them back then and they'd scared one up next to a little creek that fed the river. Margie and Ma were working in a nearby shed, sorting roots and bulbs and such. I can't remember why, but Pa was off in Tuscaloosa that day. There was a fire going...I remember the strong smell of wood smoke wafting through the woods."

I took a sip of beer and continued.

"The three of us kids were playing, throwing snowballs and chert rocks and such at each other. We got the idea to go skiing, or our version of it. Ma and Margie flat out told us not to, but we ignored them as we usually did.

Ray gave a little smile.

"So we tied some wood slats to our feet and ventured onto the ice, feeling pretty brave at that point. We'd gotten carried away with ourselves and looked to cross a deeper pool—then realized too late it wasn't fully frozen. Your cousin, Artie, fell through first, plunged right out of sight. A second's all it took." I took a large gulp of beer. "Then you went down."

" _I_ went down!" Ray blurted. "What're you talking about? I thought you said I was too young. That I wasn't allowed to be there."

"You _were_ too young to be there. You weren't even four and shouldn't have been. You were the third kid. And I was the one who was supposed to look after you."

"Holy shit. What happened then?"

"Ma and Margie heard the ruckus and started hollering and Percy came running. I was still standing on solid ice and backed up as fast as I could. I didn't know what to do. You and Artie sank so fast. The river was freezing. I knew if I jumped in, I'd be a goner, too. I was already shivering to beat all hell. But then you both bobbed up. It was like a miracle."

"But how? How'd we get out?"

"It was Percy and that big red mule, Houston. The lines were already on him since Percy was working him. Let me tell you, it was something to see, too. Percy barking orders, telling Houston to come to the river's edge. That big old mule's ears were all erect and his eyes were fixed on the two of you, like he knew exactly what was going on. It was uncanny, downright surreal, how he seemed to sense it, to know what he needed to do. Since I was the lightest, Percy tied a line around my waist. Then he gave me a second line that was hooked to Houston and told me to walk onto the ice, to get closer to the two of you. I was scared as hell, but did what he said. I eased out a ways and then tossed the rope. Artie missed it at first. He was crying and holding onto you. I thought it was over. But then he grabbed hold on the second try and somehow managed to put the line around the both of you. To this day I don't know how he did it. Like he was some superhuman kid or something.

"Anyway, Percy mushed the mule and Houston hunkered down and pulled for all he was worth—dragged the two of you across thirty yards of frozen river and onto the bank. I can still see you, sliding across the ice, Houston's muzzle covered with frost."

Rose looked at me. She knew how hard the story was for me to tell.

"Damn," Ray expelled the air he'd been holding. "What happened then?"

"Only God knows how or why but Art was alright. Margie had some dry blankets, got him inside the shed next to the fire. It took a while, but they warmed him up good. But you—"

I looked at Rose. She was holding her breath.

"Well, you didn't look so good. They got you inside, got your clothes off and wrapped you up as best they could, but you weren't responding. Your lips and arms and face were blue, Ray. Blue as chilled death."

"What the hell!" Ray pushed back from the table a bit, then remembered where they were and made an effort to keep his voice low. "Why haven't you ever told me this before?"

"Just let me finish."

Ray's eyes were daggers as he watched me polish off his beer and slam the empty mug on the table with a loud thud. The noise got the waitress's attention.

"Hey, Janice," I said, "Can we have another round over here?"

She hollered back, "Two Fat Tires and an un-sweet tea? Sure. Be right back, honey."

It was all Ray could do to not grab his brother by the neck to make him continue. But it was clear Danny wanted or needed that other beer to proceed. Ray gripped his glass hard and applied all the patience he could muster.

While they waited, Dalton James and Nelson Benning got up from their table, left a big tip, as was their habit, and began walking out of the restaurant. Dalton stopped off at Clamber and Jenson's table and casually muttered a few instructions. The three of them glanced over in the Cantien's direction. Then the senator and his aide left the restaurant through the side door. The two bodyguards stayed behind, finishing their lunch.

The waitress brought over the drinks.

"Okay, Danny," insisted Ray. "You got your beer. Now talk. Finish the story. At this point I was blue and not looking too swift. So, then what?"

"They had you wrapped in blankets next to the fire. Laid you on a cot. You were pale white and your pulse was damn near non-existent. Ma was holding you, trying to keep you warm. But then she felt your wrist for a pulse and couldn't feel anything and started to scream. Margie, too. They started crying and carrying on that you were dying.

"Artie was over in a chair by the fire. His color was coming back and his shivering was slowing. I was standing next to him, scared as hell. I wanted to do something, but had no idea what to do. Percy announced you had stopped breathing and it appeared your heart stopped."

Ray stared at me in disbelief.

"You were gone, Ray. Dead. Margie and Ma went hysterical. Then Percy grabbed you away from Ma, still wrapped up in all those blankets, and yelled to me to follow him to the truck. I did what I was told and climbed into the passenger seat. He plopped you on top of me and told me to hold on tight. He obviously wasn't thinking too clearly either. I've never been able to figure why he chose me but it doesn't really matter, does it?"

I didn't really expect Ray to answer. "He cranked the truck and the animals, sensing something was wrong, began an unholy braying and bleating like you've never heard. We screeched off on the ice and Percy drove like hell over the ridge to the hospital, all the time yelling at the top of his lungs, asking how you were doing, if you were breathing. I didn't have a clue, I just clutched you as close as I could, afraid to look in your face...knowing you were dead. He had the heat cranked so high I thought I'd pass out. It took forty minutes to get there and when we arrived, they grabbed you outta my hands so fast I didn't have a chance to climb down from the truck. They took you away on a stretcher and I was certain it'd be the last time I ever saw you. I was sure you were a goner."

.

Ray realized he'd forgotten where he was. Slowly the conversations of the people around them swam back into his consciousness. He became aware he was holding his breath and exhaled loudly. "How long was I there? How is it I didn't die?"

"They gave you IVs, warmed you up gradually, I guess. Later I heard the grownups saying that the doctor said you'd died, at least from a medical perspective. He said the truck's heat, the jostling of the rough roads, and my holding on to you so close kept you going somehow. But, bottom line, little brother, you passed away that day. And were reborn."

"So why is it that you never saw fit to share all this with me? It's a great story, for god's sake. _My_ story." Ray glared at his brother. "Didn't I deserve to know? Besides, I'm _here_ , aren't I? Happy ending and all?"

Rose shook her head slowly, side to side. She finally caught my eye, but I ignored her. I hesitated before speaking, trying to choose the words carefully. "As you know, Ma and Margie were real superstitious. Percy less so, but he went along. They had the notion that if a person died once and somehow managed to come back, it was bad luck to tell him. That the telling of the first death would hasten the second."

Ray guffawed. "But that's crazy. You know I'm not superstitious. I've been a big boy for years. And in my experience, superstition is just that—for the superstitious."

"I know that. I know. And the only reason I didn't tell you before was out of respect for the old folks and the old ways." Ray gave me a skeptical look. "Okay, and maybe because I was a little superstitious myself—when I was younger. But they're all gone now, and you're a grown man. I'd want to know if it happened to me." I was rambling, feeling defensive, but couldn't stop. "It's a memory that's been locked away a long time, Ray. I...I needed to tell you. I guess it's because of all this business about Buddy the mule going missing that it re-surfaced."

Ray didn't know whether to be angry or grateful. He chugged his drink to delay the answer. "Well, I guess I can understand that. It sure explains your being partial to red mules." That brought a smile to Rose and my face. "And I sure as hell haven't been cursed or jinxed or whatever you wanna call it, have I? Just the opposite, in fact. And you know what?" Ray realized as he said it, "it makes me appreciate being alive more than ever."

Nobody said much for a minute. We watched the scene unfold across the room as Clamber and Jenson got up with long glances their way, paid their bill, and left. Ray broke the silence once more. "I owe you my life, Danny. You were the one who walked out on the ice with that line for me, held me, warmed me..."

"You'd have done the same," I insisted, interrupting. "It was really Percy and Houston, the mule. And Cousin Artie. I didn't even think about what I was doing. I was just a scared kid doing what I was told. It's all just a blur—a fucking painful blur, at that."

"Still, dammit, _still._ You were there for me, brother. So don't argue with me. Just this once, okay? And what about the mule? Whatever happened to Houston?"

I smiled more broadly this time. "He only lived a couple more years but had a great life. Ma and Margie worshipped him till the day he died. Kissed his head and fed him carrots, combed his mane and tail, even braided them on occasion. He became an honored member of the household. I'm pretty sure he knew he'd done something good, but who's to say what goes on in a mule's mind?"

"God, what a story! Ray blurted. "I don't know what to say. I've gotta think about this one a while. But right now I've got to hit the road for Alabama. You guys ready? I'll get the check this time, Danny, and we'll call it even."

"That's a deal, Ray," I said, exchanging a warm glance with Rose. "Let's get going. And yeah, we'll call it even."

* * *

As we walked out of the restaurant, Rose's cell phone rang.

"Excuse me guys, I gotta take this call." She answered the phone, giving Ray a quick goodbye hug at the same time.

I said goodbye to Ray, too, lit a cigarette and watched as he rounded the corner to the rear parking lot. Forced to cool my heels and wait for Rose, I leaned against the car and listened as she chatted pleasantly to someone named Jim.

"How about Sunday?" she asked. A minute later, she finished the call on an agreeable note and got in the passenger side of the car.

"What's happening Sunday?" I asked as she buckled up.

"Not much. I'm meeting an attorney to update the annual meeting notes for my business. It's a once-a-year requirement and his schedule's booked next week. So we're going to meet for lunch on Sunday and get it done."

"Do I know him?"

"I think you've met. Jim Patterson."

I started the engine and angled toward the exit. "Isn't he the guy who was asking you out about the same time we started dating?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact he is. You're not jealous, are you?"

"Hell, yeah."

She shrugged. "Well, I don't see a ring on my finger, and there's no baby in the oven, so I guess I'm still free, aren't I?"

Her comment caught me completely off guard. I decided not to pull into traffic, but backed into another parking space and put the car in park. "Is that what you want, Rose? A baby in the oven?"

Rose bit her lip. She hadn't planned to be so blunt, but this conversation had been coming for some time. "I want a lot of things, Danny. I know I'm over-simplifying it, but one thing I'd someday like is some sort of stability, some sort of planning for the future, rather than winging it day to day; this mule-napping case being Exhibit A."

I didn't say a word for a moment, gathering my thoughts. "I'm sorry, Rose. I really do love you and you know that, but I'm not ready for that whole let's-get-married-and-have-babies-thing, yet. I'm just not."

Rose sighed loudly. "I know. We'll get it figured it out eventually. Somehow."

"Besides," I added, "I thought you were enjoying this mule-napping case...getting Buddy back."

"Actually," she agreed, "it is kind of fun."

"See," I brightened, "all the interesting things you get to do with me that you'd never get to do if you dated a boring old lawyer?"

"Yeah, I see alright. And _you_ , Mister Cantien, better quit while you're still ahead."

* * *

When Ray left us he walked to the back parking lot, where he was surprised to see that his vehicle had company, Dalton James' two body guards, circling like sharks. Clamber was leaning against the driver's door of Ray's vintage (translation for 'beat-to-shit') Toyota Land Cruiser, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. Jenson was sitting on the front hood, no doubt putting yet another dent in it, and grooming his pearly whites with a toothpick. For an instant, Ray thought about turning around and trying to catch us before they left, but his detective instincts engaged. Perhaps the two goons could provide an important lead. As Ray approached, Hal Clamber called out. "Afternoon, Mister Cantien. Enjoy your lunch?"

"I did, indeed, thanks for asking. You fellows out for a stroll and just happened to land on my wheels?"

"You might say that. Always good to take in some fresh air after a full meal like that, don't you think?" Clamber tossed his cigarette butt to the ground and stood upright.

"Sure, why not?" Ray said amenably. "But to what do I owe this honor?"

"Just a friendly word of advice, Cantien," said Jenson, "Stay clear of Senator James and his family. Or somebody might get hurt."

"Hurt? Now really, no cause for talk like that. Besides, why in the world would I be interested in Senator James? I'm a big fan of his. Even voted for him in the last election. _Twice_ , in fact."

The large man bulging in the tailored grey suit continued as if Ray hadn't spoken, "Mister James' personal life is of no concern to you." Carter Jenson slid down off the hood of the vehicle and put his hand on his hip, pulling the suit jacket away just enough to reveal the butt end of his handgun.

"I concur entirely," Ray said, trying to stay cool, "Couldn't agree with you gentlemen more." He worked his way between Clamber and the car door, evoking as much bravado as he could muster, and giving the big horse a healthy shove in the process. As he bumped the big man's shoulder, it felt like he'd hit a rock wall. Ray calmly unlocked and opened the door. "No worries, guys. You can tell the good senator that I have no intention of bothering his holiness. But I am interested to know one thing if you gents would be so kind as to indulge me, and that is has Senator James expressed any recent interests in animal husbandry?"

In a lightning flash, Clamber slugged Ray in the gut. The blow was powerful and it caught him off guard. He doubled over and sprawled into the driver's seat. Clamber pushed the door against Ray's leg, pressing it hard to inflict further pain. "You fucking _dare_ insult the senator's wife that way again, punk, and we'll kill you."

Ray gritted his teeth, but didn't give them the satisfaction of verbally expressing his pain. Jenson mimicked in a high parrot-like voice, "Yeah, punk, we'll _kill_ ya."

Ray watched sullenly as they took off across the parking lot on foot and quickly disappeared. He held his ribs, feeling certain that something had cracked, and cursed them under his breath. His shin felt like it'd been cut in two. _Un-fucking-believable. Insult the senator's wife. If it didn't hurt so damn much, that'd be hilarious._ After a few minutes Ray actually chuckled, then grimaced, as he repeated the exchange to himself again. Then he started the car and gingerly steered to the exit, pulling out onto the street and heading for Alabama, holding his ribs with his left hand.

#

By lunch time the next day Homer was feeling a little better. He was still distraught over Buddy's disappearance, but decided it was best to stay with his routine. As was his custom, he fetched his sandwich just after noon and sat in his usual chair under the tree. When he was done he tried to read but couldn't concentrate. Lost in thought about the missing mule, he was interrupted by the sound of a vehicle rolling up the drive. A big-shouldered man got out of a beat-up jeep and walked toward him. The old man stood and greeted the stranger. "You must be Mister Cantien," Homer said. "Ray Cantien?"

I stuck out my big paw to shake. "Hello, sir. Actually, I'm Ray's brother, Danny, but we work together. Ray's out of town so he asked me to get over here quick as I could. Are you Mister Carr?"

"Sure am, but call me Homer. Have a seat here, young man, and let me know how I can help."

I sat opposite Homer and sized him up. We chatted easily, hitting it off right away. It was clear Homer was not only a kind soul, but an insightful and intelligent man in touch with the land and the animals that lived at the farm. The man was visibly upset about the missing mule. I looked around at the house. It looked very familiar, but I couldn't figure out why.

Without embellishment, Homer told the story of how he locked up the stable the night before Buddy's disappearance and was the last person to leave. He relayed too, the episode with Tred and his drinking, and the flare gun fiasco, and how Mister Lee had decided to let him go. And he didn't fail to mention Tred's threat to get even if he were fired. I listened and took notes. Ray would want to review them later. What Homer didn't know was that Ray had already checked on the whereabouts of Tred Calloway the day before. And call it coincidence, but Tred's mother confirmed that the big lug had left town a few days earlier. She said he was going to visit some friends, "that group of his that hang around Muscle Shoals." In fact, now that Tred was suspect number one, Ray was already in the area and using the Cantiens' river house in Monticello as a base of operation.

I got all the information I could from the gentle foreman. I noticed Homer was reading _The Bear_ by William Faulkner and that set us on a different tangent. We talked for a half hour about books and writers and then got started on music. I found Homer to be a walking encyclopedia, and the conversation careened from blues to jazz to country and then classical. We quickly discovered another kinship in addition to literature. The conversation eventually returned to the matter at hand, Buddy's disappearance, and the efforts that Ray and I were taking to find him. As I left, I thanked Homer for his time and asked if it would be okay to visit again.

After exiting the Lees' drive, the first farm I passed had a mule standing in the front pasture. On impulse, I pulled in. The place was crawling with big, fat cows in one pasture and just the one solitary mule in the other. A man in a truck was leaving the property at the same time I arrived. As the two vehicles pulled up next to each other, the driver rolled down the windows. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Pardon my intrusion. It's just that we're looking for a missing mule and when I saw the one in your pasture, I couldn't help but pull in. But I see yours is mostly gray and the one we're looking for is more reddish in color."

" _Buddy's_ missing?" the man asked.

"That's right. I take it you know him?"

"Sure, of course, we all do. Lee and my family have been around forever in these parts. I haven't seen Buddy, but I'll sure keep an eye out for him. He's a fine animal. My name's Finn by the way, Tom Finn."

"Nice to meet you, Mister Finn, I'm Danny Cantien. Our family and the Lees have also known each other for awhile; not as long as you, but for a few years. By the way, those are some pretty slick looking cows you've got over there."

"Thanks. We've been raising cattle a long time, been pretty fortunate with them, too, but just when you think you've got it figured out, there's some other shoe always drops."

"Doesn't it, though?" I replied. "It seems to be that way with everything. Well, I won't hold you up. Appreciate you looking out for Buddy, and I hope to catch up with you again sometime."

"Likewise, Danny," Finn said. "You take 'er easy"

#

Ray was shooting his new bow and arrow and I was jealous as hell. He'd gotten the thing from Ma and Pa for his tenth birthday and had been overwhelmed ever since with a fair share of advice from Pa on how, when, and where to shoot it. A few days later, he had a chance to get down to business on his own, without any mature influences interfering. I of course, was on hand to oversee things. Pa had set up one of those targets stuffed with straw and had it propped up on a wooden easel. He'd made Ray promise to shoot only at the target. Naturally, I had other ideas. "Why don't you shoot something else? Something more worthwhile?" I bullied.

"Pa wouldn't like it," Ray replied automatically. But then quickly added, "Like what?"

"I don't know. There ain't no bear nor buffalo or puma in these parts." I looked around with a keen eye. "How's about a bird?"

Ray laughed. "I couldn't hit a bird in a million years," he said. "I can barely hit that target thirty feet away."

"Well, give me that thing," I said, and grabbed it. "I'll show you how it's done, son." I scoured the trees and horizon looking for worthy prey. Ray wanted it back, and whined, but I shooed him off. And then they came, as if on cue: twenty or thirty starlings cresting the tree line headed directly our way. I motioned to Ray and he picked up the plan in a glance. We positioned ourselves real quick so they'd fly right over. Then, like Apollo, I pulled the bowstring back as far as I could, aimed just in front of the flock's V, and let her rip. The arrow sailed magnificently skyward, its mission of death blessed by the ancient soul of a fearless hunter. But to my dismay, the birds parted effortlessly, as if by magic, and were never in any danger. Apollo's arrow finished its heavenly trajectory and headed straight back to earth—making a beeline directly for us.

"Run!" I yelled, but didn't need to say it again. We scattered in opposite directions, scrambling for our lives. The arrow landed with a menacing thud and stuck in the ground in the exact spot we'd been standing when I'd launched it.

"Danny, you dumb sonovabitch!" Ray yelled. "Are you suicidal?"

I laughed, but was more than a little shaken. He was right. I was a dumb sonovabitch. "Suicidal" was stretching it by a wide margin. At fourteen, killing myself was the last thing on my mind. But years later, on a day when life suddenly became too painful to bear, the thought of suicide would loom large. On that dark afternoon, with my finger on the trigger of a loaded 45, Ray's mocking admonition would come back to taunt me.

* * *

"How are the ribs, Ray?"

Ray and I were talking on the phone the day after Ray's encounter with Clamber and Jenson. I wasn't asking about the slow-cooked variety served up at Whitt's Barbeque, but my brother's sore gut.

"They fucking _hurt_ is how they are. Look, I hope you don't mind, but after this episode, I put a call in to Garcia and Styron and they're on their way to Nashville."

"I don't mind, Ray. I just don't want this getting out of hand. It's a _mule_ we're searching for, not a life and death situation. Let's not turn it into one."

"You know me, Danny. I'm just trying to keep it simple."

"I know you, Ray. And that's exactly what's got me worried."

"Tell you what," Ray said, "we're gonna stick with the plan. I've gotten in touch with Tred and he's agreed to meet me for dinner tomorrow. He was suspicious as hell on the phone so I mentioned there was a reward for the missing mule to gauge his reaction, give him an incentive. He perked up considerably. Said he knows some things that might be valuable, but it would cost me dinner and some additional dough. He insisted that dinner had to be a steak from George's which is gonna cost me a bundle. I'll meet him tomorrow and see if he's blowing smoke. Who knows, with his dumb ass?"

"I hear you, Ray, good idea. And I've never had a better steak than at George's. At least you can enjoy a good meal. Let me know how it goes. By the way, when should we expect to see Garcia and Styron arriving in town?"

"By late this afternoon. I'm putting them up on Hayes Street, the James Lee Inn. It's quiet and out of the way. I told them I'd pay their expenses and a thousand bucks each if— _when_ —we get the mule back."

"Fine. It'll be good to see them. But what are Rose and I supposed to do with them until you get back?"

"I was thinking that maybe tomorrow Rose might try out the disguise idea," Ray answered, "maybe dress up like an old lady and sit at the bus stop near the senator's condo. You know, stake out the joint for a few hours. Styron and Garcia could hang out in the background, keep an eye on things. Dalton James and those clowns of his will never recognize Rose, and Garcia and Styron will blend into the street. You might be able to learn something that can help."

"Okay, Ray, I'll talk to Rose. With tomorrow being Saturday she might be okay with it, think it's kind of a kick. At least I hope so. I'll keep you posted."

#

That summer I was thirteen and we were in top form. Ray and I were passing through the sleeping cars on The Hummingbird train, banging on compartment doors, when we had a chance encounter. I was leading the way down the train's narrow passage and Ray was a half step behind when we came face to face with a large woman in a large obscenely yellow Hawaiian print mumu. I'll not mince words—the woman was fat. The mumu concealed her bulk to a degree, but could have doubled as a Boy Scout tent. Scrunched into the narrow passage, we were literally at one of life's true impasses. All we could do was turn tail and head out the way we'd come. The woman laughed out hoarsely at seeing us scamper like two monkeys. I looked back and saw her waddling in our direction, rolling like a boulder, a big smile on her face. "No need for ya'll to run off," she said. "My sister and I've got a compartment right here. Come on in and visit for a spell. We've got sandwiches."

We were a put off by her bulk, but she'd said the magic word. So we followed her into the compartment, and lo and behold, contained within was another woman the spitting image of the first. She and her sister were identical twins, right down to the yellow mumus. Thankfully, the window was open or they'd have soaked up all the oxygen. "Holy smokes," Ray whispered as we took in the scene, "It's not the Doublemint twins; it's the _double_ doublemints." We cracked up at his cleverness.

Having us join them was a ready excuse to eat. The sisters pulled out a picnic basket and food began to fly. Cold fried chicken and butter beans to start, and then they had the train porter bring ham sandwiches with mayonnaise on white bread. The sandwiches even had the crust cut off, which was the height of decadent indulgence to us boys. We ate with big smiles, mayonnaise smearing our lips, till we eventually had our fill. But the sisters continued eating, leaving a void in the conversation. Finally, the first one came up for air and asked if we were enjoying the food.

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, "but apparently not as much as you."

Indignant, she retorted, "Why, I never...."

"Never, what?" I responded a little too quickly, "Stop eating?"

Twin #2 practically spit out a mouthful of food as she chortled, "Boy, you sure have a big mouth for such a little guy."

Ray couldn't contain himself. Before he knew it, he blurted out, "At least he ain't got a big ass."

The picnic ended abruptly after that. Needless to say we'd worn out our welcome and quickly disappeared to uncover some other form of mischief on the train.

* * *

"That sure was a fine meal, Danny," Styron said, wiping his chin with a napkin. "Thank you kindly."

"I agree," Garcia added, "much obliged."

It'd been a while since I'd seen the boys and getting together for dinner with them and Rose allowed me to catch up on all the latest gossip in Moon Mullet. Between colorful fishing stories, I briefed them on the latest information on Buddy's kidnapping. By the time we'd finished dessert and after-dinner drinks, it was late.

"Our pleasure, guys, it's been great seeing you." As I signed the check, I added, "I just wish Ray was around to join us. He's still in Muscle Shoals and said he's coming back early next week."

"Good folks down there," Styron said. "Lots of fantastic music they've recorded over the years. Did I ever tell you the story of my uncle who recorded at FAME studios?"

It was getting late and Rose had heard most of the stories before, so decided it would be a good time to take her leave. She politely interrupted and made an excuse about it being a long day. We loaded up in the car to drive Styron and Garcia back to the hotel and as we turned onto West End Avenue, I was flabbergasted to see Dalton James' black Mercedes pull into the hotel directly across the street. A woman passenger was with the senator. Curious, I did a u-turn and pulled into the parking lot, keeping the car at a discreet distance from James'. The four of us hunkered down and watched as the senator walked around to the passenger door and opened it. Two long legs emerged from beneath a blue dress, followed by the rest of a beautiful young woman.

"That's sure as hell not Eve—it's not his wife," I said quietly under my breath.

"Who is it?" Rose asked.

"I don't have a clue. But I've got an idea. I'll stay in the car and make sure Clamber and Jenson aren't following. Rose, is the wig still in the car?"

"Yeah, it's here, but..."

"No buts _._ This is too good an opportunity to pass up. You put on the wig and go with Styron and Garcia."

"Why don't _you_ do it?" she asked.

"Dalton James knows my face too well. Ray and I look too much alike. Follow him and the dame and see if they're checking in. Pretend like Garcia and Styron are walking you back to the lobby—like you've forgotten something in your room."

"My room? But I don't have a room."

"Fake it. Pretend like you do."

"How do I get myself into these situations?" she said, more to herself than to them. "Alright," she said, annoyed but a little tingly at the prospect, "for the sake of argument, then what?"

"If they check in, see if at least one of you can get on the same elevator and see what room they're in."

"Danny, come on. That's a little too bizarre."

"Not really. Actually, it's better if you do it, Rose. I'm telling you, he'll never recognize you. Garcia and Styron can see which floor the elevator stops at from the lobby and they'll come up opposite stairwells to back you up. Right, guys?"

"Sure," Garcia answered. Styron nodded in agreement. They had a plan. Their eyes followed as Dalton James and his lady friend, his brunette staff attorney, walked through the front door of the hotel.

"Go ahead, get going!" Danny urged. "I'll send you a text if I see the goons."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Rose said, but adjusted her wig and looked in the mirror. Then she lifted an eyebrow with a what-the-hell look, and the three got out of the car and walked quickly toward the hotel's entrance. Inside, Dalton James and his companion were checking in. It didn't take but a minute since it was obvious they were regular visitors by the welcome they were getting from the desk manager—who smiled, tucked a fifty in his coat pocket, and quickly gave them their regular corner room on the fifth floor. How many times was it just this week, three? Or did this make four? Either way he was starting to rely on the perk.

Rose and the boys entered the lobby as the couple headed toward the elevators. Speaking up loud enough to fill the lobby she said for the benefit of all present, "Just give me five minutes, guys. I need to get something from my room." Styron and Garcia nodded okay, as the hotel manager scowled. The elevator door was closing.

"Hold the elevator, please," Rose called as she hurried over.

Dalton James held the door, although it appeared grudgingly to Rose, and she got in.

"Thank you."

"Sure, which floor?" James asked.

_Damn_. She hadn't thought that far ahead. She saw there were only five floors, so took a guess.

"Five, please."

The senator pushed the button. She held her breath. He didn't push another. _They were going to five, too._ The three stood like statues as the elevator ascended, Rose terrified that they'd see through her disguise any second. She saw her reflection in a mirrored advertisement and thought she didn't look too bad with blond hair. _Maybe I should make a change one of these days._

Feeling the senator's eyes with her peripheral vision, she reminded herself she was on a mission. Had he recognized her? The wig was a horrible idea. Ridiculous. She should never have listened to Danny. Garcia and Styron better be where they were supposed to be when she got up to the fifth floor so she could put this whole crazy episode behind her—and fast. She could feel herself begin to perspire.

Finally, the door opened. Rose paused, pretending to look for something in her purse.

"After you," said the senator, ever the gentleman. The young woman was tapping her toe impatiently at his side.

"Oh, thank you, no, you go ahead. I seem to have misplaced my key. I must have left it in the—"

But the senator and his mistress had already started down the long corridor to the left. She was nothing more than a minor distraction to them. But just to play it safe Rose let out a loud, "Oh, good, there it is, right where I put it," and then followed the couple down the hall, at a respectable distance. Halfway down the corridor, Rose turned to a door on the right, just as the senator looked up at her before swiping his key card into the door of the last room by the stairwell exit. Then, after one more look of disdainful dismissal, he and the sexy brunette exited the hall.

"And goodnight to you, too, Senator," Rose whispered, the adrenaline flowing. She needed to get out of there, and quick. She didn't have a key, didn't even have a room. Hanging around was not an option. Rose immediately turned to head back to the elevator. But just then, the stairwell door opened and Hal Clamber and Carter Jenson entered the hallway and knocked with two short raps on the senator's door. It opened instantly and Rose heard the senator exclaim, "Hurry, detain that woman! And bring her here."

Rose picked up her pace. She was only steps from the elevator. Then pushed the button. _Come on, come on, where is the damned thing?_ But the two burly guards raced down the hall, caught her by each arm, and half carried her back toward the senator's room. "Get your hands off me, you fucking morons!" she yelled, as she ineffectually pummeled at their upper bodies. Then the exit door opened again and Styron entered the hallway.

Garcia, bringing up the rear, heard the disturbance as he reached the top of the opposite stairwell and was opening the door to the hall. He quickly leaned back out of sight to listen.

Clamber pulled Rose close and held her roughly. He glared at Styron. "Don't try anything, big boy," he said. "Who are you people anyway? And what's your connection to Ray Cantien?"

"Ray who? We don't know what you're talking about," Rose said.

Clamber yanked her wig off roughly. " _We_ know what we're talking about. What the hell are you doing following the senator and his...associate around? This meeting is official government business."

Styron, normally very quiet, spoke up. "I'm sure it is, bub. It looks like they can't wait to get down to business."

Jenson lifted his jacket to show his gun, apparently one of his favorite moves. The senator chose that moment to interrupt. "Come on, bring it inside, will you? Get them out of the hallway."

Styron took stock. Should he try to pry Rose from the goon's grip and run for it? But what if she got hurt? The boys'd never forgive him. And where the hell was Garcia?

He put his arms out as if to say _I'll go quietly_ but then Garcia's movement from down the hall caught his eye. The group en mass began to retreat into the senator's suite. Styron took his time, giving Garcia a chance to move closer. Finally, he decided it was now or never and struck Clamber as hard as he could, square in the jaw. Clamber dropped like a rock, and as he tumbled, he took Dalton James down with him. Jenson pulled his gun, trying to gain control of the situation, but Garcia was there by then and pounced. He produced a previously hidden stun gun and tasered the thug in the neck. The bodyguard fell to his knees, wide-eyed, and promptly keeled over on his face, his body still twitching. With the three men down, Sarah Baldwin let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Garcia and Styron swung around, gathered up Rose, and bolted through the exit door. They sped down the five flights of stairs, made their way out the back door and ran around the hotel parking lot to the waiting car where I sat peacefully, listening to a baseball game on the radio.

"Hey," I said. "I was beginning to wonder where ya'll got to. You'll _never_ believe this. The Red Sox just tied it up with _two_ single-shot homers in the bottom of the ninth." Then I looked at their faces. "Um, how'd it go? _"_

"What do you mean, _how'd it go?_ We could have gotten killed," Rose screeched. Why didn't you text me to let me know they were coming? We've got to get out of here!"

"Where the hell were you guys?" I asked.

"We showed up," Garcia answered, "just in the nick. And I have to say that at least one of those dudes was mighty stunned to see us," Garcia said, deadpan. Styron raised an eyebrow in agreement but didn't say a word.

"The goons showed up? Oh, man _,"_ I said. "I never saw them come through the lobby. They must have gone up the back way."

"For heaven sake, Danny, just _drive_ ," Rose hissed.

Rose insisted I drop her off at her house. After driving a loop and checking to see if the cops had come by their hotel, I dropped Garcia and Styron off, too. There would be no cops—nobody had died, after all, and Dalton James wouldn't deliberately bring attention to his philandering. Too many questions would be asked about what the married senator was doing at a hotel with his beautiful associate.

* * *

Afterwards, I drove downtown to my apartment, had a night cap, and hit the sack. A few hours later, I awoke in a sweat, strangely relieved that a bizarre, recurring dream about my own death had been interrupted. In it, I saw myself in a funeral home, laid out in a coffin, where people and a host of animals straight from the nativity scene had come for the visitation. There, in the open casket I lay, wearing a dark suit and tie, my face painted with a morbid grin. Apparently, the mortician had a sense of humor.

People milled around, eating stale sugar cookies, speaking in murmurs, and drinking punch and overcooked coffee. Mysteriously, my two dogs, Tubby and Sis, were in the dream, too. To add to the absurdity, there were cows, mules, goats and chickens grazing on the green pile carpet. The dream was disturbingly life-like, but the real kicker was the dogs. They kept peeking over the edge of the coffin and licking my face. Being dead, I was of course helpless to stop them. Mourners plied them with food and tried to shoo them away, but the dogs kept going back for more.

I rubbed my eyes, got up from bed and negotiated my way through the dark, following the well-worn path to the bathroom. Funny thing about dreams, I thought, as I took a piss, sometimes they just reveal the script that's already been written.

When I was younger, my dreams were a lot more fun. Flying, for instance. But it'd been a long time since I'd flown, soaring over the neighborhood at tree-top level, swooping and twirling, rising and diving as I pleased. Or the dream about getting a new bicycle. Or once I'd hit puberty, dreams of sex with a beautiful girl. Now the dreams were darker. Maybe I'd finally grown up, come to grips with the notion that time was finite, that given enough ticks of the second hand, everything comes to pass and eventually eternity comes knocking. Flushing the toilet I philosophized. From the beginning of life on earth to taking that piss, a cosmic hourglass kept time. One ticking second standing on the shoulders of the one before. My destiny's written, I rationalized. Once enough grains of sand pass, I'll be laid out in that coffin in that funeral home, or one very similar, with or without the dogs, with mourners staring, murmuring, and looking at their watches.

Disturbed, but feeling better with an bladder empty, I went back to bed and tried to sleep, but now my mind turned to Rose. She'd be thoroughly upset with me about what happened tonight, that's for sure. Was she truly interested in Jim Patterson? I hoped not. I loved her, desperately and didn't want to lose her. I tossed and turned and my mind wandered to Ray, too. What would our lives be like in old age? Would we look after each other? End up in an old folk's home? Would one of us lose his mind while the other had to spoon-feed applesauce and wipe his feeble brother's butt?

I told myself to change channels, make my brain stop thinking such stupid, mortal thoughts but couldn't stop my mind from racing. The clock and I stared at each other for the better part of an hour. The moon slipped its fingers through the blinds, lit the walls and cast changing shadows as the minutes ticked by. Eventually I drifted into a welcome unconsciousness.

In the morning, I awoke feeling strangely refreshed. I got to work early and headed straight for the packets of photos not yet picked up by customers. A thought had filtered through my mind while tossing in my sleep and I was eager to see if my theory had any merit. I pulled the eight-by-ten prints from the bin, the ones that the tall Lee kid had ordered, and flipped through them. Sure enough, the pictures spoke: the house, the driveway, the horses and mules. It was Quinn Lee's place alright.

I knew it had looked familiar when I was out there visiting with Homer Carr two days earlier. Of course, it made sense. The tall kid's name was Lee. Damien Lee, the son of the famous record producer, Quinn Lee. Why hadn't I thought of it before? I took a magnifying glass and studied the animals closely. It didn't take long to see there was a big mule with a white slash on his nose. _Buddy_. And the realization sent a chill down my spine.

#

The big DeSoto spun its wheels, sliding through the muddy gravel. It was pitch dark, pouring rain, and we were in the bottom of a heavily wooded valley, driving adjacent to a swollen mountain creek. Pa was at the wheel doing his level best to keep the car from sliding off the slippery surface. Not helping was the wind, which howled like a banshee, causing the driving rain to pelt us sideways. Ray and I were still kids, hunkered down in the back seat as Ma gave Pa driving instructions—advice he wasn't taking to kindly.

"Woman, give me a minute's peace will ya? Keep wiping that fog off the windshield, I can't see a blessed thing!"

Ray and I didn't say a word, scared stiff from the violent lightning and thunder. We were deep in the mountains of Jackson County, east of Huntsville, and still twenty miles to town; paying the price for having enjoyed too long an afternoon of trout fishing. We rounded a curve, the car sliding and just barely staying on the road, when Pa suddenly pulled up short. Just ahead was a narrow bridge, the water cresting to the road surface. The bridge was blocked, covered with a huge clump of limbs and brush washed up from the overflowing creek. To our amazement, the headlights lit upon what looked like a large dog standing on the bridge trying to pick his way through the brush. Like us, he was anxious to cross to higher ground. Pa stopped the car and through the driving rain, the beast stared at us with haunting yellow eyes.

"Shit fire, it's a red wolf!" Pa said. "I thought they'd all been run off or hunted out in these parts." He pulled the car forward a few feet to get a better look and then stopped. As the windshield wipers slapped monotonously, all our eyes locked with the wolf's for a long moment. He moved toward us a step and his body tensed, like he was going to make a run for it. We were on the edge of our seats, mesmerized, when a lightning bolt suddenly slammed to earth and hit the middle of the road not twenty feet behind him. The violent concussion from the strike shocked us all and, as Pa later said in the re-telling, the thunder following "rumbled loud as God's own bowling alley." It took only an instant for the lightning strike to vaporize the obstruction, leaving nothing but a few smoldering branches on the bridge. There was now a clear path to cross and the wolf didn't hesitate; he took off running, and disappeared quickly into the woods.

We were stunned into silence. Pa put the car into park for a minute to gather his wits. As if jinxed, he muttered to Ma, "When lightning hits the road..." He was white as a bed sheet, ashen. Ma nodded, as if sharing a secret.

We knew our grandparents were superstitious by nature. They wouldn't put a new pair of shoes under the bed or up on a table, lest it caused nightmares or a family fight. They wouldn't walk under a ladder either, and were skeptical of black cats, that sort of thing. If some bad sign crossed them like a picture falling off the wall or a bird flying in and getting trapped in the house, they'd grab a carrot to seduce the evil spirit, or spit three times on their finger tips and wave them in the air. Ray and I were used to these quirks, but we hadn't heard the one about lightning hitting the road. So we asked Pa about it as he drove slowly across the now open bridge.

"When lightning hits the road right in front of you," Pa explained shakily, "means the lightning splits your path, divides your future. It's a warning that foretells danger from water and fire."

Ma added somberly, "It's a reminder, boys, that good and evil live inside each of us; that our faith will be tested even more in the coming days."

Ray was as wild-eyed as I. "But what does that mean?"

Being uncomfortable with anything resembling bad news, Pa couldn't bring himself to say it, so Ma translated. "What it means, honey, is that we better start praying. For according to custom, one of us will die by fire—and one by water."

Ray and I were floored. We didn't know whether to laugh out loud or pray to God for mercy. We fell silent all the same, lost in thought. Unspoken fears of the future raced through our minds, each of us surely confronting the image of some tragedy yet to come.

Outside, the rain continued to fall in sheets and the woods seemed even more ominous than before. Ray and I knew we were safe inside the warm car, but we didn't say a word for twenty minutes. We kept our eyes out the window and thoughts to ourselves. Ma and Pa didn't say much either. The whining transmission and straining motor were the only sounds we heard as the car labored to climb its way out of the now cursed mountains.

* * *

"Charlene," Homer said to his daughter on their regular morning call, "Buddy's still missing and it's got me worried sick."

"Dad, I know you care a lot for that animal, but keep it in perspective. Worrying's not going to help. It's a medical fact that it does just the opposite. It'll make you sick. Mark my words, that mule's going to turn up any day. And even if he doesn't, you've got to remind yourself he's just an animal."

"I know. I keep telling myself that, but he's more than just an animal, Charlene. He's like a person, only better. Like he knows what's going on in your head."

"Dad, that's pretty far out. Come on _,_ keep it real."

"I'm serious, Charlene, he calms me. Mister Lee, too. And while Mister Lee was confident at first we'd get Buddy back right away, he's getting more worried by the day."

"Buddy will turn up," Charlene insisted, busy at work and needing to cut the call short. "In the meantime, what's the latest with Michael? Is he still getting out the end of August?"

"He is. And we're all getting together for Labor Day at my place. Michael's going to live with me for awhile. And Mister Lee agreed to hire him."

"So you told me, Dad, and I think that's great. I just hope he walks the line this time." She not so subtly changed the sensitive subject. "Hey, count me in on the cookout. I'll talk with you later about what to bring, potato salad or something, but I gotta run now. I'll call you in the morning."

Homer hung up and headed for his truck. There was a month left before Michael got out and Homer was counting the days. He was still buzzing with anticipation, but since Buddy went missing, the old man found himself disoriented at times. He had cooperated completely with Danny Cantien, told him everything he knew, and he'd learned that Ray Cantien had been talking to Tred down in Alabama. But there were no real leads yet.

Danny Cantien had visited the farm a couple more times after his first visit. The last time he and Homer got together, they talked as much about the writings of William Faulkner, Thomas Wolfe, and Wendell Berry as the missing mule. "That Cantien fellow's a reader," he'd told Charlene. "A real likeable character, too and I like that in a person."

But the investigation wasn't going anywhere. Homer suggested calling the police, but Mister Lee still didn't want any part of it. He insisted Tred was behind it. "And if it's not Tred, there's a Plan B," Mister Lee told him. He wouldn't elaborate, but Homer caught wind that Plan B might have something to do with a certain state senator.

Whether it was the stress of Buddy's disappearance or the excitement over Michael's coming home, Homer was off his game and didn't feel like himself. Charlene had noticed it, too, how he was repeating stories he'd already told her. The doctor's check up several weeks earlier had reported everything was fine, but he was more tired than usual. He was still getting up at five every morning and putting in a full day's work, but without Buddy around, his heart just wasn't in it.

#

Quinn Lee was up before daybreak for his trip to New York, another meeting scheduled with Sony Music. He kissed a sleeping Jamie goodbye at 5:30 a.m. and let himself quietly out the back door. She fell back to sleep, but an hour later woke again, this time flushed, with Damien on her mind. She debated with herself for all of five minutes until fantasy got the better of her. Finally surrendering, she rose, slipped on her robe and tiptoed down the hall. His bedroom door was closed but unlocked, and he didn't hear a thing as the knob silently turned and she entered the room. She stood still for a moment, listening to him breathe in a half snore, then eased off her robe, briefly admired her naked reflection in the mirror, and slipped into the bed beside him.

In dreamland still, Damien looked at her with groggy eyes.

" _Shhh_ " Jamie whispered, "Don't say a word." She kissed him once on the mouth. "I need a snuggle."

Damien tried to speak, but no words came. She was too near and felt too good. She turned her back to him and spooned in closely, angling her warm body to fit his. As his morning erection pressed against her cheeks, she smiled. Though half asleep it didn't take long for Damien to realize it wasn't a dream. And he was powerless to resist.

Wet with anticipation, Jamie wriggled into position, reaching her hand around to guide him. She gasped as he slid inside her and before long they were going at it strong. Afterwards, they fell instantly asleep, coasting in an almost narcotic-like state. They lay there the better part of an hour until suddenly Jamie kissed him on the forehead and bounded out of bed.

Damien eyed her gorgeous naked body in retreat, but didn't have long to revel in self-satisfaction. Less than a minute later he heard the back door open downstairs and Loretta came into the kitchen. He bolted upright and listened as she put away groceries.

Reluctantly, Damien got up and took a shower. He knew Jamie was headed to town to play tennis that morning, and he had things of his own to do. But as the hot water pounded his back, all guilt seemed to wash away. No reason to feel bad about it, he thought. After all, she was the one coming on to him. Maybe the fact that the crime of passion had taken place in his bed rather than his father's made a difference. He didn't know why he no longer felt guilty and didn't care. All he knew was that the sex with Jamie was fantastic and he couldn't wait until the next time. Whatever the reason for this unexpected cleansing of guilt, he decided he wouldn't worry about it. At least, not today.

.

After finishing his shower, Damien chatted with Homer and Miguel as they finished their morning chores. There was still no word on Buddy and everybody was upset. "But I thought Dad was pretty sure that it was Tred, wasn't he, Homer?"

"Well, he was going on that supposition, but now I don't rightly know. We heard Ray Cantien went down to Alabama and interviewed him a couple times. But if Tred knows anything, he's not telling. I'm starting to think maybe it's not Tred at all, but somebody else. I'm guessing that since the kidnapper also stole the truck and trailer, it's got to be someone who doesn't normally work around horses. Probably best not to share this around, but I overheard Mister Lee say the other day it might be some senator fellow trying to get ransom money out of him."

"My stepfather? Is that what people are saying?" Damien asked, horrified.

Homer was taken aback. He'd not made the connection. "Sorry son, I hadn't heard it was _that_ senator."

"That's alright, Homer. But you know what? I wouldn't put it past the old bastard to steal a mule. He's made a living stealing from the public his whole life. He is a politician after all. I'm sure he's got plenty to hide, so adding a mule to the mix wouldn't be much of a stretch."

Homer offered a weak grin, but said nothing.

There was a pained silence until Damien spoke, "I've got to get going. I've got some things to do in town. Do you need me to bring anything back for you?"

"Nah, that's okay," said Homer. "But thanks for asking. I've got a long list and you wouldn't want to be bothered. I'm going into town tomorrow, anyway, to see my son."

* * *

Damien drove to Percy Warner Park and the Prius wound its way quietly up the hill. He parked and walked a quarter mile until he saw the outline of the weathered shed. Still fifty yards away, he gave a whistle and listened, and then heard the return signal. Alan Johnson, an unemployed blacksmith in bad need of a shave, shower, and fresh set of clothes, walked out of the shadows and greeted him. He didn't look happy.

"What the hell took you so long? I'm starving. And this mule ain't none too happy neither. Looks like his leg needs to be rewrapped."

"We'll take care of the leg in a couple days." Danny handed over a large greasy paper bag. "Here's some burgers, beers, and Cokes. How's Buddy otherwise? Have you been walking him?"

"A little. Didja remember the fries?"

"They're in the bottom."

Johnson reached in, came up with a handful of limp fries and inhaled them. The hulking blacksmith smelled foul after two nights without a shower. And he was pretty annoyed, too. Damien walked over to Buddy and offered a crisp red apple. The mule eagerly took it.

"How long we got to hole up out here anyway?" Johnson asked. "That rainstorm last night liked to soak me to death. And I'm telling you right now this deal better work 'cause I'm gonna kick your ass from here to Memphis if you try to stiff me."

The boy recoiled at the thought. Johnson was huge. "I ain't gonna stiff you. The deal's still the same. I'll pay you two thousand bucks and we'll have the money by the end of the week. That's it. End of story. Has anyone been snooping around who could blow our cover?"

The giant took a noisy gulp from an oversized Coke. "Hell, yeah. I saw a cop car yesterday evening, not a hundred yards away. Had no idea they patrolled this far up the hill. Two of 'em. One got out and took a piss just spittin' distance of here." He wiped his greasy mouth with a sleeve.

Damien inwardly shuddered at the grotesqueness of the man, and waved off Johnson's concerns. "I'm gonna move Buddy Thursday night. We'll get him out of here to someplace safer. We've gotta be in better position to hand him back over when the money's exchanged on Friday." Damien petted the mule on the nose and gave him another apple.

"Where do you have in mind to move him?" Johnson asked as ketchup leaked from his burger and further stained his filthy shirt.

"About a quarter mile from my father's farm. Just two properties away, in fact. There's a big cattle ranch, owned by a guy named Tom Finn. It's got an entrance that isn't gated and nobody ever uses it. And there's a barn way in the back where Buddy should be fine for one night. I'll be glad to get him back home where he belongs, too."

"If you're gonna be so glad to get him back, then why'd you steal him from your own father in the first place?"

Damien didn't hesitate. "Money. And the satisfaction of knowing I could pull something over on the old man without getting busted. He'd kill me if he knew, but the way I figure, he owes me. I sure don't want anything to happen to this mule though. Buddy's too fine a fellow for that. So, you take good care of him, ya understand? Only two more days and we'll have this business behind us by Friday night. And then—payday."

"It better be, fer what I'm puttin' up with," sputtered Johnson as he chewed. Isn't this, what we're doing, kind of illegal?"

Damien tried to force a smile, but couldn't quite. Although the idea that it would matter one way or another to this ape was ridiculous. "Course it's not. Like I said, it's just a prank. A son playing a prank on his father—his rich father." He thought fast. "Tell you what. I'll bring some more beer, food, and hay tomorrow. Come Thursday we'll move him to the Finn place right after midnight, when everyone's asleep. Then, Friday night we'll make the swap and pick up the money at the Parthenon. And then you can celebrate all you want."

"The Parthenon? You gotta be kiddin'."

"Nope. I've scouted it all out. It'll be perfect." _Just leave the details to me, you moron,_ he thought. Damien had concluded that since his life had degenerated into a Greek tragedy, he might as well include a little local color as back drop for the exchange point. He'd given it a lot of thought and besides, The Parthenon was downright cinematographic. He'd taken some artsy photos of the place before and liked the look of it.

"Alright, dammit, two more nights," Johnson said with a wet belch. "But I'll be glad when this shit's over. And you better be tellin' the truth about the dough or your ass is sure as hell gonna be grass."

#

Damien left the park, headed downtown and parked on 2nd Avenue. He walked the two blocks to the photo shop and found the same broad-shouldered man who'd helped him a week earlier behind the counter again.

"Can I help you?" I asked, "Ah, yes, it's Mister _Lee_ , isn't it? Good to see you again."

Damien was surprised, and not in a good way, that he'd been remembered. He'd spent the last six years being ignored by adults—except when he was being chastised for one thing or another. Unnerved, he ignored my friendly greeting and got right to the point. "I'm here to pick up a few eight by tens—black and white prints I ordered the other day."

"Sure, I remember," I said. "I've got them right here some place." I rummaged underneath the counter, pulled out a plastic tray, and began going through the sleeves. "Let's see now, Daley, Graham, Jackson, ah, here they are, 'Lee.' Came out pretty well from what I remember."

Damien pulled the prints out of the protective paper and took a look. "Not too bad," he said grudgingly, suppressing an urge to get out of the store quickly. "Still can't seem to get the lighting right at night with the timed exposures of the moon."

I nodded sympathetically. "They've got motorized tripods nowadays that move slowly in synch with an object. It'd work real well with photographing the moon in your case. Not cheap, but if you're serious about shooting the night sky you might want to check one out."

"I've heard about them," admitted Damien, "but I don't have that kind of money. Yet."

I grinned, "You expectin' to win the lottery or something?"

"Nah," the boy replied, his neck going red, "just thinking ahead. You know, to one of these days."

"Sure," I said. "I know what you mean. I'm still waiting for my ship to come in, too. How about this other print? Good composition—the house, animals, and all. Your place?"

"Nah, just visiting." Damien was getting more and more uncomfortable with the conversation, but didn't know how to get out of it. "It's out in the sticks, and I'm only there for the summer. I don't actually live there. There's lots more to do down here in town, where I really live, I mean."

The kid was nervous as hell and I saw it right away. "Yeah, I agree," I said, trying to keep the boy talking. "I live downtown and it's great. You can pretty much walk wherever you need to go." I angled my hand vaguely toward one of the photos. "Tell me, is that a horse or a mule in this picture? I can't ever tell the difference. The big, good-looking one—over here—with the white slash on his nose?"

The kid froze. It was just the sort of tell I was looking for.

Damien stumbled over his answer, then mumbled, "You know, I'm not real sure either, I get 'em mixed up all the time, too." He followed with a nervous laugh, then took the photo from my hands, shoved it back in the packet with the others and looked away. "Well, I better get going," he said a little too quickly. "Got errands to run."

Damien paid the bill and I tried to thank him, but before I could, my young customer was out the door.

.

I picked up the phone right away and called Ray in Alabama. "You can forget about Tred as a suspect. I think the prime suspects now are Senator James and Quinn Lee's own son, Damien."

"His son? How do you figure?"

"Elementary, Holmes, I've got photographic evidence. Kid took an incriminating photo of Buddy. I made a duplicate to show you when you get back."

"No kidding? You sure it's Buddy? What makes it incriminating?"

"It's Buddy alright. Taken at the scene of the crime, right there on the farm and probably not too long before he was swiped. The kid's living out there this summer and blanched real suspicious when I asked a question about the mule. I saw it in his eyes; he's definitely hiding something. When you think about it, Ray, the whole thing makes sense. He's pissed off; shuffled around by his parents, resents the old man. Probably doesn't have any money of his own either. He's a city boy and a loner, too, probably bored out of his mind. Stealing Buddy would be ballsy, but not beyond belief. In fact, it's exactly the sort of thing I might have done at his age. If I thought I could get away with it."

"My brother, the wannabe-mule-napper," Ray said drily. "I guess it makes sense, at some level. I trust your instincts and agree with you about Tred. His story doesn't check out, either. Everybody said he's a pathological liar and he's proved it every time he opens his mouth. I caught him in five or six lies the first five minutes we talked, and it just got worse from there. The big bastard inhaled a T-bone, sucked down three beers, and stuck me with the bill. I got absolutely nothin' but a bunch of bullshit out of him."

"Doesn't surprise me," I said, "specially if he didn't have anything to do with it anyhow. So, what's the plan, now? You headed home?"

"In a couple days. I still have to make a quick trip to Birmingham to see a client who owes me money from some work I did three months ago. In the meantime ask Styron and Garcia to tail the kid. They can watch him the next few days while you and I keep a sharp eye on Dalton James. If our theory's right, the culprit—or culprits—will slip up soon and show their hand. And when they do, we'll be ready to close the noose.

#

It had been days since I had spoken with Rose. Given the recent dynamics with Jim Patterson, I'd decided to play it cool and not seem too anxious. But after almost a week of not hearing from her, I'd decided the cool approach had become outdated. I rang her cell phone several times and never reached her, or at least she wasn't picking up. I left messages saying I was "just checking in" and baited her with hints about the latest news on Buddy's case. I thought surely that would entice her. But I was stewing inside, knowing she was going out with Patterson.

During one of my internal rants, the phone rang and it was Rose. I changed my attitude instantly to one of cheerful nonchalance and gave her the latest news on the mule-napping case. She was shocked to hear Damien was a suspect and said she'd placed her bet on the senator. Now that Ray was back in town I asked if she'd like to join us as we followed Dalton James the next two days.

"Danny, you guys can have that little project. I'm way too busy for those shenanigans this week." The way she accented the words "this week" lay a little too heavy. There was some unspoken antecedent left unshared. But then she solved the mystery by adding, "Or _any_ week for that matter."

And that little phrase, as innocent as it sounded, started the unraveling. The conversation spiraled north, south, east, and west for the next half hour, but the bottom line was this: Rose was breaking up with me.

"Hell, Rose, you can't just slip away like this. You love me, for Pete's sake, I know you do. It's not like I've done anything specific to make you mad, is there?"

"No, Danny. It's not anything you've _done_." More like what he hadn't done, she thought. _Hadn't gotten off his ass and realized his potential_. But she couldn't bring herself to say it; to speak the words would cut too deep. "And I'll always love you, Danny. But for now we need to be friends for awhile. I need this, Danny. I need some time for myself."

The let's-be-friends card. The kiss of death.

"Rose, don't do this! We've got way too good a thing going on." There was a sudden tightness in my chest as if someone was standing on it. "It's because of Patterson, isn't it? Are you in love with him?"

"No," she answered. "Jim isn't the reason. I don't know him well enough to be in love. But sure _,_ I'm thinking about seeing him, why shouldn't I?"

So she wasn't seeing him yet.

A long pause followed. Neither said anything as her words sank in. "It's not Jim Patterson," she said, as much for her own benefit as mine. "It's for me that I'm doing this. To give me a chance to put some perspective back in my life."

I wouldn't let her off the hook. Uncharacteristically, I begged and groveled. But pressing only seemed to make her feel that she had no choice but to come back with guns blazing. I endured another fifteen minutes of torture. In the end, she let out all the stops and eventually recited chapter and verse about my many notable, and truth be told, valid shortcomings: my inability to plan for the future, my lack of discipline, my wasted potential. And then she hit me with her best shot, that she had finally come to the realization that I wasn't going to change and that she couldn't change me. "And how many other women," she asked rhetorically, "have been stupid enough to think they could change a man they loved, only to fail in the end?"

My head began to swim. I knew she was right, but it hurt like hell. Sure I got a few words in, but scored no points, held no ground. She rolled me like a Sherman tank. After we hung up, I felt sick.

"Well, _fuck_ me," I said aloud to the empty apartment and muted television. It wasn't a knock-down, drag-out or a screaming, hate-filled breakup, but no less emotional. She had slipped away like a handful of beach sand. I was suddenly terrified. Angry, not so much with Rose, as with me, because I understood exactly where she was coming from—and didn't have the guts to do anything about it. Sadness welled within and overwhelmed me. I needed a drink. Out of vodka and orange juice, I poured some tequila straight up into a large glass. Then rummaged through a shoebox in the closet, looking for some months' old pot I knew had to be lying around.

#

Quinn Lee arrived back in Nashville Wednesday, two days before the scheduled ransom exchange for Buddy. He'd told Jamie and Damien he was going to make damn sure he was in town when the money was transferred Friday night. The fifty grand to get Buddy back would be highway robbery to most people, but though he'd never tell a soul, he would have paid twice that amount for his prized mule. It was chump change to someone as loaded as he was, not to mention someone whose psychiatric wellbeing depended on a mule. He pondered the thought, shaken by its truth, but never doubted for a moment that he would pay.

The next morning he went to the bank and got the cash. Fifty thousand, split evenly as instructed, in unmarked twenties, fifties, and hundreds. He put the cash in two large briefcases, kept it Thursday night under lock and key in his home safe, and waited to hear the reports from Ray Cantien.

* * *

Ray and I had earlier agreed not to let Quinn know that Damien was a suspect. We figured there was no reason to muddy the waters just yet. We did let him know we'd discounted Tred as a suspect and that the new focus was on Senator Dalton James. After all, he was the more logical target. We put the second team, Styron and Garcia, on the kid. Despite my theory, Damien was a still a long shot. Thursday afternoon I talked with Garcia and the big fisherman reported the kid had been at the house all day. So far, the boy was doing absolutely nothing to create suspicion.

Working downtown, Ray had something more exciting to report. To save time on his way to meet me, he'd taken a shortcut by walking through the alley next to the Capitol building. To his amazement, he came upon Nelson Benning, the senator's chief of staff, handing a suspicious brown paper bag to Michael Chewmore—in broad daylight. Chewmore was, of course, Nashville's billboard king, a state representative and one of the political hacks often seen at Bowman's Grille. Given their furtive expressions Ray was sure that Benning was handing Chewmore a bag full of cash in a scene straight out of a cheap movie. The old payola. It had to be some kind of payment related to Buddy. The two politicians spotted him at the most damning moment, too, guilt written all over their faces. Ray played it nonchalant and kept walking, like he never saw a thing, but he knew the ingénue look wouldn't buy him but a few minutes. Once out of sight, he accelerated his pace, and then flat-ass skedaddled. Fear flushed through his body as he realized he wasn't carrying a firearm and those two gorillas of James' were sure to be somewhere nearby.

We had planned to rendezvous mid-afternoon to have a beer and compare notes and Ray caught up with me at Donovan's Pub on 2nd Avenue a few minutes later.

"Danny, I think we've _got_ it!" Ray whispered excitedly as he ordered a drink and described the transaction in the alley. "I've got a feeling something's definitely going down tonight. After we're done here let's head back to your place and regroup. We'll need disguises if we're going to follow Benning later. Did you pick up anything on the cell phone surveillance this afternoon?"

Ray had recently purchased a scanner that picked up cell phone frequencies and had successfully eavesdropped on the senator several times last couple weeks. "Yeah, I picked him up, but didn't learn much," I said. "All I've got is that Dalton James is in Belle Meade this afternoon and plans to meet Benning for dinner at Bowman's Grille again. Probably another planning session for their smear campaign against Frazier. Let's stick with the program, follow the money and see if that leads us to Buddy."

"I know we're on to something," Ray said, "What do you suppose is going on with that money exchange?"

"Not quite sure, Ray. But it takes money to get money. Those turkeys are probably greasing the skids with Chewmore for other deals. The fifty grand in ransom they'll get for returning Buddy's just a small part of it. Something bigger is going on to get Dalton James re-elected. I can just feel it."

"I'll bet you're right," Ray said, finishing his beer. "Let's get back to your place and pick up the disguises. Give me a few minutes, though. I need to feed the parking meter. We'll need the car parked close to your apartment if Benning decides to move quickly."

I killed my beer and stood up to leave. "Sounds like a plan."

"Hey, Danny, hang on. I'm a little short on cash. Do you mind picking up the tab this time?"

" _This_ time? I thought you were the one with his own company."

"I blew most of my cash on that trip to Alabama to question Tred."

"And the little side trip to Birmingham? Were you able to collect from that other guy?"

"I don't want to talk about it. He stiffed me for almost two grand. But I'm not done with him yet. I've got another angle of attack in mind and I don't give up that easy."

"Okay, okay." I paid the tab from my own meager stash and we walked out of the pub. The sun shone brightly despite the lateness of the afternoon. People hustled by, happy to be finished with work for the day.

"Glad I brought all those props and disguises over to your place last weekend," Ray said enthusiastically. His face beamed with color now that they were making progress in the case.

"Yeah, I could impersonate Dolly Parton with half the stuff you left."

"That was actually for Rose, but you wouldn't look bad in drag, Danny. Not that you should get any ideas."

"Fuck you, Ray. But while you're on the topic, you _do_ seem more gay than usual. I haven't seen you with a woman in a couple months. You're not turning on me, are you? Joining the Frazier campaign?"

Ray laughed. "I won't answer that on the grounds that you're an asshole. Now let's get going. Gimme some change, will ya? For the meter."

"You're killing me, Ray." I dug in my pockets again and handed over three quarters. "Absolutely _killing_ me," I repeated. "Death by a thousand cuts."

"It's just change, you cheapskate. I'm parked right above Church Street. I'll meet you at your place in a few."

Ray walked north and I south toward my apartment. I was about a hundred yards away when it happened. A deafening explosion rocked the peace of the afternoon and echoed down the street. I instinctively hit the ground. My hearing shut down and my heart practically leapt through my chest, pieces of glass raining on my back and legs. I looked around and saw Ray's Land Cruiser in flames. And then I saw Ray, stumbling upright, badly burned and covered in blood, standing in the middle of 2nd Avenue. Amazingly vertical, but for just a second and then he went down in a heap. I felt the side of my face. It was bleeding but not too badly. Reality set in and I picked myself up and ran to his side, loudly calling his name.

How Ray managed to survive the blast was a mystery, but a short-lived one. The bomb had gone off when he opened the tailgate. His skin was gone in places and bare bones were visible in his right arm and shoulder, but his blue-gray eyes were wide open. He had the scared look of a wounded animal, and the fact that he was conscious seemed a miracle. I knelt and held him in his arms.

Ray tried to say something but only half a word came out. _"Wha...?"_ he rasped.

"Shh, don't talk. Help'll be here in a minute."

His eyes rolled in the back of his head but quickly returned to mine.

"It's alright Ray, it's gonna be alright." My heart raced and hands trembled. I heard the words coming out of my mouth but it seemed like someone else was speaking.

Metal and glass debris was everywhere and the air filled with smoke and ash. Seriously injured people were on the ground screaming in pain. A voice yelled that some once called 9-1-1. Within seconds, sirens blared.

"Listen, Ray, hear that? There's the ambulance! They're coming. Hang in there."

" _Danny_..." Ray tried to mumble something, but was incoherent. His eyes closed.

" _Ray, don't leave me!_ Dammit, don't close your eyes. Keep talking. _Look_ at me, Ray!"

Ray opened his eyes again. He was really trying. " _Mule_..." he whispered. A trickle of blood oozed out the corner of his mouth. He coughed hoarsely, " _saved_ me." His eyes then took on an odd peaceful look, as if he were talking to someone else, someone far away. "Ma _...was right..._ "

"No, man, no, no, no! Don't talk like that. It's gonna be okay. _Look_ , the ambulance is almost here!"

Ray was trying to say more, but couldn't. His eyes closed halfway, his skin was the color of sheet rock. He grasped my sleeve weakly with a bloody hand. The last thing I heard him say before Ray passed out was the word, "pelicans."

I held onto my brother; stared in disbelief at his ashen face and ignored the pressing crowd of onlookers. _Pelicans?_ What the hell? Maybe I'd heard wrong.

Then I remembered.

I held both of Ray's hands with my own and pulled them close to my chest. Blood oozed and our hands stuck together. Shocked by the volume of blood, I instinctively pulled away. As I did, I saw that our two right palms carefully slit so long ago in the tool shed forever bonding us as blood brothers—twice blood brothers—were covered. Blood from the side of his face dripped down and joined. My eyes blurred as I tried to dab the side of his face with my shirt.

Frantic shouts of distress joined with the sound of sirens as police, fire trucks, and ambulance vehicles came closer. The grating din echoed off the canyon walls of the brick buildings on 2nd Avenue and ricocheted through my brain like a cannon going off.

The crowd pressed closer and in an effort to protect his dignity I leaned across Ray's body and covered it with my own. As I hugged Ray's chest I felt a warmth rise from my brother's body and knew it was his soul.

There followed an instant and complete sense of dread. I flashed back to when Ray was dragged out of the icy Tennessee River. And for the second time in my life I prayed desperately for Ray to survive though I knew it was too late.

Suddenly I felt claustrophobic. Everything closed in and moved in slow motion. Finally the rear door of the ambulance opened and the paramedics came. They kindly but insistently separated Ray from my arms and placed him gently on the stretcher.

#

It was dark when I stepped out of the hospital several hours later, dazed and disoriented. The scene within had been surreal: Frantic shouting and shuffling as they hurried Ray through the hall beneath blood-covered sheets. A pale young doctor with a face like a basset hound breaking the news. Forms to sign. Talking to the cops. They gave me a plastic bag holding the only thing left of Ray's belongings, his wallet. After it was over, the interviewing police officer offered him a ride home, but I didn't accept. I couldn't stand to be with or near anyone. Humans, every last one of them, seemed tainted, something to avoid.

In front of the building, my head spun. I lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and looked at the sky. The moon was full, only a few stars visible. A plane passed overhead. The sounds of traffic moving through the city were the same as always. A young woman walking hand in hand with her boyfriend giggled at something funny the guy must have said. Nothing was different. The world moves on. And the thought terrified and made me angry.

In shock, I stumbled home on foot and shuffled upstairs to my dark apartment. The light stung my eyes and my body ached all over. They'd attended to my scrapes and bruises and cuts and bandaged my face but I knew it'd hurt like hell in the morning. I sat down to examine the contents of Ray's wallet. Nineteen bucks. Social Security card and a couple of credit cards. Miscellaneous business cards, a scrap of paper with a girl's phone number. His driver's license. I looked closely at the photo. It wasn't the usual mug shot of a person wearing a forced smile. Ray was beaming, the happiest man in the world, like the moment was really special to him.

I poured a stiff one, took a gulp and then remembered the superstitious caution of the old folks never to tell Ray of his "first death" when he fell in the freezing river. Halfway through my first drink I remembered the day when lightning had struck that muddy mountain road in Jackson County and could hear Ma's words clear as day. " _One will die by water and one by fire._ "

With Ray it'd been both.

The phone buzzed. Startled, I ignored it. It rang again. Irritated, I picked up.

"What?"

It was Rose, crying. "I just found out. I'll be there in a few minutes."

I heard the words, but they hardly registered. I sat with Ray's wallet in my hands and drank. Half an hour later she was at the door. We hugged, both shaking, both disbelieving. And then the tears came.

"I should never have told him."

She knew exactly what I meant. "Danny, you know that telling that story didn't have a thing to do with it. "I should _never_ have told him," I repeated. "Dammit, there's a reason for superstitions. Aunt Margie and Uncle Percy were right. And Ray knew it. He was thinking that as he died, Rose. He said it himself. He said _Ma was right._ I can't live with myself. I'm a fucking wreck."

"Danny, listen to me. You did not have a thing to do with Ray dying. It had to be Dalton James. The fact he would kill to cover his ass is...is..."

"Is un-fucking-believable is what it is," I finished. "It's not possible. Ray can't be gone, Rose. He can't." I began to sob. "I held him in my arms in the middle of the street. I held him that day, too when he fell through the ice—" I couldn't finish.

Rose held me and together we cried. I drank as it grew darker outside. Food was forgotten. By ten o'clock, I was good and drunk. Around eleven, her cell phone rang and it was Jim Patterson. I was glad to hear her tell him she was busy, that she would speak with him tomorrow.

Even after several drinks and the shock of Ray's death, I felt resentful of that asshole on the phone with Rose. I replenished my drink once again in the kitchen, saw my reflection in the microwave and realized how pathetic I looked. Though I was glad Rose was there with me if only for the night.

By midnight I was shivering with desolation despite the August heat. Rose wrapped me in a blanket and held me close. We sat in the dark on the couch and through swollen eyes stared as street lights danced across the dark walls of the apartment. Neither said much. I couldn't get over the fact that Ray, my fun-loving, good-natured, bigger-than-life brother, was lying on a cold slab in the hospital mortuary.

#

"Ray, your paintings suck, man."

He was only eleven. He heard my insult but remained silent, kept his head down; his paintbrush dragged a green streak along the canvas.

"You hear what I said?"

"Yeah, I heard you, Danny. I don't care if you don't like 'em. They're not for anyone else. Just me. Besides, I like the way I feel when I'm painting. Like I'm free."

"Free from what?" I asked, but not waiting for an answer. "Well, if you're gonna spend all that time and money on canvas and paints you might as well try to put something in 'em that people'll recognize and appreciate." I figured the advice of an older brother should be taken to heart, but Ray had another way of seeing the world.

"I recognize and appreciate what's in them," he replied.

"So what's this one gonna be?" I mocked, "More goats and roosters?"

"No, this one's a mule and three chickens."

"Christ, Ray, it looks like a brown blob and three cream-colored smears with splashes of red and yellow. What's the green for?"

"An accent."

There was a long pause where neither of us said anything.

"And why barnyard animals? The least you could do is paint something decent; bears or mountain lions or such, if you insist on animals. But it's always horses and goats and mules and chickens."

"I like 'em," Ray said quietly. He splashed some yellow (for a beak I guessed). "That's why."

But I wasn't finished raking him over the coals. "What about the way you listen to music when you paint? Hank Williams, Marvin Gaye, the Grateful Dead—you got it cranked so loud it distracts you from painting better."

Ray kept painting and didn't say anything for a minute, like he had to think about it. "When I listen to interesting music I see colors. And that's what guides me. Those are the colors I paint."

That pushed a button. "That's a bunch of crap, Ray. There's ears for sound and there's eyes for color. They're two entirely different senses and don't mix. If that's the case, what colors do you see when you hear the Grateful Dead?"

"That's easy. Reds, yellows, black, some turquoise."

"What about Hank Williams?"

"Warm tones. Browns, yellows, shades of blue."

"Well, how about Barth Rivers?" I knew he wasn't partial to the popular country phenom. His eyes blinked the way they did when he got nervous. That threw him. I could tell I got him.

His mind was working, but drawing a blank. "I'm...I don't know..." he stuttered. "He's...it's...just...kinda...white."

His answer was so naked and real that for the first time a shred of doubt crept into my skepticism. Maybe, just maybe, Ray was telling the truth.

* * *

After dinner Thursday evening, Quinn Lee re-checked the safe to make sure the two briefcases with the fifty grand were still there. He hadn't turned on the TV so hadn't heard the news about the explosion and Ray's death. The conversation at the dinner table that night had been strained to say the least. Damien was in a sullen mood and Jamie was, Quinn thought, a little too flippant about Buddy's disappearance and the plan to pay the ransom the next day. "I could find a lot better ways to spend fifty thousand bucks than on a dirty old mule," she sniped, and that hadn't gone down well with him. They exchanged words and she stormed upstairs with a glass of wine to watch one of the reality shows she liked. That left Quinn and Damien alone and uncomfortable at the kitchen table.

"Well, Damien, tomorrow's the big day. I'm shelling out a lot of dough to get Buddy back, but he means that much to me."

Damien wondered if the old man would shell out fifty grand if his only son had been kidnapped, but didn't raise the question. Instead, he was curious for details about how he was going to end up with the cash. "So, how's it going to work?" he asked, "I mean, the pay off—where and when it's going to happen?"

"Believe it or not, Buddy's kidnappers designated the Parthenon—the north side. Why there, I don't have a clue. I'm having the Cantien brothers handle the actual exchange, but you can bet your bottom dollar I'm going to be there, too. And I'm finally going to find out who's behind this. The thievin' rat'll probably use a proxy to make the transaction, but one way or another I'm going to nail whoever's ass is responsible. It might not be tomorrow night, but believe you me I'm going to find out who's behind it and crucify the bastard."

"I believe you, Dad. You're good at that."

Quinn cut his eyes at Damien, but didn't respond to the comment. He didn't care for his son's impertinent tone, but decided to overlook it this time. Damien was leaving soon. Better to stay civil. "It looks like you'll be headed back to live with your mother in another week." He took a sip of his drink. "And school starts again in two."

"Yeah, well, summer kind of flew by. But I can't say it's been all bad being here."

Quinn wanted to believe him. He smiled. "Me neither, son. In fact, it's been good spending some time with you. And I'm glad you've had a chance to get to know Jamie better. She really _is_ a warm and caring person."

Damien's face flushed and wasn't sure how to respond. If he said nothing, he was sure his silence would be taken for guilt. "She's alright," he acknowledged with the kind of nonchalance only a teenager evokes.

Quinn knew not to push too hard. He'd take what he could get. "Do you have anything planned tonight? Or are you staying in?"

"No, I'm headed out. It's gonna be a full moon tomorrow night. I thought I'd drive into town and try to get that night shot of the Nashville skyline again. Every time I try it gets a little better. In fact, I better get going; moon's already up pretty good."

"Be careful out there," Quinn said, topping up his drink. "With the moon so full, there are plenty of lunatics running around—not just drunks either. There are some scumbags out there apparently low enough to kidnap a mule."

It was all Damien could do to mask his delight. "I'm sure you'll get him back, Dad." He gave his father a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he left, and didn't feel a twinge of guilt. "It'll be late when I get home. Don't wait up."

#

I passed out in Rose's arms and awoke to the buzz of his cell phone. It was Styron. Through the fog of alcohol I realized my friends hadn't heard the news about Ray's death. I took a breath. This was going to be hard.

But Styron was the first to speak. "Danny, it _is_ the kid! He and some other guy are moving the mule right now. But—you won't believe this—they were stopped by a cop just outside Percy Warner Park."

"What the hell?" I said, getting caught up, but then remembering. "No, man, I don't care. Listen to me, Styron. Ray's dead. Killed. This afternoon. _Killed._ "

I could feel Styron's shock before it was voiced. " _No!_ Danny, that can't be...I don't believe it. Are you fuckin' with me?"

I was silent.

"Jesus. Was it an accident? What happened?"

Still loaded, my words blurred. "Don' know. His car blew up. Prob'ly Dalton James and his fuckin' thugs, but I don't know for sure."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry. Are you okay? Where are you?"

"Home. Rose's here. No, I'm not okay."

"What should we do? Do you want us to come over? Should we...do you want us to keep following the kid? Find out where he's taking the mule? Or just blow the whole thing off?"

My mind was too muddled to figure it out. "I don't know. Who cares? Forget the kid. And the damn mule. I'm going to bed. I can't stand being conscious."

Rose started picking up her things and gave me a look like she was going to shove off. I held the phone away from my head and mouthed quietly to her, _"No, please stay."_

"Okay, Danny," Styron replied from the other end, "listen, we'll head back to the hotel and see you in the morning. But from the looks of things, the cop's about to let them go."

"I don't care what they do. We'll talk tomorrow."

"We're so sorry about Ray, Danny. I can't believe it. What a loss, for us all."

I didn't have it in me to answer. I hung up as Rose got her purse and keys and moved toward the door. "Are you going to be alright by yourself tonight, Danny?"

"No, but you're leaving anyway, aren'cha?"

"Yeah, I think I better. You should get to bed, try to get some rest. You look pretty beat."

I looked at her and shrugged. My looks were the least of his worries. We didn't say anything for a minute, at a loss for what to do, and then she came over and hugged me one last time. She kissed my forehead. "I'll call you in the morning and help you with...with the funeral arrangements." Her eyes filled again with tears. "He was so special, Danny. Like a brother to me. God, I can't believe this is happening."

"One thing's for certain," I said thickly, barely audible. "He wanted to be cremated. His ashes spread in the Gulf. At an island near Moon Mullet."

Rose carefully dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and kissed my cheek. "Whatever you think, Danny. Whatever he wanted." She eased out the door into the hallway. "Good night. I'll call you in the morning."

"G'night, Rose."

.

Still on an adrenalin rush and not ready for bed, I turned on the TV and flipped to the news channel. The downtown explosion was receiving national coverage. A number of people had been seriously injured, but so far, Ray was the only one who'd been reported dead. The governor was speaking, declaring that "terrorism had not been ruled out." The FBI was following leads and apparently several local residents of Middle Eastern descent were being sought for questioning.

_Middle Eastern terrorists, my ass,_ I thought _._ The fucker responsible is right under their noses. And then an idea occurred. Styron and Garcia had the kid pegged. The heavy lifting was done, and Ray had paid with his life. The least we could do was honor Ray by finishing the case. My mind raced, fighting the alcohol, sadness and rage. Despite the haze, I decided in a flash of inspiration that we'd bust the kid, get the fifteen grand from Quinn, and pay Styron and Garcia what they'd been promised. It was the principle of the thing, now, as much as the money. That's what I'd do, by god. I'd finish it for Ray.

Still drunk, I tried to focus, and pushed the wrong number twice before I found Styron's number on my speed dial. Styron answered on the first ring.

"Danny? What is it?"

"Changed my mind. Stay glued to th' kid. Where're you now?"

"We just left him," Styron said. "The cop let him go and he headed out of town. It looks like he might be on his way back to the farm, to Leipers Fork."

I knew I had to shape up, and fast. "Well, get back on his tail. Keep him in view. Call my cell when you're behind him. I'm headed your way."

"But, Danny, you think that's a good idea right now considering your condition right now. After all—"

It wasn't a good idea, but I didn't want to hear it. I hung up and grabbed the keys to my jeep.

#

As they left Percy Warner Park, Alan Johnson drove the truck and Damien rode shotgun. The blacksmith stunk to high heaven and even with the air conditioning on and windows down, Damien had difficulty tolerating the odor. The horse trailer rattled and squeaked behind the truck and Buddy was quiet for the most part, though he'd bucked violently several times when they loaded him. By now the scared and frustrated mule had had enough of the adventure and would have kicked both men to kingdom come given half a chance.

A cop parked by the south exit of the park watched them leave. A pickup pulling a trailer after hours didn't smell quite right to him and he decided to check it out. A minute later the blue lights cast their ugly glare and the two mule-nappers careened into high anxiety mode. Damien told Johnson to pull over and let him do the talking.

As the officer approached Damien was surprised at his own calmness. The cop shone his flashlight into the car, taking an extra minute to study Johnson's dirt-covered face, as he asked for their IDs. Not waiting to be prompted for an explanation, Damien launched into his best cop-appeasement routine, motioning with his thumb to the trailer in the back.

"Darn mule back there had a sore leg this afternoon and we had to leave him up in the park earlier. I went back to the farm this afternoon to get a leg wrap and came back as soon as I could. Looks like he'll need to see the vet in the morning, though." Damien's smile felt painted on, but the cop bought the story. He still called in the report to the precinct and Damien wasn't happy about that. Hopefully Quinn would never bother to check with the cops. After all, there shouldn't be a reason.

After another long look at Johnson the cop sent them on their way. If possible, Johnson's rank odor got even nastier after the encounter, and Damien breathed through his mouth all the way to Leipers Fork. Several hundred yards past Quinn's farm they came to the dirt road at the nearby Finn property. Alan Johnson turned off the lights and gently drove the truck and trailer over the bumpy metal cattle guard. Guided by the full moon, they drove the quarter mile to the barn in the back of the property and parked.

Following at a safe distance were Styron and Garcia. And a half mile behind them and in touch by way of cell phone, was a still half-drunk Danny, trying his best to keep his Jeep between the lines. Discretely trailing him by a quarter mile were Hal Clamber and Carter Jenson. After the explosion that took Ray's life, Dalton James had given explicit instructions to the pair to watch Danny closely and to follow him if he left his apartment.

This midnight escapade to Leipers Fork was definitely an unexpected turn of events for Dalton James but he had not gotten to his elevated station in life without the gift for strategic thinking. The senator originally had thought Cantien would be so shocked by the death of his brother that Danny'd hunker down and do nothing for a day or two, but James was always careful to plan for contingencies. He was rightfully paranoid that if his affair with Sarah Baldwin were found out, it would be a life-altering disaster. Not only would his marriage be shot to hell but more importantly in his mind, public knowledge of the affair would result in certain defeat in the election.

His instructions to Clamber and Jenson to avoid that calamity were clear: "If it's possible to take out the other Cantien brother and do it in such a way that there's no chance to connect it to you two or to me, then do it. Look me in the eye—you both _got_ that?" The two henchmen 'yes sired' and nodded in agreement. They got it.

With both Ray and Danny out of the picture Dalton James' life would be immeasurably easier to manage. Ray Cantien had brought him nothing but misery and he sure as hell wasn't going to let Danny Cantien pick up where his meddling brother had left off.

* * *

Styron and Garcia turned off their headlights as they pulled into Finn's dirt drive. I was right behind them and did the same. In order to reduce the chance of being seen, we pulled both vehicles off the side of the road short of the barn. There we men got out to walk, but not before Garcia grabbed his Bowie knife from the console and Styron pulled a long steel rod out of the trunk. I couldn't see what Styron was holding in the dark.

"What's that _?_ " I asked.

"Just a little ol' bang stick I brought up from Moon Mullet," Styron replied. I was quite familiar with bang sticks since they're sometimes used to kill sharks and gators down south. It's a simple weapon, a long metal pipe, with a shotgun shell used as a powerhead at the business end. The bang stick is deployed by jabbing the animal, which causes the shell to automatically detonate. It's not the bullet that does the killing; it's the muzzle blast, as high-pressure gas is forced into the flesh of the victim. It's a crude weapon, but very effective in close quarters.

"Styron, put that away, man. He's a kid for Pete's sake."

"Well, he's got that other guy with him and we don't know if he's armed. I'm just bringing it along for insurance."

I shrugged at the logic. "Whatever. Let's go," I said, "but quietly."

As we walked we could make out the sound of a metal door being slammed up ahead and heard the snorting and stamping of the mule. Above, the moon shone brightly, casting our shadows long and distinct as we moved silently in the direction of the barn.

#

Tom Finn couldn't sleep. Maybe it was the extra drink or two he'd had after dinner or perhaps it was the full moon. But for whatever reason, he woke after midnight and went to the bathroom. As he finished and switched off the light, something caught his eye out the window. He squinted hard to make sure he was seeing correctly. Tail lights. Someone was driving a truck and hauling a trailer down his dirt road. It was at least a quarter mile away, but across open fields and a moonlit night it was easy to see. And to add to the mystery they were running without headlights. Finn didn't hesitate. He picked up the phone and called the sheriff's office. His wife Elizabeth woke up during the fuss and asked what was going on. He muttered something about trespassers, told her not to worry and said he was going to investigate. She knew him well enough not to argue and cautioned him to be careful. He grabbed a 12-gauge and a dozen or so shells from the mahogany case in the den and headed out the back door on foot.

Out on Finn's road, Hal Clamber and Carter Jenson had come upon the jeep left by Danny and the car driven by Garcia and Styron. The senator's bodyguards parked and started walking, checking first to make sure their handguns were loaded. "This might work out perfectly," Jenson said quietly. "Out in the middle of nowhere, maybe we can end it right here."

"Maybe," agreed Clamber. "But what about the other two guys with Cantien? I'm pretty sure one of them guys is the one who tazed you at the hotel. You can bet your sweet ass they're armed."

"We'll play it by ear," Jenson replied. "But settle down a little, will you, Hal, you're wound tighter'n a drum."

Clamber's blood _was_ up; he was itching for a fight. The explosion downtown was a real high. And the three or four drinks afterwards in celebration of getting away with it made him feel strong, infallible. "The boss said we should take the opportunity to get rid of Cantien if we can," he replied. "And 'pacifically said if things get sticky, shoot first and ask questions later. And that's what I aim to do."

"It's _specific_ , you dumbass, not _pa_ -cific."

"I don't give a rat's ass how you say it. All I know's Cantien's going down."

.

What Clamber and Jenson didn't know was that Damien and the rank smelling Alan Johnson were up ahead parking the horse trailer at the barn. Although the two bodyguards did take a moment to wonder why Danny and his two accomplices would be at a remote farm in the middle of the night. Especially after Cantien had witnessed his brother being blown to smithereens only hours before. But their job was not to think, but to follow the boss's orders. The two walked stealthily along the dirt road to the sounds of cow bells and lowing cattle in the distance.

Up ahead, Damien and Johnson were unloading Buddy from the trailer. Despite being hampered by his wrapped leg, the mule kicked violently, plainly angry at the abuse suffered over the last week. He had finally run out of patience. Johnson had a rope around Buddy's neck and they had just backed him out of the trailer when Danny, Styron, and Garcia came into view of the barn.

I called out from the dark. "Damien!"

"Who's there?" the boy yelled back.

" _Danny Cantien_ , Damien. Remember me? The guy from the photo store downtown. The jig's up with Buddy. We're here to take the mule home to your father."

He caught sight of the three of us. "What are you doing here? I don't think so, Mister Cantien! We've got a different arrangement and it doesn't involve—" But he didn't finish, as right then two more figures emerged from the shadows.

"What _is_ this, Grand Central Station?" Damien grumbled sarcastically to Johnson. He was trying to stay cool, but his stomach began churning in knots. Clamber and Jenson each had 9 millimeters drawn and pointed at Danny and his friends. Damien could smell the fear rising from his gut.

"Well, Cantien," Hal Clamber spoke harshly, "looks like this just ain't yo' lucky day."

And then another voice rang out. "What the hell's going on out here? You people are trespassing!" Tom Finn came out from behind a fence, a shotgun leveled at Jenson and Clamber.

It was a genuine Mexican showdown, everyone looking at everyone else in the half-light, trying to figure out what was going on and, more importantly, who might end up getting shot. Nobody said a word for a few seconds.

I decided it might be a good idea to inject some sanity. "Look, this is all just a misunderstanding," I called out. "We're here to return this mule to its rightful owner, Mister Quinn Lee, who lives just over there." He pointed into the darkness.

"Return a mule?" Jenson retorted and laughed. "That's bullshit, Cantien. Then why the hell were you trailing Senator James?"

"We thought..." I started, but my mind was swirling from the trauma of losing Ray and too much alcohol and he lost my train of thought. "We thought—" I tried again to connect the dots, but couldn't. " _You_ guys _..._ you guys are fucking assholes and you and the senator are going to rot in jail for murdering my brother!"

"The hell we did!" Jenson shouted unconvincingly. "We were nowhere near—"

But then a shot rang out. Hal Clamber was so beside himself with nervous energy and his finger too tight on the trigger that he accidentally squeezed off a shot. The bullet struck me in the shoulder causing me to spin and fall and my head to hit the wooden fence with a loud crack. I tumbled to the grassy bank unconsciousness, blood pouring out of my shoulder. Garcia and Styron exchanged a glance and feared the worst, knowing the 9 mm packed a cannon-shot from which most people don't get up.

* * *

As I lay on the ground bleeding, I didn't see what happened next. I couldn't see Tom Finn let loose a volley from his shotgun, wounding the burly Clamber. Nor did I see the big bodyguard as he scrambled to hide behind the truck to avoid the second blast. I didn't hear the still night air crackle with thunderous echoes as a multitude of shots rang out. Or witness Damien taking off across the field in the direction of Quinn's house with Alan Johnson headed in the opposite direction. Being unconscious, I couldn't imagine Damien's thoughts of _"_ screw the money" as the boy's heart pounded, running across dew covered grass for all he was worth, the moon shining down on him like a prison spotlight.

I also couldn't have seen Buddy the mule, now loose and scared, nostrils flaring, red eyes filled with anger, kicking and bucking frantically. Nor did I see Carter Jenson creep forward around the horse trailer to finish me off. Or Styron and Garcia crouching in the darkness—Styron, with his bang stick, and Garcia with the Bowie knife hidden behind his ample forearm. Being unconscious, I couldn't appreciate that just as Jenson was about to put a bullet through my head, Styron leaped from the shadows, pushed the bang stick up against the man's torso and let loose a blast. The bodyguard's eyes instantly widened, his mouth dropped open and he fell dead, a huge black and red wound gaping in his side.

I also wouldn't have seen Clamber sprint toward the barn in escape. Or Garcia throw his knife, narrowly missing the man. Or hear the thud as the knife slammed into a nearby barn post. Or watch Clamber vainly seek the barn as a refuge. For another thing I couldn't see was Buddy furiously kicking both hind legs, catching Clamber cleanly in the head with his left rear hoof and dropping the big man like a stone. And then the terrified red mule stomped the body violently several times before taking off across the field in the dark, still bucking.

Within two minutes of the opening shot, not only was I down but both of Senator James' bodyguards were dead on the ground. A tense period followed as Tom Finn trained his shotgun on Styron and Garcia and told them to drop their weapons. But the boys were quickly able to explain the situation, and when Finn heard it was me lying shot and dying on the ground, he let down his guard.

Instead of being witness to all this, my skull fractured, I drifted down a tunnel, toward a light, toward death. My blood spilled onto the long grass as my friends gathered and looked down on my body, the moon casting a solemn glow on my lifeless face.

But I was in another place altogether, the threshold of life and death where darkness meets light. I found myself standing on a river bank. And dawn was breaking. And in the fog there was a rowboat with a boatman and a lantern. There was a second figure too, a passenger. I strained to see better, but —

But then the scenery suddenly shifted and I heard voices.

"Danny, wake up man! You okay? Wake up. Speak to me!"

I opened my eyes. Styron was talking, but the words were so garbled it sounded like a foreign language. Standing next to him was Garcia and someone else who looked familiar. Their images so bleary they could have been under water. I couldn't speak. I thought I was dead, but then felt pressure being applied to my arm.

Garcia tore another strip of cloth from his shirt to use as a bandage to try to stop the bleeding. Styron spoke again, this time more clearly. "We've called the ambulance and they'll be here in a few minutes. Hang in there, buddy."

I was in shock from loss of blood, but suddenly the pain in the shoulder and knock on my head kicked in. I surprised myself by speaking though it was barely more than a whisper. "Where's Ray? Is he alright?"

Garcia and Styron exchanged a concerned look. "Sure, Danny, Ray's...Ray's alright—he's fine." Even gruff Garcia's eyes watered as he lied about Ray. I'm sure he wondered whether I'd survive. "You just keep talking," he said. "Stay with us, man. We'll get you out of here quick as we can."

#

Homer Carr arrived at work the next morning at his usual hour. As he made his way to the barn he glanced at the animal pen and caught sight of Dante and Fernando. The ornery goat glowered in the morning light with the scrawny little rooster sitting atop his back, both eagerly awaiting their next meal. Homer fed the goats and chickens and moved on to the stable. The moment he entered the building and saw Buddy in his stall, he let out a cry of joy. The horses and mules instantly sensed his good mood. Buddy whinnied appreciatively as Homer found an apple and offered it. Buddy chomped it and eyed the man, relieved again to be in his company. The other animals in the stable took note.

"There there _,_ old boy. It's so good to see you! Where on God's green earth have you been?" Homer spoke in soothing tones as he petted the mule, feasting his eyes on the long, reddish-brown face. "Did you see that, General? Buddy just smiled at me. I declare he just smiled at me." Homer sported a huge grin of his own.

A few minutes later Quinn Lee came into the stable and Homer greeted him full of good cheer. "Mister Lee, I was sure happy to see Buddy this morning. Where in the world was he all that time? Was it Tred that took him?"

Quinn paused for a moment before releasing a heavy sigh. He stroked Buddy's head. "No, Homer. It wasn't Tred. It turns out that Buddy was taken by Damien."

Homer couldn't believe his ears. "Damien? That doesn't sound right."

"Well, it's true. The police confirmed it last night. He was the one who stole Buddy and he was the one asking for the ransom. Two men ended up dead last evening as a result—and Ray Cantien was killed yesterday afternoon, too. Danny Cantien was shot and damn near didn't make it. I didn't think Damien had something like that in him."

Homer shook his head. "Three people dead? No sir. I wouldn't have thought that either." He was dumbstruck. _And that nice Danny Cantien almost killed._ "I noticed Damien's car's wasn't here this morning. Did the police take him off?"

"No, Homer. He's in the house. Asleep. It was a long night. His car's in town."

Homer studied Quinn Lee. He'd never seen such a look of defeat on his face. "I suppose he's going to jail for what he did, Mister Lee?"

"No, I don't think so. There was no direct link between Damien and the men who got killed. It was more a domino effect. He got in way over his head. I'm not filing charges against him and so far, nobody else has either. But he _is_ going away for awhile. To military school. He's got some growing up to do and needs to do it where there's more discipline in his life. He betrayed us all, slinking around like a conniving snake." Quinn's disgust was palpable.

Homer looked out the stable into the morning light. His heart ached as he listened. He thought back to his last talks with Damien. They'd made so much progress in their relationship the last couple weeks. Damien even borrowed _Look Homeward, Angel_ and had gotten through the first half of it. The boy had expressed an interest in writing and they'd begun talking about compositional styles. Homer had also taken an interest in Damien's photography and had posed for several black-and-white portraits.

He shook his head sadly. _And now this._

"Why'd he do it, Mister Lee?"

Quinn Lee seemed surprised by the suddenness of the question but the very same thought had consumed him all night. "Why?" he said, lost for words. "I imagine for the money. That's what he told me. But I think it goes beyond the money. It's just a feeling. Maybe we'll know someday; maybe we won't."

Homer knew there was more. Despite the outward friendly progress between the two, he knew there was a monumental struggle going on between father and son. And between the boy and himself. Homer had seen it in the eyes. He'd known it himself as a young man. The hidden lie, the turbulence where there's no joy or peace with one's fellow man. Homer kept the thoughts to himself. It wouldn't be appropriate to elaborate further with Mister Lee. He knew kidnapping Buddy was a cry for help. The boy was seeking attention from his father. Craving attention. It had never come easily from the old man. And now that Damien had taken matters into his own hands, look where it got him.

Homer knew a thing or two about betrayal. He also knew the decision to take Buddy wouldn't have been easy for Damien; that there was more to the story than met the eye. But despite his forgiving and understanding thoughts, Homer too felt betrayed by the boy. It was one thing to understand or try to understand. It was another altogether to feel he'd been personally hoodwinked. The only saving grace for Damien was that Buddy—and Danny—were alright. But three men were dead, including Danny Cantien's brother, Ray. That was something the boy would have to live with for the rest of his life. Whether he'd caused the deaths directly or indirectly, setting in motion a series of events that took three lives was not something a person could bear without scars. Homer had only met Ray once in person, but through his visits with Danny, felt like he knew the likeable younger brother.

He'd also learned that the other two men who died had been bodyguards for state senator Dalton James. Homer didn't know the particulars yet on how they met their maker, but details would leak out over the next few weeks. It's _got_ to be more than a coincidence, he thought; the connection between Dalton James and Mister Lee. More than mere chance that the senator's name had come up in connection with Buddy's disappearance

It turned out Homer wasn't the only one who thought so.

#

"The bottom feeders are trolling," I remember Pa saying, "buying a pound of flesh, an ounce of justice from an unjust world."

We were still kids when he relayed that quote from a story he'd heard years before. Apparently some of the more ambitious moonshiners in the next county had hung a meddling government revenuer off the waterfall in Tuscumbia. At Devils's Backbone, near the Indian statue. The rope broke, the body dropped like a sack of rocks, and the big river trout ripped the corpse up like piranha. They made quick work of him, too; the talk according to Pa, was that the old boy had been consumed by guilt; "simply eaten up by it." They had a good chuckle over that phrase down at the barbershop.

"But being literal with the facts ain't likely to bring much consolation to one in that revenuer's sorry condition," Pa said, "No matter how you paint it, that man bought a one-way ticket to the seven seas. That's the way they done it in the olden days, boys. Justice is justice; the river's the son of the waterfall and father of the Gulf. And the ocean's their eternal mother."

# PART THREE

#

Damien got whisked off to Winterfield Military Academy in Virginia the very next day. Quinn Lee drove him straight through, and though there was plenty of time to talk, not much talking took place. For the most part, Quinn asked questions and Damien provided terse answers. The boy resented that his old man wouldn't let him use his iPad to escape the boredom of the drive and the awkwardness of the company. But in a larger sense it didn't bother Damien that he was leaving; going to a prison-like place where they'd shave his head, make him wear a uniform and order him around. He was past the point of caring. All he knew was that he needed a change; a relief from the status quo. It was bad enough being busted for stealing Buddy, but things in the romance department had soured over the last two weeks too. After that second time, when she'd crept into his bed, Jamie had grown cold to him and shied away completely. It was about the same time Damien had gotten over the guilt too, which made it that much harder to bear. The timing couldn't have been worse in his mind.

After Jamie's argument with Quinn the night she called Buddy a dirty old mule, Damien also sensed a growing rift between husband and wife. At first he assumed Jamie had been falling in love with him, but now that seemed plain stupid, a teenager's fantasy. The more he thought about it, the more he believed Jamie was having an affair with another man. She talked incessantly about her tennis instructor, Mitch something-or-other; how good looking he was and so on. And she was gone sometimes for hours after her tennis lessons should have ended. Damien had kept closer tabs on her than Quinn ever did, and became more and more jealous. Not of his father, but of some tennis jock he'd never even met. He knew it was ridiculous. And the fact that it was ridiculous bothered him all the more. Who was betraying who? Or was it whom? He didn't give a shit. All he knew was that he'd stopped sleeping through the night and couldn't get more than a couple hours without waking in a cold sweat, replaying those life-altering romantic episodes with Jamie.

He'd grown listless during the day, waiting for fleeting glimpses of Jamie. She seemed to be away more often than not. And it was during the height of his disorientation that he'd stolen Buddy. Damien wanted the money, he didn't deny it, but deep inside he wanted more. Or maybe it was _less_ he wanted—less of the old man, less of his mother, and less of the rage building within. A part of him actually wanted to be caught, to have the chance to tell the old man how much he hated and resented him; and to boast how he'd taken advantage of the mighty Quinn Lee. Damien wanted to tell him everything, and maybe even fill him in on the fact that some other son-of-a-bitch named Mitch had been screwing his hot young wife, too.

What he hadn't counted on was that people would die. Damien was unsure of the connection between Ray Cantien and his murderer, and why he'd been targeted. At the very least Ray had been an innocent victim in the mule-napping case and Damien felt an uncontrollable guilt, having instigated it. Guilt worse than any he'd felt over his affair—if he could call it that—with Jamie. He tried to convince himself that Ray's death was independent of his own actions, but he could never complete the circle of logic before it fell apart. Somehow, Damien knew he was responsible; knew he was the reason Ray died.

But _why_ had his stepfather's bodyguards been at Tom Finn's barn that night? Damien knew and disliked Clamber and Jenson intensely, but certainly hadn't wished either of them dead. There were lots of things that didn't make sense to Damien. But one thing was sure; he was going to military school.

"Where you're going _,_ " his father grimly told him, "They're going to take you apart and put you back together. And I hope to God they do a better job of it than your mother and I did."

Damien smiled wanly at the thought as they drove past Asheville and the outline of the Blue Ridge Mountains cast their smoky spell in the dying sun. He had no idea who or what he was anymore. He was actually glad he'd been busted and getting out of town, but he still hated the old man.

* * *

Homer saw Damien get in the car that morning for the trip to Virginia. Quinn was in a hurry to leave and Loretta came running out of the house at the last minute to bring them a lunch basket for the journey. From across the yard, Homer had tried to catch the boy's eye, but Damien kept his eyes down, deliberately deflecting all contact. All the young man carried was one suitcase and his camera equipment. Homer would learn later that Damien also packed his loaned copy of _Look Homeward, Angel_.

#

After Ray's funeral service, my shoulder in an immobilizer brace, I went into seclusion, drinking more than usual and barely leaving the apartment. I used the Percocet prescribed by the doctor more to numb my brain than shoulder. I called Rose repeatedly, but she was always busy. I tortured myself, constantly asking what I could have done differently to prevent Ray's death. The loss of my brother produced a spiral of dark despair that seemed to have no bottom.

Numb and disconsolate over losing Ray, I also felt sharp pangs of jealousy that Rose had started dating Jim Patterson. It wasn't long afterwards that I lost all perspective and felt a persistent, stabbing, ache in my gut. It was so persistent that I thought at times that I might be dying of stomach cancer. With such a fatalistic view, I thought more and more about simply ending it; putting a bullet in my head with the Colt. The notion had not come quickly or easily, but once it surfaced and took root, I couldn't think of much else.

One late afternoon after a few drinks, I was ready. And that awful ache in my gut and the alcohol made the prospect that much easier. I loaded a round, placed my finger on the trigger and stared at the barrel. Imagined what it would be like, rationalized a place with no pain, no memory; pictured the world getting along just fine without me. After all, it's not like I'd done anything with my life. Or was going to.

I double checked to make sure a bullet was in the chamber and put the pistol against my right temple. Just as I did, a Mockingbird flew down and perched on the window sill. It distracted me and we stared at each other for a long moment, me with the pistol to my head, and the bird cocking his head right, then left.

The phone rang and I almost pulled the trigger as my hand instinctively jerked. But I ignored the summons and didn't bother checking to see who'd called. I needed to get on with it.

But the damned bird wouldn't go away. It kept peering through the window directly at me. For an instant, I thought about blasting the damn thing through the window. That'd show the bastard. I knew it was just admiring its own reflection, but the bird's eyes bore straight into mine mockingly. The irony wasn't lost even in my fragile state.

And then the thing flew off and the moment seemed to fly off with it. Lowering the Colt, I rose and watched from the window as the bird landed in the branch of a nearby Sycamore. In those few moments the bird had jogged a memory—of that time when Ray and I were kids—and I'd fired an arrow straight up at the starlings and it'd flown straight back at us. _"Danny, you dumb son of a bitch,"_ Ray had said after the arrow struck the ground where we'd been standing, _"Are you suicidal?"_

As I remembered, tears streamed down my face. I suddenly felt guilty and very selfish. Foolish and ashamed at the thought of taking my own life when Ray had loved his so much and had been cut down in his prime. I put the pistol carefully down and collapsed in a chair. Then put my face in shaking hands and cried. The numbness within my heart and mind had passed, replaced once again by that raw, aching pain in my gut. It wasn't cancer, I'd later learn. Just the bitter and persistent ache of a stressed out soul.

* * *

To his credit, Quinn Lee wrote me a check for fifteen thousand dollars for recovering Buddy safely and avoiding the cost of the ransom. Quinn was delighted to have Buddy back and genuinely distressed over Ray's death. He let me know that if there was anything he could ever do to help, to let him know; that he felt a bond between the two families. Said he'd be eternally grateful and all. I was grateful, but Ray was still gone.

I paid Styron and Garcia double what Ray had promised them. After all, they'd saved my life that night at Tom Finn's farm. The two stayed in town for awhile to provide emotional support and I was plenty glad to have them around. Of course, the FBI also weighed in—they wanted the boys nearby so they could question them about the explosion on 2nd Avenue. It took a couple of weeks, but they were eventually cleared. While in town they worked as deck hands for a few weeks traveling up and down the river several times to build up cash reserves before driving back to Moon Mullet.

Soon afterwards, Garcia and Styron convinced me to come south, too, to spend some time fishing. I asked the boss for time off from work at the photo shop and it was willingly granted. I think he was glad to see the back of me and I was glad to leave, to get out of town and be with people I could trust; people who'd covered my back when I was down for the count. I was given a week's leave from work, but took two, fishing and healing in Moon Mullet. During my time on the water I wiled away the hours reconstructing the events of the afternoon Ray's vehicle blew up. The cops had turned up nothing on Clamber and Jenson in connection with Ray's death. Of course, Senator Dalton James had gone into full damage control, his chief of staff Benning employing the powerful McNeil Atkins public relations firm to spin the tragedy and maximize the public goodwill the senator might expect from losing his two trusted bodyguards. By the time McNeil Atkins got through singing their praises to the media, Clamber and Jenson could themselves been elected to the senate. One article went so far as to suggest they were political martyrs. They twisted me hard, I can tell you. According to statements by the senator's office, "The two asked for time off the evening of their assassinations to have dinner with a friend in the country." Senator James said he'd "never thought to ask who their friend in the country was." About why both had gone down in a violent blaze, one killed by a bang stick and one kicked in the head by a mule, the senator's office said they were "genuinely baffled." Most people in Nashville had never heard of a bang stick, but there was a flurry of Internet searches about the weapon following the story. When the question arose as to where Clamber and Jenson had been at the time Ray Cantien's Land Cruiser exploded earlier in the day, the senator's log book showed they were in Belle Meade, accompanying the senator as he addressed a ladies garden club. There was no smoking gun connecting the senator or his two bodyguards to anything resembling a crime.

The lack of any evidence bothered me, bothered me immensely. A vicious rumor started, my guess from the committee to re-elect Dalton James, that Ray'd been involved with drugs and perhaps was killed for double-crossing a Mexican drug lord. Being from Mexico, the FBI grilled Garcia on that line of questioning extensively and it got some air play in the local media. The lie angered me even more and made me glad that I hadn't killed myself the day the mockingbird talked me out of it, so I could be around to defend Ray's honor.

The whole thing became a media circus for a month or more. Still, there was a hole in the story. I'd wake at night, heart pounding, with one thought and one thought only: _Who killed Ray? And why?_ I was convinced it was Dalton James and his henchmen, but couldn't produce a shred of evidence.

After two weeks in Moon Mullet, I returned to Nashville. I needed money and needed to face life again. Most of all I needed to find out where I stood with Rose. We'd spoken only twice in a month and the writing seemed to be on the wall. She confirmed to me that she was seeing Jim Patterson, but what I couldn't tell was how serious it was. It was time to get back to the loft and the photo shop. If it wasn't going to work out with Rose, I thought, there were a couple of other prospects; one was Magdalena, the gorgeous Italian girl at Hatch Show Print. I debated over whether she was too young and hot. After all, I'm a pretty simple dude, not at all flashy like her. Or maybe I'd call Terri Morrison, the pretty brunette who worked at the stationary store. She was in her late twenties, but a single mother with a young boy. She always seemed to light up whenever I was around and she was quite a looker. I didn't have her number, but had run into her several times at Donovan's Pub. I resolved to look her up.

#

One evening a couple weeks after Danny returned from Moon Mullet, Homer was reading in his library when he heard a car pull in the drive. He peeked out the window through the blinds and saw Charlene's car. It was odd that she hadn't called ahead; she always did. He opened the front door, stood on the covered porch and greeted her. "Well, well. What a pleasant surprise! Come on in."

Charlene walked up the steps to the porch without her usual smile and gave him a hug. He hugged back, but at the point where they would normally disengage, she didn't. Then he heard her weeping. "What's the matter, honey?"

Charlene sniffed and looked at him through watery tears. "It's Michael papa. He's...dead. H _e_ was _killed_ today _._ " As soon as she spoke, she realized her mistake. She should have sat him down before breaking the news. Homer swooned and collapsed as if he'd been shot. She grabbed him the best she could. She got him into a chair on the porch and kneeled at his feet. "Papa, it was unreal...they brought him into the hospital a couple hours ago. I was on duty. He'd been stabbed. He was coming in and out of consciousness."

Homer felt a pressure in his chest and his legs were drained of strength. He had a look of utter confusion. "Stabbed? What happened? He was supposed to be out in three more days."

"I know. I know," wept Charlene.

Homer stared blankly into the darkness, the rhythmic swelling sounds of cicadas hammering in waves across the open field. Charlene held his hand with hers. "From what the warden said, he was stabbed trying to help some kid, someone just brought in a couple weeks ago. A nineteen-year-old, just some scared kid. One of the inmates said he was going to make the kid his wife or some such thing. Then tonight, when the inmate grabbed the kid in the showers and made a move on him—Papa, like he was going to rape him—that's when Michael stepped in. To help. The inmate had a shiv. And stabbed Michael. He was just trying to help."

Charlene was afraid to continue, given the look on her father's face. But she had no choice. He needed to know. "Papa, they rushed him to the hospital—I was in the ER. It was awful Papa, just awful. We did everything we could to save him. But he...we did everything we could."

For the first time since losing Ada, Homer cried. Uncontrollably. His shoulders shook and he seemed to visibly shrink, to age ten years in an instant. Charlene sat as close as she could and rocked back and forth with him.

After a while he blew his nose on the big handkerchief he always kept in his breast pocket. "Charlene, did he say anything? Did Michael say anything? Before he..."

"He did, Papa. He kept saying he was sorry, to tell you he was sorry. That's all he could get out. He said it over and over."

Homer's lips trembled as he spoke. "I'm sorry, too, Charlene." He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "But I'm glad you were there with him. So he wasn't alone."

Charlene hugged her father's shaking shoulders and cried.

* * *

For someone who'd spent the last year of his life in jail, Michael Carr's wake and funeral service were attended by more people than one might expect. The night before the service, I went over for the visitation. It was hot and crowded and the front door was propped open to let in some air.

Michael, looking far too young and handsome, was laid out in a casket, looking as peaceful as if he were taking a nap. The room was solemn, filled with murmuring voices, as friends and relatives shook hands and hugged. The burnt smell of overcooked coffee and women's perfume wafted through the hall. Distinguished gentlemen in suits and ladies wearing fine dresses and gloves greeted each other emotionally and I felt a tad out of place to be honest. I eventually made my way over to Homer who was sitting with an attractive woman I figured to be Charlene, his daughter.

Time had collapsed for both Homer and me. It was only five weeks and a day since Homer had consoled me at Ray's visitation and now here we were again. As we were about to part, Homer said, "I'm counting on you to come by the house soon. I've got some books I want to show you."

Charlene gave me a sideways glance and added, "He does at that. You should drop by and check them out."

I said I'd do that and bade them farewell, curious at the doctor's parting comment. It was way too stuffy in the room for comfort and I was ready to push on, but just as I was taking my leave, there was a commotion at the back door. Two large over-excited dogs, one a Bluetick hunting dog and one a bloodhound, had slipped into the building though the open door. Much to the consternation of the mourners, the dogs had chased each other into the main visitation parlor. There they slammed headlong into Michael's casket where it teetered for an anxious moment, looking all the world like it'd tip over. Thankfully it didn't. "Get those hounds outta here!" someone yelled.

The hint of a smile crossed my face as I thought of my recurring dream, the one where I'm lying in the casket at my own future visitation. The dogs raced back through the room, but unlike my dream, they didn't take the time to look into the casket and lick Michael's face. A large man quickly grabbed the bloodhound by the collar and led him outdoors, the Bluetick trailing, his tail wagging like a metronome.

#

About the time I was twenty, dear Pa passed on. He'd wasted away the previous two or three years and they finally put him in a home near the end. It was pitiful to see. His biggest fear was losing his mind, going senile. He told Ma if she saw that was happening, to go ahead and end it for him, smother him with a pillow or something. Of course she couldn't do that. None of us could. Watching his deterioration made me wonder, even at my young age, about my own fate at the end, how that was going to play out someday. On one of our last visits, Pa gave me his pocket watch, one of those gold ones with a chain I'd always admired. He held my hand with his own hand, shaking, stared at me with watery red eyes, and earnestly made me promise not to over-wind it.

We visited on Sunday afternoons when they'd clean him up for visitors. They'd set him up in bed, comb his hair and try to give him a decent shave, but there were always band aids covering nicks or else missed spots where stray whiskers had escaped the blade. Even with their best efforts, his once strapping chest was sunken, his eyes and voice hollow, and his big brown arms reduced to skinny white poles. In his prime he was strong as an ox, those hands bigger'n any you'd imagine a man's could be. As small boys we'd watch with amazement as he made homemade ice cream, effortlessly turning the crank. We'd beg to crank it ourselves, and then turn the thing for three or four minutes till we swore our arms would fall off. He'd urge us to crank faster, push us to the limit and then take over just as we gave out, it being the next thing to sinful if you let the cranking stop. To this day that ice cream's the best thing I ever tasted.

* * *

A few days after Michael's visitation I dropped by Homer's place on a Saturday afternoon. Homer lived in a one-story house with a large covered front porch and a beautiful stone fireplace. I knocked on the arched front door and could see a finely polished wood floor and antique furniture through the window. He showed me in and it didn't take but a second to see what Charlene had been talking about. The place was loaded with books—bookshelves on every wall in the house—floor to ceiling bookshelves. Homer was living in a well-stocked library.

He seemed delighted to see me. "Can I get you some iced tea, Danny?"

"Thanks, that'd be great."

We walked toward the kitchen through the living room. No TV in sight, just a tastefully decorated room, including a large overstuffed leather chair and all those books. On the table next to Homer's reading chair was a stack. Volume One of the _Autobiography of Mark Twain_ was open on the top.

"How many books you got here, Homer?"

"I don't exactly know. They're organized and labeled according to subject or author, depending on how it felt in my head. But I never counted them. Charlene took a stab at it about three years ago and came up with about ten thousand. I guess there'd have to be a thousand or more since then. Somewhere along those lines."

"Have you read them all?"

A smile. "Not all, but lots. You can cover a lot of territory in forty years if you put your mind to it."

"I'm sure you can," I agreed. "Do you mind if I—?"

"Not at all. In fact that's exactly why I asked you to visit. I knew you'd be one of the few people around who'd appreciate what's here. Go ahead, look around for awhile. Enjoy. I'm happy to be reading right now, so feel free to wander all you want. We can resurface in an hour or so, have a glass of wine and a bite to eat. I've got a chicken casserole I was planning to warm up for dinner and there's plenty extra."

"Homer, that sounds like a plan. I'd love to stay for dinner."

Homer smiled again, "Fine, I'll see you in about an hour," and picked up his book and began reading.

It was good to see him smile. I thought he looked thinner and drawn since Michael had passed and resolved at that moment to spend more time with him; to try to be a better friend. In the meantime, I turned and with cocked head began reading titles. It was evident that every author of note over the last century was present. It didn't matter what it was; fiction, history, politics, science, religion—it seemed Homer had the book.

#

Jim Patterson lived in a condo on West End and Rose's bungalow house was just around the corner. Close enough to be convenient, but far enough away so each had their own space. In her mind, the relationship was sparking along nicely. Jim was a genuinely warm man; smart, tall, athletic, and funny. Not to mention successful. With his well-appointed condo and big S-Class Mercedes, it was evident he was a man of means, a man of substance. Romantic, generous, great in bed. What's not to like? Rose asked herself. She had finally hit the jack pot.

Danny had called her a couple times during his two weeks in Moon Mullet. She was deliberately cool when he called, but at the same time tried to be kind, to let him down easy. They talked about her new life and he seemed to understand. But he was vulnerable and she knew it. She remembered her own vulnerability after the death of her sister and Danny's had been the shoulders she'd cried on. All that touched her and touched her deeply. But after a few weeks with Jim it seemed life couldn't get any better. She found it easier and easier to put Danny out of her mind. For once, things were going her way. Finally she was dating a man that she not only liked but her mother would have approved.

* * *

I visited Donovan's Pub several times and hadn't run into Terri Morrison, the pretty brunette, once. None of my regular crowd had seen her either and I'd recently seen a sign on the stationary store that it'd gone out of business. She must have moved on. Probably just as well, I thought. Best not to get into a relationship with a young mother, especially given my track record for responsibility. Or lack thereof.

In search of female companionship I called on Magdalena at Hatch. She was happy to get together for drinks and music at the Station Inn on Elliston Place, but though she seemed to like my sometimes charming wit and rough-and-tumble style she appeared uninterested in an intimate relationship. I, on the other hand, was wildly curious about what she was sporting under that sheer blouse and short skirt and as always, she drove me crazy with her accent. She liked The Time Jumpers, the regular Monday night band, as I thought she would. We had some other fun dates, too, but eventually I realized that's all it would ever be with Magdalena. I needed someone else, someone more down to earth. I couldn't get Rose out of my mind. Even as I lusted after Magdalena and reveled in her sexy accent, I didn't _want_ to get Rose out of my mind.

.

I was walking home from Donovan's one night when up ahead I saw a blonde hooker in a blue jumpsuit, leaning over and adjusting her boots. It wasn't unusual to see the girls downtown; they were part of the landscape. But the cops recently had come down hard on them so the sight was less common than it used to be.

"Hi handsome, looking for date?" she asked.

I looked at the girl and even through the war paint recognized her. It had been awhile but I knew right away; the porcelain white skin, the family blue-gray eyes.

" _Linda?_ "

"Danny? Cousin Danny?"

"Yeah, it's me. You doing okay?"

"Yeah, thanks for asking. I heard what happened to Ray and feel terrible I couldn't make it to the service..."

"I understand," I interrupted, wanting desperately to change the subject. "How're your folks?

"Dad's fine, but mom's not doing well. You knew she has cancer, right?"

"Yeah, I heard."

"It's getting worse lately. And she's stopped taking her medication. She was in denial at first, but now seems to have given up. Least that's the impression I got. We talked a couple weeks ago and she said, 'What's the use, I'm a goner soon anyway.' She ain't got any money left for medicine and the insurance is tapped out. She figures Dad's gonna need everything he can scrape together for food and rent after she's gone. It's bleak Danny, pretty fucking bleak. And I'm in no position to send them money."

"Yeah, well...it sounds rough," I said, thinking about Claudia. _Mom's favorite sister. My favorite aunt, too_. "I was wondering where you've been. Haven't seen you around. You're not still working for that asshole, Cashmere, are you?"

She tightened her lips. "He can be a mean son of a bitch, but pays well. With the shitty economy lately I've had to pick up a second job," she laughed, a shrill unpleasant sound. "Or is _this_ the second job?"

I shrugged, didn't know how to respond. "How's Tommy?"

"Good—he turned five in July. Growing like a weed, but he's been sick the last few weeks. Caught pneumonia and was in the hospital almost a week."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Linda. He's a good kid. Good looking and smart."

"He sure is. My pride and joy. The reason I get up in the morning." Linda smiled this time for real and her dulled eyes took on a prideful twinkle. Hard not to notice her toothy grin needed serious dental work.

There was a too-long pause. Nothing left to say. I was hungry and wanted to move on, but felt bad about the kid and Claudia.

But what could I do?

Cousin or not, it suddenly dawned on me I was chatting with a hooker right on Lower Broad. People walking and driving by were staring, checking to see if she was going to snag a customer right in front of them. I got real uncomfortable real fast. "Well, I guess I better shove off, Linda," I said. "You be safe out here," and turned to leave.

"Sure, Danny." She was aware of the staring eyes too but had grown accustomed to it over time. "I understand. You too. Hey, I don't suppose you'd like to—" Her eyes cast about, absorbing the street scene, part of an instinctive search for clients.

Oh hell, she's not going to...

"—grab a bite to eat, would ya? I'm starving."

I exhaled in relief. "Sure, why not? I was going to grab a burger over at McHugh's anyway. "Care to come along?"

"Yeah, I'd like that. Cashmere's over in East Nashville right now." She surveyed the street one last time, wheels turning in her head. Maybe there was a john to be had and she would take a rain check. But there were no eligible trollers in sight. "Sure, I guess I could take a few minutes."

We walked the couple blocks up 2nd Avenue to the restaurant where I ordered a burger and she the fish and chips. I listened sympathetically while she shared stories about the family, Tommy, and her life on the street. She was a talker and we chatted right through dinner. When working, she left her son with the landlady, an older woman who doted on Tommy. She talked about her ex-boyfriend, Tommy's father, "who ran off to Alabama with some red-headed whore and now working in a tattoo parlor in Birmingham."

I mostly listened, deliberately steering away from the subject of Ray's death. I'd never broached the subject with her before, but for some reason the time seemed right and I couldn't resist. I finally got around to the topic working through my brain. "This thing you're doing, Linda," I suddenly blurted, "It's not good. It's dangerous out there on the street and it won't do you or your little boy any good if you get hurt or thrown in jail."

By the look on her face, I'd struck a nerve. She put down a fry and put her chin out at me.

"You can save the sermon for Sunday, Danny. I've been at this now a couple years and thought it through a thousand times. I know it's a dead-end so spare us both the embarrassment. One of these days I'm going back to school, but I gotta get caught up on the bills first. There's just no other way right now."

We finished eating in silence. She was irritated at his attempt to restart the conversation and anxious to move on. The waitress brought the check. I reached for it as Linda got out her purse. "What's my share?"

"I've got this one," I said, "It's great seeing you."

"You don't need to do that, but thanks, Danny. I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything. We're family."

Linda fidgeted with her purse. "Well, thanks again for supper. I guess I better get back before Cashmere finds out I'm gone."

We left the restaurant, lit cigarettes and walked together down 2nd Avenue toward Broad. There was a welcome coolness in the October air. Tourists and locals strolled and window shopped. A Japanese couple passed by, he wearing a green cowboy hat and she a pink one, carrying ukuleles. The streets were full of country music fans, excited that George Jones was playing the Ryman. Rumor was out that The Possum might actually show up for his performance and I was pissed with myself for not having a ticket.

We walked and smoked in silence, me thinking about Linda and her kid and Aunt Claudia's cancer and how despite the fact that my life was totally screwed, there were others in worse shape. I mulled over an idea that had surfaced in the restaurant. I was pretty flush after Buddy's rescue and had almost ten grand in the bank after paying Styron and Garcia. I pulled out my wallet. After paying for dinner, I knew there was a hundred and six dollars in it. "Look, Linda, I want you to have something. Please take this, to help with Tommy." I handed her five twenties.

Linda was genuinely shocked. "You don't need to do that." Then she paused awkwardly and quickly added, "But, Danny that is so sweet and it's really appreciated. I'll pay you back one of these days I _prom_ —"

But before she could finish her sentence I felt a tap on his shoulder. A woman in a dark blue jogging outfit flashed a badge and barked, " _Police! You're both under arrest._ " A two-way radio crackled. She pulled it from her belt and clicked the button to speak. "Yep, got the two of 'em right here. 2nd Avenue, just off Broad. Come pick 'em up."

Less than a minute later a police car arrived with blue lights flashing and before we knew it, we were spread-eagled, our hands on the car's hood, and being frisked for weapons. They put Linda and me in the back of the car and together we were driven to the nearby station. She was booked on charges of solicitation of prostitution and they slapped me with a misdemeanor for "visiting a house of prostitution." Our protests as to the real nature of the exchange of money fell on deaf ears.

"Tell it to the judge," the desk sergeant growled to the two. "Officer Alvarez," he added, "Show our guests to the hospitality suite and kindly accommodate them with photos and prints. And then book their asses."

#

Rose arrived home early from work to finish preparations for a special evening with Jim. She had it all planned. A romantic candlelight dinner, a fine bottle of wine, cuddling while watching a movie, and then they'd hit the sack early. She opened the oven to check the Osso Buco and the heat and aroma wafted out. It looked and smelled delicious, the meat falling off the bone just right. She carefully removed the cooked shanks from the pot, placed them in a serving platter and cut off the kitchen twine, then poured all the juices and sauce from the pot over the shanks and garnished with chopped parsley and lemon. The taste test followed. " _Perfecto,_ " she blessed it aloud.

The door bell rang right on time and her heart raced. Jim looked and smelled great. He gave her a wet kiss and pulled a bottle of champagne out from behind his back. " _Ta dah!"_ he announced proudly, "A Krug 1990."

"Looks like a good one," she agreed, though she wouldn't have known the difference between a twelve-dollar bottle and one costing two hundred. They moved to the kitchen with his arm around her. "It's not a Dom Perignon," he sniffed, "but it's the next best thing. Maybe it'll help me get lucky tonight."

A light flickered in her eyes as she held up a bite of the meat on a fork for him to taste. "Something tells me you're gonna get lucky with or without the champagne, but let's open it anyway."

He tasted the veal. "Mmm...wonderful. Good enough to eat." He raised an eyebrow, sporting that boyish grin of his. They sipped champagne between kisses and told each other about their days while she prepared the salad and vegetables. He put the radio on quietly in the background and lit candles as they sat down to eat.

"A toast," he said "to Rose _,_ the most beautiful chef in the world."

Rose glowed radiantly in the candlelight.

"And to _me_ ," Jim added, "who's got to be the luckiest guy in the world to have found you."

"Cheers to your good taste in women," Rose laughed and raised her glass.

The meal was delicious. They switched from the champagne to cabernet and it wasn't long before Rose was tipsy. As they were finishing, Patterson made a seemingly casual comment that caught her completely off guard. "Oh, I almost forgot, I heard today that your old pal, Danny Cantien, was arrested last night."

Rose sobered up instantly. "Arrested? For what?"

"Paying for sex with a prostitute," Patterson said matter-of-factly as he pushed a bite of meat with feigned nonchalance across the plate to collect the last bit of sauce.

"No, that can't be. Danny wouldn't do anything like that. There must be some sort of mistake."

Patterson's eyebrow lifted. The boyish grin had morphed into something far less charming. "Well, according to a guy who works in my office with connections at the department, it's true. An undercover cop caught him dead-to-squares. He was handing dough over to a hooker on 2nd Avenue."

Rose's head begin to swim, partly from the alcohol and partly from the news. Jim had a hard time containing his enthusiasm for the details. "The arrest report said the girl had a hundred dollars on her and that Danny was spotted handing her the cash right in front of the cops. Pretty stupid, huh? Even for him."

"I don't believe it. It doesn't make sense. For as long as I've know Danny, he's never had more than a few hundred dollars to his name, and even if he did— No, something's not right. He wouldn't pay somebody to have sex."

_Would_ he _?_ She wondered.

Patterson shrugged and took a sip of wine, but wisely didn't say a word.

As Rose thought of Danny, a Buddy Miller song played in the background, one of her favorites. The same song he'd played for the encore that previous spring at the Belcourt Theatre when she, Danny, and Ray had all been together. Something about the music and the wine and the news about Danny suddenly welled up inside her.

"Honey, are you okay?" Patterson asked.

Rose wiped her cheek with a napkin. "Yeah, I'm okay. It must be the onions still left on my hands. I must have rubbed my eyes."

"Are you sure?"

"Hell yes, I'm fine," she was in shock but trying not to show it. "But what does it take for a girl to get a refill in this joint?" Patterson replenished Rose's glass and then his own. They clinked glasses in another toast and she drank deeper than usual. She stared at the flame of the candle as Miller's distinctive guitar strains wailed plaintively from the speakers. And then the ghost of Ray's voice inside her head spoke as clear as day reminding her of what he'd said about the song.

" _Absolutely fucking symphonic,"_ he'd whispered.

They washed the dishes together, watched the movie, and went to bed. By then Rose had pushed all thoughts of Ray and his brother out of her head, and was excited and horny. Jim didn't disappoint. He pushed all the right buttons and she reciprocated by pulling all the right levers. They were in the throes of making love, with him thrusting away on top when suddenly thoughts of Danny surfaced again.

_Oh, hell no, not now_ , she thought.

But there he was, larger than life, looming in her mind's eye. She opened her eyes and looked up at Jim, who was giving it his all.

"Yes, _yes!_ " she encouraged, and he shifted to a higher gear.

Just as Jim was about to finish, she was invaded once again.

A hooker...a goddammed hooker!

And that brought her right back to earth. She lost it right at the top, just when she had been so close. Jim kept rocking and a few seconds later he was done. Relieved, she gave her best fake orgasmic groan in concert with his. He collapsed and settled heavily on her.

"That was unbelievable," he said as he looked into her eyes. "How about you, Rose? Was it good for you?"

She smiled up at him through watery eyes. " _Un-_ believable," she sighed.

#

Dalton James was furious. It was only two weeks before the election and he was reviewing the latest poll numbers. His opponent, Wilson Frazier, had picked up three points and was now firmly ahead with fifty-six percent. In an effort to help balance the odds, Nelson Benning, the senator's capable chief of staff, had recently leaked the story through the PR firm of McNeil-Atkins that Frazier was gay. Instead of having the desired negative effect, it seemed the electorate, at least the ones who were polled, didn't think it would be such a bad idea to elect a gay person as a state senator.

"Damnedest thing we ever saw, Senator," Benning said as he scratched his head and squinted at the poll numbers. "Just goes to show how this town's turning gay right before our eyes."

The senator scowled. "The _town_ , hell, the whole country's gone either green or gay the last ten years. Makes you wonder why the hell we're even in this business anymore." He held up the poll sheets. "Not that I'm a homophobe, mind you. But dammit, I'm down by nine points with two weeks to go. What's the latest with Plan B? Or should we call it Plan C by now? Are we gonna have to run through the whole frigging alphabet before election day?"

"Don't sweat it, chief, we're on it. I finalized the deal with Chewmore at Bowman's Grill last night. The fix is in. Just like we discussed a couple weeks ago, it's gonna cost us a bundle, just under a million, but it's a guaranteed lock. Do you want to know the details?"

"No, just take care of it."

"I thought you'd say that."

"Do we have enough money?"

"Yes sir, we've actually got a little more than that if you include out-of-state funds. We'll have just three hundred grand left for yard signs, radio, TV and bill—"

Dalton James cut him off with a look that stopped Nelson Benning cold.

"... _and TV_ ," Benning continued, catching himself, careful not to mention the word billboards. "But with Michael Chewmore making the arrangements, it shouldn't be a problem if we come up short on media funds," he concluded.

"Well, do it. I tell you one thing. Once this is over, I'm going to Pensacola. Gonna go fishing, and not come back. At least for a couple weeks. I need a break from this insanity and I need it bad."

* * *

After my arrest, I spent one sleepless night in jail, then posted bond and a preliminary hearing was scheduled. The attorney took five thousand as a retainer; about half of what was left from rescuing Buddy. I figured it wouldn't be long before I handed over the other half. So much for being flush.

John Wallace, my boss at the photo shop, wasn't thrilled over the news that his assistant manager had been arrested. He had about a dozen people lined up who wanted the job. And with me moonlighting as a detective, hanging out at Hatch, coming in late, leaving early and having beers over long lunches, Wallace hadn't been overly pleased with my recent work record. Getting arrested was the last straw.

"Sorry, Danny, but I've got to let you go," Wallace broke the news one afternoon. "I've got too much of my own money at stake in this store and you just aren't pulling your weight. Nothing personal, but you've got until the end of the month. I need you out of the apartment, too. I've promised the new guy the place starting in a couple weeks."

I thought about arguing. Six months ago I'd have put up a compelling fight, changed his mind, and kept the job. But now I didn't care. The dominoes were tumbling fast: losing Ray, Rose running off with that asshole lawyer, getting arrested, and now losing my job and apartment. The five thousand I had in the bank would be gone in two invoices from the attorney. I was living on borrowed time.

Not knowing where else to turn, I placed a call to Quinn Lee. The music producer was the only person I knew with the means and motivation to give me a break. After all, Quinn had said to call if he could ever help, and this bleak reality certainly qualified. The call didn't go exactly as planned, but I got the job done. Quinn said he'd make a few calls to see if he could find me some work. I took pains to explain that I was just trying to help the girl. "She was my cousin, for chrissake," I pleaded. But Quinn didn't buy the story. It seems nobody was buying it, even though it was the truth. But then a minor miracle occurred. A half hour after the conversation, my cell phone rang. It was Quinn calling back. "You know, on second thought, maybe your timing is good, Danny. I just learned ten minutes ago my number two guy at the farm, Miguel, has to go home to Mexico; something about his father being sick and him needing to look after the family. I'm going to need another hand out there to help Homer. If you're interested, I'll pay you forty grand a year and you can stay at the cottage rent-free. If you take the initiative to learn even half of what Homer knows about taking care of the animals, I'll double your pay and add benefits when Homer retires. I'm not sure how old he is, but I imagine he's well into his seventies. I need someone to step into his shoes when he retires, someone I can count on."

"Mister Lee, I _really_ appreciate the opp— "

"Not so fast, Cantien. Let's be clear on one thing up front. Cousin or no cousin, you bring any whores or drugs on to the place and I'll fire your ass so fast it'll make your head spin. But I got to admit, based on how you and Ray handled the thing with Buddy, I've got a feeling you're a better man than that. Can I count on you?"

I didn't have to give it a moment's thought. "Mister Lee, you can absolutely count on me. You've got yourself a new farm hand. When do I start?"

"Monday, if you like. I'll let Homer know. There isn't much to the cottage...small bedroom, kitchenette, den, and a shower. You can move your stuff out here Sunday."

"That'll be fine with me. In fact, it's perfect."

And just like that, I was back on my feet.

* * *

I started Monday and work quickly became a routine. Promptly at noon, Homer and I took lunch under the big tree in the drive. Homer read while I studied his daily assignment from Vogel's _Horses Health Bible_. It was a guide to common veterinary problems Homer had been using for years, and became the starting point in my education. Homer was a demanding task master, putting me through the paces with a series of rigorous written and oral exams. At night I pored through still more of the text, studying and memorizing flow charts that provided hypothetical diagnoses, along with step-by-step advice for confirming and treating common ailments.

One of the first things I did after moving into the cottage was to bring my dogs, Tubby and Sis, up from Alabama. They'd been staying with a cousin in Alabama and I was glad to have them at the farm. The two hounds provided much needed company and there was plenty of room for them to romp, though they occasionally found mischief, especially when they crossed paths with Dante, the contrary goat.

Being around Buddy was a completely different matter. Seeing the big red mule on a daily basis was a constant reminder that Damien's stunt to ransom the mule had indirectly caused Ray's death. I steered clear of him for several weeks, and Homer, sensing the sensitivity of the situation, made sure that he was always around when it came time to muck Buddy's stall, feed him, or saddle him for Mister Lee to ride. But one day Quinn wanted to go for a ride and Homer wasn't around, so I was forced to bring Buddy from the stall myself and saddle him. Within a few minutes, the mule's demeanor so disarmed me that I realized that Buddy wasn't the problem. _I_ was. After all, Buddy had been a big part in saving my life when I'd been unconscious on the ground on Finn's farm. If it hadn't been for him kicking Carter Jenson in the head and taking him out just as he was about to finish me off, I'd have been a goner for sure. Now, the mule and I looked each other in the eye for a long minute as I petted his big head and remembered.

How my change in attitude occurred is quite unexplainable. In the simple act of slipping the bridle over the animal's head, a peace passed through my body. I'd heard Homer and Quinn talking about the effect the mule had on their spirits, but had chalked it up to romantic nonsense. Until that moment. A glow of well-being came over me as if I'd downed a shot of whiskey and was relaxing at the beach. It was that smooth, that peaceful. The feeling lingered as I walked Buddy to the paddock and from that morning on, I worked with Buddy every chance I got.

#

Things were looking up for newly re-elected State Senator Dalton James. He was back on a winning streak. First, he'd secured the extra funds necessary to pay the option on the commercial property on Demonbreun Street. Second, by some clairvoyant miracle, he had taken out large life insurance policies on Hal Clamber and Carter Jenson as part of the shell corporation under which they were employed, and of which Dalton James happened to be the sole shareholder. And third, and most importantly, when Election Day rolled around in early November, Dalton James was re-elected by fifteen hundred and twelve votes, despite trailing in the polls up to the last day. That evening, champagne flowed freely at the offices of Jefferson and Cleese, though the Senator-elect was so exhausted after weeks of sweating the election that he left his mistress, Sarah Baldwin, right after midnight and went home to his wife. Wilson Frazier, the almost-state senator with high marks for integrity, strong leadership credentials and a solid base of support, was left at the electoral altar, a bridesmaid. His staff, as smart and dedicated as they were, weren't quite smart and dedicated enough to know they'd been outflanked—snuffed Tennessee-style old school. It would be four more years of fun, games, and prosperity for Dalton James and his allies. And the Republicans were forced to go back to the drawing board.

#

Working at the farm was like physical therapy. I gave it my all, shedding fifteen pounds the first six months, even cutting back on weeknight drinking. I even tried to quit smoking, but without sex and booze, I needed at least one legitimate vice. Each morning started by mucking stalls and feeding the animals. Many afternoons, after my studies, I was able to take one of the horses or mules out for a ride. Occasionally Homer and I got in some fishing in the late afternoon. After a while, I stopped phoning Rose since she never called back, and after several months, even the pain of losing her gradually subsided. I still went to town occasionally to pick up supplies and still dropped by Hatch Show Print to see Magdalena and the other girls. But my days at Donovan's Pub and trying to hook up with women were over. Something inside me had moved on and I decided a break was in order.

I found the politics on the farm was almost as fierce as in downtown Nashville. Dante, the goat, had a new rival named Amigo, a young billy that Quinn brought in to diversify the gene pool. The two were constantly at war and Fernando the rooster would get right in the thick of it, too. He'd befriended Dante at an early age and seemed to work as the older goat's point man when it came to faking out Amigo. Now that Tubby and Sis were in the fray, it sometimes turned into a free-for-all. I watched the dramas unfold and the antics often brought a laugh, though sometimes I'd have to wade in with an axe handle and break things up. Living on the farm paled in comparison to the excitement of city life, but I never was bored. I took my lead from Homer, and if things slowed down, picked up one of the thousands of books at hand. Other than not getting laid on a regular basis, which was damned distracting and never got better with time, I eased into a period of peace and happiness.

One would have thought after spending the entire work week with Homer, I'd grow tired of the older man's company, but that wasn't the case. At least twice a month we got together at his house for dinner. At the end of every such evening I usually borrowed two or three books to take back to the cottage. So far as my veterinary training, within six months I'd mastered the basics from Homer's medical manual and learned how to solve most common equine health problems. Homer gave me a final written exam, which I'm happy to report I passed with flying colors. The mentor was so proud of his pupil that he announced to Quinn that I'd "graduated." He had Charlene print a dummied-up diploma, which the girls at Hatch framed, and it was hung proudly in the den of the cottage.

One Saturday afternoon I arrived at Homer's house earlier than usual. He owned three acres that abutted a larger tract of pasture land. He and Ada had bought the small farm and house thirty-eight years earlier for almost nothing, with the idea that it would be the place to raise the kids and share their lives. And while the house and land had appreciated considerably, it was still so far in the country that it was modestly valued compared to surrounding farms. I had to admit it was beautiful. The afternoon sunlight bathed the adjacent field and barn with a golden glow and a long tree line of sycamores and oaks split the nearby ridge. I smoked a cigarette and listened as a mourning dove cooed and the sound of a train rumbled in the distance on its way to the Nashville train yard. Finished, I stamped out the butt, walked up the steps and knocked. There was no response so knocked again. Peeking through the glass, I turned the knob and let myself in.

" _Homer?_ You in here? It's Danny."

There was no sign of life, and then Homer emerged from the back room, talking on his cell phone. He gave a welcoming nod with his head. I overheard the conclusion of the conversation.

"Well, take care of yourself up there and have a good week. And don't forget to _write_ ," he laughed. "Yeah, I'll always remind you to do that... _ha ha_ , you, too. Okay, bye." Homer chuckled again and hung up.

"Well, hello, Danny, you're always welcome to let yourself right in. Make yourself at home."

"Thanks, Homer. Was that Charlene? Is she away?"

"No, that wasn't Charlene. It was Damien. Up in Virginia."

"Damien? Are you keeping up with him? Is he still in military school?"

Homer nodded. "He's about to graduate after the summer session. I figured somebody needed to keep in touch. His father and mother practically shut him out completely. The kid was in desperate straits for a time, darn near suicidal those first two or three months over everything that happened as a result of him taking Buddy. But he finally got some counseling—Lord, I was after him for the longest time to ask for help. His mother calls him once every couple weeks or so, but I don't think Mister Lee has checked in on him once since leaving him off that first day. I felt it would be good for the boy to have at least one more person back home to talk to. He calls me about once a week, said he's taken to writing, even working as the editor for the school newspaper. I've read some of his stuff, Danny. He's good. Got a real talent."

I processed the information. I'd grown accustomed to Buddy as a constant reminder of Ray's death. That hadn't been a huge chore considering Buddy's nature, but I didn't harbor any such positive feelings for Damien. The boy didn't make him feel like I'd just had a shot of whiskey or a day at the beach. Just the opposite. Thinking about Damien made him feel like I needed both. There was a lot of scar tissue in my soul due to him. On one level though, I could relate to Damien, since my relationship with my own father had been so screwed up. But losing Ray was another thing altogether.

Homer watched as I frowned and looked out the window at the setting sun. He wanted to say something but seemed to be holding back. Finally he spoke. "Danny, I think I know what you're thinking."

"I'm not sure you do, Homer. That rangy little sonnovabitch is the main reason Ray got killed. I've never proven it, that those two goons planted the bomb, but I'm positive the trail leads back to Damien. We would've never followed Dalton James as a suspect if Buddy hadn't been stolen. And Damien was one hundred percent responsible for that." I let loose a breath of frustration. "You still got that bottle of scotch around here someplace?"

Homer went to the kitchen, pulled out the bottle and poured two glasses straight up. I took a big sip. "And I can't just forget and forgive. There's too much eating at me. Too much loss. Too much—" I couldn't finish, my voice trailed off.

Homer nodded in sympathy and took a sip. "There's one other thing I should probably tell you about Damien. He's joined the Marines. Reports to Parris Island in the fall. Said he wants to go to Afghanistan."

I looked up in surprise. "Why the hell would he want to do a thing like that?"

"I asked him the same thing. He said it's a job that needs to be done; that he feels an obligation to the country. He also said it's important that he goes so he can write about it someday, to tell the story about the people serving. Said he doesn't have anyone or anything back here. That if he survives, he'll know what to do next, and if he doesn't make it home, then it was meant to be. Either way, he says, he'll be fine."

"Well, that's something I wouldn't have expected from him."

"And Danny, there was one other reason he gave for joining. The most important one." Homer looked me straight in the eye. "To honor Ray's memory. It seems he knew Ray was a Marine."

#

Ray was down from Nashville for a week that spring; just the two of us fishing in the Gulf near Moon Mullet. We were on my boat bobbing up and down in heavy chop, drinking beer on an overcast day. And not catching anything.

Ray cast again and sat back down, staring at his line's vanishing point in the water, resigned to the fact the fish just weren't biting. From out of nowhere he started reciting a poem; an old lullaby I hadn't heard for years.

"Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night, sailed off in a wooden shoe—sailed on a river of crystal light, into a sea of dew."

Being out on the water must have inspired him. "Very nice, Ray."

"Danny, do you remember it?"

"Of course I do. Mom read it to us when she tucked us into bed as kids."

Then he picked up the thread again and came back with a few more lines. "And some folks thought it was a dream they'd dreamed...of sailing that beautiful sea. But I shall name you the fishermen three...Wynken, Blynken..."

And 'Nod', I said in remembrance at the same time, almost like saying amen together. "That's amazing you can still remember it, Ray."

Ray didn't respond, just took a sip of beer and lit another cigarette. We sat for awhile in silence, reflecting. I thought how once upon a time it actually worked with Mom, how she'd been like a real mother. For those first few years before the alcohol took over.

"Danny," Ray suddenly spoke up. "How much would you give for this?"

"Give for what, Ray?"

"This day, this water, this breeze. This air and sun warming our bodies."

It was a gorgeous day. Low humidity, deep blue sky. One of those perfect days rare in south Alabama. More like one you'd see in San Diego.

"Whatcha gettin' at?"

"This hour, this very minute on the boat with you, Danny—is worth more to me than anything. More than a million dollars. It's perfect out here. Right...this...minute." He punctuated the words with finger stabs in the air.

"Despite the fact we're not catching anything?"

" _Because_ we're not catching anything," he said. "Just like the poem, we're living a dream, Danny, sailing this beautiful sea. I love you, man. Now hand me another beer, will ya?"

I smiled, told him I loved him too, and got a couple cold ones from the cooler. I had to admit it was a fine day. The chop had laid down real good, but the air was fresh; fresher than usual. It did a body good to feel it up against the skin. We had our shirts off and the sun was warm, but it felt like a cool bath of air where you didn't sweat a lick.

We'd been out some time and caught a good buzz. We rocked in silence for a long while, drinking and smoking and looking out at the great beyond. Finally Ray cleared his throat and spoke again. "You know something, Danny, I think we're some of the last guys on the planet who'll be able to do shit."

"Sure, Ray. What shit is that?"

"We're the last of the old rank and file, the glittering tail end of the comet about to pass out of earth's orbit."

"Thanks for clearing that up for me. Now do you mind translating into English?"

"Well, the way I see it, we were around to see or at least 'feel' the glorious stains of real people. Johnny Cash, Ray Charles, Martin Luther King, the whole World War Two generation that saved civilization's bacon. We know the history, the geography of our country—how it got founded, who was important. We studied our wars and read books, Danny. Real books. We didn't just surf the net and watch TV. Now kids are beat to death with reality shows and news programs are a joke—variety shows for morons. But _we_ , Danny, we had the pleasure of knowing what real freedom feels like. Sorry, correction. What real freedom _felt_ like. Tasted like. Before they sterilized us into something less. Before the government became irreversibly broke and corrupt. Before they tattooed everyone's ass with a computer IP address."

"Well, I suppose—"

"We got _outside_ , Danny," Ray interrupted, growing more excited. "Even as kids. We had the pleasure of playing outdoors without having to sign insurance waivers or pay a hundred bucks to join an organized soccer team. _That's_ why this hour right now on this boat is so priceless. Breathing real air. This air, Danny. This air—"

He stopped to take another slug of beer, his face suddenly devoid of expression. "Now people can't go ten minutes without a dammed tweet." He came up for breath, this time with a little grin. "And I'm just glad we had that chance. To have lived and tasted life before they fucked it up. But the comet's passing, the end's coming. We better enjoy what little's left of it. We're the last of the Mohicans—the last of the Mo-fucking-hicans."

It was a hell of a rant, and there was more than a little truth in it. But Ray was still fidgeting, something still hanging in the air. I could tell he wasn't done. "Danny, seriously, would you promise me something?" he asked.

"Sure. Anything."

"See that small island where the pelicans are nesting?" He pointed to a large outcropping a quarter mile to starboard.

"Yep."

Ray didn't say anything for a minute, just stared. He was barefoot, wearing a pair of shorts; that S-shaped scar from his battle injury a permanent jagged zipper running half the length of his leg. In the winter when his skin was pale it was wine-colored, almost purple. But with his summer tan the scar faded to a muted clay color. "I've always loved that place for some reason," he continued. "See how it's covered in white down and feathers. There's something about the combination of textures and the fact that life begins there for all those birds that appeals to me."

I gazed at the island, letting his words sink in. "Sure, I like it, too. It's kind of a mess with all those feathers and the funky smell right now. But so is life. What's on your mind?"

"That's just the point. It's a mess. Life's a mess. Promise me that if I buy the farm before you do, that you'll have me cremated and spread my ashes in the waters just off that island."

With Ray, you never knew what might come out of his mouth, but I wasn't expecting this. He was barely thirty, for chrissakes. He was at that point in life where he was at his physical peak; as good and strong as he was ever gonna get. It happens with all of us, that apex. And then the gradual decline. But this was Ray's peak year. Hell, it might have even been his peak day for all I knew. He was too young to be thinking such thoughts. But looking back, maybe it was just the right time.

The wind picked up and freshened; a nearby buoy bell clanged rhythmically.

"Not that we're in a rush to get rid of you, man, but you were a Marine. A wounded vet with a Purple Heart. You could be buried at Arlington with full military honors if you wanted."

"I know, I know. I've thought of that. Thought of it a lot. And it's not because I don't love my country. I do, it's just that—"

He was struggling to find the right words.

"What?" I said.

"Maybe it's that whole ashes-to-ashes thing that beckons. Or maybe it's the artist in me. Like mixing gray and blue paints, but instead, mixing gray ashes into these beautiful blue waters."

Pa often said that sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all. This was definitely one of those times. I held my breath even as I held my tongue.

"Maybe there are others who deserve to be in Arlington more than I do," Ray went on, "people who sacrificed more. At least I came home." He looked in the distance across the water. His gray eyes teared at the remembrance of lost and wounded comrades. "Or maybe it's because Arlington's so crowded. And out here—"

He took a sip of beer and smiled. Some people sprint to the end when they're trying to make a point, almost like they can't wait to finish. Not Ray. He'd always been the master of the pregnant pause.

"Out here, I'd have some elbow room. Would you do that for me? I mean if it ever comes to that?"

Looking back it seemed almost pre-ordained, like Ray saw it laid out in advance in a dream. But it was a question with only one answer.

"What the hell, Ray. Sure, I'd do that for you. If it ever comes to that."

* * *

Charlene phoned her father early the next morning as she always did. Since Michael's death, she'd seen a visible decline in Homer's health. He wasn't as steady on his feet and lost his train of thought at times. A couple months earlier he'd seemed so young, so vital for his age, but lately he'd seemed to have slipped into true old age.

"Daddy, I've got some good news. I've been holding off telling you until I made sure, but I've been dating a man lately. His name's Anthony. Anthony Robinson. He's a doctor from Chicago who's in Nashville on a six-month assignment at the hospital."

Homer had often prayed for this day and was happy to hear the news. "That's nice, honey. I'm glad to hear you've found someone special. Do you think he's the one?"

"That's _just_ like you to cut to the chase, Dad," Charlene kidded. "It's far too early to say, but I know I like him. I like him a lot. He's kind and funny and real good-looking. And he's a brilliant cardiologist."

Homer beamed. "That's wonderful, Charlene. Tell me more. Have you met his family?"

"He's two years older than I am. And no, I haven't met them, but he comes from a very wealthy family in California. His father and grandfather were both physicians in San Francisco, and after his grandfather retired in the late sixties, he bought a vineyard, which became very successful."

"Well, well, now, won't that could come in handy? You can't have too much good wine, I always say," Homer quipped. "So, what's the plan? You aimin' to move up to Chicago when he goes back?"

Charlene heard the thinly veiled concern in her father's voice and winced at the thought of leaving her father. "Nothing like that's in the works just yet, Daddy. Vacancies occasionally come open at the hospital up there and I think I could get a job if I wanted. But right now I'm happy to stay here in Nashville."

"Charlene, if it's me you're worried about, you can put your mind to rest. I'd sure miss you, but I could manage. You could come home on long weekends and holidays."

"I know, Dad, but I'm just not ready to make that jump with Anthony—or in any hurry to leave you. But maybe it'll work out someday between us."

It took Homer a moment to gather his thoughts. He felt a sudden need to change the subject. "I think I've told you that Danny Cantien's been spending quite a bit of time here at the house. He loves books and looks after me like a son. He's a good boy, Charlene, and good company. After...after losing Michael, I'm especially glad to have him around. You know he lost his brother recently, too. Danny's the only person in this world other than you that appreciates all these books in the house, Char. And the way he's being going at it, I think he's got a mind to read every last one of 'em."

"I'm glad to hear that, Daddy. I only met him that one time at Michael's funeral, but he seemed nice enough. I was sorry to hear about his brother. I'm sure Danny's been through some rough times, too. Tell him hello for me next time you talk. If either of you need anything from town, let me know. In the meantime I want you to meet Anthony. Maybe the three of us can have dinner sometime soon."

"Just let me know when and I'll meet you in town," said Homer. "Or better yet, you two can come out here and I'll cook for you."

#

"Homer, have you ever heard of someone seeing colors when they hear music?"

I'd been thinking of the conversation years earlier when Ray told me he 'painted the colors he heard'. Homer stopped reading, took off his glasses, and bookmarked his place. "That's an interesting question. One I haven't thought about in years, but the answer is yes, I have heard of it. Some people have a medical condition called synesthesia—it's when two sensations occur at the same time, just like you're talking about _._ Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. Ray once said he saw colors in music and I was just wondering if there was anything to it."

"I had a friend, back when I played the horn," Homer said. "Claimed he had it, too, so I asked him what colors he saw. He said major chords ran along the reds and pinks, and minor chords were in the green and brown families. I've always remembered that for some reason. I've got a couple books on the subject somewhere around here if you're interested to learn more."

"Thanks, Homer, I'll take a look some time. But for now, I just wanted to know if you'd ever heard of it."

I thought back to the years before, when as a kid I doubted Ray and criticized his paintings. And now I remembered painfully that I told him his art sucked.

I realized suddenly that Ray'd been operating on a completely different level, seeing things that I, the supposedly wiser older brother, couldn't even begin to imagine. Longing and regret settled into my heart. How I wished I could turn back the clock and listen— to _really_ listen to what he'd been saying.

#

Like Danny, Quinn Lee threw himself into work after the debacle of Buddy's kidnapping. To an outside observer, it might seem that dropping Damien off at military school was no big deal; not that different from leaving a child at college. But in his heart, Quinn ached over the thought that he'd failed; failed in the proper upbringing of his son, and failed in his first marriage to Eve. Quinn Lee was not a man who abided failure easily. Business decisions had always come easily to him. In his mind, business was simple math: outsmart the opponent, please the client, and get paid well for it. His personal life was another matter. There were no formulas for success. To Quinn, human emotions and relationships blurred the lines, casting shadows like elusive colors. And he didn't do well coloring outside the lines.

Being reminded of his earlier personal failures touched another raw nerve. His marriage to Jamie had grown increasingly strained. Despite the fact Quinn was spending more time at home, Jamie's social calendar always seemed to be full. And how many tennis lessons could one person have? She seemed to have them at least four or five times a week. To make matters worse, when she was home, she criticized him for spending so much time with the horses and Buddy. On the positive side of the ledger her legs and butt were in great condition and he certainly couldn't find a reason to complain about that.

Quinn sighed. He was grateful that Buddy was back. And it was working out well having Danny live in the cottage and learn from Homer. But he felt that something in his own spirit had soured the last few months. One day while riding Buddy, he was noting his lack of motivation when he was hit suddenly with the thought that Jamie was cheating on him. He didn't know why the thought came to him, or how he knew it was true, but he did. He rode back to the stable, unsaddled the big mule, and rubbed him down long and lovingly. After mulling on it and reflecting on Eve's aloofness the previous few weeks, Quinn decided he needed to find out for sure.

* * *

State Senator Dalton James was riding high. His adoring supporters cheered him wildly at the victory celebration with chants of four more years. But they might as well have been chanting forty more for all he cared. Consolidation of power and wealth were two things he was learning more about every day and he aimed to leverage both into perpetual incumbency.

Phillip Macaulay, the senior statesman of the party in Nashville, gave him a valuable piece of advice when he first got into the business. "Once you grab the ring of power in public service," the older man said, "don't let go. The same is true in law or business. The strong take from the weak. The consolidation of power and wealth must be wielded brutally and with absolute force. It can be done surgically," he added, "but if necessary use a blunt instrument. Once you _have_ power, make damn sure you _use_ it. Lyndon Johnson taught me that lesson, son, and I've never forgotten it."

The advice seemed primitive to the young man. After all, this was the twenty-first century. The devil's advocate within James made him question Macaulay, "But what if, by some circumstance, you're defeated in an election, or a law suit or business deal? What then?"

"Look, I can tell this isn't sinking in so I'll make it easy for you." Macaulay took a breath as if searching for patience, "The reason the big boys, the high rollers at the big banks, the chief executives of the Fortune 500 , the top guys in big oil, never lose, is that they _can't afford_ _to lose_." He emphasized the last few words and let them filter through.

"They've got deep pockets," James countered. "Surely they can make a comeback if they suffer a defeat?"

Macaulay rolled his eyes at James' naiveté. "Doesn't work like that." He re-lit one of his signature Cuban cigars. "Defeat is death. Small-timers can come back, but once a big one falls, they fall for good. To the public it may appear like a recovery, but the individual never makes the journey back to the top. They're dead, spiritually dead, to themselves. Inside their own souls, their mojo never returns. If you don't remember anything else, Dalton, remember that."

The senator had not forgotten it. In fact, he'd employed the advice several times during the last election as he struggled with the dilemma of winning at all costs. And it worked. He'd used the blunt instrument, had bought the election and sacrificed Ray Cantien's life, as well as Clamber's and Jenson's, in the process. Who'd have thought it possible? But from his inner circle and from the free-ranging conversations of supporters who regularly drank at Bowman's Grille, it wasn't the first and certainly wouldn't be the last time an election in Tennessee was bought. "Happens all the time," he was told over drinks. "Democrats, Republicans, it doesn't matter. They all do it to one degree or another."

Sarah Baldwin, his lover and campaign manager, became even more involved in the inner circle after Hal Clamber and Carter Jenson perished. She and chief of staff Nelson Benning worked together closely, interviewing new candidates to replace the two bodyguards, but so far none had been found with the right combination of loyalty, calculated cruelty, and intelligence. The "Goldilocks Paradigm," Sarah called it, "not too smart, not too dumb, but just right." And filling those job vacancies was harder than one might imagine.

Shortly after the election, Eve James confronted her husband and confirmed his affair with Sarah Baldwin. It didn't go down well. Eve got drunk and blasted him, throwing lamps, dishes, and anything else she could lay her hands on, including a dozen golf balls lying on his desk, hurled one at a time. Within twenty-four hours, half the city would know, and Dalton and Eve became fodder for the _Cumberland Scene_ for three weeks _._ Finally and thankfully, stories about an earthquake in California, scandals in the Catholic Church, and the flood of the century that devastated Nashville gradually pushed them out of the spotlight.

#

It rained all night and rained all day. And then did it again till a full foot and more fell. The Cumberland rose, its muddy dark waters breeched the banks and turned lower Broadway, 1st Street, and much of east Nashville into an alluvial plain. People lost homes, businesses, and more. Thank God, the Ryman was safe. But there are good reasons the city founders built the town on the high ground and its curious how such basic wisdom gets lost over time. The flood was Nashville's Katrina, some people said. It wasn't the first such flood of the city, and it certainly won't be the last. Purists insist a proper Baptism requires three immersions in the river. And history teaches that even the purists get it right sometimes.

* * *

Energized after the election, Dalton James discovered a new zeal for food and drink. So much so, in fact, that he gained almost thirty pounds in the following two months. Sarah Baldwin, his lover, was the first to notice the change in size and behavior. It started with love handles and rapidly digressed from there to a shortened temper and decreased sex drive. It didn't help that he stopped working out. He spent more and more time in the Gulf on his forty-foot fishing boat, _The Sure Thing_ , which became a second home.

Maybe it was the success of the recent election, she thought, or maybe his marital troubles with Eve. Perhaps it was hubris _,_ but for whatever reason, he'd changed. After spending so much time with him, she began to realize that Dalton's dogged confidence was born out of a fundamental lack of it. At the most basic level, Dalton James was nothing but a spoiled, insecure man. Sometimes, when drunk, he muttered the names of Clamber and Jenson and mentioned "that damned explosion." She could only guess that he was referring to the explosion that had taken the life of private investigator, Ray Cantien. But surely Dalton wouldn't have had anything to do with that? He had his faults, but _murder,_ never. She dismissed his ramblings and swore to stick with him through what she preferred to call a "tough period."

Meanwhile, she resolved to consolidate her position politically within the inner circle downtown. They were riding a wave and would be for the next few years. Her challenge now that the election was behind them was to remove Eve from the picture altogether and position Dalton for a successful run for the U.S. Senate. They had a long future together, she thought, at least four more years. But in the short term, Sarah Baldwin needed Dalton James—with or without love handles. She was determined that she'd make hay while the sun was still shining.

#

"Danny, I've got to ask you something. As a favor."

I was mucking a stall one early Sunday morning and it wasn't unusual for Quinn to be out by daylight. "Sure, Mister Lee. What's on your mind?"

"It's kind of personal. In fact, _very_ personal. Promise you won't mention it to anyone."

"Sure, I promise. Long as it's not illegal, immoral, or could otherwise get me killed or arrested."

"It's none of those, but it's important to keep it quiet." Lee looked around and lowered his voice. "I think Jamie may be having an affair."

I withheld my initial response, didn't say a word and instead painted on one of those expressions of reserved surprise appropriate for the occasion.

"And I need somebody who can help me find out for sure," he continued.

I took out a handkerchief and wiped my forehead. "I'm sorry to hear that, Quinn. But I'm not the right guy to talk to about private investigating. After what happened with Ray, that's the last line of work I want to be in. Hell, that's the reason I jumped at the chance to be here. To live here, to work here." I looked him in the eye, "to shovel shit here."

"I know that, Danny. You're a good man, and that's why I'm coming to you. I don't know who else to turn to. It's been haunting me for weeks and I can't get a decent night's sleep. There's nobody else I can trust. Please say you'll help me."

My inner voice screamed _I do NOT need this!_ but kept my thoughts to myself. I leaned the shovel up against the wall. The man had given me a job at good pay with no headaches and I owed him. I didn't hesitate. "I'll do it, Mister Lee. It's against my better judgment, but I'll do it. I owe you that much; you bringing me here and all, giving me a chance. But let the record show I'm not all that thrilled about it."

"Thanks, Danny. I'll make it worth your while. And believe me, it's not easy for me to ask you, either."

He filled me in on the telltale signs that had led to his suspicions: Exhibit A was Jamie's cell phone records, showing she'd made over two hundreds calls and texts to her tennis coach the previous two weeks. Quinn also tossed in a comment or two about her "cold and aloof" attitude, and the excuses she was making that weren't checking out. That was pretty much the extent of the evidence. Lee believed the culprit was her tennis instructor, some guy named Mitch.

"It's a simple job," Quinn said. "Tail them and see if they're screwing around. And if they are, get pictures, tapes or whatever you need to nail her in court."

I listened and took mental notes. There wasn't much to remember. I just needed to figure out how and when to follow the strawberry-blonde tennis enthusiast with the gorgeous tanned legs. My mind wandered. I wouldn't have been surprised at all if Jamie was out spreading the joy. I kept a poker face while listening to Quinn's instructions, but the voice inside my head was in overdrive. Quinn was damn near twice her age, for crying out loud. By at least twenty-five years. What did he expect? On the other hand, I rationalized, she'd be jeopardizing all that cash. And for what? Screwing around with a tennis stud? I didn't really care except I hated to see Quinn tied in knots. Morally and philosophically, I couldn't pass judgment on Jamie. Sex can make a person do stupid things; a mindset with which I was all too well acquainted.

I wouldn't admit it to Quinn either, but despite my outward reluctance to get back to the world of private investigation, I'd already returned to the business. Now that I was getting a steady paycheck, I'd employed a young man named Joaquin Valence to keep an eye on Dalton James for a hundred bucks a week. When I'd learned the senator was eating like a pig and fishing out of Pensacola Beach, I'd placed a called to Styron and Garcia. The boys were more than happy to cruise over to Pensacola from nearby Moon Mullet in Garcia's boat, _The Toucan,_ and set up surveillance shadowing _The Sure Thing_ from a safe distance. Garcia's nephew, Chavez, was also on the scene. He'd recently arrived from Mexico, was new to Moon Mullet and he came along. I learned he was an expert scuba diver, spear fisherman and reliable assistant to his two friends and agreed with the boys that his skills could come in handy.

All that was fine, but now I was being asked by Quinn to tail Jamie. That'd certainly be a distraction from work at the farm and my surveillance of Dalton James.

"Mister Lee, what do I tell Homer if I'm gone for a few hours during the day?"

"Don't worry about that. I'll tell him you're doing research for me downtown, that I need to borrow you temporarily. It's the truth. He'll be fine. Remember, he was doing his job fine without your help for years."

"I know, but he's getting on in years. It's probably not a good idea for me to be gone too long at one time. I feel protective of him; responsible. After all that he's done for me."

Quinn understood. He was very fond of the old man, too. "That's fine. You look in on Homer the best you can and I'll do the same. In the meantime, let me know what you learn about Jamie. And Danny—the sooner the better."

* * *

Sarah Baldwin was deep in thought, reviewing files at the law offices of Jefferson and Cleese, when she heard a tap on the door. Chief of staff Nelson Benning stuck his head inside the office and smiled ingratiatingly. "Hey, Sarah, do you have a minute?"

"Sure," she said, taking off her glasses and slipping her shoes back on in one practiced motion. "Come in. Have a seat. I'm just reviewing the files on one of the candidates to replace Clamber and Jenson."

"Good," he said, "We need to get at least one on board soon. Do you mind if I close the door?"

"Not at all."

"Look, Sarah, this isn't easy for me to say, but you know how it is around here, so I'm going to be blunt. We're worried about Dalton." He started to say something else, but instead stopped to let the words sink in.

"I'm listening," Sarah replied.

"And I think I know you well enough to know that you may be worried, too. The drinking, the weight gain, his erratic behavior of late."

"Sure, I've noticed. But he's going through one of his phases. I think he just needs some time to get past the election and this thing with Eve."

"Well, most of us have that same opinion, of course, that he's just sorting things out. And you know me; I'm Dalton's biggest supporter. The last thing in the world any of us want to do is to throw him under the bus."

_Under the bus? Where's this going?_ She wondered. Her antennae shot up.

"All I'm saying," Nelson continued, "is that we need good people. People like you. Not only for the next four years, but for a long time to come. You're at the right age and place to be poised for much bigger things. Phillip Macaulay told me last night he's had his eye on you for some time, as a rising star."

Sarah sat up straighter. "Phillip Macaulay said that?" she interrupted.

"Why, yes, he did. Let's face it. You're smart, articulate, and very attractive. And have great political instincts. You're _exactly_ what the party needs."

"Thank you. It's a pleasant surprise to hear you say that, and I sure appreciate your letting me know."

"Well, it's true. And that brings me to the second point. And that is, we—several of us in the party—are concerned that if Dalton does self-destruct, that we wouldn't want to see you get pulled down with him. There was too much money and blood spilled before the election to protect you from...well, you know where I'm going with this, from being linked romantically to the senator."

"Blood? What are you saying, Nelson? I know Clamber and Jenson were supposed to help keep our relationship quiet, but am I missing something?"

Benning had a puzzled look as he tried to read her. Was she playing with him? "You wouldn't be playing the innocent with me, would you?"

"Playing the innocent? What the hell are you talking about?"

She really didn't know. _Unbelievable_ , Nelson thought as he lowered his voice. "The car that blew up on 2nd Avenue? Come on, Sarah, you can't possibly be that naïve. Keeping the lid on you and Dalton was the key to his re-election. That unfortunate, but necessary, incident on 2nd Avenue allowed us to shake Ray Cantien off the trail. But frankly," he lowered his voice even more, "now that we're being so honest, you should know that it was done more to protect our long-term investment in you." He let the meaning of that statement sink in.

Sarah felt sick. All of a sudden the pieces came together. The official story about how a Middle Eastern terrorist group had been responsible for the car bomb had always seemed a little off to her. But some suspected terrorist was still in custody, wasn't he? So there had to be a link with terrorists, didn't there? She fought a battle in her head as Nelson studied her. Then she remembered Dalton's periodic drunken mutterings and the hard cold truth stared her in the face.

Without batting an eye Benning had just confirmed her worst fears. Sarah swallowed hard. She felt like she was falling down a black hole of darkness and had to fight to get a grip. She had to remain detached and professional. _If_ she truly belonged in the seat of power.

But now she knew that Ray Cantien had been killed to advance the political careers of Dalton James and everyone associated in the inner circle. Including her.

Benning sat and let the sexy ambitious woman process the news. He was surprised she'd been too dim to figure it out on her own, but denial comes in all shapes and sizes. For his part, he knew that killing the private eye had been a tragic mistake. Especially after it was later confirmed the Cantien brothers were tailing Dalton James, not because they suspected his affair with Sarah, but because of a completely unrelated investigation into a mule being ransomed by Quinn Lee's teenage son. A damned mule of all things. Benning blamed Carter and Jenson for the colossal screw-up, but the job had been done with the right motivation—self preservation of the inner circle, the senator and his lover. The best thing now was to put it behind them. Politics, like love and war, was hell. And in Tennessee politics, no prisoners are taken.

In a whisper, Sarah began to speak. She cleared her throat and began again. "Nelson, I...I had my suspicions, but nobody ever let me in before, to see the bigger picture." An inner voice was shouting that she needed to adjust to the new reality and do it quickly. Her mind was racing. But she'd had a lot of experience with showing outward calm in the face of catastrophe. "I hear what you're saying, but how do you suggest I play it?"

Benning congratulated himself. Telling her had been a test and she'd passed. She was taking the hard truth well. "It's got to be done delicately," he said. "You stay the course with Dalton. Support him just like you always have. We'll work the angles with Eve. But if you see him slipping over the edge, let me know. I think too much of you as a friend to see you get hurt. And besides, there are lots of people counting on you."

The blatant lie made no difference. Sarah let her eyes moisten just a shade. "Thank you, Nelson. Of course I'll heed your advice. I think of you as a friend, too. And friends _do_ look after their friends, don't they?"

#

It was only nine-thirty, but Rose was already thinking of bed. It'd been a long and especially trying day. She sat, brushed her hair absentmindedly and thought of her two worlds, the night one and the day one. Her budding romance with Jim Patterson had taken on new meaning the last three months. They were now spending two or three nights a week together and the relationship was getting to the point where it needed to move forward to the next level. Or not.

She knew how lucky she was to have found Jim. What perplexed her was that she had so recently experienced a similar intimacy with Danny. Both men had brought the magic, both made her feel like the only woman in the world, and both pleased her on several levels. She was sure she was falling in love with Jim. But she had _been_ _in love_ with Danny. Hadn't she? What exactly had happened there? She wasn't quite sure how things had crashed and burned so quickly. But logic dictated that if it happened with Danny, it could happen with Jim, too, couldn't it?

One thing she knew for certain was that Danny was going nowhere, at least in the traditional sense. She wished him the best and had heard from a friend that he was doing well, working at Quinn Lee's farm. The thought that he was getting back on his feet made her glad. Still, she couldn't get over the episode with the hooker. She'd considered calling a friend in the accounting department at the police station to get the full story, but had never followed up. She told herself it wasn't her business. That she didn't really want to know.

Her thoughts turned back to Jim. They'd spoken earlier that evening and had both decided to give the night a pass. He said he was dead tired and going to turn in early. "Just as well," she agreed. "I'm beat, too." It was true that Rose had had a long day. She had interviewed and agreed to take on two new patients, always an ordeal.

She looked at the clock again. It was still early. Maybe she'd read in bed, that new novel that had captured her fancy—then suddenly, she remembered an obligation. With a mumbled curse, she pulled on her jeans and shoes, threw on a top, grabbed her car keys, and flew out the door. Her office staff had requested her famous apple cinnamon muffins for a colleague's birthday the next day, and of course she was out of the ingredients.

As she drove to the grocery on West End, it started to rain. She practically ran through the aisles, locating Granny Smith apples, eggs, and buttermilk, and joined the longish line at the checkout counter. Just as it was her turn to pay, a couple walking arm in arm strolled through the door, their hair and shoulders splashed wet from the rain. She did a double take, almost dropping the eggs.

It was Jim Patterson. And a cute blonde. A very young cute blonde.

"That'll be six thirteen. Paper or plastic?" said the overweight kid with an earring, dressed in black at the checkout. Rose didn't hear a word. Her world had just collapsed. Nausea rose up her throat, and for a moment thought she might get sick right on the spot. But there he was. There they were. Jim—her Jim—and this _woman_ , all smiles, with eyes only for each other. They were so engrossed they didn't see anyone else, least of all her. They walked casually but with purpose. Rose cut her eyes toward the couple as they headed toward the wine and champagne area. Jim's right arm was reaching low around the girl's waist—her shapely rear-end flattered by skintight jeans.

"That's six thirteen, ma'am, the kid repeated, now slightly annoyed. " _Paper or plastic?_ "

Her hands, fumbling and trembling, her mouth dry, Rose shoved a bill in the boy's hand, not bothering to bag the goods or wait for change. "Hey, lady," he called out, "doncha want your food?"

But Rose was already at the door. She half-walked, half-ran out the store, cursing when the automatic door didn't open fast enough, her eyes nearly blind with tears. The rain poured buckets as she stepped off the sidewalk, where she was almost run over by a woman in a large SUV. Rose bolted across the parking lot to her car and got in. Her body tense, her hair and clothes soaked, she sat for a moment without breathing, and then let out a gasp. Her eyes stared back red and puffy in the rearview mirror. She looked like hell, the ugly glare from the parking lot lights unkind to her features. A cloudy fog formed on the windshield, thankfully cloaking her in invisibility. She thought about waiting, to watch them coming out of the store, to lash out and confront the bastard and tell him to go to hell—and to tell the bitch what a two-timer he was. But instead she sat there and cried. In her mind, in her heart, there would be no battle. Only surrender.

#

I pulled the rental car up to the far end of the parking lot at the tennis club and turned off the radio, then looked across the expanse of asphalt, filled with Mercedes, BMWs and Lexuses. Or was it _Lexi?_ I wondered. I watched as Jamie Lee slid out of her white Escalade and walked toward the tennis courts, her strawberry-blonde ponytail bouncing rhythmically. It was a Tuesday afternoon and Mrs. Quentin Lee was running late for her three o'clock lesson. This was the third time I'd followed her in the last week and so far had learned very little. Quinn had arranged for me to pick up a rental car on days when tailing Jamie so that she wouldn't recognize my distinctive beat-to-hell jeep always parked at the farm.

Of course, I was armed with the latest surveillance gadgets: a Nikon digital SLR camera with zoom lens, an Orbitor Electronic listening device that picked up and recorded conversations up to three hundred feet away, binoculars, and a couple of disguises from Ray's old collection. I relaxed as Jamie hit the courts, where she was joined by Mitch and some friends. They were playing doubles again.

Pulling out a Subway turkey sandwich, I ate and watched the game. They played the better part of two hours, after which the foursome disbanded and headed their separate ways. Jamie got in her car and I figured the day was over. But interestingly, her SUV waited and then pulled out behind Mitch's Infiniti and they drove down Hillsborough Road in tandem. I pulled out several cars behind and followed, watching as both cars entered the parking lot at Mitch's apartment complex. I pulled in too and parked about fifty yards away, then shut off the motor and nervously fumbled with the camera's settings. They got out of their cars which were parked next to each other. Mitch gave Jamie a kiss hard on the mouth and pulled her close. "Wow," I said out loud to myself. "This just about clinches it."

I squeezed off photo after photo, delighted to capture the action. It was only after Jamie went to the back of the Escalade, pulled out a gym bag, and followed Mitch into the apartment, that I dared check to see if the pictures were in focus. To my relief, they were.

Bingo. I was amazed that they'd kiss so openly in daylight. I marked the time in the log book as five twenty p.m. and then kicked back, deciding I wasn't going anyplace for a while. Lighting a cigarette, I tuned in to the Red Sox game on the radio, and let my mind wander back in time as it so often does.

#

"Danny, didja see this picture of Ma?"

At the time we were in our teens, hanging out on the screened porch at our grandparents' house. Ray was holding up a faded photograph, of Ma in her early twenties.

"Yeah, I've seen it before. So what?"

"Look at the way she has her hand on her hip," Ray said, "like she's showing off her figure. And check out her long blonde hair, the way the light shines on it. And look at her eyes. _Look_ at her Danny. She was a fox!"

I looked more closely. The picture was taken just after the war on the front porch of Ma's parent's farmhouse in Alabama. She sported a broad smile and sure enough had a slim curvy figure. The young woman staring at us was not the same Ma we knew. This one was strong and confident and pretty as the day's long. Her body language and the gleam in her eye gave the impression she could have whipped the world single-handed.

"I've never looked at it like that," I admitted. "But you're right. No wonder Pa wanted to marry her. But don't let on we're looking at it or she'll have our hides."

Just then Ma came out of the kitchen carrying a big sack of pole beans. Ray slipped the picture out of view.

"What shenanigans are you boys up to out here," Ma said. "You sure aren't doing a lick of work and I could use some help fixin' supper. Ya'll pop these string beans and wash them up good—help your old Ma out. And I've got some corn needs shucking soon as you finish those." She handed us a colander and the grocery bag of pole beans just picked from the garden and put us to work.

As she headed back to the kitchen, we instinctively eyed her matronly rear end. Our eyes widened and smiles formed in the shared conspiracy. A body can change quite a bit in thirty years. "No _way!_ " Ray mouthed silently. We laughed out loud and dove into the job of snapping the beans.

* * *

At ten minutes after seven, the door opened and Jamie and Mitch came out. This time she was wearing a fetching black dress. Mitch was dressed for the evening, too, in a preppy green sport coat and matching green and white two-tone shoes. I shot in continuous mode and the camera whirred with a _shooga, shooga,_ sound. Peering through the zoom lens I chuckled at the lovers' expressions. Mitch looked tired, Jamie seemed happy.

I followed them to the Park Café on Murphy Road. After dinner, they went back to Mitch's place, where they disappeared for a couple more hours. Just after ten, they came out again to the parking lot and kissed—though a lot less frantically, I thought—and said their goodnights. I adjusted the settings on the camera the best I could for the neon street lights and was able to manage several good images despite the darkness.

The Escalade pulled out of the lot and headed toward Leipers Fork. Done for the day, I drove back to the rental car lot, picked up my jeep, and headed to the cottage. I hadn't caught them in the physical act of love. That was a long shot that probably wouldn't ever happen, but did have some incriminating photographs. I began the drive home and slipped a disc in the CD player. As Jerry Jeff Walker sang an old Guy Clark tune, I wondered what Quinn would think when he saw the photos upon his return from Los Angeles.

* * *

The next day I worked my regular shift at the farm, and met Homer for lunch under the tree. His book of the day was Dante's _Inferno_.

"Some light reading, Homer?" I asked.

"Well, it's not for the faint of heart, but I recommend it if you get the chance. It'll be at the house waiting for you, if you take a notion."

"I'm sure it will. You have it filed under children's literature?"

Homer didn't take the bait, didn't bat an eye. "I'm not even sure why I pulled it back out," he said. "It's been years since I've read it, but it seems to put a lot of things in perspective."

"That whole thing about the nine circles of hell and all?" I asked.

"Yeah, I guess so. Old Dante sure had it figured out. Just look around, even here on the farm, and you got most of the nine circles played out right before you. You said yourself you were in limbo. That's the first circle, you know—limbo. And there's been no shortage of lust and avarice around here either. You can add wrath and violence, two more of the circles, too. Just look what happened with Ray and those other fellas that died."

"You've gotta point," I muttered.

"Not to mention fraud and betrayal," Homer continued, referring to Buddy's kidnapping. And gluttony on the part of Dalton James, I thought, but didn't say. The way the good senator was pigging out and boozing it up in Pensacola Beach. "You may be on to something, Homer. Those nine circles of hell are all around us."

"I'm not on to anything," Homer confessed, "but old _Dante_ —now _he's_ the one that had it all figured out."

"Hey," I said, a light bulb suddenly going off in my head. "Dante— _you_ aren't the one who named that infernal old goat, are you?"

Homer chuckled. "Now what in the world would ever give you that idea?"

I broke into a smile. "Come on, let's have it."

"Well, it was like this," Homer said with a grin, "It was just a couple months after he was born. He was a little prick with just a nub of a horn but one hell of an attitude—and he needed a name. I saw the devil in his eyes right away and came up with it. Dante just seemed to stick. But," he added, changing the subject, "truth be told, I'm getting to the point where I'd rather read something more positive. To heck with the nine circles, I want something more uplifting to take with me in spirit when I shuffle off this mortal coil. I've started re-reading the Bible again. From the beginning. There's a reason they call it the Good Book, you know."

"Homer, I hope it's a long time before you shuffle off. For both our sakes."

"Thanks, Danny, you've become a good friend too. I'm not sure what I'd do without you this last year. Funny how things work out. Sometimes when a person's most in need of a good friend, one comes along. Sometimes it's an old friend that's come back and sometimes it's a new one. But the Good Lord always finds a way to deliver. And I'm blessed that this time it was you."

I realized Homer was right. As terrible as the episode with Buddy had been, it had given me a new life at the farm and provided a strong friendship with a man I would have been proud to call my father.

#

_Father_. It had been a long time since I'd even thought of the word. Pa had acted in the surrogate role when Ray and I were boys. And he'd done as good a job as any man alive given the cards he was dealt. He, along with Ma, had provided guidance, understanding, discipline, and, most importantly, love and compassion. By the time I was in my mid-teens, I'd come to the realization that maybe R.D.'s taking off when Ray and I were so young wasn't such a bad thing after all. At least he wasn't around to always tell us no and to give us whippings. R.D. was a scoundrel, alright. And maybe the old Tomcat passed down his genes, breeding in just enough of his tom-cattedness to make it impossible for us to have lasting relationships with women. For confirmation, all I had to do was reflect on my recent loss of Rose. If ever there was a woman to hold on to, she was the one. Ray had the same fear of commitment when it came to women. Or maybe, like so many other men, we both simply indulged in the "grass is greener" view of life, looking for the perfect woman that we knew didn't exist. With Pa long since passed, I'd reached the age years ago where there was the need for a father figure. Until Homer came along.

I reflected back to a powerful memory of our parents, long ago—before Ray and I got shipped off to live with Ma and Pa in Pensacola. I tried to recall the positives of our parents, but only drew blanks. All I could remember were the fights, the out-of-control drinking and the arguments, where push came to shove in a fury of violence. One night especially, when I was eleven, the night where Ray and I were in the same big bed, listening to the fight in the next room. A quarter century later it still haunted.

"You're a god-damned-son-of-a-god-damned-bitch!" Mom screamed at the top of her lungs.

There was a thud, the sound of a body slammed against the wall in the next room. Her high-pitched accusation came again with renewed emphasis. "You're _still_ a god-damned-son-of-a-god-damned-bitch!" The wall shook again. Ray and I knew she was catching hell in the next room. We didn't know it at the time, but she was drunk and railing about the latest of R.D.'s many infidelities; this one the straw that apparently broke the camel's back. The walls shook even harder, the very bed we were in jolted by the force. More cussing, more loud slams. As the battle waged, Mom's voice grew weaker, but the fight, the passion in her accusations, was still strong, like a prize fighter beaten down in the late rounds refusing to quit.

Their bedroom door opened and slammed shut with another bang. R.D.'s heavy footsteps pounded down the stairs. Ray and I trembled, each lost in our own thoughts. Then the front door slammed and this time the whole house shook. We heard his car start and the tires catch rubber, followed by the car peeling out of the drive. It finally ended. And then there was silence. Except for Mom sobbing in the next room.

Ray and I lay next to each other in the dark, neither saying a word. Tears streamed down our cheeks and we wept, worried about her, but we were too scared or ashamed or whatever to go in the next room and see if she was okay. Through those walls, we'd witnessed the final disintegration of our parent's marriage—the sacred union that had brought us into the world. From somewhere deep inside, an unexplainable guilt rose inside. A guilt that I still inexplicably carried.

The October moon poured through our bedroom window, flooding the walls with a yellow glow. My eyes swam in tears, reflecting a new fear—the terror of the unknown. I scanned the room filled with books, model airplanes, plastic dinosaurs, and other treasures possessed by two otherwise happy boys; a corkboard pinned with swim team ribbons, a basketball poster, a record player, the vinyl records not so neatly stacked. I pulled the covers up, choking back tears, and listened as Ray sobbed.

"It's okay," I'd reassured him, thinking that was the thing to do. "It'll be okay."

It was the same lie I'd told Ray in the moments before he died.

.

It took several more hours that night before we fell asleep and somehow life would go on. The episode wasn't discussed the next day, nor ever mentioned during the ensuing years; not with Mom nor with Ray. And now Ray had gone to his grave without us ever talking about it. Regrets seemed to be adding up awfully quickly all of a sudden.

We didn't know it at the time, but we wouldn't see the old man again for three years. And we didn't care a fig when he did show up and wanted to fly us in a friend's Cessna to Six Flags Over Georgia for a vacation. Over the next five years, we saw him two or three more times, but it didn't really matter. Whether he was alive or dead was the same to us.

Now, they're gone, all of them—the parents, the grandparents, and Ray, too. And a realization suddenly dawned on me about what I'd told him.

"It goddamn _wasn't_ okay."

#

We were at Ma and Pa's watching the races on TV when a news bulletin interrupted.

"Local residents, Ray Daniel Cantien and Donald Louis Turner, were killed last night in a plane crash in Chattanooga."

We hadn't even been notified by the police before we heard the announcement. Dad's friend, Don Turner, had a Cessna 172 and sometimes he and the old man flew from Pensacola to Chattanooga for business or to Charlotte or Atlanta for the stock car races. One balmy June evening they took off from Chattooga and a few minutes later crashed straight into Lookout Mountain. The official report said they'd been drinking, which came as no surprise. Turner was the type whose pre-flight inspection consisted of icing down a couple of six packs and kicking the tires. He navigated by following highways and railroad tracks and reading street maps picked up at gas stations. By the time of the accident, Ruth and R.D. had been divorced for years, so Mom, though obviously bothered, didn't lose much sleep on it. Not much heartache came from Ray or me either, as coming into our teenage years we had more pressing concerns than grieving over the bastard who'd beat us and left us and our mother. Of course we hated to see any close kin die, but if one had to go, we rationalized R.D. would be the least missed.

It was a closed casket affair at the visitation. The bodies apparently didn't clean up too well from the crash. Mom got drunk that evening and we overheard her saying to Aunt Margie, "For crying out loud, what were they thinking? There's a reason they call it Look OUT! Mountain!"

* * *

Rose was slowly but surely disappearing. After confronting Jim Patterson about the young woman in the grocery store and confirming he was two-timing her, she told him they were through. Since that time, days had turned to weeks and weeks into months. Time passed slowly in a way that was alien to her nature. She went to work, went through the motions, but stopped caring. Rose was convinced she was becoming invisible. She noticed it more in the evenings, when the silence welled from within and she seemed to drift, finding no joy in the little things; in cooking or being with friends and coworkers. She spoke every Sunday on the phone with her mother who always asked if she was seeing anyone. Rose dreaded the calls.

The clock in the kitchen ticked loudly, rudely, reminding her of the state of her loneliness. It was a big white clock in the shape of a cat—a smiling, tail-wagging cat, its tail swinging back and forth to keep time. She had liked it for years, but one lonely evening an hour past midnight, the clock struck one and Rose was suddenly irritated at being reminded of the passage of time. Half drunk, she pulled it off the wall, disconnected the battery, and stuffed it in the closet. Killing the cat did nothing to stop time, but at least she felt better. For the moment anyway.

She sat in the kitchen and reflected. She'd dreamed a lot lately. The places she visited in the dreams were vivid and clear, but after waking, she could never connect them to any real places she'd been. During the day she racked her brain to reconstruct, to interpret. Certainly some of the places _had_ to be real. But they weren't. Relatives and friends, alive and dead, from her home in Mexico, came to visit in the middle of the night, calling in her sleep, beckoning her home. She was scared. A psychologist whose role it was to help others, she began seeing one herself. On Thursday evenings she let everything out, poured out years of feelings, relationships, and issues to the calm therapist. It helped a little, allowed her to cope.

She thought often of Danny, vividly remembering and replaying a conversation she had with him when they first dated. They had been so in love in those early days, with the hope of marriage and more. He was more romantic and expressive than anybody she'd ever dated. Even now as she sat in the kitchen almost two years later she could remember it almost verbatim.

"Rose I had sort of a dream about you last night."

"Sort of?"

"I...I wasn't asleep. It was really more of a daydream, but it happened at night. It's kind of erotic, I'm not sure if I should..."

"That's okay, Danny, I'm a big girl. Tell me."

He raised his eyebrow as if asking, "Are you sure?"

She assured him she was.

"I was lying in bed alone," he started, "exhausted from work. I closed my eyes and thought of you. Of us. We were in the living room of a beautiful old house. A farmhouse in the country with a stone fireplace. And we were sitting next to each other on a long couch. We'd been with other people all day and wanted to be alone with each other. Finally it was dusk, and we found time to be together. We held each other as the sun went down, whispering and kissing like a couple of teenagers."

Rose smiled in the kitchen as she remembered.

"That sounds pretty good so far," she had said. "Go on."

"And I was inspired, and whispered to you that I'd love to take your clothes off."

"I'm sure I didn't argue with you," she replied. "So what happened next in this little daydream of yours?"

"You took me by the hand and we went down a long hallway toward the bedroom, pulling and tugging at each other's clothes. We tumbled onto the bed and kissed passionately for some time. And next thing I knew our clothes were off. I teased you until we were both so aroused there was nothing left, but for me to ravage you. But then..."

"But then, what? What happened next?" Rose asked anxiously.

"But then I woke up from the dream and found myself alone in my own bed. In my apartment in Nashville miles and miles away," he laughed.

"Dammit, that's awful Danny! Come on now, that can't be how it ended can it? A farmhouse you say?"

He nodded, "Yes, a beautiful house in the country. Just like the one we've talked about before. Your dream house."

At the time, she was madly in love with Danny and thought his fantasy a perfect daydream, other than the fact that it had evaporated into thin air at such an inopportune moment. Now sitting in the kitchen in the middle of the night, she recalled it like it was yesterday.

She put her head down on the table and wept. She often considered calling Danny, maybe asking him over for dinner. But she didn't. She couldn't. She was positive he wasn't the answer. In the meantime, she was working, she was going to therapy, she was coping.

And she was slowly disappearing.

#

Ma lasted another nine years after Pa passed. Her body fell apart long before her spirit, her skin got saggy to the point you'd thought it'd fall off. But her mind was sharp as a razor, even near the end. She never forgot that day Ray fell through the ice, though she rarely mentioned it. There was a framed black and white picture of Pa, Uncle Percy, and Houston the mule that set on her dresser till the day she died. One afternoon I was about to go into her room to ask where the scissors were and saw her holding the picture and crying. I backed out real quiet so as not to disturb her.

Ma had penetrating blue eyes that looked almost girlish even up to her last months. And a big noble head with a shock of wispy white hair. Maybe it was all that high-octane sweet tea she drank over ninety-one years that kept her going, maybe it was the good cornbread and greens and fresh vegetables from her garden. Whatever it was, she had staying power. The last few years she used a walker and little chair on wheels and spun around the kitchen fussing and fixing lunches for Ray and me when we'd come over to work in her yard. She'd feed us plenty and was obsessed with storing leftovers. It didn't matter what was left, she'd wrap it in cellophane, cover it in foil, put it in a Ziploc bag, strangle it with rubber bands and then bury it in the freezer. She'd hover over us as we gorged ourselves and insist we eat more, even after we were stuffed. We'd finally finish and then she'd break out dessert. Somehow we'd eat that too.

We never heard Ma utter a curse word her entire life, but during her last couple years she discovered professional wrestling on TV. When she thought nobody was around she'd pull her little roller chair up close to the screen and become absorbed in the action. We'd spy on her from the kitchen or a bedroom:

"Watch out dammit! He's fixin' to jump on ya!" Ma warned.

The bad guy jumped down from the ropes and clobbered the good guy. He put some sort of killer hold on him—the 'Sleeper' being the most dreaded.

"Damn you sonovabitch! Get off him. Get off him!" she hollered.

The referee, in white shirt and black bow tie, knelt on the mat, his arm raised, ready to count her man out. The good guy was pinned and certain to lose.

One! The ref pounded.

"Get up!" Ma pleaded. The good guy was so dazed from the Sleeper hold he looked drugged.

Two! The ref slammed his hand to the mat.

The good guy was toast. This was not the way life should be. Evil can't triumph over goodness, _can_ it?

"No, No, get _up_ , goddamit!" she screamed.

'Two and a half,' we whispered to ourselves.

And then somehow, with cat-like agility, just as the ref's hand was coming down with that third count, the hero miraculously whipsawed his body, escaped the death grip of the bad guy and gained the upper hand. At that point, Ma switched gears and transformed into a bloodthirsty tigress. Her eyes shone and she broke into a smile. With killer instincts now unleashed she embodied the very best of Man's basic nature.

"Get him! Kick him! _Kill_ that sonovabitch!"

* * *

Sarah Baldwin sat alone under an umbrella at Umberto's Restaurant in Nashville's trendy Gulch area. The waiter brought an iced tea and left her alone a few minutes to scan the menu. The outdoor terrace was one of her favorite places for lunch, but it was early and the place was almost deserted. Her friend Daniele wouldn't arrive for another few minutes and the lunch crowd wouldn't show up for half an hour. Sarah picked up her phone and dialed Dalton James. The senator was on his boat, about a mile offshore of Pensacola.

Sarah kept her voice low and confidential, but didn't try to hide the fact that she was fired up. "Dammit, Dalton, why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you _what?"_ James replied with a defensive attitude. He was fidgeting with a fishing line and juggling a drink at the same time.

"About that goddamned explosion on 2nd Avenue with that Cantien guy, that's what," she said, keeping her eyes peeled to make sure no one was listening.

"Oh, that. Who got you all stirred up about that?"

"Nelson told me. I would have thought you would have!"

James wasn't pleased that Nelson Benning had overstepped his bounds. "Look, it was on a need to know basis and you didn't need to know." At the silence, James decided to back up a bit. "It was a mess, Sarah. Of course I didn't mention it. I was trying to protect you. You know how much you mean to me. Now, can we talk about it later? I don't want to discuss this on the phone."

Sarah capitulated. He was right. "Alright then, later. I'm headed down this weekend and we can talk then. I assume you're still going to be there?"

"Sure I am, baby. Senate's still out of session and I'm not going anywhere. And I've got good news. The papers came this morning from Bill Powers, Eve's attorney. She's filing for divorce. That's okay with you, isn't it?"

Sarah smiled and her voice sweetened. "Yeah, that's okay with me. More than okay."

"She's gonna do her best to put me in the poorhouse, Sarah, but I'll be ready for her. I've got the best divorce lawyers in town working for me. Thank god we won that election."

"Thank god for that," Sarah agreed. "This will certainly give us something to think about—to talk about this weekend. I'll see you Friday night. Is there anyone with you out on the boat?"

"Nah, it's just me until you get here. It's alright though, I'll manage just fine on my own."

She wondered about his last statement and decided to let it pass. But she couldn't stop dwelling on the original reason for her call. "I gotta go, Dalton, but there's one thing I absolutely need to know before we hang up. Did _you_ approve that business on 2nd Avenue?"

"Honey," Dalton hedged, sounding peeved. "I said we'll talk when you get here." Just then his fishing line got tangled and he dropped his drink. The cell phone tumbled from his shoulder. "Dammit! Listen, Sarah," he said when he'd picked up the phone again, annoyed, "and listen good. It was us or him. And I sure as hell wasn't going to let it be us. How was I to know the dumb son of a bitch suspected me of stealing a goddamned mule? I did what needed to be done. There's a reason we're in power and you're grown up enough by now to be able handle that."

There was another silence as Sarah digested the information. "Well, I appreciate your telling me. I just wanted to know the truth, that's all, Dalton. —Oh, look, I've got to go, darling, Daniele just arrived. I'll see you Friday, around noon."

Dalton was feeling magnanimous again. Sarah had always been a good little follower. "Goodbye, sweetheart. Hey, the big ones are biting this week. The flounder are running big time. It's eat or get eaten," he laughed, "A sure thing if ever there was one!"

* * *

Across the street at an outdoor table of an upscale Mexican restaurant, a handsome young man in sunglasses and white t-shirt wore headphones as if listening to music on his computer. He was smiling, enjoying the bright sunshine, a stone's throw from the two well-dressed women chatting amicably. Joaquin Valence looked at his computer screen. The telephoto camera lens brought the image in clearly as the ladies' waiter came and took the drink order of the new arrival.

Joaquin re-listened to the conversation he had just recorded on the cell phone scanner. It was perfect. The sound quality was good enough to hold up in a court of law and there was no doubt it was Senator Dalton James on the line. More importantly, there was no doubt he was admitting to murder. Joaquin saved the file, pulled the memory stick out of the computer, and put it safely in a zipper bag. Then he closed down his computer, finished his coffee, and walked south on 12th Avenue toward his car. He wasn't going to call Danny Cantien on the cell phone. It was too easy to intercept and record messages that way. He was taking no chances. He'd drive to Leipers Fork and deliver the information in person. What Cantien did with it afterwards was his business.

#

It's just one big blur looking back. I remember knocking a second and third time, more loudly on Homer's front door. His truck was in the drive but there was still no answer. So I checked the knob and let myself in. The polished wooden floor creaked and the ceiling fan spun lazily as I stepped across the threshold of the entryway. "Hey, Homer, you home?"

I glanced at the kitchen. Neat as a pin. In fact, the whole house always looked like a maid had just been through. " _Homer?"_

The bathroom door was open, but nobody there, either. The house felt deserted. His bedroom door was half closed so I peered around. And there he was. Passed out on the floor, fully dressed, right down to his work boots.

I rushed to his side. "Homer!" I felt his forehead and touched the unshaven cheek with the back of my hand. "Homer, wake up!" His skin was cold and clammy.

Homer slowly opened his eyes. They were watery, and the right side of his mouth drooped. He tried to speak, but couldn't quite. After a few seconds, he muttered weakly and I leaned in closer in order to hear.

"I saw Jesus " I remember him saying. Though in a very weak voice, the words were clear and the way he said it made me think he really had.

I quickly used a couple pillows to try to make him more comfortable. "Homer, you take it easy and don't move." I dialed 9-1-1 and a cold efficient voice on the other end said the ambulance would be there in a few minutes. I got a glass of water, but Homer couldn't prop up enough to sip. Instead, I helped the old man out of his boots. It must have been a stroke or heart attack, though I couldn't tell which.

Homer was speaking again, this time even more clearly but with a great deal of effort. "... _book...Damien_."

"Homer, rest. All that can wait. There's help on the way. Let's get you taken care of first."

" _Book,"_ Homer insisted, using all his strength.

I saw a book sitting on the bedside table with Damien's name on it. Beside it was a manila envelope with "Danny" written on it. "Okay, I'll see he gets the book. Or better yet, you can give it to him. We'll get some help here in a minute and get you fixed up."

Homer closed his eyes again a few seconds and then reopened them. _"Charlene,"_ he said weakly. He motioned with his eyes to the cell phone lying nearby on the bed. I picked it up, knew that Charlene was programmed as speed dial 1, and pushed the button. Her voice answered after a few rings, "Hey, dad, how's it going?"

"Charlene, it's Danny. I'm at the house with your dad and he may have suffered a heart attack or stroke. I called 9-1-1 and they'll be here in a few minutes. He wants to speak with you."

My friend looked very old, very tired. Whatever happened was serious. I put on the speaker phone and held it up to Homer's face so he could talk. His voice was barely audible. "Love you...Char..."

His daughter's medical training kicked in, and she chose the calm professional approach. "Daddy, save your strength. They'll be there in a few minutes and I'll meet you at the hospital."

" _No,_ Lord's calling."

"No, Daddy, not yet. Not now!"

Homer slurred a few more words, but I couldn't tell what they were. Then he slipped into unconsciousness.

"Daddy, _Daddy!_ " Charlene wailed.

I took the phone off speaker and held it to my ear.

"Charlene, the ambulance is here."

"Keep me on the line," she shouted.

I ran to the door and opened it with a plea to hurry. The paramedics came in with a stretcher. They checked Homer's vital signs. There was no pulse, no breathing. They tried to revive him several times and couldn't. I stood dumbstruck as the woman paramedic, still kneeling, faced me and delivered the message. "I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid he's gone."

" _Gone?_ He _can't_ be gone. He was just talking. Do something! For God's sake, can't you do something?"

Charlene couldn't see the paramedic shake her head, but she heard everything. Loud sobbing and denials poured through the phone. I felt my knees go weak as Homer was lifted onto the gurney, taken through the door, and placed in the ambulance. There was no need to hurry now. Charlene asked to speak to the ambulance driver. I gave the man the phone and overheard her instructions.

"Bring him to River Hills. This is Doctor Charlene Carr at River Hills Hospital. You bring him here. Do you understand me? You bring him here!"

The paramedics said they would.

"I'll follow in my car," I mumbled to the driver. My hands trembled as I reached in the pocket for my keys. I felt like I was going to be sick.

* * *

I sat with Quinn Lee five rows behind Charlene at the service. She was accompanied by her boyfriend, Anthony, who seemed to be providing whatever comfort he could. The pastor talked about Homer's faith in God and love for family, and of his and Ada's life together—of Homer's love for Michael and Charlene, of his passion for books and music, and his kindness to animals. It was a moving sermon of life, love, and faith and there wasn't a dry eye in the house.

Outside, a steady rain had commenced, prompting umbrellas to pop open as mourners filed out of the church and made their way to their cars. The rain came down harder as the procession drove slowly to the cemetery to finish the job. At the graveside ceremony, Quinn offered his umbrella, but I didn't bother crowding underneath. I felt numb and raw and didn't want the feeling of loss diminished. It made me think of Pa as Homer's casket was lowered into the earth. Both had been like fathers to me. My heart ached for Charlene's loss and for my own. My mouth was parched and I badly needed a drink. I wished Ray was around. Or Rose. I'd asked her to come, but she hadn't even returned my call. It was just me now.

I gave my condolences to Charlene and the family, shook hands with Anthony, and drove back to the farm and cottage alone. I stripped off the tie and soaking wet suit, threw them on a chair and poured a tall whiskey; then put on a pair of dry boxer shorts and a t-shirt, cranked up Lightning Hopkins on the CD player, and as dusk melted into darkness, drank until I passed out.

#

It was late Sunday morning and the hangover was brutal. My mouth felt like a sandpit and I'd already decided to forego a shower and shave for the day. Around noon, the phone rang.

"Danny, it's me, Charlene."

"Charlene! Are you okay?"

"Not really. As well as can be expected. Are you busy? Do you have a few minutes?"

"Sure—I'm just, um, straightening up," I said, as I looked at the mess of the den.

"Danny, I need to ask you something. Last Wednesday, when you were with Daddy at the house, did he mention he wanted to give you and Damien something?"

I thought back to the awful minutes watching Homer die. "Yeah, he did say something...something about giving Damien a book. How'd you know?"

"Did he say anything else? About an envelope for you?"

"No. But now that you mention it, there was an envelope with my name written on it next to the book. Everything happened so fast I guess I forgot about it."

"Then you don't know what's in it?"

"No, I sure don't. Why? What's this about, Charlene? Is it important?"

Charlene cleared her throat. "Danny, maybe you'd better sit down."

I sat. This was getting stranger by the minute.

"Daddy wrote you a letter. It was there in the envelope. Along with the deed to his house. He left the house to you, Danny. He wanted you to have it. The house, the land, everything, except a few pieces of furniture and family pictures. All you have to do is sign the papers in that envelope with a notary, and file it with the courthouse."

My mind started to swim. I was hung over, but surely I was dreaming.

"Danny—Are you there? Did you hear me?"

"Whoa, what in the world are you talking about? I know I'm half asleep, but Charlene, you're not making any sense."

"No, listen, I'm telling you. The house is _yours_. Daddy and I discussed it at length. I was against it at first. I thought the library and house should be donated to Fisk University. But he convinced me this was the right thing. We arranged it a couple months ago. I thought he'd have told you, but apparently he died before he got the chance."

"But, Charlene, that place is worth a lot of money," I protested. "I'm sure he'd want you to have it. There must be some mistake."

"There's not. Believe me, he's taken good care of me financially. You'd never know it, but Daddy had well over a million dollars in stocks and bonds. He saved and invested far better than I ever imagined. The house is a done deal, Danny, and no arguing. I'm moving to Chicago, too—and marrying Anthony. I won't need the house, especially since I don't plan on moving back this way."

"And the books?" asked Danny, "Don't you want all those books?"

Charlene's voice was filled with genuine joy, I could hear over the line. "They're yours, too, Danny, enjoy them. I know you will a lot more than I would. There are a couple dozen medical texts I'd like to keep, but that's it." She paused for a moment, seemed to be searching for the right words. "And Danny? Thank you for being such a dear friend and son to Daddy. You meant the world to him the last year. I'll never forget your kindness. If I can ever help, please let me know. I'll make sure you have my contact information before I move."

My eyes moistened. I'd heard about great acts of kindness, but those were reserved for others. People on TV or the newspapers. "I don't deserve this, Charlene. I don't know what to say."

"Thank you, Danny. That's all there is to say."

"I can't believe this. But thank you, Charlene. Thank you very much."

.

We hung up. I looked out the window of the cottage. Buddy and The General were holding court next to the paddock. The mustard-colored mule, Cajun, was trying to blend in with the horses, as he often did. Dante was squaring off against Amigo in the goat pen. Fernando the rooster was putting the moves on a hen huddled in the shade. A big grin washed over my face. All of a sudden, I was hungry. In fact, I could go for a big breakfast.

I watched as Quinn's car pull in the drive just at that moment. To my surprise Eve got out of the passenger side and Quinn walked around to join her. As the two walked together toward the front door, Loretta, wearing an apron, came flying down the steps and hugged Eve warmly.

"Well, I'll be dammed," I said out loud. I looked in the mirror, the scruffy unshaven face staring silently back. It looked like the face needed to speak, and then it did. "Well if I'm going to be a man of means, by God, I better start looking the part. Time for a shave and some clean clothes."

Whistling a snatch of a tune, I, Danny Cantien—landowner—rummaged through the closet for a clean shirt and thought of Homer. I wanted to call someone but realized there was no one to call.

#

I was backpacking in Colorado when the call had come from Ray about Mom. She'd died suddenly of a brain hemorrhage and it took Ray three days to track me down. I flew back to Nashville the next morning and cut it so close that I met him at the church ten minutes before the funeral started. Neither of us had spent much time with her the last few years, not since moving in full time with Ma and Pa as kids. And then me going to college and Ray into the Marines. Despite not seeing her much, we were both torn up, especially Ray. I'd pretty much made my peace with her a few months back, cleared the air and settled some things, but Ray never had that chance. Now he was a wreck and it was time for me to play the role of big brother. We sat together in the front pew while the minister performed the service and then went to the graveside service and laid her to rest. After she was in the ground, we were both ready for a drink.

"Danny, do you remember what Mom said—about drinking? When we were still kids?" Ray asked.

"How could I forget? If she said it once, she said it a hundred times."

"I've thought about it a lot lately. How she warned if you need a drink to feel normal, you're an alcoholic." He looked at me hard. "You think that's true?"

"Yep, pretty much."

"Then I'm twice an alcoholic," Ray said "These days it takes two for me to feel normal."

"I know what you mean. It's about the same with me, especially lately."

He took a sip and frowned. "You think we got the alcohol seed like she said we would?"

"I don't see how we couldn't. It's in the gene pool—at least we come by it honest. We're probably screwed and just don't know it—yet. Give it some time and we'll be lining up for liver transplants."

Ray smiled weakly and nodded, then took another sip, eager to change the subject. "Danny, it was awful. You know they asked me to come to the morgue and identify her?"

"Yeah, I know. That must have been tough."

"You don't know the half of it." Ray took a big gulp, his hand shaking. He was beside himself and gave me the blow by blow details. We ordered more beers and got loaded, stunned by the realization that our parents and grandparents were gone. Ray slept on my living room couch that night, the first time we'd slept under the same roof in years.

* * *

The man was youthful and strong, and moved through the water like a seal. His powerful legs, thighs shaped like a frog's, worked efficiently, as if he belonged underwater. It was dark beneath the surface, the water purple now, the sun setting above. He swam with purpose, looking to spear one more big one to end the day. Mackerel, cobia, redfish, and flounder had all been bagged that day. He'd done well and the payout would be good.

Most all the boats had given up the ghost, gone to shore for the evening. One still lingered, _The Sure Thing_ , its lone angler trying for one more catch. The forty-footer out of Pensacola was anchored dead ahead, just a five-minute swim. In the boat, Garcia and Styron were having less luck with their pole fishing. They'd sent Chavez down one more time. This would be his last dive for the day.

Chavez swam against the current on a westerly path, ranging from fifteen to twenty feet in depth, staying shallow to preserve oxygen in his single A180 tank. He'd been under for almost a half hour and had about that same amount of time left. Of course on the return trip he'd be swimming with the current, so he'd have fifteen or eighteen minutes tops. He didn't usually cut it that close, but he wasn't worried.

Chavez spied a good-looking fish as he swam; a flounder. _Too big._ He couldn't get one that large back to the boat even if he wanted. His thoughts wandered to his home in Mexico, to his mother. He'd not seen her since leaving Oaxaca three years earlier. It hadn't been an easy journey. He'd killed a man in self-defense when he was eighteen—a man who was trying to rob him of a single day's pay of picking apples. In his world, lines had to be drawn. One couldn't work his fingers to the bone only to have it taken away. But the law didn't see it the same, and a warrant was issued for his arrest. On the run and broke, Chavez had to steal just to eat. He fell in with a reckless group, and it wasn't long before he was caught and sentenced to seven years. After a year, he and two others escaped, but a guard was inadvertently killed in the process. Once again on the run, Chavez came across the border the hard way, through the desert, and after several close calls made his way to Moon Mullet.

Uncle Garcia had taken him under his wing, given him a place to stay and food to eat. Garcia, "the legal one," who had sent money to Chavez' mother for the last four years since Garcia's own mother had passed. Garcia knew Chavez. They were a lot alike; from the same small town on the outskirts of Oaxaca. Both were realists, opportunists, men who did what they needed to survive. Men of honor. Garcia looked his nephew in the eye that afternoon and gave him the assignment.

" _Éste que usted hace para mí."_ This one you do for me.

And then added, "We'll take care of you and your family."

Chavez would never escape the fact he was illegal in the U.S. and wanted by the law in Mexico. He was a man without a country and would always be looking over his shoulder. Inside his heart, he felt he was a good man, a strong and honest man. But there were many who saw him differently. He would do anything his uncle asked. He must do anything his uncle asked.

As he swam, Chavez scanned the watery distance ahead. It was almost dark. He slowly surfaced and spied the boat ahead. In a few days he'd be in Guatemala. Garcia had friends in Puerto Quetzal who would help him get a new start. Chavez squinted in the dark at the man-shadow standing at the rail of the boat. His lips mumbled a silent prayer. As he swam closer his right hand made the sign of the cross, while his left cradled the spear gun.

#

I sat in Homer's old leather chair in his, now my, house and was still having trouble thinking of it as mine. I'd been putting it off, but now pulled Homer's farewell letter out of the big envelope.

Hi Danny,

If you're reading this, it means I've checked out, moved on, shuffled off that mortal coil you and I always talked about. Rest assured I'm back with Ada and Michael again, playing my horn with Gabriel. My faith's strong and I believe with all my heart that's where I am, so don't worry. Dante's Inferno's got no claim on me.

By now, Charlene's told you about the house. I thought about telling you myself, but felt it was better this way. At first Charlene wanted everything to go to Fisk University. Not a bad idea. But we talked it through and she came around. I explained I needed you as a long-term partner and now she's on board. Fisk may someday end up with it, but not just yet. And don't worry about Charlene, she's well cared for.

As my partner, Danny, I have a request. I want you to share a vision with me—to look at the house with a hundred-year view. The library's not ready. It needs more books, more tending, more understanding. At least forty or fifty more years of your reading and guidance. It would have been too easy to leave it all to a college or a foundation. But the legacy isn't strong enough yet. It needs more than one man's efforts. It needs you.

Though you may not realize it, you're a rare man, Danny. I hope you're a new breed and there's more like you on the way. I'd like to think so. You're not driven by material greed. You love books and learning for the sheer joy they bring. You're kind to those in need. You know the language of animals, and you're open to people of all races and religions. That's why I'm leaving the place to you. Thank goodness you came along when you did. You brought friendship and comfort to me when I needed it most.

Danny, you're the best person for the job—the only person for the job. Play the cards you've been dealt and do something with them. Double the library, triple it, but most importantly, nurture it and pass it on where it can do the most good when it's time for you to shuffle off, too.

In the meantime, enjoy.

God bless you.

Homer

#

I pulled the rental car out of the parking lot of the Quality Inn in downtown Beaufort and made my way to Boulevard de France, to the Marine Corps Douglas Visitors Center at Parris Island. At the brick building with the orange sign over the door, I parked and checked in with the Marine on duty in the reception area.

A few minutes later a young man walked into the room purposefully and with military bearing. This was not the boy who'd left Leipers Fork a year and a half ago. Physically, Damien was completely changed—muscular and cut. His former lanky gait now under control, his jaw considerably more square than I remembered. But the dark eyes were the same. They were definitely the same.

I stood up and stuck out my hand. "Hello, Damien."

"Hello, sir," the young cadet replied flatly, and shook hands.

Several Marines and officers conversed nearby. None paid them any attention.

"Do you have a few minutes, Damien?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Well, then, let's take a load off."

We sat down and I leaned in close to Damien. "You can cut that _sir_ shit out right now," I whispered. "And save it for the troops. I ain't your fucking commanding officer, for chrissakes. The name's Danny, got it?"

Damien smiled. "Sure, I got it. Good to see you, Danny. You doing alright?"

"That's more like it," I said, "and I'm doing fine. I don't have but a few minutes, but wanted to drop by and see how you're doing."

Damien took off his cap. "Thanks for coming, sir... _Danny_. But before you say anything, there's something I need to say." He stared at the floor gathering his thoughts. "Several months in this place has given me a lot of time to think about what I'd say if I ever saw you again. But now that you're here, I'm...it's just that—" His dark eyes, brimming with remorse and pain, rose to meet mine. "Listen, I'm sorry for what happened to Ray. Unbelievably sorry. I...I don't know what else to say. But I—" He stumbled into stagnant silence as we looked at each other uncomfortably.

I broke the stare first and looked around the room to gather my thoughts. "Well, that's why I'm here, too. Whadda you say we go out and get some air?"

It was a hot July day, the kind of day in the Low Country of South Carolina where the humidity rips through a body with a vengeance. We left the building and walked slowly, awkwardly, across the yard, where we found a bench in the shade of a pine.

"Look, Damien, we've both been through a lot the last year or so. And I've thought about it a thousand times, too." Damien started to speak, but I cut him off. "You don't have to say anything. That whole thing with the mule got out of hand, it's true, but you weren't responsible for what happened. For Ray dying. Whatever hate and resentment crammed up in me these last couple years, it's not directed at you. I've let it go. I'm not even sure why. Maybe—"

An officer and two cadets walked by, shoes clacking loudly on the sidewalk, interrupting my train of thought.

"Maybe," I continued, "it has to do with losing Homer on top of losing Ray. And my girlfriend, Rosalita, leaving me. You never met Rose, but she meant the world to me. But for whatever reason, the well's gone dry. I'm to the point where there's no more pain, no more hatred. No more resentment. And I wanted you to know that. That I don't blame you. It's important that you know so that maybe you'll be able to move on, too."

Damien stared mutely at the cap he held in his lap, unable to look up. After gathering his thoughts, he forced himself to make eye contact. "Thanks for telling me, Danny. It means a lot."

There was another long, uncomfortable pause. Searching for something to change the subject, I broke the silence. "I heard you're off to Afghanistan sometime soon. Is that still on?"

Damien nodded. "We deploy in six days."

"Well, Godspeed over there. You look after yourself."

"I will. _We_ will. I mean to say, we look after each other—us Marines."

"I know that. And I'm counting on it to be the case, that you'll come back safe."

"I'm planning on it. I've got things I want to do, stories I want to write. But I'm a Marine first and a writer second now."

"Homer told me you were writing. He was proud of you, editing the newspaper at Winterfield and all. But about those stories of yours—don't tell them all. Personally, I've got a few I'll take to the grave with me."

Damien finally grinned. "You can bet on it."

There was another awkward pause before Damien spoke again. "Did you know my Mom and Dad came up for my graduation a few weeks ago?"

"Yeah, I heard they were going to. How was it?"

"Interesting. Strange. You knew Dad divorced Jamie, didn't you?"

I did. In fact, I knew more about the divorce than I cared to admit. I'd been the one to get the goods on Jamie and her tennis-pro lover, which supported Quinn's successful court battle. I'd been paid pretty well for the effort, too.

"Yeah, I heard about it. So, did your parents get along during the visit?"

Damien nodded, suddenly looking like a much younger boy. "They even stayed in the same room at the hotel."

I shrugged, a pleased, mugging way.

"I know," Damien continued, "amazing, right? The three of us went out for dinner, too. We were all so polite to each other. You'd never have known we were such a screwed-up family."

"Who knows, maybe they'll work it out after all," I speculated.

"That'd be something," Damien agreed, "I wouldn't hold my breath. But if Mom would move back to the farm fulltime, maybe they could start over again." He looked out across the parking lot. "A little too late to do me much good, though."

I wasn't sure what to say next and wiped the sweat from my brow. It was damned hot. "Well, I guess that's pretty much it, Damien. I better shove off. But before I go, there's something Homer asked me to give to you."

Damien raised an eyebrow and wore a puzzled look.

"Yep," I said, "I was there with him at the end. And you know Homer—when he got something in his head."

Damien smiled.

"Anyway, during those last few moments of his life, he insisted to me that you have this." I reached into a bag, pulled out a book, and handed it to Damien.

" _Jayber Crow,_ " Damien said out loud as he read the title, "by Wendell Berry. I've heard of him, but never read any of his stuff." The puzzled look remained glued to his face. "I'll never forget Homer turning me on to Thomas Wolfe. He was right, you know. _Look Homeward, Angel_ inspired me to start writing." He squinted at me, the sun piercing through the tree into his eyes. "You ever read it?"

Danny smiled. "Sure, a couple times.—'Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart?'" I said, quoting a favorite passage from the book.

"Powerful stuff," Damien said. "It changed the way I think about my father, that's for sure." He turned the book over and skimmed the back cover. "Funny that Homer would think to give this to me, especially right at the end and all."

"He inscribed it for you, too. Check it out."

Damien opened the book to the cover page and read the inscription aloud.

For my good friend Damien Lee,

Savor this one. Wendell Berry's guaranteed to put your shit in the street.

Always, Homer

p.s. Watch your ass over there and come home safe. A lot of people are counting on you.

We both smiled. Damien said quietly, "Hell of a guy. What do you suppose he meant by the postscript?"

"Not sure, exactly. But Homer once told me that you've got the potential for greatness—his exact words. So I'm guessing that's what he meant. I really do miss my friend. And incidentally, he's right about the book. One of the best I've ever read."

I rose. "Well, I better get going. I'm sure you've got lots to do."

Damien stood too. He'd grown the last year and we were now the same height. We shook hands, looking each other straight in the eye.

"So long, Damien. Drop me a line from time to time, will ya?"

"I'll do it, Danny. See you around. Thanks for coming. And for bringing the book."

#

After my visit with Damien, I landed in Nashville and started the drive home from the airport. Turning on the radio, I was shocked to hear the breaking news.

" _This just in—Tennessee State Senator Dalton James has been reported missing. He was last seen on his fishing boat yesterday afternoon, in the Gulf of Mexico near Pensacola Beach. Spokesman Nelson Benning said all efforts are being made to locate the senator. The Coast Guard is searching a six-hundred square-mile area. Governor William Thompson of Florida has committed his support for the search and Governor Sandra Wilson of Tennessee released a statement extending her prayers to Senator James' family for his safe return. That is all we have in the way of a report right now. More details will be provided as they become available."_

The newscast ended and _Tennessee Summer Nights_ , a favorite by Henry MacAfee, began to play. I turned down the volume in order to think. The day before I'd left town to see Damien, I'd received the audio recording made at the restaurant in the Gulch connecting Dalton James to Ray's murder. Joaquin Valence, the young man who'd been doing surveillance work for me, had done a brilliant job capturing the confession. And I'd been debating in my mind how best to present the evidence to the police, to bring James to justice. But now, by 'coincidence', Dalton James had gone missing.

I made it a point never to believe in coincidences. The only people who knew about the senator were—

Hell no! They couldn't have. They wouldn't have—Styron and Garcia?

It was too crazy, even for them.

Or was it?

Styron and Garica had loved Ray like a brother, but murder? Though, now that I thought about it, was killing a murderer really murder? I tumbled the thought around in my brain and sure wasn't going to call and ask them. What had Styron said? I thought back to that last conversation with him. That they were clearing out of Pensacola and heading back to Moon Mullet, something about Garcia's kid cousin not being legal and needing to get him out of the country right away.

Whatever was going on, I didn't need to know, just yet. I'd find out soon enough.

_But the bastard deserves to die_.

Despite the virulence of my thoughts, I'm not by nature a supporter of vigilante justice. Maybe I'd visit Moon Mullet soon, do some fishing, and talk it over with the boys. In the meantime, I wondered about Dalton James. Would the senator show up in a hotel room in Pensacola with Sarah Baldwin or in Las Vegas with a hooker? Or surface as a corpse in the Gulf of Mexico? Did he fall off the boat and drown? One thing was certain. If the boys did have something to do with it, I prayed the body would never be found. And if Styron and Garcia were behind it—then God bless their murdering black souls.

* * *

The Blacktip's sense of smell is keener than her sight. After twilight, when the slate colored sea blends with the darkening sky, sight becomes even more irrelevant. The senses are alive, and like a machine—a ten-foot, killing, eating machine—she goes about her work efficiently. The product of a thousand generations, she's born with the gift, the instinct, to survive and thrive. She bites with violence, tearing flesh, her strong jaws grabbing, crushing, gulping. She attacks with fury, but still discriminates, avoiding the metallic piece, the spear. It burns when she bites. She savors only flesh, blood and bone, gaining strength as she devours her prey.

The catch is big enough for two, and her sister joins. They make quick work of the meal. They tear and rip and eat and spin in a devilish, dervish, orgy. Blood floats in the black water, drifting like a vapor, feeding their spirits and firing their appetites. Bits and bones fall to the floor of the Gulf, and whatever's left is cleaned up by the triggerfish and crabs. Dinner done, the sisters turn and swim away from shore, into deeper water where sky and sea join dark as tar. A sound rains faintly overhead, the groan of boat engines, a muffled annoyance, nothing more. The sisters move on. Dinner's been served.

Life's been served.

* * *

Weeks later there was still no sign of Dalton James. Not hide, nor hair, nor bone to wish upon. The not-so-good senator had not-so-simply vanished. James was gone, but certainly not forgotten. By most accounts he hadn't left Nashville a better place for his public service. I read _The Cumberland Scene's_ articles of the political fallout of Dalton's disappearance. Chief of staff Nelson Benning was being considered by the Governor to serve out Dalton's term which came as no surprise. In a press conference, Benning announced that, "he'd been inspired by the tragic loss of Dalton James to pick up the mantle of public service."

What a crock, I thought. To add spice to the story, Mister Benning and Dalton's former campaign manager, Miss Sarah Baldwin, had been romantically linked, complete with photos and gossipy details. No doubt about it, she'd hooked her star to the flywheel of the inner circle and was quickly rising to the top. And Nelson Benning, Sarah would have learned, didn't have love handles, at least not yet.

Phillip Macaulay, the grand old man of the party, of course had to weigh in. He was quoted in response to a question about Sarah Baldwin, "That young lady will go far. She'll be a power within the state someday." Time would prove the old man was right, too, but not in the way he figured.

I read the stories and tried to care, but couldn't muster the strength or enthusiasm. I'd had enough of Nashville and politics and was grateful to have Homer's house in the country as my own. It was a retreat, my haven. I loved everything about the place, and resolved to spend the rest of my days reading and working at the farm in Leipers Fork.

#

"Guilt rises and falls depending on the crime and the time of day," Pa once told Ray and me. My own guilt—my delinquency in not taking Ray out to the pelican island and laying his ashes to rest—lay dormant most days, but rose painfully in the middle of many nights. A recurring dream, a replay of what I'd seen as I lay bleeding on the ground at Finn's farm the night we recovered Buddy, simmered just beneath the surface for over a year. But it breached the surface one night as a wake-up call. I knew I'd held on to Ray too long and it was time to do something about it.

It was more a flashback than a dream. But whatever it was, I was standing on the bank of the same river—seeing the same boat in the fog with the dim lantern, the same boatman with the grizzled face, a ghost without expression. His white skin the color of a sheet, his shoulders straining as the oars creaked. Every night I could see him clearly, could even hear him, as he labored to row.

And the faceless passenger. Was it Ray? He sat opposite the oarsman on a wooden seat, wearing a charcoal cape the color of the sky. In the distance, toward their destination, a silver veil of light shone, very weakly at first, but as the sun rose it grew bolder with each stroke of the oars. I watched as the boatman kept a steady course, the paddles breaking the water quietly, carrying his cargo towards the dawn waiting on the other side. But the boat never reaches the other shore.

And then one night the dream was different. This time, just as the sun rose, a terrible flash of light filled the sky so suddenly and violently that I was blinded. The sun itself seemed to explode and in fear, I shielded my eyes and bolted upright into consciousness. Covered in sweat, I knew instantly what had to be done.

* * *

I squinted into the fading sun, the island finally in sight, the engine of the _Grand Old Osprey_ growling deeper as we slowed. The boat idled to what would become Ray's final resting place as I directed Garcia to anchor at the small island, near the entrance to the bay. The water's shallower there, clearer, the pelicans that normally nest on the island absent this time of year. The wind picked up again, the storm moving closer, the smell of the boat's oil fumes mixing with the fishy aroma of the stirred-up bay. Styron, piloting the boat, sees that I'm not making a move. I feel paralyzed as everyone waits; the box of ashes sitting on the deck of the boat like an uninvited guest.

I'm lost in thought, remembering Ray—that day on the water when he'd asked that his ashes be spread.

" _The end's coming Danny, the comet's passing. We're the last of the Mohicans."_

Styron exchanged glances with Garcia, who nodded silently. I pretend I don't see them, but we all know we need to get on with it.

"— _the last of the Mo-fucking-hicans."_

Large thunderheads, Everest-like billowing clouds, stretched from the water clear up to heaven. Thunder grumbles in the distance. The boat wobbles back and forth at anchor, water slapping the hull. An osprey circles above, cries out, and then dives. I hear my brother's voice again.

" _This is a dream, Danny, sailing this beautiful sea. I love you, man. Now hand me another beer, will ya?"_

Finally Garcia picks up the box and places it at my feet.

I know it's time and feel I should say something. Something prayer-like or even spiritual. But the words don't come and I hadn't prepared anything. My brain's numb and my tongue at a loss. I lift the box and set it on the bait well. For the first time since it'd been delivered to my safe-keeping, I unwrap the plastic and look into the container at the gray-white ashes. Reluctantly, I stick my hand into the cold and heavy contents.

_Pure_.

I pull my hand out, stare into the water, avoiding the gaze of the others.

" _Ray..._ " I start, and then stop. My hand goes back in to feel the coolness again. My eyes are dry and closed, but my voice surprisingly strong. "Ray was my brother, my friend," I pause, "a good man and I loved him. He brought a spirit, an optimism that made the world better for his having passed through it." I search for words and a few more dribble in. "He tapped the world lightly and gave more than he took. But he had so much more to give." My voice cracks. I steal a glance at Rose, her eyes two stones focused on the box containing Ray's ashes. "He saw colors in music," I add, my voice trailing away. Lightning flashes nearby. I clear my throat and don't know what else to say. "May he rest in peace," I finish.

Rosalita speaks up in a barely audible whisper. "God bless, Ray. God bless his soul."

The others murmur amens. I reach into the box, gather a tentative handful of my brother's remains and toss it overboard. The four of us watch as the lighter particles settle on the water and float while the heavier sink in slow motion, drifting to the bottom to join the ages. The swirling dance of ash paints the dark water gray.

It reminds me, how, as kids we'd thrown handfuls of phosphorescent sand from the beach of Perdido Bay into the black currents to watch the colors and patterns it formed. But that was long ago—now, one precious lifetime ago.

Styron, Garcia, and Rose take turns, each longing for one last touch of Ray, of what once was Ray. The sky begins to spat rain as we finish the job. The thunder rumbles louder. Garcia grunts that we'd better get going to beat the storm. I nod, and we start to move. I sit in the bow of the boat and pull down the brim of my hat as we head back to Moon Mullet. I'm glad Rosalita's here, but it's damned unsettling all the same. She won't say a word to me. The salty spray soaks my face and mixes freely with streaming tears. Torn apart, I face forward so the others won't see I'm crying.

#

It didn't take much to get Garcia and Styron to fess up to Dalton James' untimely demise. They couldn't stand the idea that he'd go unpunished. "Sorry," Garcia said, sounding not very sorry at all, "but we made an executive decision. It was Ray who brought us to Nashville to watch his back, and we couldn't save him. We felt we owed you both that much."

I took the grim news without expression and thought of Dalton James lying at the bottom of the Gulf. A huge weight lifted from my heart. Like that story Pa once told Ray and me about the fellow the moonshiners hung in Tuscumbia, the one torn up by the river trout. 'That's the way they done it in the olden days,' I remembered Pa saying, 'Justice is justice. The River's the son of the waterfall, the Father of the Gulf. And the Ocean's their eternal Mother.' Amen to that, Pa.

Amen.

* * *

Chavez made it to Guatemala, and with Garcia's connections landed a job in Puerto Quetzal as a fishing guide. The little seacoast town was a perfect place for him, known worldwide for its favorable off-shore currents, and people pay big bucks for the great fishing. Chavez was able to stay under the radar and was sending money home to his family.

Quinn and Eve got back together. She simply moved in one day with a suitcase and a week later a truck showed up in Leipers Fork with her furniture. Quinn kept up his steady work schedule, but cut back on travel to spend more time on the farm and more time getting reacquainted with Eve.

Tred came around looking for work, and Quinn agreed to hire him back, at least on a probationary basis. He was still dumber'n hell, but strong as an ox, and I often corralled his brute strength to good advantage. Of course I had to keep a close eye on the big lunk to make sure he wasn't drinking on the job. Things were pretty quiet for a while, at least until Amigo, the agitated young goat, got huffed up one afternoon and confronted Dante in a duel for barnyard dominance. For some cockeyed reason, no doubt connected with his drinking, Tred found himself in the middle of the fray and got his butt royally gored. I drove him to the emergency room where Tred get sixteen stitches and was laid up for a couple days with an infection.

So far as the rivalry between old Dante and young Amigo, Dante prevailed that day. It being the nature of things, however, the following spring, the tables would turn and Amigo would gain the upper hand. Of course, even a goat as wily as Dante instinctively knew that his long run eventually had to come to an end. After all, every goat has his day, and he'd lived long enough to experience most of the nine circles.

Sarah Baldwin, the up and coming star in the Democratic Party, married Nelson Benning that spring and shocked Tennessee's political world when together they jumped ship and became Republicans. The _Cumberland Scene_ went nuts, as did the boys drinking down at Bowman's Grille. The conservatives immediately tapped her as candidate for Lieutenant Governor in the next election, and it seemed a 'sure thing' she'd get it. She was billed as having all the charm and charisma of another famous Sarah, the former Governor of Alaska, which thrilled some people and mortified others. Nelson Benning, smart enough to know on which side his bread was buttered, took on the post of campaign manager. The future looked bright for the young politician and her new husband.

Young Jamie Foster, the former Mrs. Quinn Lee, predictably suffered financially after her divorce from Quinn, but not for long. Shortly after their split, she dumped Mitch, the tennis instructor. She'd always known Mitch's bank roll was not proportionate in size to his other endowments. But it didn't take long for her to hook up with a wealthy yacht dealer from Stuart, Florida and they were married within six months. She never did let on to Quinn about that little fling with his son Damien. After all, it wouldn't have been flattering to her case in court or helped extract an extra penny from Quinn.

Miraculously, a long-time Nashville resident of Middle Eastern descent claimed responsibility for the bombing on 2nd Avenue that took Ray's life. A militant group from overseas said they were behind the attack and, "had provided spiritual and financial support." The FBI and Department of Homeland Security weren't so sure. In fact, they didn't buy the story at all and the case remained officially open. The news reports said the alleged culprit either couldn't or wouldn't provide many details on what happened that day, and questioned the strategic value of targeting Nashville. The would-be terrorist claimed it was, "to strike fear in the unlikeliest places," and that Ray's car had been randomly chosen. It didn't smell right to the feds, and Danny knew for sure the confession was bogus. But the cops did find all the ingredients needed to build such a bomb in the suspect's apartment in East Nashville. And his crazy admission solved a lot of problems that Garcia and Styron might otherwise have had to face.

Word from Afghanistan was that Damien was alive and well. He'd served in a major operation in Kandahar and had seen action in the southern Helmand and western Farah provinces. I got a handwritten letter about once a month. Damien wrote that he'd already lost comrades, killed and wounded. I prayed the boy would make it back okay.

#

Up every morning at five, I worked the same hours Homer used to put in at the farm. I loved the work and loved the animals. But most of all loved the time spent with Buddy, the big red mule. There was something about the beast, something unmistakably peaceful in his nature. Though Buddy belonged to Quinn, I felt an ownership of my own, much as Homer had. Whether feeding, grooming or riding the big mule, I couldn't help but feel strangely connected to Ray. Many an afternoon I rode the big fellow, even venturing up into the woods where I'd dismount and the two of us would walk a wide dirt road that meandered a couple miles. It provided plenty of time to reflect and converse with Buddy and he seemed a good listener. Being around Buddy also reminded me of Houston the mule, Uncle Percy's favorite from the old days. In hindsight I realized that the mule who'd pulled Ray from the ice and had given me thirty more years with my brother must have been very much like Buddy. The two animals, I decided, were very special creatures.

Several months passed uneventfully. One Saturday evening I was sitting alone in the front yard, drinking iced tea. The booze demons hadn't sprouted horns yet, but knowing the family history with drink, I was fighting to keep it that way. I watched heat lightning dance in the distance as the dogs dozed near my feet. Suddenly the solitude was interrupted by the ring of my cell phone. I looked at the caller ID. It was Rose. It had been so long since we'd spoken that I was caught off guard and at first debated whether I should even answer. But I quickly succumbed

"Hello?" I said trying to sound anything but anxious.

But my voice came out creaky and there was a disturbing tremble in my hand. We side-stepped through the introductory chit-chat, but it was clear she was calling for some reason other than to pass the time. Finally she got to the point. "Look, Danny, the reason I'm calling is that I wanted to apologize for being such an ass. Especially when we took Ray's ashes out on the bay. My behavior was uncalled for."

"Listen, Rose, you don't have to—"

"No, I _do_ have to. I need to explain."

I held my breath, wondering where she was going.

"You see," Rose said, "these last few months I was thinking one way about you, and it turns out it wasn't like that at all." She must have thought it was too quiet at my end. "Are you still there?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"I mean, that episode with the girl, the hooker, it had me twisted in knots."

The _hooker?_ What was she talking about? Then I remembered.

"And then I came to find out she was your cousin."

I waited till she'd run down to get a word in. "I tried to tell you," I said, "and if I recall, at the time you were hot and heavy with Patterson."

"That's another story altogether and not a long one," Rose said, sighing. "It was a disaster. We broke up almost a year ago."

"Really?" I tried to remain calm. "I didn't know." I hoped I sounded disinterested enough.

"Danny, I tracked down Linda Jenkins and called her. My friend at the police department gave me her number. And Linda told me that not only are you cousins, but you were the only person in Nashville who was willing to give her a hand, who treated her like a human being, when she needed it most. Is that true?"

"For chrissakes. Is that why you're calling? To tell me I didn't have sex with my cousin?" I laughed at the thought, though the tone somehow sounded sarcastic even to me. "Yeah, I guess if you need to hear it in so many words, it's true. The money was for her kid. But just for the record, since you're so interested, I've sure as hell never paid for sex. At least not directly."

I heard her take a breath as she gathered her thoughts. It sounded like she was half-crying and half-laughing at my last comment. "Danny, if you're willing, and I'm just thinking out loud—but do you think there's a chance we could maybe start seeing each other again? See if we could work things out?"

She sounded nervous. Nothing but silence from my end after she'd just spilled her guts.

"Rose, you don't know what complete and utter hell you've put me through. I oughta hang up right now and never talk to you again."

She cringed and her eyes began to tear. "Okay, Danny, I understand. I'll—"

"But..." I quickly added. "Don't cut me off. I said I _should_ hang up, not that I will." My voice softened. "Listen, Rose, I've never stopped loving you for a minute. Are you kidding? I'd love to get back together. But if we're going to do it we should do it right this time."

She tensed up, instantly on guard. "Like how?"

"Like, let's get married. And have a couple kids. Like _that_ how."

Rose sputtered. "Hold on a just a minute, Mister Cantien. Aren't you getting a little ahead of yourself? Did you just propose? I thought you weren't ready for that whole let's-commit-and-settle-down thing."

"Rose, I'm serious. For the first time in my life, I'm thinking straight and don't need to wait. We're meant for each other. Admit it." I didn't give her a chance to answer. "Tell me, what are you doing right now?"

"Talking on the phone. Pouring my soul out to you."

"Well, how about I drive into town and we talk this through in person?"

Rose looked around her house. It was a wreck but she'd throw some stuff in the closet and under the bed. "Sure, I guess. Come on over and we'll talk. But I'm serious. We need to talk for the time being. I'm not rushing into anything."

I knew better than to press my luck. Talking was fine. I'd waited this long for a chance and wasn't going to blow it. "Deal," I said. "I'll be there in an hour. And we'll talk. But tomorrow... _tomorrow,_ I want you to come and see this place. It's the farm house. Just like the one we always imagined. Like the one in the dream I told you about. Do you remember?"

Rose wiped her eyes. "Of course, I remember," she whispered. But I didn't hear her. I'd already hung up and was scrambling to get in the car as fast as I could .

# EPILOGUE

The moon rises, wakes the night sky, and gives form to the horizon. My two young kids, Hannah and Ray, walk barefoot in the sand as the wind kicks up, the sound of waves crashing ashore. I go back to the sea every chance I get, to Moon Mullet, the only place in the world where madness sleeps and my mind's truly calm. And to nearby Perdido Bay, at the confluence of the river, the bay, and the Gulf of Mexico. It's there where the river's strong current empties into the gulf and creates illusions of fleeting magic. On windy moon-filled nights, I'll sometimes build fires on the beach and watch as local kids stoke the flames; laughing, joking, and chasing; imitating ancient rites of hunter and hunted. As when Ray and I were boys, there's always at least one gangly teen with a cracking voice who pisses on the fire, inviting a torrent of good-natured obscenities.

Tonight I stare at the fire, keeping a close eye on the kids as they play nearby. My mind drifts and I'm thinking about Ray, feeling his spirit, almost like he's not dead, but just stepped out for a while. I smile at the thought and wish Ray could see the kids; now five and three years old. To watch them grow and be their uncle. But nowadays I'm just grateful for having him around as long as we did rather than dwelling on the loss.

I pick up a piece of driftwood; toss it on the fire, and think of the old-timers. Pa, Ma, Uncle Percy, Aunt Margie, my Mom. And even that sonovabitch, R.D, who I can't quite bring myself to forgive. All those who came before, their blood flowing through my veins—our kids' veins—who guided Ray and me in one way or another.

I think, too, of Homer. Of everything the gentle man taught and gave me. And about Buddy and Houston, two mules connected in time. And how the lives of four-leggers and two-leggers sometimes come together in the most unusual of circumstances. I also think of Damien. Uncle Damien is what the kids call him, but Captain Lee is how he's known by the Marines, now in his third tour of duty overseas. A strong bond of friendship has developed between my family and 'the kid' over the last few years.

And I remember the dream—the one where I'm lying in the casket at the funeral home and Tubby and Sis are licking my face. The dogs are now old and gray, but still with us, companions to Ray and Hannah. Thankfully, the dream no longer invades my nights, though Pa's four-hour rule, "Just because a body's dead doesn't mean it can't hurt you," still lives on. Through the years I could never quite shake the power of those words.

The ghosts of family and friends have come back to haunt me from time to time, cut me to the bone, and you might say scarred me for life. And some inner voice continues to remind me that heartache and tragedy may not be through with us yet—that the good life can be ripped apart in a single horrifying moment.

My remembrances are suddenly broken by an impulsive thought of something more pressing and important. "I've gotta show you kids something," I say, and take them both by the hand. I lead them from the company of the fire to the solitude of the starlit beach where I pick up a handful of sand and hurl it into the strong, black current. Just like so many years ago when Ray and I did it, the phosphorous light from the sand mixes with the powerful current, painting the dark water with an absinthe-colored incandescence. I do it again, and then again, like a kid skipping stones on a lake. Excited by the sight, five-year-old Hannah mimics me, picks up a handful of sand and throws it in. Little Ray, unsure at first, watches for a minute before trying it too. They're both instantly enchanted by the swirling hues.

When the tide is high and the bottlenose and big fish swim into the bayous in search of mullet or fingerlings, the death dance of predator versus prey stirs the cauldron anew and the colors are even more alluring. Strong whipping tails confer a brilliant violence to the water and sand and the whole bayou lights up like the Fourth of July. Then, as the tide goes out and the big fish are sucked back into the gulf, you see it all again—a vapor trail, pearlescent and transient, defining the current; an aurora stirred by watery winds. I love the sight of it, can never quite get enough, captivated by its promise and spellbound by its brevity.

I gaze at the children, their small hands tossing sand in the water, their eyes wide with happiness. I want to tell them about Ray and Homer, Ma and Pa, Uncle Bill, and the two mules, and how some people see colors in music. I want to tell the story of how I met and fell in love with their mother and how I couldn't possibly live without her—or them. I want to let them know how precious and short life is; how moments like these should be cherished rather than simply experienced. But I don't. Instead I watch silently and listen, mesmerized by the magic in their faces and the joy in their voices. And remember that sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all.

