 
## PRETENDERS

### David Kearns

### Copyright 2019 David Kearns

### All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

### All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance of the characters to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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

### Discover other titles by David Kearns

### All The Way Down

### All The Way Under

### All The Way Back

### Dedication: For all true friends of Delorean and Sandy.

## CONTENTS

### Early June in Idaho

### Early June in Oceanside, Oregon

### Friday in Hampton, Oregon

### Saturday in Idaho

### Sunday in Idaho

### Monday in Idaho

### Tuesday in Idaho

### Wednesday in Idaho

### Thursday in Idaho

### Friday in Idaho

### Monday in Hampton, Oregon

### Tuesday in Hampton, Oregon

### Wednesday in Hampton, Oregon

### Late June in Idaho

### July in Oceanside, Oregon

### Acknowledgements

### Other Books by David Kearns

Early June on the Campaign Trail in Idaho – Sandy

Ten minutes before Bill's speech ended, she spotted the hillbilly with the assault rifle. She stood beside Bill on the bandstand platform at the Boundary County Fairgrounds with the Kootenai River to her right, a feed and grain store behind her, and a 4-H event in the fairground buildings to her left. Maybe three hundred people from Bonner's Ferry in the audience in front of the platform, and a few others coming and going from the fairground buildings and the parking lot where Sandy had left the car. The sun was bright, the sky over the Selkirk Mountains was the color of faded blue jeans, and the air smelled of dust, farm animals, fresh paint, and pine trees. The people standing near the platform watched Bill with rapt attention, despite the occasional sounds of car doors slamming, people laughing in the farm buildings, roosters crowing, and lambs bleating. Sandy scanned the crowd, glanced over her shoulder towards the feed store, took a quick look towards the event buildings, then looked over the heads of the audience towards the parking lot. Three men loitered by Bill's Chevy Tahoe, one carrying an assault rifle held barrel-down against his leg, another with a double-barreled shotgun tipped back against his shoulder like he was going quail hunting. Steadman for Senate stickers spanned the front and back doors of the Tahoe, and Sandy watched as one of the men peeled the sticker from the back door, crumpled the sticker into a wad, and kicked it like a football into the Kootenai River. The muscles tightened in her neck, and her pulse came on strong. While she waited for the speech to end, she counted her breaths, kept her cool, and watched the vigilantes like a hawk watches a field mouse.

After the speech was over, Bill and Sandy stayed near the platform the campaign volunteers had erected. People waited in line to ask Bill questions, or to tell him they enjoyed his speech, or to shake his hand and wish him luck. Near the end of the line, an elderly couple with sour facial expressions told Bill his speech sounded like Communism, and that Senator Kutchin was twice the man Bill would ever be. Bill replied that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, and he thanked them for coming. The last people to leave were the volunteers who knocked on doors and made phone calls to get people to come to the rally. Bill thanked each one of them, and they seemed like such salt-of-the-earth, civic-minded people that it made Sandy forget about the vigilantes for a while.

Bill paid the contractors who set up the public address system, and it was time to get back on the road and head south to Sandpoint. Unfortunately, the vigilantes had parked an old, mud-colored pickup truck behind the Tahoe, so Sandy and Bill couldn't leave even if they wanted to. It rattled her to be outsmarted by a group of thugs, and she made a mental note to never allow the car to be boxed in like that again. The men watched Bill and Sandy from across the greenspace, and they had the kind of tight-lipped, angry expressions Sandy saw many times during her career as a police officer. She considered her circumstances, and pulled the car keys out of her blazer pocket. She pressed the OnStar button on the key fob, sending a signal to General Motors requesting an ambulance at her location. In her experience, the presence of more witnesses often translated to the presence of less violence.

She asked Bill to hang back and she explained her plan to him. The two of them sat at the edge of the platform and waited.

"Nice view of the mountains," Bill said.

"It is. It's a pretty place. Shame for it to be spoiled by this bullshit."

"It's all part of the process. There's always a fly in the butter churn."

"Maybe."

Sandy watched one of the vigilantes strike a match against the hood of the Tahoe, light a cigar, and then lean against the Chevy like he owned it. Sandy felt her neck muscles tightening up again.

"They're very patient, aren't they?" Bill said.

"So am I."

Bill nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you are."

She heard the siren of the ambulance and said, "We can go now."

As they walked across the grass between the platform and the parking lot, the armed men formed a line, blocking the path to the Tahoe. She felt the pace of her heartbeat quickening.

Sandy said, "Let me handle this."

"You got it."

She took out her cell phone, and as they approached the Tahoe she snapped pictures of each of the men, click-click-click, then slid the phone back into her blazer pocket. The men were all over forty years old, she guessed. They were dressed like farm hands, in jeans and coveralls blackened from the knees down with grime. A heavy chemical smell hung in the air.

Sandy recognized the man in the center as the one who'd torn the campaign sticker off the back door of the Tahoe. He exhaled foul-smelling cigar smoke in Sandy's direction before dropping the cigar. Then he pulled his denim jacket back on one side so his sidearm was visible. Sandy's pulse bumped up another notch. She locked eyes with him and gave him a tight smile to let him know she wasn't intimidated.

"We didn't say you could take our pictures," he growled.

"I didn't give you permission to vandalize my car, and I don't need permission to take your picture, either," she said. "It's a public park, and you're leaning against my car. Now move your ass and move your truck so we can get out of here. You're blocking us in."

The ambulance siren sounded like it was about a quarter mile away.

The man on the left said, "Know your place, woman." He was tall and gaunt, with threadbare clothes hanging like wet laundry on his bony frame. He had a double-barreled shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm.

"You're not giving the orders here," Sandy said. "Gun or no gun. Step aside so we can get into our car. And move your damned truck."

"Y'all aren't welcome here," the cigar smoker said. Sandy thought he could be the brother of the one carrying the shotgun. Same build, similar face. Hair that looked too grey for his age. Dark rings under his eyes.

Bill said, "Hey, Friends. I think you'd agree this is a free country. You've got the right to carry firearms if you want to, and I've got the right to get in my car and get on down the road. We have things in common. Let's be civil to each other."

The man on the right coughed. The noise sounded like it came through a voice box burned by acid. When he coughed a second time his body shook, and the barrel of his assault rifle rose and fell. Sandy watched him with her full attention. If he lifted the gun barrel towards her or Bill, Sandy planned to shoot him where he stood. She moved the hem of her blazer out of the way and rested her hand on the butt of her pistol. She felt her heart beating hard against her ribcage. Ka-thunk, Ka-thunk, Ka-thunk. She willed herself to breathe slowly, take deep breaths, focus on the task at hand. Keep it together. Her world collapsed down to a tiny space containing her, Bill, and three armed stooges.

All three of the men took notice of Sandy's gun.

The man in the middle pointed his index finger at Steadman and said, "A leader must be pure. Your thoughts and actions is not pure. You will _not_ lead."

The siren on the ambulance sounded closer. Maybe two hundred yards away.

Bill said to the men, "I'd like to know why anything I've said is a problem for you. Let's have a discussion."

The one with the gravel voice coughed again, like he was getting ready to give a speech.

"This land you stand on is hallowed ground," he said. "It was bought with the blood of your forebears, and you befouled it with your hollow, base actions. You are a vessel of sin."

Sandy laughed out loud, incredulous. "A vessel of sin?" She tipped her head towards Bill Steadman. " _This guy?_ "

Bill said, "Explain it to me. How am I a vessel of sin?"

An ambulance rolled into the parking lot and shut off its siren. The flashing lights were still going as two emergency medical technicians got out of the truck. The EMTs looked at each other with expressions implying they see lots of false alarms and this was another one.

"Is there a Mister Steadman here?" the ambulance driver said. He wore blue pants, a white pressed shirt, and carried a clipboard in one hand and a fat walkie-talkie in the other.

Bill raised his hand. "Here."

"Did you call for an ambulance?"

"I dropped the car keys," Sandy said. "It must have set off the OnStar call. I'm sorry about that."

A police car with Bonners Ferry markings rolled into the lot and parked behind the ambulance. Sandy took her hand from the butt of the Beretta and let her blazer cover the gun again. She listened to the sound of her own breath, each one coming a little deeper and slower than the last. Felt the pounding of her heart against her ribcage tapering off a little. Her right leg trembled from the adrenaline overload.

"So, there's no problem here?" the ambulance driver said.

"No," Bill said. "I don't think so. Sorry for the false alarm."

The ambulance driver told Bill there would be a four-hundred-dollar charge for the call. Bill shrugged. "Okay," he said. "That sounds fair."

The EMTs went back to the ambulance. One got into the passenger seat, and the other laid his clipboard on the hood and started filling out a form.

The policeman stepped from the patrol car and adjusted his gun belt. The vigilantes glared at Bill before shambling off towards their truck. The police officer ignored the three men and walked over to Bill and Sandy. He asked if they'd been threatened by the men who walked away.

"No," Bill said.

"Not yet," Sandy said sharply. "They hadn't worked themselves into enough of a lather yet about sinfulness and befouling the hallowed ground of their forebears. Do you know those _psychos_?"

The cop crossed his arms and stared at Sandy, taking her measure through his sunglasses. "You an Idaho resident, Ma'am?"

"No, I'm not."

"Do you have a concealed carry permit for that gun on your hip, Ma'am?"

"I certainly do," Sandy said. "You want to see it?"

"No. I don't think that's necessary."

"Well, while we're discussing the rule of law, are you going to ask the misfits in the truck if they've got permits? One of them has an AR-15. That's a lot of firepower for a public park, don't you think?"

The cop stared at her, expressionless. The only sound in the parking lot was from the engines of the ambulance and police car idling.

"Carry permits aren't required for long guns, Ma'am. Do you want to file a complaint?" The cop was solidly built, with a close-cropped haircut that wouldn't be out of place in the military. He stood ramrod-straight.

"No," Bill said. "We don't. Thank you, officer."

"What about you, Ma'am?"

"No," Sandy said through gritted teeth.

"So, there's no accident here?"

"No," Bill said.

The police officer nodded. "If there's no accident and no complaint, I'll be on my way. You folks have a nice day." He went back to his patrol car.

The ambulance driver came over and handed Bill a charge slip. Bill swiped his credit card through a portable reader and the EMT returned to the ambulance.

Sandy and Bill got back in the Tahoe and waited. Sandy felt her right foot trembling against the gas pedal as she watched the patrol car, the ambulance, and the brown pickup truck backing out. She listened to the sound of her breath in the confined space of the Tahoe. The truck headed one direction, and the ambulance another. She turned the ignition key and started up the Tahoe. Shifted the transmission into reverse with a sweaty hand.

"That was fun," Bill said.

"Yeah. That was fun for me, too."

"I could tell."

The patrol car waited near the parking lot exit. As Sandy pulled onto Riverside Street, her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. She watched the patrol car fall in behind them and felt her neck muscles tightening again. Her hand floated down to the Beretta at her hip, making sure it was still there. Then she put the blinker on and took a right on Main Street, heading south through Bonners Ferry. Her eyes went back to the speedometer, making sure she was keeping it under the limit.

"Everything okay?" Bill said.

"That cop is following us."

Bill twisted in his seat to look at the patrol car, then faced forward again.

"What's that about?" Bill said.

"I don't know yet. Maybe escorting us out of town, maybe looking for an excuse to pull us over."

They passed a grocery store, a car parts store, a bank, a car wash, a pizza place, a gas station, another grocery store, another car parts store, a hotel. Sandy's eyes flicked back and forth between the speedometer and the rear-view mirror. The grill of the patrol car filled the rear-view mirror.

"I think if I touched the brakes, he'd rear-end me," Sandy said. "He's right on my ass."

"I don't get it. We didn't _do_ anything."

"I think he's sending us a message. He wants us gone."

When they reached the city limits, the police car flashed its headlights twice before doing a U-turn.

"Okay. He just turned around," Sandy said. She wiped her sweaty palm against her skirt. Exhaled a long breath through pursed lips. Tipped her head from side to side to stretch the muscles in her neck.

"That was pretty intense," Bill said. "I'm glad you were with me today."

"Now that I know what you're up against, I'd do it for free. What the hell?"

Bill shrugged. "I wish I knew. I think I'm a pretty reasonable person. I'm not trying to provoke people."

"I don't think you're the problem."

\---

If Sandy had to describe her daily schedule for the last six weeks, it would go like this:

1. Wake up early.

2. Check her gun to make sure it's in perfect working order.

3. Exercise for half an hour in her room or the hotel gym.

4. Shower, dress, and then eat breakfast at the motel or at a diner.

5. Power up on coffee sipped from a Styrofoam cup as she drives Bill to an event at a VFW post, a city park, or someone's living room.

6. Stand beside Bill as he talks to people and gives speeches. Watch people's hands and faces for signs of trouble. Be ready to intervene in the blink of an eye if someone threatens him, at any cost.

7. Get back in the car and drive Bill to the nearest drive-through restaurant, then power up on more coffee sipped from another Styrofoam cup.

8. Drive Bill a hundred miles to an event in another small town.

9. Eat dinner at another drive-through restaurant.

10. Go to a hotel as forgettable as the one she stayed at the night before. Have a discussion with Bill about the logistics for the next day.

11. Collapse onto a mattress so worn out that you roll to the middle of the bed. Try to ignore the sounds coming through the walls of arguments, squeaking bedsprings, or arguments followed by squeaking bedsprings.

A daily routine like this can wear an ordinary person down, but Sandy told Bill Steadman she'd stick with him until election day, so it doesn't matter whether her job is hard or not. If she were in the military like her father and brothers, people would call her a 'no-quitter' because she'd rather be dead than surrender. Bill Steadman's holding up well, too. As far as Sandy can tell, he has the stamina of a migrating Canada goose. He can go sunup to sundown every day and never seems tired. He can meet people and discuss politics for hours, and he never stops listening, being thoughtful, and answering questions in an intelligent way. He never fades out or drinks too much. Never seems sorry for himself. He feeds off interactions with people, even when those people are confrontational. She sees the effect Bill has on voters when he listens to them, proposes sensible solutions to problems, and asks what he could do to make their lives better once he's elected United States Senator. Voters are a bit shocked by his sincerity. After a few minutes of conversation, they consider him a friend and they've decided to vote for him. Election night is five months away, so maybe there's still time to close the thirty-point gap in the polls.

Sandy is discovering that Idaho is a big state, though. It's 479 miles tall and 305 miles wide, and she feels like she's going to see most of it before election day. Fortunately, around forty percent of the people who live in Idaho are in Boise or nearby suburbs, so those voters are fairly easy to reach. The other sixty percent live in small towns separated by a lot of lonely roads. After several weeks of driving, Bill and Sandy are heading south to Boise in a few days. Sandy's looking forward to that. They'll spend a week doing radio and press interviews, meeting with party officials, holding rallies and meet-and-greets in Boise, Nampa, Meridian, and Eagle, and cap things off with a rally at the capitol. Then they'll start the next road trip into the hinterlands.

Bill told Sandy in confidence that campaign donations have been disappointing, so he's still funding the campaign out of his savings account. Despite that, Bill put down a deposit on Taco Bell Arena for a rally a month before Election Day. He said it cost thirty-five thousand to rent the building, hire security guards, and have the facility readied for a crowd of ten thousand people, but it'll cost another hundred thousand to have a big-name entertainer headline the event. Assuming they can fill the place, it's going to cost thirteen bucks a head to get the voters to listen to Bill's stump speech. To Sandy, Bill's plan doesn't make sense, because the biggest crowd he's drawn so far is about four hundred people. She thinks the arena will be half full when the show starts, and half those people will leave after the entertainer performs. Barring a miracle, by the time the evening at Taco Bell Arena is over, Bill's going to regret the size of the hole he drilled in his bank account.

Despite her concerns about his spending habits, Sandy thinks Bill's a great guy. As good a man as she's ever met, and better than just about all of them. If she's honest with herself, though, she also thinks the campaign is probably doomed. The incumbent senator has been in Washington D.C. for twelve years, and even if he's connected with big oil and influence peddling, he's a recognized name in Idaho. Senator Brett Kutchin is part of the political landscape, and name recognition is what it takes to win a popularity contest. Good intentions and sincerity finish last on Election Day. When Sandy first met Bill, though, his sincerity and good intentions won her over.

Sandy first saw Bill Steadman at a political event in Portland, Oregon. She'd come to Portland for the weekend because she was bored with the slow pace of life in Oceanside. She needed to be someplace where there was more action – more people, more activity, more going on. She noticed advertisements in the hotel lobby for the Political Action Jump-Start Conference, bought a ticket, and sat through several presentations. The last event was the keynote speech by Bill Steadman about his plans to run a Senatorial campaign in Idaho on a shoestring budget. To Sandy he seemed credible, articulate, and confident. He was unafraid of failure, and good-looking without being arrogant. At one point her attention to Bill's speech lapsed and she wondered if he was single. When she started paying attention again, Bill was talking about self-funding the campaign, and said he didn't need to sell influence or make promises to rich donors. He said each of us has a responsibility to step up and protect the fragile vessel of democracy which makes our freedom possible. Then he presented a slide show covering his upbringing on a cattle ranch and his education in agriculture and business. He talked about how the sale of his cattle ranch allowed him to fund the campaign. At the end of his speech, he showed a picture of his adoptive mother and said he owed an enormous debt of gratitude to her. He said he'd donated a quarter million dollars to women's charities in her name, and if he was elected, he'd work to enforce laws that guaranteed women would be paid the same as men and that made paid maternity leave a law. He got a standing ovation. Sandy applauded, too.

A few hours later, Sandy was drinking a Sloe Gin Fizz at the hotel bar when Bill Steadman stepped up beside her and asked the bartender for a Gin and Tonic. While he was waiting for his drink, he said he'd noticed her in the audience at the conference and asked how she liked the event. She told him it made her want to be politically active for the first time in her life and said she was glad she attended. He asked about her profession, and she told him she was a former police officer currently doing freelance work for the Federal Marshal's Service.

"How would you like to join my campaign?" he said. "I'll need someone to coordinate security if the campaign gets enough attention."

She looked at him for a second, trying to read his expression. He seemed sincere. "You're serious?"

"Of course. I know it would be a huge inconvenience for you to drop everything and come to Idaho. You'd be living in hotel rooms and spending a lot of time on the road. I need someone to watch my back, and there's going to be a lot of driving involved. If money matters to you, I'd pay you five thousand a week plus expenses."

The salary was four times what she made as a police officer. She felt flattered to be getting such a generous offer from someone who just met her. "Who else do you have on your staff?"

"I hired a couple guys to build a web site and handle the promotions on Facebook and Twitter. I've got an office staff in Boise with a manager and a small crew who coordinate volunteers, arrange meetings with donors, and set up rallies all over the state. All told, I currently have six people on salary and benefits."

"That seems awfully small for what you're trying to accomplish."

"It is," he said. "You'd be employee number seven. I'm trying to keep expenses down until a few months before the election. Then the billboards go up along the highways and we advertise like crazy on television and radio. We'll rent out the convention centers in Boise and Coeur d'Alene and throw parties like people have never seen."

She thought about what he was offering her and felt the excitement of grabbing hold of a tiger's tail. The job had national implications. "When would I start?"

"Come to Boise in two weeks. That's when I'm kicking the campaign into gear. What do you say?"

"I'm curious about why you asked me, instead of one of the big security companies. You don't know anything about me."

"Because you actually give a shit about politics. You came to the event today, which speaks volumes about you. You seem intelligent and experienced. If I hire someone from one of the big security firms, the only reason they'd be there is because they want to make money off me, charge me for every hour on the job, and insist on having three people following me around on my road trips. I don't need an army. I need someone smart and trustworthy who's willing to share the driving and knows how to handle confrontations."

Sandy nodded to herself. "Okay," she said. She felt the certainty building inside herself. This was a risk worth taking, a chance to do something important. "I can do that."

"Have you ever been in a gunfight?" he asked her.

"Once or twice."

"You're still here. Guess you knew what you were doing."

Sandy had a flashback to using a shotgun to drive Anthony Peck out of her living room. When Peck pulled a gun on her, she'd blown him through the sliding glass door and deck railing without any conscious thought at all. Instinct and training took over, keeping her alive one more day.

"You ever backed down in a confrontation?" he asked her.

"Never. That's rule one for survival on the street."

"That's what I wanted to hear. You're hired if you want the job."

"I think I accept. Is there a reason why you're asking me about confrontations and gunfights?"

"People who are unhappy with my campaign platform are starting to make threats," he said. "I guarantee that at some point they're going to try to take a piece out of my hide. When I mention gun rights or immigration or marriage equality, some people's blood boils before they even hear what I have to say. They think I'm going to take something away from them, and they're spoiling for a fight. The campaign website has had threatening posts on it. Someone saying they're going to kill me. I need to know you won't run if things escalate beyond anonymous posts from a crackpot."

"All right. If there are any other threats, I need to know about it. I can't protect you if I don't know what I'm up against."

Sandy and Bill clicked their glasses together in a toast of their new partnership. She felt flattered, hopeful, and scared all at the same time. Not scared enough to back out, though.

\---

Three days after the Bonner's Ferry incident, they were at the southern tip of Payette Lake in the McCall town center. The scenic backdrop and the prosperous business district made it a natural photo opportunity for a campaign event. A reporter for the McCall Tribune took pictures of Steadman and asked questions about Bill's campaign platform. The crowd of about a hundred people looked to Sandy like a mix of vacationers and locals who'd cleared out of nearby brewpubs, coffee shops, and stores to see what the commotion was about. It seemed like a manageable situation to Sandy. No one heckled Bill during the speech or held up a sign telling Bill to get out of town. No thugs with assault rifles loitered nearby. Sandy glanced at her watch, estimating they could wrap the event up in another hour and get back on the road to the next event arranged by the Boise office staff.

Sandy watched as Bill finished his interview. The reporter left, and Sandy's attention shifted to the line of people waiting to talk to Steadman. Sandy stood nearby, watching people's hands and facial expressions for warning signs. Steadman waved Sandy over and asked her to get more campaign brochures and yard signs from the Tahoe. Sandy nodded her assent and headed for the car, parked nearby at 1st and Railroad.

She was on 1st Street when she walked past a brown truck of the same vintage as the one driven by the vigilantes in Bonner's Ferry. She went on to the Tahoe, unlocked the tailgate, leaned in and stretched on her tiptoes to reach for a stack of yard signs. She pulled the signs out, leaned them against the rear bumper of the Tahoe, and had the feeling she was being watched.

She looked to her right and saw two men dressed in boots, stained jeans, and denim jackets buttoned at the waist despite the warm weather. Both men were mid-thirties, thin, with black hair and jaundiced complexions. The men looked like younger clones of the ones she'd encountered in Bonner's Ferry.

The men stared at her with vacant expressions.

"Can I help you?" she said.

The man she took to be the younger of the two said, "You're with Steadman."

Sandy nodded slowly, like she was communicating with someone with a mental deficit. "Yes. I'm with the campaign."

"You're not as smart as you think you are."

"Oh? How's that?" Sandy said. She took a quick look over her shoulder to see if there was anyone sneaking up behind her.

"You'll see. You've been told to stop. And you will."

Sandy felt the familiar tingle of adrenaline flowing through her arms and legs. She took off her sunglasses and put them in her blazer pocket. She wanted the men to be able to see her eyes when she talked to them, so they'd know she meant business.

"Let me clarify something for you," she said. "If you interfere with me or Mr. Steadman, I'll kick your asses into the middle of next week, and I'll see to it you get jail time after you get out of the hospital. That isn't an empty threat, it's a promise. Now, is that simple enough for you two to understand? Or do you want a demonstration, right here and now?"

She stared them down for about five seconds, letting her threat and challenge hang in the air.

The men glared back at her.

"I didn't think so," she said.

Sandy went back to doing her job. She closed the tailgate on the Tahoe, walked around to the rear door on the passenger side and opened it to get the pamphlets. She counted out a stack of forty or fifty and closed the door. When she headed for the tailgate of the Tahoe, the men and the yard signs were gone.

She turned in a circle trying to see where the men were, wanting to chase them down and get the signs back. They had vanished in the time it took her to get a few pamphlets from the back seat. It was harmless vandalism for them to steal the signs, but at the same time she felt embarrassed. She'd turned away from two hostile strangers after a confrontation, and they got the better of her. What was she thinking? Suppose they'd shot her in the back instead of just stealing the yard signs? She reminded herself that eventually everyone's luck runs out.

She tried to calm herself down and focus on her responsibilities. She set the alarm on the Tahoe and walked past the brown truck and back to Art Roberts Park. Several dozen voters were still waiting in line. Sandy put the stack of pamphlets on the picnic table and nodded to Bill, who was talking to a woman built like a yoga instructor and dressed like she sold high-end real estate for a living. Pants cut perfectly for her long legs and small waist, silk shirt showing just enough cleavage to get attention without looking cheap, and a fashionable haircut on honey blonde hair. Big sunglasses. No wedding ring Sandy could see. Sandy noticed the woman's nail polish and lipstick were the color of a fire engine. Vroom-vroom.

"The campaign web site and phone number are on the back of the pamphlet if you'd like to get in touch or make a donation," Bill told her.

The woman rested an elegant hand on Bill's shoulder and said, "I would definitely like to get in touch the next time you pass through." As the woman walked away, the fabric stretched across her rump in a way that elicited furtive glances from Bill and the other people waiting in line. Sandy had to admit the woman was a pretty attractive package. Then a pair of waitresses from a nearby brewpub moved forward, shook Bill's hand, and one of them asked him what he thought about raising the minimum wage.

"Right," Bill said. "Minimum wage. Let's talk about that."

Sandy counted the people waiting to talk to Bill and noted that three fourths of them were women. Some were freshening their lipstick, some were adjusting their hair, some checking their clothes to make sure there wasn't anything out of place. Like all of Bill's campaign events, the rally at McCall seemed to attract more women than men. And Sandy noticed that many of them touched Bill's knee or insisted on giving him a hug. It seemed to her they were imparting more than good wishes, but she realized she could just be imagining it, maybe even be a little jealous that it was their arms wrapped around Bill instead of her own.

Regardless, Sandy started to relax as she stood alongside Bill. The men she'd confronted and threatened didn't reappear. Things were still okay, and she wrote off the incident with the stolen yard signs as a minor event. No guns were drawn. No punches thrown. She decided not to tell Bill about the confrontation because she felt ashamed, though. If she couldn't handle a situation like that and come out on top, how could she be trusted with bigger things, like protecting someone's life?

She tried to set her feelings aside and focus on Bill and the people waiting in line to talk to him. She watched people's hands. Watched their faces. Stayed vigilant but relaxed. Glanced at the traffic on East Lake Street from time to time, keeping an eye out for mud-colored trucks.

Eventually all the people who came to the rally had gotten a chance to talk to Bill, and it was time to head north towards Coeur d'Alene. Sandy and Bill walked across Lake Street, past the Manchester Event Center and across 1st Street. As they walked, Bill talked about the demographics of the area, how prevalent the concerns about college loan debt and the minimum wage were among the people he talked to. He asked her if she'd noticed the large number of younger voters.

"I guess so," she said.

"I think that's a good sign. Young people typically vote less often than older voters. It's good that they think I care about their concerns, and I'm credible enough they come to see me and ask questions."

"Uh huh."

She noticed with relief that the old brown truck she'd seen parked near the Tahoe was gone. Only another fifty yards to the Tahoe.

"You seem distracted," Bill said. "Everything okay?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't it be?"

As they approached the Tahoe, she unbuttoned her coat so she could get at her gun. She asked Bill to hang back for a second and then approached the car from the rear so she could see both sides of the car before walking around the front of the car. No zombies. No threats.

"Okay," she said. "It's fine."

She unlocked the car, they both got in, and she felt her stress level trending down to a comfortable level. Okay. Life goes on.

When they headed west out of town, she wasn't sorry to see McCall in the rear-view mirror. Out of sight, out of mind.

As they drove through the Payette National Forest on Highway 55, she saw the yard signs that had been stolen earlier that day. The signs were placed one after another alongside the road, and whitewash and black paint had been used to paint over the previous labels and say something new.

In sequence, in a scrawl like a second grader might write, the signs read

dead

man

for

senate

After those signs, there was an unmolested 'Steadman for Senate' sign.

"Jesus Christ," Sandy said.

"Pull over."

"What?"

"Pull over!"

Sandy eased the Tahoe to the shoulder of the road and shut the engine off. She felt an undercurrent of panic buzzing in her like electricity.

Bill got out of the Tahoe and stomped back, yanking the signs from the ground and tucking them under one arm. She watched him in the rearview mirror, saw how stiff his motions were, how grim the expression on his face was. He carried the signs to the tailgate of the Tahoe and rapped on the glass with his knuckles.

She pushed the button on the dashboard that unlocked the rear gate. Bill opened the tailgate, threw the signs into the back and closed the gate so hard it shook the Tahoe on its springs. He climbed back into the passenger seat and slammed the car door. Bill's face was red, and his hands were clenched in tight fists.

"I'll tell you this, straight out," he said. "There is no way in hell I'll let these assholes scare me off. If they chained me to a tree and set me on fire, I still wouldn't quit. You hear me?"

"I hear you."

"We're in this to the end, right? You and me." The skin on his face looked tight as leather, his eyes narrow and hard.

Sandy could smell the fresh whitewash on the yard signs. She knew she'd been outsmarted by a pair of hillbillies, and that the death threat on the signs was meant as much for her as for Steadman. "Like I promised," she said. "But are you sure you don't want to connect with the state police or the FBI? Get some help figuring out who these idiots are before this escalates?"

"That's the quickest way I can think of to derail the campaign. If it gets out I'm being threatened, people will be afraid to come to the rallies. I'm not going to do that. Why? Are you worried?"

"These creeps seem determined, and those signs look like a blatant death threat. Getting the Feds or the state police involved seems like a reasonable idea."

"I'll let you know when I'm scared," he said. "At this point I'm just pissed off. Put it in drive and let's move. We need to get to Coeur d'Alene."

Her right foot trembled with adrenaline as she started the car. "If that's how you want it. You're the boss."

\---

On a good day, Sandy thinks Bill may be a dark horse candidate who has a chance at winning the election if he isn't killed first. At a coffee shop meet-and-greet in Coeur d'Alene, Sandy watches Bill talk to the owner of a local construction company about tax depreciation schedules, laws choking small business owners with mountains of paperwork, the state of the economy, and ways to spur growth. Then they discuss shared experiences at University of Idaho, favorite places to go camping, and favorite places to fish for trout. At the end of the conversation, the construction company owner asks Bill why he's running for office. Bill tells him he's been fortunate to have the opportunities he's had, but he knows not everyone is so lucky. He wants to spend the rest of his life trying to lift the other people in Idaho up, get government off their backs, and help create an environment where good jobs flourish so other people can have the American Dream. The man looks at Bill for a moment, still a little unsure. He says every politician who comes through Coeur d'Alene passes the hat for campaign contributions and makes promises they forget as soon as they're elected. Bill says he wants people's votes more than their money. He says he'll finance the whole campaign out of his own pocket if he has to. He just wants the chance to give something back, to change the direction of government so it's 'for the people,' instead of for special interests. He wants to pass laws that make communities safer and make sure schools have the funding they need to create a well-educated workforce. The man asks Bill if he can write him a check. Bill tells him he's welcome to donate through the campaign web site, but what he wants is his vote. Sandy thinks Bill should have taken the check. Donations keep the web site running, fill the gas tank in the Chevy Tahoe, and keep the lights on at the campaign headquarters.

\---

Now Sandy's standing beside the candidate's platform in Coeur d'Alene. They set up the rally in front of the Edminster Student Union building. No public address system, just Bill trying to project his voice loudly enough the people at the back of the crowd can hear him. There's no arch support in Sandy's stiletto-heeled, pointy-toed shoes, and her feet are killing her. A breeze has kicked up off the lake since Bill started his speech at North Idaho College, and it's whipping her hair back and forth. It's a distraction she doesn't need, and she makes a mental note to get some bobby pins. Something to keep her hair out of the way on windy days.

Bill's standing on top of a black plywood riser. It's one of those beaten-down stands used at sporting events when there are first, second, and third place finishers, so there are three different levels. Bill's standing on the top level, as if he'd taken first place. There's a large crowd of college kids standing in a loose semi-circle around the platform. Most of the students look like they just got out of high school. Sandy notices that more of the students are girls than boys. No surprise there. There are quite a few adults mixed in with the crowd who could be teachers or administrators, or maybe residents of the neighborhoods which wrap around the campus. Many of the kids have cell phones out, and they're either recording the speech or they're streaming it live on Instagram or Facebook.

At an emotional level, Sandy feels like she's halfway to a panic attack. The confrontations with the gun-toting squirrels in Bonners Ferry and the sign-stealing squirrels in McCall are fresh in her mind, and half an hour ago she had a call from the campaign headquarters in Boise. The office manager said a package was left on the doorstep addressed to Bill, and it contained the charred remains of a beheaded rat and a card with the words "Purify Yourself" on it. When asked if she should call the police, Sandy told the office manager to hold onto the package and do nothing. Sandy knows Bill doesn't want publicity about threats to derail the campaign. Unfortunately, Sandy feels like the threats are becoming more explicit and deranged with each passing day.

For the North Idaho College rally the personal security detail consists of Sandy and three campus security officers standing at the edge of the crowd. She'd wanted the security officers posted closer to Bill, but he overruled her. That means that if anyone makes a move for the stage, Sandy will be the only one who can stop it. She feels the muscles in her neck cinching down and forces herself to relax. She can do this.

Bill's speech is going fine. He talks about leveling the economic playing field between rich and poor, making it possible for ordinary people to afford a college education, about changing the tax code so small businesses can prosper, about the need to make health care available for people who can't afford it. Nothing earth-shaking. Common sense things plenty of people would agree with. But he's got charisma and is so good-looking the kids can't take their eyes off him. They're staring at Bill as if he were a movie star.

A feeling of unease comes over Sandy as her instincts remind her to pay attention. It's a warm afternoon, but she notices a man at the edge of the crowd wearing a sheepskin jacket over jeans stained black from the knees down. He looks too old and underfed to be one of the college kids. Scarecrow is the word that comes to mind. When Sandy looks in his direction he glances away, like he doesn't want to make eye contact with someone he recognizes as a threat. Sandy thinks back to the crew of oddballs in Bonner's Ferry, and wonders if this guy in the sheepskin jacket is connected to those dudes, or to whoever sent the headless rat to the campaign headquarters. Then the man gives Sandy a hard look before turning and walking away from the rally. Sandy watches him disappear into the crowd and tells herself, "That guy's trouble, and he's going to be back."

Five minutes later, Sandy watches the man in the sheepskin jacket roll by on Lakeshore Drive. He's behind the wheel of an ancient brown pickup truck, and his eyes connect with hers as he pulls to a stop. Sandy's heart rate goes from normal to jackhammer. The man leans out the window, forms his fingers into the shape of a pistol, aims his hand at her, and drops his thumb as if it were the hammer. Then he pulls his arm back inside, hits the gas and drives away, leaving a trail of oily smoke in his wake. On instinct, her hand reaches for her gun and then she catches herself, forces herself to relax. She brushes her hand against the fabric on her blazer as if she just wanted to smooth it down. She feels the surge of adrenaline in her body again, hears the blood rushing in her ears. Her vision starts to tunnel. She thinks this could be the start of a full-on panic attack, happening right here in front of Bill and the crowd. She'd rather be dead than faint in front of Bill and the crowd, and she starts counting her breaths, inhaling deep lungsful of air and letting them out slowly. Forces herself to focus on ordinary things, like the fact that her feet still hurt, and the wind making a mess of her hair. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other. Tries to smile when Bill tells the crowd the punchline for a joke about animal husbandry she's already heard two dozen times.

\---

That night at the hotel, Sandy tells Bill her concerns about the charred animal remains delivered to the campaign headquarters, and about the zombie at the rally at North Idaho College. Bill shrugs it off.

"These people are kooks," he says. "I'm not going to let them scare me."

"I didn't say I was scared. It feels like they're following us around, and I'm concerned."

They're alone in her hotel room, which adjoins Bill's through a door that can be opened to turn the two separate rooms into a two-room suite. She's still wearing what she had on all day: a white silk blouse over a blue, knee-length skirt. He's still in his campaign attire: jeans, cowboy boots, and a pressed white dress shirt. He's almost a foot taller than she is, and as much as she tries not to dwell on it, he's one of the best-looking men she's ever seen. He's got a thirty-inch waist with wide shoulders, a flat stomach, long muscular legs, and he carries himself with the confidence of a rodeo cowboy. He's rich, educated, has a quick wit, and has a way of making whoever he's talking to feel like they're the most important person in the world. It's intoxicating for Sandy to be alone with him in her room. The stubble on his unshaven face just adds to the masculinity that Sandy feels coming from him like heat from a grill.

"Well, anyway," he says. "Thanks for watching my back. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome, Bill. I'm glad to do it. I think the threat is real, though. We need to be on guard."

"Okay. Message received." Bill looks at his watch.

She acts nonchalant, but she feels herself falling for him and she can't talk herself out of it. She's attracted to him in a way she's never experienced with a man. And the more time she spends with him, the stronger the connection seems between them. It feels to her like they're a couple. The only time they're apart is when they're in separate hotel rooms, and tonight they've crossed that boundary, too. Being alone with him in her room makes her want to be closer to him, to touch him, and she wishes he'd sit beside her on the bed. Then he says something about the logistics of the next day, and her focus returns to the conversation. He's talking about participating in the calf roping event at the county fair. He thinks the appearance will be good public relations and show voters he's a man of the people. She comes back down to earth, starts paying attention, and remembers who she is. Remembers she's in love with someone else. At least, she used to be in love with someone else. She feels shame and desire at the same time, pushes those feelings away and starts thinking about the task at hand. She and Bill talk about what's going to happen at the rodeo, how she needs to connect with the fairground security people. There's a knock at Bill's bedroom door, and he looks at his watch again and says he needs to go; he's meeting someone. He goes back into his room and closes the door separating the two rooms. She sits on her bed, staring at the wallpaper and feeling empty inside. She hears voices coming from Bill's room that sound like he's having a conversation with a woman. She hears the woman laugh. Sandy wonders what she looks like and who she is.

Sandy's phone buzzes. It's Delorean sending her a message, his third of the day. The first couple of messages were about completing the repairs on the rent house and describing how thick the smoke from the forest fire is. This time he says he's thinking about her and hoping the campaign is going well. He wants to come over to Idaho to see her. He wonders if she could get an afternoon off, so they could be together. He doesn't want to disrupt what she's doing but it's been weeks since he's seen her, and he misses her. She puts the phone down and goes into the bathroom to brush her teeth.

When she comes back out of the bathroom, she realizes the voices coming from Bill's room have gone silent. She wonders if the woman is still in there, or if they've left to go to the hotel bar, or if the woman left Bill's room and he's gone to sleep. She pads over to the door separating her room from Bill's and puts her ear against the wood. She hears the rhythmic squeaking of Bill's bed springs and pictures Bill making love to another woman. She pulls away from the door, fuming. She puts her ear against the door again. Listens for a few seconds and realizes there's no squeaking noise at all. It's all in her head. She holds her breath and listens, tries to be sure. No – there's no squeaking bedsprings at all. She blushes with embarrassment about both her eavesdropping behavior and her feelings for Bill.

She feels like she's losing control of her emotions and her sense of what's real and what isn't. Maybe she's imagining that Bill's attracted to her, too. Her fears of mental collapse begin to spiral. She hears the blood rushing in her ears and feels the cadence of her heartbeat picking up. Her body thinks it's fight-or-flight time, but she knows the person she's fighting with is herself.

"Stop it!" she says.

She forces herself to step away from the door to Bill's room. Forces herself to think about where she is and what her circumstances are. She goes into the bathroom and combs her hair out. Tells herself she's still in control of her body, not the other way around. She splashes her face with cold water. Her heart is beating so hard her whole body is shaking. Each time her heart gives her ribs another kick, a sound escapes from her throat. Click-click-click-click-click.

She forces herself to try to do normal things in the hope she'll start to feel normal. She sits on the edge of the bed and plugs her cell phone into the charger. The cell phone is shaking in her hands as she sends Delorean a text inviting him to join her in Boise. She chooses upbeat words, despite how she's feeling. She says she'll be there in two days. Tells him to bring her winter coat and gym bag and says she should have some downtime on Saturday afternoon.

She gets into bed and turns off the bedside light. Feels herself beginning to sweat and pushes off the covers. Feelings of impending doom wash over her.

"Stop it!" she says, louder this time.

Sandy reaches over and turns on the bedside light. Picks up the television remote, turns on the set. It's tuned to a classic movie channel. "Breakfast at Tiffany's" is just starting. Plaintive strains of violins and harmonica music play as Audrey Hepburn stands in front of Tiffany's. She's wearing a black dress and string of pearls. Elbow-length black velvet gloves. Her hair's up in a chignon and she's wearing sunglasses, even though the sun hasn't risen yet. Hepburn's character, Holly Golightly, is looking through the display window and admiring the jewelry. Golightly pulls a doughnut and cup of coffee from a paper bag. Sandy's seen the movie before and knows Holly Golightly supports herself by accompanying wealthy men to the best restaurants and night clubs, with the understanding her date would give her a gift at the end of the evening. Depending on how much she likes the guy, she might give her date a gift, too.

"Another pretender," Sandy murmurs. "I salute you."
Early June in Oceanside, Oregon – Delorean

When I first smell the smoke, the scent is so powerful I check to see if my neighbor's yard is on fire. It's a June afternoon, but there's no blue sky or pristine sand for tourists to take pictures of. Today the sun is an angry red ball suspended in brown haze, and the beach is a gray color I've never seen before. Pieces of ash as small as a pinhead and large as a dinner plate drift over Oceanside and fall in slow motion onto cars, rooftops, Pacific Avenue, and the beach. I say a prayer in hopes none of the ash is still hot enough to spark the beach grass, or my neighbor's shake shingle roof, or the fir and pine trees surrounding Oceanside.

I check the news, and it says a burn pile re-ignited near the Tillamook Forest and started a fire that sent ash a dozen miles in my direction. A dormant burn pile sometimes guards a red-hot core of charcoal feeding on itself all winter long, biding its time and waiting for the right conditions to consume and destroy anything it can reach. My rental house is at the top of the hill that faces onto Oceanside Beach, and when I stand outside and look east, I can see the mile-high mushroom cloud from the forest fire. The fire is so big it's already made a name for itself: Tillamook Burn #5.

The parking lot at the bottom of the hill is usually full of cars on summer afternoons, but not today. The news said the fire jumped Highway 6, so the Highway Patrol closed the main road into Oceanside, choking off the steady flow of day-trippers who come over to walk on the beach, eat at Joanna's Cafe, and keep The Fat Pelican brewpub in business. There are only three cars in the Oceanside Beach parking lot, and no cars at all parked on Pacific Avenue. A young, brown-haired woman is standing on the sidewalk in front of Joanna's. She's got her head tipped back to look at the sky, and she's wearing a white blouse over a cranberry-colored skirt. I wonder if she's a college student working at Joanna's as a waitress, or if she's someone from the Culinary Institute in Portland who's come over to intern with the chef for the summer. She shields her eyes from the ash that's falling, looks up the hill in my direction, notices me, and waves. I wave back. She smiles. I smile back. Then she puts her hands on her hips, looks up and down the empty street, and then goes back into Joanna's. I'm left alone with my thoughts again. A piece of ash shaped like a rowboat pinwheels onto the deck at my feet.

I unroll the garden hose from its hanger and spray the ash from the deck, then drag the hose behind me and spray down the narrow strips of grass between my house and my neighbor's. Then I roll the hose up and take a final look at the deck. There are already a few new pieces of ash on the wood, but it still looks better than it did before I hosed it down.

I take a moment to appreciate how silent it is outside. Sounds of the surf and the seagulls. No car doors slamming, no kids shrieking in the ice-cold surf, no dogs barking. It's quiet, and I don't mind quiet at all. Quiet is good. Quiet gives you time to think about things. That afternoon I'd been thinking about Sandy saving my life, for example. A few months earlier, Sandy intervened when Anthony Peck ambushed me at gunpoint. Lucky me, and don't think I wasn't grateful. The violence of that event and my heightened awareness of my own mortality drained some of the pleasure out of my life in Oceanside, though. The surf still came in as it had before, and the view of the Pacific Ocean was still stunning from the living room, but the house felt tainted. I was constantly on edge, and much of my enjoyment of the scenery had drained away.

The house had also become a magnet for people who wanted to see where a celebrity was killed, which baffled and angered me. The last time I ran a souvenir hunter off the property, he told me he was looking for blood on the grass.

"What would you do with it if you found it?" I asked, incredulous.

"I dunno," the kid in the hooded sweatshirt said. "Sell it to somebody?"

"You're going to sell bloody grass?"

"If it's legit, there's a market for it. Have you mowed since it happened?"

I had the front of his sweatshirt balled in my fist and I pulled him close to me. He smelled like he'd just taken a bong hit, and his breath was ripe. With the advent of legalized pot in Oregon, I encountered more and more people in public venues who smell like a lit joint.

"Listen up, space cadet," I said. "If you don't leave now, I'll haul your ass to the police station and charge you with trespass. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

His eyes looked bloodshot, and his pupils were huge. He was as burnt as a piece of toast.

He frowned. "Can I check the grass first? I heard some epic shit went down here."

I pushed him harder than I needed to, and he fell onto his back. Before he got up, he ripped a fistful of grass from the lawn and told me I was an asshole. Then he got to his feet and shuffled off like someone whose sense of balance has gone on vacation. First he tilted to one side, then to the other, then he leaned up against my neighbor's car for a while.

"I am so wasted," he said. He was bent over like he was thinking about barfing on the trunk.

There was a tennis ball in the grass, and I picked it up and lobbed it at him. When the ball made contact with his back, he squealed and dropped to the pavement as if he'd been harpooned.

This is what happens when a celebrity gets killed on your property. It draws crazy people like honey attracts ants. Don't ask me why.

If Anthony Peck had been a nobody, his shooting would have merited a brief mention in the Tillamook Beacon. The newspaper would have described the incident as a home invasion where the homeowners defended themselves, and that would have been the end of it. Anthony Peck was far from being a nobody, though. He was a celebrity in the world of real estate development, and his sudden departure from this world at the business end of Sandy's shotgun made headlines in local and national news. The cynic in me thinks that when you're famous and you die, there's an opportunity for the press to feed off you one last time. The optimist in me thinks that when you're famous and you die, the press performs a public service by broadcasting the news. Either way, when you put three rounds of triple ought buckshot into someone, the fame doesn't make a lot of difference to the outcome. They're finished.

Peck wasn't the only casualty of Sandy's shotgun. The house had taken a beating, too. I'd already replaced the linoleum on the kitchen floor and installed new cabinets, and that afternoon I'd gone outside and painted around the new sliding glass door, so the wood trim matched the exterior paint.

After I took care of the door frame, I checked my phone for the tenth time that day. Still no messages from Sandy. She was in Idaho working security for Bill Steadman's senatorial campaign, and I wasn't happy about it. I'd grown accustomed to Sandy's presence and I missed her company. She'd grown accustomed to being busy and on the move, and her paycheck was too big to turn down. She'd become friends with the candidate, too, and at times when she talked about him I heard something in her voice that made me wonder if she was falling for him. She didn't call him "Mr. Steadman" anymore. She called him "Bill." Sandy told me that Bill had asked her to stay with the campaign through Election Day, and she said he trusted her to keep him alive. I asked her if there'd been any threats on Steadman's life, and she said, "Nobody's taken a shot at him yet, but I think it's only a matter of time." When I told her to be careful, she just laughed. I asked her if she was going to move to Washington D.C. if Bill won the election, and she paused before saying, "We'll see." That started an undercurrent of anxiety in me about whether she would ever come back to Oceanside. I began to imagine what it would be like to live by myself again, to always prepare meals for one person instead of two, and go back to the habits I had when I was single, like leaving the television set turned on so there were other voices in the house besides my own.

I knew I was over-reacting to Sandy's absence, but I had time on my hands and not much to do. My thoughts often turn inward when I'm faced with solitude, so I fought the blues the way I always did: with exercise. I'd start the day by warming up with two hundred pushups, a hundred crunches, and five minutes of plank. Then I'd head downstairs to the utility room for a hundred deep-dip pull-ups on the wall-mounted climbing trainer before doing rotations over and over at each of the positions on my universal gym.

When I was too sore for any more reps, I'd put on my running gear and go down to the beach for a ten-mile run. If nothing else, my appetite was good and I slept like the dead.

Whether Sandy came back to me or not, I was going to have to move, but not because I couldn't afford the rent. After Sandy dispatched Anthony Peck, she'd searched Peck's car and found a canvas gym bag containing Peck's savings account. Peck was a wanted fugitive when he stopped by my house, and I guess he'd planned to use the cash to start a new life after he ended mine. Sandy and I didn't want to burden the Tillamook Police Department with Peck's money, so we kept it. There was enough to pay the rent for several years, taking the pressure from me to look for a job. It's not like I hadn't earned it, either. My history with Peck went way, way back.

When I was a child growing up in Oklahoma City, my father borrowed money from Peck to finance a car dealership. When he couldn't repay the loan, Peck and one of his thugs paid a visit to our house. My parents lost their lives that day, and I almost lost mine as well. Twenty years later I got closure with Peck for what he did to my parents, and that counted for something. I'd pay any price to go back to my childhood and put things back like they were before Peck entered my life, though.

At any rate, my lease on the house was ending in three months, and the owner refused to renew the rental agreement. He said the home wasn't built to be a war zone, but I didn't feel guilty about what happened there. Trouble has had a way of finding me since I was twelve years old. Going to war seems to be the only way I can stay above ground.

\---

I'm making a late dinner when Sandy texts me, telling me she's in Coeur d'Alene. She says Bill's having a rally at Boise State on Saturday and that would be a good time for me to visit. She asks if I would bring over her gym bag and her winter coat, says it's cold in the mornings there. I can't tell if she's inviting me over because I've worn her down with my text messages, or if she wants my company. I stare at her message and parse the words for hidden meanings, and then I dial her number. The call goes straight to voicemail. I consider hanging up, but I stay on the line and leave a message.

"Hey. It's Delorean," I say. "I miss you, and I'll see you in Boise." Then I hang up.

If I'm truthful with myself, I'm jealous that Sandy is spending so much time with Bill, and I don't know what I can do about it. I can't demand Sandy quit the campaign, so I figure the next best thing is to see for myself what's going on in Sandy's world. My plan is to show up at the Boise State rally and see what's so great about Bill. I want to see what it looks like when Bill and Sandy are together, too. Does she look at him like she thinks she's found her soul mate? Is Bill the next John F. Kennedy? Does he look like his face belongs on Mount Rushmore? I know I sound ridiculous. I guess I'm a suspicious, jealous lover.
Coeur d'Alene, Idaho on Friday Morning – Sandy

It's five in the morning when the alarm on Sandy's cell phone goes off. She reaches over and taps the screen to quiet the noise, then lies back against the pillow and rubs the sleep from her eyes. Enough light is coming in through the drapes she can make out the patterns in the ceiling texture. Something about just waking from a dream makes her feel superstitious, like there's another world she can tap into if she's willing to do it. In Sandy's mind, as the early morning goes, so goes the rest of the day. If she feels well-rested, she expects the whole day to be a good one. If she feels jagged and raw from a sleepless night, or she's had a nightmare, she knows the whole day is going to feel like carrying a heavy weight up a hill.

One of the patterns she sees in the ceiling texture looks like a rabbit running. The rabbit's front and back legs are both stretched to full extension, like it's leaping across a ravine or trying to stay out of the jaws of a predator. She wonders if the universe is sending her a message, but what does the message say? That she needs to hurry up, or that she should roll out of bed and get moving, or that she should go for a run before she starts her day? Then again, the rabbit could just be a blob of drywall compound flattened by a trowel into a bunny shape when the room was built. She reaches for the button at the base of the lamp, pushes it, and the room is bathed in white light. The rabbit retreats into anonymity with all the other shapes in the textured ceiling. She smiles to herself, thinks about how it's human nature to see meaning where it doesn't exist, like when you read a horoscope and it sounds like it was written just for you. It says, 'You tend to be critical of yourself,' or 'You have a great deal of ability which you have not turned to your advantage,' and those words sound like wisdom. At a logical level she knows she's being superstitious about the shape in the ceiling texture. In her gut, though, she knows today is the day of the rabbit.

She gets out of bed and walks across the stiff, tightly-woven carpet to the bathroom. Steps onto the cold marble floor, washes her face, and pulls her hair through an elastic band into a short pony tail. Brushes her teeth. Puts on her jogging bra. Adjusts the straps to hold everything firm without chafing. Sometimes she likes being large-chested, because it makes her feel feminine and gets attention from men if she wants it. At other times, like when she's running, her chest is a drawback. She checks her profile in the mirror and likes what she sees, though. Muscular arms and legs with a flat stomach. She puts on the black University of Idaho sweatshirt she bought in the campus bookstore when the campaign stopped in Moscow. She pulls on a pair of old grey sweatpants with fabric as soft as a baby's blanket. Laces up a pair of running shoes which fit perfectly. Those shoes feel fantastic after wearing high heels the previous day. Blisters or no blisters, she's going for a run.

There's a Taurus .25 caliber 'Get Off Me' pistol on the bathroom counter. Most of the time she likes to carry the larger caliber Beretta, but the Taurus is a nice little back-up gun she carries in personal safety situations. It doesn't have enough firepower to use when she's campaigning with Bill, but it's small and light and a good choice for a run on darkened streets. She's not too concerned about her personal safety, but it's something to consider. The hotel is in downtown Coeur d'Alene, so there should be a fair number of pedestrians around, even at this hour. And she can take care of herself, regardless. She's been able to out-fight most people she's had altercations with since she was a little kid. She grew up in a household with two older brothers and a dad who was a Marine. Her father was determined she would be treated same as her brothers, so she learned to punch, wrestle, and stand up for herself just like her brothers did. By the time she graduated from high school, she could hold her own in a boxing or wrestling match with any of her brothers. They had the advantage in height and weight, but she wouldn't quit or say 'uncle,' even when she was losing a fight. She was with the police department in Alamogordo, New Mexico for a few years, and had dozens of conflicts with civilians during traffic stops, in bars, in living rooms, in grocery store parking lots. She rarely needed to pull her gun to get the upper hand. The uniform she wore was enough to get respect most times. Telling people she'd charge them with resisting arrest worked plenty of other times. But sometimes things didn't de-escalate, and men got in her face and threatened to beat her, or tried to grope her, or hit her. She never retreated, using her fighting skills to put them on their backs with a punch to the jaw, or a kick to the balls so hard it lifted their feet off the ground. A few times, when she was feeling fast and tricky, she turned the confrontation into a boxing clinic and snapped the perp's ribs one punch at a time until he calmed down and listened to reason. Occasionally she'd encounter someone on meth or crack who wouldn't stop coming at her even after she'd hit them a few times, like they didn't understand pain. She'd back off a few steps, jump to the side when they made a run at her, and drive their head into a wall, a car fender, or the pavement. Then she'd put the handcuffs on them while the fireworks show was still going off inside their heads. Better to give someone a concussion than to unload her service revolver into them, she reasoned.

So, it isn't that she's fearful when she thinks about taking the gun on her run. She's just unsettled by the hillbillies who showed up at Bonner's Ferry, McCall Lake, and North Idaho College. There's also the issue of the threats on the campaign website and the charcoaled, headless rat someone dropped off on the doorstep of the Boise campaign headquarters. If those events are all connected, and she thinks they probably are, then the people who hate Steadman need to be treated as a serious threat. Sandy thinks about the universe sending her a message in the shape of a rabbit on the ceiling. She says, "Better safe than sorry" as she picks up the Taurus in its black nylon holster. The whole package fits in the palm of her hand and doesn't weigh much. She grabs her room key from the bathroom counter and heads out the door.

She stops at the hotel exercise room. There's no one else using the machines and free weights, which is how she likes it. She puts the pistol in the pocket of her sweatshirt. Gets on the floor and stretches for a couple minutes. Then she does bench press, open fly, squats, push-ups, plank, isolation curls, military press, and crunches. She feels her body warming up as she does reps with more and more weight. She looks in the mirror that covers a wall of the exercise room. Sees a face that's oval and ringed with blonde hair, a straight nose, lips making a bit of a heart shape. Clear skin with wrinkles starting to appear at the corners of her eyes and mouth. An attractive but not beautiful face, she thinks. At least not beautiful to her. Just a nice-looking, no-nonsense face. The eyes seem to belong to someone else, though. Blue with something intense going on behind them, like she's spoiling for a fight. Her dad told her that her eyes look like she wants to pick a fight with the world, and that's how she thinks of herself when she steps out on the street. Like there's no way in hell anyone can beat her or outrun her. They won't beat her without getting hurt, that's for sure.

It's early June and the sun isn't up yet, which means it's about forty-five degrees in Coeur d'Alene. She can see her breath when she exhales in the motel parking lot. She pulls up the hood on her sweatshirt and ties it, starts jogging at a warm-up pace. She takes it easy for the first mile, running south towards the lake through sleeping neighborhoods. Sprinklers are watering lawns in a few of the yards. The houses look carefully tended, with tidy landscaping, fresh paint, and roofs in good repair. New sport utility vehicles and pickup trucks are parked in many of the driveways. The neighborhood looks like an advertisement for the American Dream. She startles a coyote which escapes down a driveway and disappears into someone's back yard, and she thinks about the rabbit she saw on the ceiling. She smiles to herself and then passes someone who's wearing pajamas, drinking coffee, and walking a small dog.

Sandy runs through the North Idaho College campus, going past the low buildings and the dormitories and student cars parked bumper-to-bumper on the narrow road ringing the school grounds. Then she's on Lakeshore Drive headed east towards the city park, with Lake Coeur d'Alene on her right. Even at this hour of the day it's a very nice view.

When she enters the city park she feels completely alive, and ready to put her worries and superstitions back into their hiding place. She turns north on the sidewalk leading to the business district, and her run turns into a sprint. She's zooming up Second Street, with about a mile to go to the motel. That's going to take six minutes at the rate she's going. She's absolutely flying, feels like she's found a new gear in her body's transmission. She thinks her premonition was right. She's turned into someone who can run like a rabbit. She sprints past intersections, past old Craftsman-style homes, a tax business, a hair salon, a tattoo parlor, and an elementary school.

Then she comes to a cross street where she has to wait for a traffic light to change. While she waits at the curb, she hears a car tap its horn, and has the feeling her butt is being stared at. She looks towards the direction of the noise and watches an old brown pickup truck roll by. As the truck drives past, the passenger flicks a lit cigarette in her direction. Then the engine roars, and Sandy watches the truck accelerate in the direction of the hotel. The tailpipe hangs from beneath the rust-covered rear bumper by a loop of coat hanger wire, an oily cloud of smoke trailing behind like a grey shadow.

Sandy sprints out into traffic, dodges cars that nearly run her down, and flies the rest of the way back to her hotel. When she arrives, she checks the parking lot for the brown truck, doesn't see it, rips through the hotel lobby, down the main hallway and up the stairs to Bill's room. She pounds on Bill's door, and he yells, "I'll be out in a minute."

Sandy stands in the hallway, her chest heaving and her heart pounding, overwhelmed with relief. Thank God. False alarm. She lets herself into her room and collapses on the bed. Sees the shape of the rabbit on the ceiling again and decides the universe did send her a message. Apparently, the message was, "You will run the fastest mile of your life today. And be scared shitless, too."

\---

Sandy's in the hotel restaurant when Bill Steadman comes downstairs. He gets a newspaper, a cup of coffee, and a Danish pastry from the buffet before joining her at a window table with a view onto the parking lot. Bill's gold Chevy Tahoe is parked on the other side of the window.

"Why'd you pound on my door this morning?" Bill says.

Sandy doesn't want to admit she panicked when she thought a hit squad was coming for him. "Just wanted to make sure you didn't oversleep."

Bill searches Sandy's face like he's not sure he believes her, and then says, "O.K. Next time just call me on my cell or knock like a normal person instead of pounding on my door like you're the Fire Marshal."

"I promise."

Bill shakes his head.

"So, we've got the rodeo this morning and then heading down to Boise after that. Right?" Sandy says.

"That's the plan. Rally at Boise State tomorrow at lunchtime. It's an important one. I need to be there."

Sandy thinks about the seven-hour drive required to get to Boise and calculates they'll arrive between nine and ten that night. She's looking forward to being in one place for a few days, even if it'll just be a hotel room.

"Tell me about the rodeo camp today," Sandy says. "I know it's at the Kootenai County Fairgrounds. What kind of people should I expect to be there?"

"Young ones. It's a camp for kids who want to learn to ride bareback, or saddle broncs, or bulls. Anyone over 8 years old can try it, regardless of experience. It'll be good exposure for me to meet with the parents of these kids and have my picture taken by the local press."

Sandy nods. Camp starts in an hour, and Sandy can see Bill's dressed for it. He's wearing blue jeans, old boots, a cream-colored long-sleeved chambray shirt, and there's a white cowboy hat with a braided band on the seat next to Bill's.

"You going to ride a bull, Tex?" Sandy says.

Bill puts down his newspaper. "It's a clinic for kids who want to learn. I'd only ride one if they asked me to demonstrate."

"You know how to ride bulls? Seriously?"

"Sure. Anyone can get on a bull. The trick is getting off without breaking your neck."

"I mean, have you actually ridden bulls before?"

"Yeah. I can ride a bull. For a few seconds, anyway. Depends on how big he is, how mean he is, how hard he's twisting his body. Anybody with the guts can stay on for a second or two until they get bucked off."

"And possibly stomped," Sandy says.

"That's the beauty of it. You never know what's going to happen. Your whole life shrinks down to you and the bull, and it's up to you to keep it together and come out on the other side. If you've trained enough to have good instincts, and you trust yourself, you'll come out okay. You're right, though. If you get gored or stomped by a bull, it can be fatal."

"Seems like a big risk to take."

"It is. But it reminds you about who you are. It's about grit."

Sandy nods. "I've been there a few times myself."
Hampton, Oregon on Friday Afternoon - Amy

Amy is considering skipping today's health class covering the reproductive cycle, but only after she weighs the PROs and CONs in her notebook. Since she entered the pressure-cooker environment of high school, she always weighs the PROs and CONs about important decisions. For example, her mailbox at home is full of recruiting literature from East Coast schools, and she's considering applying to Yale. Amy would put positive outcomes like a Yale admission in the PROs column. But she knows she could still get a rejection letter because Yale gets 17 fully-qualified candidates for every single position in the freshman class. Possible negative outcomes like a rejection letter would go in the CONs column if Amy could stomach writing them down at all. Sometimes instead of writing notes in the CONs column, she draws an image of a stick figure falling down a well, or of a solitary person trapped in a swirling landscape. She has a poster of Edvard Munch's 'The Scream' on her bedroom wall, and she feels like she understands what the person in Munch's painting is feeling: mental overload and desperation.

Amy writes PRO and CON lists in her vintage, leather-bound notepad. The pen she uses is special, too. It's a Pico Mini Ballpoint tethered to the notepad with a gold chain. In a way, the notepad is her friend and companion because it listens to her and reflects her thoughts back in a non-judgmental way. It never forgets anything important they've talked about, either. If she flips back through the pages, Amy can see the important choices she's made in the last few years, important thoughts she's had, important feelings. Thoughts about classmates, possibilities for a career, schools to apply to, which classes to take. Thoughts about being a burn victim. Thoughts about how much she misses her mom. So, she takes her time and uses perfect penmanship. Her cursive lettering is symmetrical, horizontal, and smudge-free. A laser printer couldn't make cleaner letters than she makes. At the top of each page is the topic she's trying to decide about, or manage, or tolerate. Calculus 2 class is almost over when she opens the notepad and begins writing today's topic: _PROs and CONs of Cutting Health Class._

PROs

1. She knows the state of her health intimately already, having been hospitalized for the burns covering much of her body, and having been through rehab to get motion back in her scarred limbs. She doesn't need to be reminded about her body being different than her classmate's bodies. She thinks about it every day.

2. Today's health class covers the female reproductive cycle. Not a priority to learn about that. She knows how pregnancies occur, the basics of birth control, and the hormones involved in pregnancy: HCG, HPL, estrogen, and progesterone. She covered those topics when she took Advanced Placement Biology. Got a 5 on the final exam, too. It would be a waste of time for her to sit through the lecture.

3. Her chances of needing to understand the details of pregnancy seem so remote from a personal use standpoint there's no point in sitting through the lesson. For her, pregnancy is just not gonna happen unless it's a virgin birth. Sitting through the lecture would just make her feel worse about her own sexuality.

CONs

1. If Mister Stakely calls roll in class, her father will get an automated phone message from the school absentee tracking system saying Amy skipped class. Inconvenient but manageable, since she can tell the assistant principal she was trapped in the bathroom for the duration of health class with debilitating menstrual cramps. Neither the principal nor her father will challenge her story, guaranteed.

Amy counts three PROs versus one CON and decides the PROs outweigh the CONs. She puts a check mark by the PROs column.

The boy sitting next to her says, "What are you writing?" It's Michael Ondevy, her lunchtime companion. They've been eating lunch together often lately, and they've started sharing secrets with each other, too. Today he told her he's been charged with theft for taking money from his stepfather's wallet to pay for the SAT. She responded by telling him about her mom running away seven years ago. They finished their meal in silence.

Amy thinks about whether the attention he pays to her and the time they spend together means anything more than friendship. He's tall and slender, with pale skin, soulful brown eyes and an angular face. He has thick black hair that always looks like it needs cutting, and dark half-moons under his eyes like he was up all-night studying. If you put an electric guitar in his hands, he'd look like he belonged in a rock and roll band. He's wearing a yellow long-sleeved shirt untucked over black jeans and black basketball shoes. Amy wonders if Michael thinks about the choices he's making when he gets dressed, or if he just pulls on whatever's laying on the floor of his bedroom.

"Emancipation Proclamation," she whispers.

In a ridiculously deep voice Michael says, "Let my people go."

"Moses said that," Amy whispers. "The Emancipation Proclamation was Lincoln, remember?"

"I'm aware. Me and Moses are like _this_." Michael crosses his fingers as a visual aid.

"I think you meant to say, 'Moses and I.'"

"You're tight with Moses, too?" Michael says, straight-faced. His eyes give him away, though. Amy can always tell when he's joking with her by the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

Amy smiles because Michael likes wordplay as much as she does. He's one of her classmates who always seems to be thinking about things, like wheels are turning in his head even when he's just waiting for class to start or they're walking in the hallway together.

The school bell rings, indicating the period is over. The kids start slamming books closed, shoving laptop computers into backpacks, checking their cell phones, and talking. It's the Friday before the dead week that precedes final exams, and the students are excited about getting a week off from the routine of school. The teacher raises his voice to be heard over the noise, warns students to prepare for the final exam, and says people should be getting ready now, not at the last minute. He says it's going to be the hardest test they've ever seen. Amy whispers "Whatever" and slides her notepad, math book and calculator into her embroidered hemp backpack. She stands, lifts the straps from the back of her chair, and slides her arms through the loops. Her eyes meet Michael's, and she can tell by the way he's looking at her he's attracted to her, and the attention he pays to her is more than just casual friendship. He likes her. She might need to make a list of PROs and CONs to sort out her feelings.

"See you," she says, avoiding eye contact with him.

"Undoubtedly. I'm a fixture in your life, Amy."

Amy gives a little wave, swiveling her wrist like English nobility in a royal parade, and heads for the classroom door. She walks towards the stairs, weaving through the sea of students trying to get to their next class, or trying to get to the lacrosse field, or talking to their friends who've clustered in the middle of the hallway. She makes it down the stairs to the reception area where people congregate before assemblies, threads her way through a cluster of cheerleaders, makes her way past kids collecting gear for the robotics competition, and pushes the bar on the tinted glass door between the cafeteria and the freshman hallway. She's outdoors now. Sweet silence.

The door opens onto a courtyard meant to provide a peaceful place for contemplation, but most of the visitors to the courtyard are transient, since the kids who enter the space continue into the Douglas Fir trees and the privacy the forest affords for smoking pot, passing around a hip flask of whiskey, or having sex on the thick layer of pine needles. Not that Amy cares about pot or alcohol or having sex with any of the boys in her classes. Nor, apparently, do most of the boys have any interest in pursuing a relationship with her. She's never been asked on a date. Then again, she doesn't dress in a way that draws attention. Unlike most of her female classmates, Amy doesn't wear a mini skirt, spandex leggings, or a low-cut jogging bra. She doesn't avoid jogging bras because she's embarrassed by her bra size, or because her skin is still sensitive from scarring. She just doesn't want to show her skin to anyone. There would be too many questions to answer if someone sees what she looks like underneath the long-sleeved shirts and the full-length skirts.

Amy walks through the courtyard past the statue of Saint Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals. "I'm an animal, too, Saint Francis," she says. "Work a miracle on _me_ sometime." Then she continues to the footpath meandering through the Douglas Firs towards the Hampton River and the Grotto. Three hundred yards to solitude.
Hampton, Oregon on Friday Afternoon - Michael

Michael is scheduled for study hall after Calculus 2 class, but he's too worried to focus on his European History final, or on getting ready for the Calculus final, or on anything else. Ike Buswell, captain of the Hampton wrestling team, child of a stinking-rich property developer, and part-time psychopath, is on the prowl. Ike's been telling people he's going to give Michael a beat-down for Michael upstaging him in Phys Ed class. The coach had paired Ike and Michael for an aerobic fitness competition, and when it came time to climb the rope and do wind sprints, Michael left Ike in the dust. Michael may be skinny, but he's wiry and fast, and Ike's muscle worked against him when he had to haul it up twenty feet of rope. When Michael won the contest, he strutted around like a rooster while the rest of the class laughed and pointed fingers at Buswell. Ike's friends on the wrestling time started to ridicule him, and Ike started looking for ways to make Michael sorry. In the last two weeks, the trajectory of Ike's bullying of Michael escalated from scowls in the cafeteria to bouncing Michael off the lockers in the hallway. Buswell's built like a mountain gorilla, so Michael's been avoiding him as much as possible.

Unfortunately, Michael already had a lot on his mind. Jail, specifically. Back in April, Michael realized he'd procrastinated so long he was at the cut-off date to register for the May SAT and SAT II subject tests. He told his stepfather he needed a check for a hundred and forty-four dollars right away or he'd have to wait until the fall to take the tests.

Carl's response was, "Why are you telling _me_ about it?"

Michael explained he needed the SAT scores to apply to universities, and good test scores translated to scholarship money, which translated to lower tuition.

"Again, why are you telling _me_ about it? I'm not paying your college tuition, so the price isn't my concern. That's _your_ problem."

Michael paused, trying to think of a way to frame the argument so Carl would want to pay for the SAT tests.

"Look at it this way," Michael said. "The sooner I do well on my SAT tests, the sooner I can find a school to go to, and the sooner I'll be out of your hair." Michael laughed nervously, hoping to lighten the tone of the discussion.

"Again, not my problem. The day you graduate from high school, you're on your own. I've cared for you since I met your mother, even though you're not my kid. I've been carrying you on my back for sixteen years, and after you graduate you can either get a job, join the army, or become a panhandler. But I'm not writing any more checks."

Carl turned his back on Michael and walked away. Michael seethed. Carl was never a nurturing father, but in the last couple years he'd become more and more hostile to Michael. Michael tried not to provoke Carl, and he'd gotten into the habit of avoiding him as much as possible. Asking him for the SAT check was something Michael would have avoided if at all possible. Michael went into his bedroom, pressed his face into his pillow, and screamed.

Two hours later, Michael heard the front door slam. He came out of his bedroom to see what was going on and saw Carl on the sidewalk in front of the house. Carl was talking on his cell phone as he walked away.

Michael felt panicked about missing the SAT tests, since that was his ticket out of Carl's household. As he walked past his parent's bedroom doorway he noticed that Carl's wallet was on top of the dresser. Michael went into the bedroom and lifted a wallet so fat with bills Michael didn't see how Carl could sit on it. He opened it up and saw it contained dozens of twenty- and fifty-dollar bills. Michael totaled it up at seven hundred dollars, enough Carl shouldn't notice a few missing bills. He took two fifty-dollar bills and two twenties, and then put the wallet back on top of the dresser. Next to the wallet, there was a pumpkin-sized ornamental jar half full of loose coins. Michael sifted through the pocket change and counted out ten dollars' worth of quarters.

Michael left the house, walking the opposite direction from Carl, and headed to the bank. He put the money on the counter and asked the teller for a cashier's check for $144.00 made out to the people who administer the SAT. Since it cost five dollars to have the cashier's check made, he had one dollar left. He walked across the street to the post office, bought a stamp, and put the SAT registration letter in the mail.

Carl barged into Michael's bedroom later that afternoon. "Can you guess where I was a few minutes ago?" Carl said.

"I don't know. The grocery store?"

"I was at the mall trying to buy a new television set. It was a big one marked down from fourteen hundred dollars to seven hundred. Earlier today, I had seven hundred dollars in my wallet. I know that for a fact because I went to the bank this morning and withdrew the money. When I got to the checkout register at the store, I only had five hundred and sixty dollars."

Michael felt himself sinking into his bed.

"So, I'm at the cash register with the television set on this big cart, and I don't have the money to pay for it. I kept counting the money over and over, trying to figure out how I'd screwed up. That was embarrassing. I looked like an idiot, because I didn't have a charge card with me. Funny thing is, the amount that's missing is the same amount of money you asked me for this morning. You took it, right?"

Michael took a deep breath.

"Yes, I did," Michael said. "I planned to pay you back by getting a job this summer. I was just borrowing the money."

"What you did is called _theft_. It's a _crime_."

Carl walked away. Michael knew Carl would find some way to punish him but didn't know how.

Half an hour later, Carl escorted a uniformed police officer into Michael's room and charged Michael with second degree theft. That was a serious enough crime Michael could go to jail unless the court treated him as a first-offense minor. Carl took the initiative to write a letter to the court asking for Michael to be treated as an adult and given the maximum punishment possible: a year in jail and a fine of more than six thousand dollars.

\---

The day Michael received the court summons for second degree theft, he almost fainted from shock. In a panic, Michael turned to his mother for help. When Carl was out of the house, Michael went into his parent's bedroom and pleaded with his mother JoAnn to intervene with Carl. It was early afternoon, but she was in bed with the sheets pulled up to her waist. There was a bottle of gin, a small glass, and a newspaper on the nightstand. Michael begged her to ask Carl to drop the theft charges, but her response was, "Sometimes punishment is the Father's will, Michael. He wouldn't give you this challenge if you couldn't handle it."

"I'm your son," Michael said. "I need help, or I'm going to jail."

She shook her head sadly. "I must bend to your father's will. It's the Lord's way."

"He's not my father. Who's my real father? Just tell me. You said you'd tell me some day when the time is right."

"He's going to bring shame on both of us," she said. She slurred the word 'us' and Michael realized his mother was drunk.

"I have a right to know."

"People are going to find out where we came from, Michael. I will be shunned as a fornicator."

Michael watched her pour an inch of gin into the glass and then swallow it, grimacing as the fire from the alcohol hit her throat.

"Is that why you're drinking so much, Mom? Because you're afraid of what people think?"

"Your stepfather doesn't know, Michael. I've never told him about what I did."

"What are you talking about? You've been married to Carl for fifteen years. He loves you."

"You'll see. When people start talking about you, everyone turns their backs. You'll see."

"I don't care. I have zero friends. How would I notice the difference?"

"You say that now. You've never been put out on the street."

JoAnn's eyes flicked to the gin bottle. He knew she was about to reach for it again, and he picked up the bottle and held it at his side, where she couldn't reach it.

"Who's my dad? Tell me."

With a trembling hand, JoAnn reached for the nightstand and lifted a newspaper that was ragged from being handled so many times. She pointed to an article about an outsider named Bill Steadman running for U.S. Senate in Idaho. Michael looked at the story and saw a face that looked much like his own. Angular chin, dark hair. He felt what his mother was saying was true. Bill Steadman was his father.

"Why is this a bad thing?" Michael said. He looked at the picture of Steadman standing behind a podium and gesturing at the crowd.

"We were together at Heaven's Cape. It was a place where worship and obedience were at the center of everything we did. I worked alongside your father in the fields and became smitten with him. I knew it was wrong for me to have those feelings, but I couldn't help myself. He was handsome, and he was kind to me, unlike the other boys there. I didn't know anything about how babies were made, and I became pregnant with you when I was fourteen years old, Michael. When the Prophet found out I was carrying you, he made me tell him who your father was, and your father and I were both punished. Your father was whipped, and I was kept isolated from the other girls. I wasn't allowed to speak to your father. A few days before you were born, he disappeared. I heard later the menfolk took him for a ride in a truck and abandoned him somewhere. Not long after you were born they did the same thing to us, putting us out on the street in Boise. You're lucky your stepfather took us in and was willing to forgive my sinfulness."

"You were just kids," Michael said. "How is what you did a sin?"

"I turned my back on what's holy, and I was punished for it."

"You mean I was born, that I'm your punishment."

"I just wanted to be pure like the others," she said. "I just wanted to be good. To be loved by the Prophet. But I was weak."

Then she turned her back to Michael and made a half-hearted attempt to cover herself with the bed sheets.

For the first time in his life, Michael knew who his birth father was. He knew where he came from. In some small way, he felt more grounded. He wondered if his real dad would like him if they met in person.

He considered writing a letter to Bill Steadman. He wanted to tell Bill about living in Hampton, going to high school, maybe about his mother and Carl. Surely Bill would at least want to know his kid was alive. Then again, Bill had never tried to get in touch with Michael - so maybe not. Michael decided to let it go.

As the days passed, Michael thought his mother might be having a nervous breakdown. On those rare occasions when she did come out of her bedroom, she floated through the house like a glassy-eyed ghost. As far as Michael could tell, she stayed in bed all day while he was at school. She stopped coming to the table for dinner and stopped washing her hair. One afternoon when Michael came home from school, several of his mom's old car-pooling girlfriends were at his mother's bedside. Michael went into his room to study, and when he came out an hour later, his mother and her friends had left. Carl told him the next day she'd moved in with one of her friends for a while. From that day on, Michael seldom left his bedroom when he was at home.

\---

As afraid as Michael is of going to court in two weeks, he's more scared of Ike Buswell. Michael is scheduled for Study Hall in the library, but there are no defensible spaces in the library, so he decides to spend his free period hiding from Buswell in a restroom off the freshman hallway. He locks himself in the toilet stall farthest from the door and prays Ike won't find him. The bolt on the door is too thick to be pushed in easily, but it's not much of a barrier for someone as strong as Buswell. Michael doesn't think Ike will look for him in the bathroom, but anything's possible. Ike seems to have a sixth sense for knowing when Michael is alone. Michael gets out his cell phone, checks his grades online, and then hears someone kicking the bathroom door open. He's so startled by the sound he almost drops the phone.

Buswell croons, "Are you in there? I think you are."

Michael's eyes go wide.

He hears Buswell punching open each of the stall doors. Thud-Bang. Thud-Bang. Thud-Bang. Michael rifles through his backpack looking for a weapon, finding only a ball point pen and a few books. He considers calling 911 but realizes there isn't enough time for that. He looks at the toilet tank, which has a heavy ceramic lid. Buswell bangs on Michael's stall door.

"Is that you in there, Mikey?" Buswell says. "I see your feet under the door. Come out. I wanna give you a hug."

Buswell puts a gorilla-sized paw on the top of the stall door and starts rocking the frame of the enclosure back and forth. Michael feels a wave of feverish nausea wash over him. Beads of sweat pop on his skin.

"You made me look pretty bad in front of my friends. Now it's my turn to have some fun," Buswell says. "I'm going to scrub the toilet with your head. Then I'm going to flush it."

Michael swallows a ball of spit that tastes like an old penny. Buswell belches open-mouthed with a rumbling, liquid sound. The noise echoes off the grim tile walls of the bathroom, amplifying the sound of the burp to a primal, fearsome volume.

"The cafeteria food sucks, Mikey," Buswell says. "It really does. Tell me I'm wrong." He begins dry-humping the toilet stall door.

Michael feels a shiver run up his spine. He thinks he's going to die in a toilet stall, a victim of a monster.

"Either you're coming out or I'm coming in, Mikey," Buswell says. "The longer you make me wait, the madder I get. You feel me?" Both of Buswell's hands are on the top of the stall door. His fingers are as thick as hot dogs.

Michael feels something harden inside himself, and he drops his cell phone into his backpack and lifts the toilet tank lid. The porcelain makes a gonging sound as he lifts it free of the tank. Just holding the cold weight makes him feel stronger, more alive, less trapped. He has the presence of mind to turn the lid over, so the down side is the flat side. More surface area for contact.

"What are you doing in there, Mikey?" Buswell says. "Pulling on that little pickle of yours?" Buswell is rocking the door harder now. The walls in the bathroom echo with the sound of the metal creaking and shifting.

"Pull on _this_ ," Michael says. Then he lifts the tank lid over his shoulder like a sledgehammer and brings it down hard on Buswell's hands. The lid shatters when it contacts Buswell's fingers and the top of the stall door. An explosion of porcelain shards sprays the inside of the toilet stall.

Buswell screams with volcanic force.

Michael grabs his backpack, spins the knob for the door lock, and throws himself at the stall door.
Hampton, Oregon on Friday Afternoon - Amy and Michael

Amy sits on the bench in the Grotto with an unlit cigarette between her lips. The pack of Winston Lights came from her father's desk drawer. She thought she'd smelled cigarette smoke on her dad a few times, but when she asked him about the odor, he said he'd been in a meeting where someone was smoking, or he'd stood in an elevator with a smoker, excuses like that. She'd been looking for a ballpoint pen that morning when she opened her father's desk drawer, saw the cigarettes, and became angry he'd lied to her. She took the contraband cigarettes so he'd know she caught him in a lie.

As much as she reviles the tobacco companies who've enslaved civilizations to the addictions of tar and nicotine, Amy thinks she could use a cigarette. Just one. Anything to break the monotony of school. She pulls the matchbook from the cellophane wrapper surrounding the pack, tries to light a match, and can't get a spark. The match head is either old, or cheap, or defective, like a lot of things her dad buys. When they go shopping together, Amy's dad always buys stuff that has the 'economy' or 'close-out' label on it, and sometimes 'economy' translates to 'unusable.' Without Mom around anymore to push him to buy high quality products, the cheap stuff is what he always buys, eats, and wears. Amy thinks his sweaters wouldn't make the cut at one of the consignment boutiques in Hampton. He wears the red sweater on Monday, the blue sweater on Tuesday, then the brown, the grey, and the cream sweater with the faint coffee stain on it for 'Casual Friday' at the engineering firm where he works. Sometimes Amy worries that when she leaves for college, her father won't take care of himself anymore. There won't be anyone to remind him to stop at the grocery store to buy cereal, or to help him use the clothes washing machine, or to prod him to pay the electric bill. It's cause for concern.

She exhales a tired sigh, makes another attempt at striking a match, and this time the match tip ignites. She burns half an inch off the cigarette with her first inhale, because the tobacco is dry as dust. She coughs twice, exhaling a cloud of throat-burning smoke. God only knows how old the pack is. It occurs to Amy the cigarettes might be something her mom left behind that her dad kept for sentimental reasons. Amy decides to cut him some slack on the cigarettes.

She lifts her gaze along the path leading back to the high school. There's no other way in or out of the Grotto, unless you're a rock climber capable of going fifty feet up a wall of ugly black rock, or you're a cliff jumper prepared to fall two hundred feet down more ugly black rock into water ripping through a mean-looking chute into Lake Hampton. She thinks it's a place for introspection. You're on the edge of something you can either find beauty in or despair, like life.

One of the things Amy appreciates about the Grotto is how she can see things coming from a long way off. No surprises from above or below to catch her off guard. If she's looking up it's raining. It's Hampton, and it rains like the wrath of God from November through May. If she's looking down, there's mist and frigid water hammering on big rocks. That just leaves the path to the Grotto to think about, an amount of surprise that can be managed. Not like when her mom took off seven years ago, leaving a note on the kitchen counter saying she'd found her soul mate. A week later, Amy's father said her mom had called him from San Diego and told him she was safe, to not come looking for her. Amy asked if her mom was ever coming back. Her father shrugged and said, "Who knows?" For a while, Amy fantasized that her mom would come home, and things would go back to being like they were before, but over time she accepted that her life had changed permanently for the worse.

The things that come on the path are manageable and temporary. If the vice principal is coming, there's plenty of time to ditch a cigarette. Or if a group of the popular kids appears on the path, she can pick up her backpack and leave, passing them on the sidewalk as if it had been her idea to go back to class, instead of her desire to avoid the empty feeling she gets when she sees the popular girls laughing their phony laughs while their boyfriends pose with false machismo in their varsity letterman jackets.

It isn't the vice principal's heavy footfalls on the sidewalk this time, though, it's Michael Ondevy's basketball shoes slapping the asphalt. Amy begins to mentally compose a PRO and CON list about Michael as she watches his approach. The title: _What About Michael?_

PROs

He's nice, and one of the few boys she likes.

He makes her laugh sometimes, and when he talks to her, he never stares at her boobs for more than a second or two. For someone with Amy's build, that's a rarity. Most guys look at her chest the whole time they talk to her.

CONs

Michael isn't what you would call handsome. He looks like an underfed lead singer for a rock band.

Amy doesn't have time to weigh the PROs and CONs, because Michael's closing in on the Grotto. Amy wonders if there's something he forgot to say to her in Calculus class. He runs flat-footed, and his feet hit the asphalt with a slap, slap, slap sound as he races along the pavement, barely keeping his balance as he follows the trail, his backpack glancing off the waist-high railing built to keep people from falling into the river.

Amy wonders why Michael is in such a hurry.

Then she notices Ike Buswell about a hundred yards back on the path, and she knows what Michael is doing: trying to get away from Buswell.

Ike Buswell screams in a high-pitched voice, "I'm gonna destroy you!"

Michael runs into the Grotto and slides to a stop in front of the bench where Amy sits. She's got a lit cigarette dangling from her lips, and there's a thin stream of smoke rising from the tip.

"What the hell?" Amy says.

Michael's out of breath from his three-hundred-yard sprint. He bends over and puts his hands on his knees. His backpack gives his profile a tortoise-like humpbacked shape. "He's gonna kill me," he gasps. "For real."

Buswell is fifty yards away. Amy stands up from the bench and walks around Michael, taking a position in the middle of the path and feeling empowered by the rush of tar and nicotine in her bloodstream.

"I am woman, hear me roar," she says.

Buswell lumbers towards her like an enraged robot. Amy extends an arm, puts a palm out like a traffic cop telling a car to stop, and says, "Hey!"

Buswell raises his head long enough to notice that Amy is in his way, turns a heavily muscled shoulder into her outstretched arm, and knocks her down as he runs past. She falls hard on her butt. She manages to save the cigarette, though. It's still pressed between her lips.

She hears Michael screaming, looks towards the ravine. Buswell's back is turned to her and he has Michael pinned against the iron railing. Buswell grips Michael's belt with one bloody hand and has a fistful of Michael's hair in the other. Michael throws a couple punches at Buswell, who ignores the distraction as he lifts Michael off the ground. In desperation, Michael locks both of his hands around the railing.

Amy feels a surge of anger rising in herself as she pushes to her feet. Buswell presses against Michael's chest with his forehead, bending him over the railing like an archer's bow. Amy takes a couple steps towards Buswell's massive torso before digging her fingers into the shoulder of his tee shirt and pulling hard, trying to get his attention and pull him and Michael away from the railing.

"Let him go!" she shouts.

Buswell grunts, exhales air through his flared nostrils, and uses the power in his barrel-shaped thighs to lift Michael high enough that his backpack clears the railing. Amy pulls on Buswell's shirt with everything she's got, and he glances over his shoulder and makes eye contact with her. His face is slack, his expression is blank, his dark brown eyes empty of anything human. "I'll get to you in a minute, Milk Maid," he says. Then he turns his attention back to putting Michael over the cliff.

In desperation, Amy lets go of Buswell's shirt and takes the cigarette from her mouth. She pinches the filter between her thumb and index finger and jams the tip like a red-hot stiletto into Buswell's ear.

Buswell roars, lets go of Michael, and swats the cigarette out of his ear. He cups his hand over the side of his head, then backhands Amy's face before delivering a stiff-armed shove to her chest that sends her reeling. She falls on her back, popping her head on the pavement as she lands. Buswell follows Amy to the ground, gets hold of both of her hands and pulls them up over her head.

Amy feels the cold moisture from the asphalt seeping through her shirt. She saw sparks when her head hit the pavement, and now she feels the pressure of Buswell straddling her legs, hears Buswell breathing hard, feels him pulling her arms over her head and clamping her wrists together in one of his hands. She feels his other hand fumbling with the fabric on her shirt, and a wave of revulsion and rage sweeps over her. He pulls on her blouse, untucking it from her skirt and exposing the puckering of the fire-scarred skin she's been hiding from her classmates since she was ten years old.

"You're ugly as hell," Buswell says. He lets go of her blouse, lets go of her hands, and sits up straight.

Michael pushes off from the railing. His back aches as if it had been hit with a two by four, and his hands are trembling from gripping the railing so hard. He saw Buswell push Amy and get on top of her, kneeling like a rider mounting a horse. Michael's never seen anyone move as fast as Buswell. He hears Amy scream, primal and full of pain, watches her bucking her body and trying to roll Buswell off her.

Michael shrugs off his backpack, would give anything to have a gun. All he has is himself, not enough to win a wrestling match with Buswell. On instinct, he reaches down, unbuckles his belt and slides it through the loops on his jeans.

Amy tries to sit up and then slaps Buswell hard in the face, starts clawing at him, raking at his cheeks. Buswell jerks his head back out of the way of her fingernails.

Michael takes three quick strides towards Buswell. He loops the belt over Buswell's head and locks it tight against his neck. Then he pulls hard, throwing his weight back and taking Buswell with him.

With Michael hanging on his neck Buswell staggers to his feet, clawing at the leather that's crushing his windpipe, trying to get his fingers under the belt and giving up, jerking his head back in an attempt to smash Michael in the face and missing, grabbing one of Michael's hands in his own huge mitt and frantically trying to peel Michael's rock-hard fingers loose from the belt, trying to shove his hand into the paper-thin crevice between his own ass and Michael's pelvis in an attempt to get his hand on Michael's nuts, losing his balance and falling backwards, bouncing off the safety railing and going to his knees with Michael still hanging on, grabbing and scratching at Michael's rib cage, falling to one side on the damp asphalt, reaching back over his shoulder in desperation and getting a handful of Michael's hair and pulling, Michael crying out, Michael pressing against Buswell's spine with his elbows, using his leverage to pull on the belt like he's trying to tear Buswell's head off. Time stands still. Sputtering, puffing breaths escape Buswell's gritted teeth through peeled-back lips. Buswell's hand relaxes. He lets go of Michael's hair, his head tips to the pavement and his eyes roll up in his head. Buswell's hand falls forward and lays beside his dirty face, his palm and bloody fingers cupped towards the sky as if he's waiting for Sacramental bread. His legs kick out twice before his muscles go slack and his head tips all the way back against Michael's shoulder.

Michael hears Amy crying, and he sits up and sees her untucked blouse and scarred stomach. His adrenaline has his whole body shaking, his breath coming fast. He slides the belt from Buswell's neck, then moves around so Buswell is between him and the river. Buswell's face is crimson, his eyes closed and his mouth open, a swollen tongue pressed against his lower lip. His faint breaths, gentle as a baby's, blow rings in the puddle of water where his cheek lays. Michael sits down on the damp asphalt, puts the soles of both his shoes against Buswell's chest, and thinks about pushing him over the cliff.

"No," Michael says. "I'm not like you. I'm not."

He puts his belt back on, and he and Amy pick up their backpacks and walk out of the Grotto. Michael has his arm around Amy's waist. Amy's walking unsteadily, crying, and Michael's thinking about what's going to happen when Buswell wakes up, if he wakes up at all. Even though it was self-defense, even with a witness, Michael knows he's in serious trouble. Buswell is a celebrity with influential parents, and Michael is a nobody who's already been charged with a crime. No one's going to take Michael's side in a courtroom. And there's no way Michael's going to make Amy defend him in court, either. That's what friends do. They take the weight for each other and protect each other.
Hampton, Oregon on Friday Afternoon - Michael

On the walk home from school, Michael is hounded by thoughts that he's doomed. His court date for theft is two weeks away, and now he may have just killed someone. He imagines having a conversation with his stepfather about choking Ike unconscious with a belt. He laughs out loud when he thinks about what Carl's response would be. He knows Carl would call the police and tell them Michael graduated from theft to attempted murder.

Michael feels like he's losing his mind. His thoughts are bouncing around in his head like a pinball, jumping from one possible strategy to the next.

He could stay here and act as if he's done nothing wrong. Wait to see what happens.

He could walk over to Interstate 5 and stick his thumb out, hitchhike to Los Angeles and disappear.

He could go to the police and tell them that Buswell tried to kill him.

He could go back to the Grotto and see if Buswell's dead.

What he feels most like doing is going home to his bedroom, curling up under the bedsheets, and pretending today never happened. Unfortunately, even that small mercy is in doubt because Carl runs his accounting business out of the house. Since Carl's office is near the front door, Michael decides to enter the house through the garage. Maybe he can sneak back to his bedroom without having to explain to Carl why he came home from school two hours early.

Michael uses the keypad mounted by the garage door and sees that Carl's van is parked inside. It's a sky blue 1972 Ford Econoline. The floor of the garage is covered in black and white checkerboard tiles, and there's not a single pine needle or speck of dirt anywhere. There's a flat screen television mounted on the garage wall over a stand-up bar with a pair of stools and a refrigerated keg of draft beer. Carl says that the garage is his 'man cave,' and usually Michael stays out of it.

He goes through the kitchen and down the hall. On the way to his room, Michael walks past his parents' bedroom and sees the yellowing newspaper on the bedside table. He thinks about his real father becoming a U.S. Senator. Michael wonders if a senator would want to have anything to do with a child who's in so much trouble.

Michael continues down the hall, tiptoeing to the doorway of his stepfather's home office. He peers around the half-opened door and sees Carl laying on the sofa, asleep with a porn magazine on his lap. There's a bottle of bourbon on the end table, and Carl's snoring. The office has a hardwood parquet floor, built-in shelves stacked with books about accounting principles and tax regulations, an elegant cherry wood desk, a high-backed leather office chair, and a very large gun safe. This is the first time that Michael's ever seen the safe standing open, and his curiosity overcomes his fear of being caught snooping. Michael tiptoes past Carl, peeks into the safe, and sees it's empty aside from a short stack of bookkeeping ledgers, a half-dozen porn magazines, a pair of ratty-looking pistols on a cleaning rag, and a credit card. Michael isn't too shocked by the porn, but the guns surprise him. When the gun safe was delivered and rolled into Carl's study, Carl told JoAnn and Michael that he needed a place to keep the books for the businesses he did accounting for. He didn't say anything about having guns.

Carl rolls over, pressing his face against the sofa cushion. The porn magazine slides from Carl's hip, making a slapping noise when it hits the hardwood floor. Michael trembles, wondering if Carl is going to wake up and catch him in the study. Carl sighs and begins snoring again. Michael mouths the words to a prayer of thanks.

Michael picks up the guns and feels their weight in his hands. One has _Smith & Wesson .38_ stamped on the gun barrel, the other says _Python .357_. The blue finish on the .38 is corroded, and the barrel on the .357 has half-moon shaped scars on the barrel as if it was used to beat on nails. The serial numbers on both guns have been obliterated with a metal file, leaving whiskery scars no one bothered to smooth out. Michael's never held a gun before, but he recognizes these aren't the kind of guns someone uses for target practice or keeps in their bedside table for self-protection. He glances back at Carl and wonders what else Carl's been hiding.

Michael thinks about how he wished he'd had a gun during the fight with Ike Buswell. If Buswell wakes up in the Grotto and comes after him, Michael knows he'll need a gun to defend himself. Buswell's going to try to kill him, no question about it. Michael decides to take the guns with him. Better safe than sorry. Then he looks at the credit card resting on the carpeted shelf and thinks about walking to the Greyhound station and buying a bus ticket to the Florida Keys. His thoughts start to bounce around in his head like a pinball again. It's never been this hard for him to know what to do before. He feels like his IQ has dropped forty points. The one thing that Michael knows for certain is that he wants to be somewhere else, and he doesn't want Buswell to kill him. He slides the credit card into his back pocket.

On his way out of the office, Michael notices the keys to Carl's van laying by the computer keyboard. An idea forms in his head: Idaho. He's going to go to Idaho and get help from the man running for U.S. Senate. Michael reasons that if he's a good enough man to be a senator, he must be a good enough man to help his own son, right?

He picks up the car keys and takes one last look at Carl. He knows Carl will blow a gasket when he wakes up and realizes the guns, the credit card, and the van are missing.

"Welcome to my world, Carl," he whispers. "It's a shitstorm."

He heads to his bedroom and loads up his backpack with underwear, socks, a pair of jeans, his toothbrush. He puts on a windbreaker, because as little as he knows about Idaho, he knows it's colder there than it is in Hampton. Michael tiptoes past Carl's office, goes through the kitchen and out to the garage, climbs into the van, and sends a text to Amy saying he's running away.
Hampton, Oregon on Friday Afternoon - Amy

After Amy and Michael split up in the parking lot, she walked the short distance to her house alone. Now, she's sitting on her bed with her head throbbing and her vision still sparkling from the concussion. When she got home, she took a double-dose of anti-inflammatories to see if it would help with the headache. So far, it hasn't made any difference. She cups her forehead in her hands as gently as a cracked egg while she thinks about the police coming to ask about Ike Buswell. She knows that if Buswell survived and didn't call the cops, when she goes back to school he'll try to get even with her and Michael. He'll also tell everyone that her body is covered with scars. Knowing that her classmates might find out what she looks like under the long skirts and long-sleeved blouses makes her feel like vomiting. She'd do anything to avoid that kind of ridicule, including disappear.

She gets a message on her cell phone from Michael saying he's running away. His text mirrors her feelings about her own situation, and she responds that she wants to go with him. A second text from Michael asks for her address. She replies, and then he sends a message saying he'll be by in ten minutes.

She tears a page out of her notepad and writes a note to her father saying she's leaving. She tells him she's okay, but she needs some time away to think about things. She reminds him to pay the bills and shop for groceries. She says she loves him and that she's sorry she must go. She asks him to not call the police, says she'll be back soon. She tells him it's dead week before final exams, so there aren't any classes to attend next week, so don't worry. She'll be back.

She wonders if she will be back for finals, though. She thinks about her mother leaving her dad, and now she's leaving him, too. She fights back tears.

She shoves some clothes in her duffle bag, then sits by her bedroom window and watches the street. While she waits, she opens her diary and makes a list. The title: _Run Away_

PROs

Michael's in trouble. He needs my help.

Michael saved me from Buswell. I'd do anything for him.

I can't stand the idea of being on the high school campus.

I can't stand the idea of people knowing I'm so ugly under my clothes.

CONs

Will Dad remember to shop for groceries and pay the bills?

Should I stay and study for finals?

She's weighing the PROs and CONs when she sees an old blue van park in front of her house. Michael gets out of the van, and she knows what she's going to do. She picks up her polka-dot print duffel bag, slides her notepad inside, and walks through the house. She puts the good-bye note on the kitchen table and lets herself out the front door, locking the door behind her as she leaves.

Michael's standing on the sidewalk. He's still wearing what he had on earlier that day, but he's pulled on a windbreaker over the yellow shirt. Amy and Michael look at each other, both aware what they are about to do is a big deal.

"Thanks for coming with me," Michael says.

"I wanted to."

Michael opens the passenger door. She hands him her bag and he carries it around to the rear of the van. She gets in, hears the back door of the van open and close. She watches Michael get in on the driver's side.

"Is this your car?" she asks.

"No. It's my stepfather's."

He turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. He puts the transmission in drive and pulls away from the curb. She watches her house recede in the rear-view mirror, and she feels relief, sadness, and fear. She'd give all the money in the world to be able to turn the clock back to before she went to the Grotto.

As they leave her neighborhood, he reaches out and takes her hand in his.
Hampton, Oregon on Friday Afternoon - Carl

Carl wakes up at 5 and realizes two things: he slept through the afternoon, and Michael was due home from school an hour ago. He's panicked because he doesn't want Michael to see how he spends his days 'working from home'. He rolls off the sofa and reaches for the liquor bottle and the porn magazine.

When he gets to the gun safe and sees that the guns and credit card are missing, he realizes that Michael has already come home - and left. His pulse skyrockets as fear floods his veins. He checks Michael's bedroom, then runs through the house shouting Michael's name, goes out to the garage and sees that the van is missing. His heart is pumping so hard that his vision is flashing like a strobe light. He goes back into the kitchen, tries to think about what to do next. His breath comes in shallow gasps. It feels like an elephant is sitting on his chest. He wonders if he's having a heart attack. He slides down the wall to a sitting position. He knows that his very existence depends on getting the guns and the van back. If he can't do that, he's a dead man.
Copperfield, Oregon on Friday Evening - Michael

The gas gauge has dropped to three-fourths empty in the last two hours, and Michael knows he'll need to find a gas station soon or he'll be stranded. He was spooked by the number of highway patrol cars he'd seen on Highway 84 between La Grande and Baker City, and he decided to get off the main route to Boise and head east on Highway 86 towards Hell's Canyon and the Idaho border. He thought the Hell's Canyon route might take longer, but he assumed there would be fewer police cars to worry about. Now he's regretting his choice, because he hasn't seen an open gas station since he left Highway 84. There's nothing but a narrow, twisting road that someone busted through a wasteland of rocky foothills a hundred years ago. Even the creek water that runs alongside the left shoulder of the highway looks un-drinkable. It's as green as a corroded penny. Michael wonders if there's copper in the rocks around here, and that's the reason the water's that color. Maybe that's the reason they built the road, too: so they could build a copper mine somewhere nearby.

As dusk turns to darkness, mile after mile passes without Michael seeing another car. Michael follows the winding, desolate road through the tiny towns of Richland and Pine before the road climbs a much steeper hill than he's seen so far. The engine lugs down against the effort, and the transmission downshifts with a seismic jolt. Michael looks at the gas gauge and watches the needle drop another notch. He begins obsessing about the gas gauge.

A few minutes later the road flattens out and the speed limit drops to thirty at the city limits of Copperfield, Oregon. Civilization. Michael feels a sense of relief. There's a convenience store with a pair of shiny new gas pumps out front, a pizza place, and a single-story motel.

School is still in session, so there aren't many vacationers around. Two cars with bicycle racks are parked in front of the motel. A highway patrol cruiser and an old pickup truck are parked in front of the restaurant. Michael thinks about how by trying to avoid the highway patrol on the main route to Boise, he's found himself in this tiny town, and the first thing he sees is another highway patrol car. He read somewhere most criminals get caught because they make stupid mistakes. He wonders if he'll be caught for the same reason.

He slows the van and then pulls into the convenience store, parking under the awning by the first gas pump. A sign on the pillar between the gas pumps says that the pumps are self-serve. He pushes the nickel-plated knob on the dashboard to turn off the headlights. Turns the key to shut off the engine. It's quiet for the first time in hours. Amy moans once but doesn't wake. He's never seen anyone sleep so much. He doesn't know how she can sleep at all over the road noise echoing inside of the van. The noise doesn't seem to bother Amy, though. Her head is tipped back against the headrest, her mouth open, her hair mussed. Michael looks through the front window of the store and sees soda and beer boxes stacked in a pyramid up front, and behind are racks of chips and snack food, toiletries, movies on DVDs. There's an attendant at a counter off to the left, her head bowed over her cell phone as if she's praying.

He doesn't have any cash left. Amy had a twenty-dollar bill in her purse when they left her house, but they spent the money on gas in Pendleton. Now all he has is the credit card he took from the same gun safe where he picked up the pistols. Up to this point he'd been reluctant to use the card, because he knows it will leave an electronic trail Carl can follow. It can't be helped. If the card doesn't work, he'll have to pull a gun on the attendant. He's never pointed a gun at someone before, but in the last few weeks he's found himself doing a lot of things for the first time. All those first times added up to where he is now, and he wishes he'd never done any of those things. He wishes he could turn the clock back and have a do-over. If only.

He steps from the van into the cool, moist night and stands beside the van. There are no moths around the lamps on the gas station awning, no sounds of crickets or croaking frogs. It feels to him like he's in one of those science fiction movies where every living thing on earth has disappeared, but the traffic lights and the clock radios and the lawn sprinklers keep going anyway. He can hear the Snake River in the distance making a hissing noise like static on a radio. Michael's body is stiff from driving, and he rotates his shoulders and stretches his back to loosen up. He takes a long look at the highway patrol car parked in front of the pizza place. Then he pulls the gas card from his windbreaker pocket and inserts the card into the magnetic reader. The screen on the card reader goes blank for a moment, and then the display says _Please See Attendant Inside_. He pulls the card out and then slides it back into the card reader again. The display goes blank for a moment and then repeats the message about seeing the attendant. Not good. One more problem to deal with, a big one. He didn't want to have to use the gun, but now he realizes there may not be any choice. He puts the card back into the pocket of his windbreaker. Then he walks around to the other side of the van, opens the passenger door, reaches under the legs of his sleeping companion, and picks up the .38. He tucks the gun inside the waistline in the back of his pants and pulls the windbreaker down to cover the bulge. He feels like he doesn't have any choice. He has to keep going. He needs gas. Whatever it takes.

He walks across the concrete pad and opens the aluminum-framed door to the convenience store, steps inside, and stands by the pyramid of beer boxes. The store's interior is lit by fluorescent tubes running the length of the ceiling from back to front. The light grey tile on the floor smells of ammonia and still looks damp in some places. The walls are covered in pebble-grained white plastic sheeting which can be wiped down if you want to scrub off the smell of cigarette smoke and burnt coffee. There are glass-doored refrigerators off to the right stocked with craft beer, hyper-caffeinated drinks, milk, eggs, yogurt, and premium brands of water. At the back wall there is a counter with a pot of coffee on a burner, hot dogs rolling on metal rods under a heat lamp, a station for making your own nachos with chips and pre-melted cheese. He's so hungry the smells make him light-headed. In front, off to his left, the attendant is on the other side of a waist-high partition covered with a wood grain laminate surface. There's an electronic cash register and a small black-and-white television monitor showing views of the interior and exterior of the store. The view of the gas pumps shows the back of the van in clear enough detail that the license plate is readable. Another view shows Michael standing in front of the counter. He knows that what's shown on the television is being recorded, too. He feels the pressure of the .38 against the small of his back. The moment seems surreal, like choking Buswell out with the belt did, and like stealing Carl's van and credit card and guns did. He snaps out of his mental fog and thinks about what it would feel like to reach behind his back and pull the gun out, passing another point of no return. All he wants is enough gas to go a few hundred miles. That's it. Doesn't seem like much. A full tank of gas would get it done. Funny how a small thing turns into a big thing when you've got no friends, no money, and nowhere to sleep.

The attendant looks up from her phone and pushes her glasses back up on the bridge of her nose. Then she says, "The card reader on that pump doesn't work yet. There's something wrong with it. I can swipe your card here if you want, or you can pay cash." She holds her hand out for his credit card and looks him over.

He takes the card out of his pocket and puts it in her hand. The name on the card says "Green Transport Associates." She slides the card through a reader on the side of the cash register but holds onto the card. He feels the gun pressing against his back again, and he thinks about what he'll do if she says the card was reported stolen. He'll have to pull the gun. There is a delay of a couple of seconds as the two of them look at each other across the counter. She's about his age, maybe a year older. She's wearing a red and blue plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Faded jeans. Bright red nail polish on delicate hands. Black framed oversized smart-kid glasses, bangs cut straight across her forehead with shoulder-length black, glossy hair. Round face with clear skin and lipstick the same color as the nail polish. Shorter than him, with a runner's trim build. Pretty in an understated way. She would have stuck out like a sore thumb at Hampton High School, where brand consciousness and blatant sexuality flow like an undercurrent through so many of the interactions between boys and girls. There is a well-worn paperback copy of "Catcher in the Rye" on the counter. "Catcher in the Rye" was assigned reading in his literature class this year and he thought it was the best book he'd ever read.

"You from around here?" she says.

"No. Just passing through."

"Good choice. I approve." Then she turns to glance at the display on the cash register.

"Okay," she says, and hands him back the credit card. "You want to fill it?"

"Yeah. Regular gas."

She presses a key on the keyboard, then rotates a small digital screen around and tells him to sign on the screen.

He thinks about it for a second and then uses the plastic stylus to write 'Holden Caulfield.' Then he presses the tip of the stylus to the green 'Enter' button. She turns the screen back around and looks at his signature. Smiles.

"Holden Caulfield?" she says.

"Does it matter how I sign it?"

"No. Sometimes people draw pictures on it or write their birth dates. It doesn't seem to care. Yesterday someone drew a dong on it. It took that, too."

"Good to know."

"You're set, Holden. If you need a receipt, you'll have to come back inside after the tank's full."

"Thanks." She gives him a brief smile and then sits down on the stool and reaches for her phone. He looks through the front window at the van. Then he walks to the back of the store and fills a Styrofoam cup with hot coffee, puts some cream and sugar in it. Picks up a half dozen granola bars, two bottles of vitamin water, a bottle of aspirin, a pack of gum. He comes back to the front of the store and puts the food on the counter. She looks up, sees the food, and puts her phone down. She slides the items one at a time across a bar-code scanner built into the counter top.

"Sixteen fifty," she says. "You want that on the card, too, Holden?"

"Yeah."

She presses a sequence of buttons on the digital console in front of her. "You're all set. Do you want a sack?"

"Please."

He waits while she puts the water bottles and granola bars and gum and aspirin into a brown paper sack.

"Here you go," she says. "Take care out there." She glances through the plate glass window at the van.

He reaches for the bag and his hand brushes against hers.

"Thanks." He feels himself blush. Their eyes make contact for a moment, and then she sits back down on the stool. He gives her a small smile, then he goes past the pyramid of beer boxes, out through the door, and back to the van. He's aware that he's being filmed the whole time. He puts the sack on the driver's seat, puts the coffee on the dashboard. Then he lifts the nozzle from the gas pump and takes the cap off the filler neck, pulls the trigger on the handle and locks it, and listens to the gas begin to flow into the tank. He looks across the concrete pad at the girl inside the store. She has her cell phone at her ear and is looking at the cash register. He goes over to the passenger side and cracks open the door so that he's protected from view of the video camera. He slides the gun from his waistband and puts it back in the towel on the floor. He reaches behind Amy's seat and pops the lid on one of the plastic tubs full of Carl's camping gear. He drops the rag and the guns on top of the packs of freeze-dried food, feeling a powerful sense of shame for even thinking about pointing a gun at someone. He closes Amy's door again and leans against the pump. The sound of the gas flowing through the hose and into the tank lifts his spirits. Every gallon puts him a little closer to where he needs to be.

Michael watches the highway patrolman step from the pizza place onto the boardwalk in front of the restaurant. He has a flat-brimmed black hat like a Canadian Mountie wears, a wide black gun belt, and wears dark grey pants under a blue shirt with brass buttons on it. As he walks to his patrol car, the trooper's head swivels to take in Michael and the van. Michael looks away.

Michael hears the patrol car's starter making a grinding noise, spinning and spinning as if the engine isn't going to start, and then a puff of smoke comes from the tailpipes as the engine catches.

Michael thought the tank in the van could hold thirty gallons of gas, but a big gas tank is a bad thing if you're in a hurry to fill it. His heart is beating fast, because he wonders if the attendant saw the gun in his waistband and called the police, or if she's realized the credit card was stolen, or if the trooper recognized the license plates on his van. All these possibilities weigh on his mind. He thinks about how many felonies he's committed since he took the money for the SAT from Carl's wallet. So many that he'll never see daylight again if he's caught and put in prison. Assault and battery, car theft, theft of a firearm, unauthorized use of a credit card. Better to not exist at all than to exist in a prison cell, he thinks. He needs to get out of there, get back onto the anonymity of the highway, and get moving again. Get closer to the one person he can think of who might want to help him: his father. That possibility is all that's keeping him from losing his mind.

The patrol car rolls across the gravel and parks on the far side of the second pump. The trooper climbs out and pulls a thick black wallet from his shirt pocket.

"Good evening," the trooper says.

Michael feels like his heart is in his mouth. "Good evening."

The trooper reaches to insert his credit card into the reader on the pump.

"Card reader doesn't work," Michael says. "You gotta go inside."

The trooper looks over at the boy for a moment and inserts his card into the reader anyway. Then he puts the card back into his wallet. He inserts the nozzle into the gas filler neck. "This one seems to work okay."

Michael hears the gas begin to flow into the patrol car. The patrolman looks over at Michael again.

Michael feels the weight of the patrolman's stare and decides he doesn't care if his tank is full or not. He pulls the trigger to stop the flow and puts the nozzle back in the pump. Out of his peripheral view he sees the patrolman look towards the gas station attendant and nod his head. Michael walks around the van and gets into the driver's seat. There are beads of sweat on his forehead and the backs of his hands. He starts the engine, turns on the headlights, and idles towards the highway. He accelerates onto the pavement, aware that the patrolman's gaze is following him. He looks down at the gas gauge. Half a tank. Fifteen gallons. Amy sleeps.
Hampton, Oregon on Friday Night - Carl and Tony

Within a few minutes of Michael's visit to the gas station in Copperfield, the pair of credit card charges from the convenience store registers online as _pending_. Michael's stepfather has checked the card a hundred times for activity since he realized Michael stole it. When the new charges show up on the credit card website he shouts, "Got you!"

Carl figures out where Copperfield, Oregon is by looking at an online map. Then he makes a phone call to his boss. Within half an hour, a black coupe pulls to the curb in front of Carl's house. Carl's boss is named Tony, and Tony presses a sequence of keys on an electronic lock on the front door and comes inside. As far as Tony is concerned, he owns Carl's house even though Carl's name is on the mortgage. Tony owns Carl, after all, so by extension he owns Carl's house, too. Tony finds Carl sitting at his desk in his home office. Carl stares with bloodshot eyes at his laptop computer screen.

"How long ago did your kid take off?" Tony says.

Carl looks up and then shudders when the suffocating cloud of Tony's cologne hits him.

Tony's wearing a black leather shirt tailored for his huge shoulders and arms over black leather pants custom-made for his tiny waist and muscular thighs. Black ankle-length boots made of ostrich hide. He's five and a half feet tall, but he radiates menace like a circus clown with a hatchet. He's got dark brown eyes, black straight hair half an inch long, a chiseled nose and a pencil-thin goatee. There's a gold chain hanging in his nest of wiry chest hair.

Carl thinks Tony looks like a jumped-up elf, a disco refugee, the devil himself, or a gigolo. A very short gigolo.

"I asked you a question," Tony says. "Did you not hear me?"

"Michael left sometime this afternoon. I don't know the exact time. Between two and four, I think."

Carl's wearing a wrinkled diamond-print dress shirt over dark blue slacks. Blue suede house slippers with flattened heels. He hasn't shaved in several days and has salt and pepper-colored stubble.

Tony extends his wrist, uncovering a gold diver's watch. He thinks about how long the boy has been gone. The kid could be in Canada, California, or Montana by now. He wonders if you need a passport to get into Canada.

"Why'd you wait so long to call?" Tony says.

"I didn't think he'd leave. When the charge came through on the credit card, I saw where he was, and I knew he wasn't coming back. That's when I called you."

"Let me get this straight. You woke up and saw he took the guns, the money, and your van. Your interpretation was that he was going to drive around Hampton until he got bored and came home?"

"I figured he's got nowhere else to go, Tony. JoAnn and I are all he's got."

Tony considers Carl's slovenly appearance. "Guess he decided that wasn't enough. I can't imagine why."

Tony pulls an ebony-handled switchblade from his pocket, pushes a button, and a blade pops into view. He uses the tip to clean under his manicured fingernails. "He clearly hates you," he says. "The fact that he took your van tells me that much. He has no respect for you at all. I'm surprised he took the guns when he left, though. Why would he do that?" Tony tilts his head to one side and says, "Those guns have a history, Carl. And they can be tied back to you and me, and to the people we work for. We don't get those guns back and the money back, you're done. You understand that? You want to improve your circumstances, get creative and find a way to put this right. Because this is on _you_. You created this problem."

Carl doesn't say anything. He's seething, wants to strike back, but instead he just looks at the floor. Carl is six feet tall and most people treat him with a certain amount of respect because of his size. Still, Tony scares him. The guns with the serial numbers ground off scare him. Tony's connections to organized crime scare him. Since Carl got involved with Tony, he's watched Tony make people disappear, burn businesses down, and make orphans out of children. He's a stubby, leather-wrapped angel of death.

\---

Until recently, Carl thought his relationship with Tony was manageable, because all Carl had to do was handle the accounting and cash-hauling for a chain of marijuana retail stores. You can't put the income from marijuana sales into the federal banking system, so the cash gets counted, warehoused, guarded, and re-invested. There are twice as many pot stores in Hampton as there are coffee shops, and business is booming. Flower, concentrates, edibles, pre-rolls, seeds, and cartridges all sell quite well. With a dozen retail marijuana storefronts funded by Tony's criminal buddies, the sales have been substantial, and since it's an all-cash business, that provided an easy way to launder money from other activities like prostitution, human trafficking, and selling synthetic Fentanyl. Each day brings grocery sacks, bags, tubs, and boxes of bills from pot stores to collect, count, and mix with dirty money before hauling it to the warehouse. That's where Carl comes in. Carl might dress like a slob, but he's very proficient with a spreadsheet, and he manages the bookkeeping and money laundering activities for the businesses Tony's friends own. It isn't hard for Carl to do it, either. It's simple.

\---

Carl and Tony met at a strip club. They were both sitting at the bar in mid-afternoon, both nursing their drinks to make them last. It was between sets for the pole-dancers. Carl had just been fired from his job at an accounting firm for skipping too many work days, and Tony asked him what he did for a living. Carl said he was an accountant. Tony asked him if he had any advice on sheltering income from the Internal Revenue Service.

Carl said, "Don't let the income show up on any paperwork to begin with."

"Do you know how to make that happen?"

"Well, hypothetically, I'd make sure I operated an all-cash business. For example, assume you own a lemonade stand. You could refuse to accept credit cards or checks, so there's no way to know how much income you had. So, there's no way to know whether your accounting records are accurate or not. The government would have to take your word for it."

"Suppose the government kept track of how much sugar and lemon juice you bought? Couldn't they estimate how much lemonade you sold from that?"

"You can dilute the lemonade however much you want, right?" Carl said. "Depends on how picky the customers are. Cut the lemonade in half, sell twice as much, and claim you sold half as much. Pay taxes on that."

"Suppose it was pot instead of lemonade. Would that work?"

"I don't see why not. If you can trust the people doing the growing and selling and accounting, you're covered."

"You want a job?" Tony said.

\---

Carl's first step was to put together one set of bookkeeping ledgers for the pot stores, one set of ledgers for the hard-core stuff, and one 'official' set he can show if anyone with a government badge asks where the money in the warehouse came from. In the 'official' ledgers, Carl made it look like the pot stores were doing twice as much business, because half of the money being warehoused and re-invested came from criminal activity. That's how Carl became involved with hauling around tubs of cash, and with doing accounting from his home office.

The part of Carl's job which made him queasy was related to competitor's pot stores either closing overnight or burning down. When Carl mentioned it to Tony, Tony said not to bring it up again. A few days later, Tony handed Carl a pair of old pistols and asked him to put them in the gun safe in his house. Then a troubling pattern began. Tony would come by to pick up a gun. There would be a shooting or murder related to a competitor's marijuana business. Maybe the owner would be shot in his driveway, or an employee would be shot at the cash register. Then Tony would drop off the gun at Carl's house. The gunman always wore a mask, so no arrests were made. Carl knew he was an accessory to murder, but it was too late to get out. Carl was in the shit up to his neck, with no idea how to shovel his way out.

\---

Tony snaps his fingers and says, "Hey! Wake up!" He folds his switchblade and puts it back in his pocket. "When you called, you said you thought you knew where your kid is. Where the hell is he, then?"

"Half an hour ago he used the credit card in Copperfield, Oregon. It's on the Idaho border."

"He used the Green Transport Associates card. Our business card?"

"That's right."

"You ever been to Copperfield before?"

"No. I looked it up on a map."

"Show it to me."

Carl rotates the laptop computer, so Tony can see the narrow strip of highway going in and out of the tiny town. The map shows outlines of two dozen houses, a restaurant, a gas station, and a motel.

"What are the charges for?"

"Gas station. Two charges marked 'miscellaneous.' About fifty dollars total. My guess is one of the charges is for gas, one for food."

"Any idea why he'd go there?"

"No. I think he's just passing through."

"On his way to where?"

"I don't know. It's off Highway 84. Maybe he got lost."

"Zoom out a little."

Carl zooms out a couple mouse clicks on the map. Baker City is to the west, Boise is southeast. The nearest cities of any size are a two-hour drive in either direction from Copperfield.

"Any connection to Baker City or Boise?" Tony says. "You gone camping over there, taken any trips?"

Carl shakes his head.

"You're his stepdad, right? His birth dad over there?"

"No idea. JoAnn wouldn't talk about him. The kid didn't either."

Tony lets out a long sigh. "That seems pretty fundamental," Tony says. "Seriously? You don't even know that much about your own kid?"

"JoAnn refused to tell me," Carl says. "It made her upset when I asked about it. After a while I just let it go."

Tony shakes his head in disbelief at Carl's incompetence.

"What was in the van?" Tony says.

"Some camping gear."

"Food?"

"There's freeze-dried packages in the back that would last a few days."

Tony crosses his arms, looks down at Carl's mussed hair, beard stubble, wrinkled clothes, and crappy house slippers. "We're heading to Boise as soon as I can put gas in my car. That's the next likely stop for your kid unless he plans to hide out in a national forest. Jesus Christ. What a fuck-up."

Carl looks down, nods.

"Any more charges show up on the card, I need to know it," Tony says.

"I can check the card from my cell phone."

"You don't have a GPS tracking app on his phone, do you?"

"No."

"You called his phone number?"

"Yeah. I called it a dozen times. He won't answer. I think he turned it off."

Tony glares at Carl and says, "Maybe he can't get a signal because he's in the fucking mountains. Because you waited six hours to call me." Carl looks away.

There's silence in the house. Tony walks over to the gun safe. It's one of the biggest you can buy for home use. It's six feet tall and three feet wide, with a digital key pad on the door and enough space to store a hundred thousand dollars in small bills. The safe can withstand 1500-degree temperatures for 75 minutes. It can't be pried, drilled, or blow torched open unless you're a very experienced safe cracker. It cost almost five thousand dollars, which seemed like a good investment to Tony when he paid for it. Now it seems like more money up in smoke. He thinks about how if he and Carl can't get the guns and money back, his boss will run him through a meat grinder.

Tony opens the door all the way. The safe is big enough he could stand inside it if he wanted to, and it's empty aside from a bottle of bourbon, Carl's bookkeeping ledgers, and a stack of porn magazines. The cover picture on top of the stack is of a woman's bare butt too big to be real.

"How did he get into the safe?" Tony says. "Did you write the combination down somewhere and your kid found it?

"I had it open. I was cleaning the guns like you told me to. I had too much to drink and fell asleep on the couch."

"You told me you gave up drinking."

"I did. I just have a snoot now and then."

"Doesn't smell like gun cleaner in here to me. What were you really doing?"

No response from Carl.

Tony says "You were looking at porn, got drunk, and fell asleep. You had to be blasted to not notice when the kid took everything. Am I right?"

"Yeah."

"From now on, it's 'Yes, Sir' to you."

"Yes, Sir."

"How much money was in the gun safe?"

"None."

"What the hell? I thought you said he cleaned us out. Why'd you tell me that? I was having a stroke."

"He took the money, Tony."

"What do you mean?"

"The money was in the van. When he took the van, he took the money, too."

Tony's eyes bug out. "Why was the money in the van, Carl? Why would you do that?"

"There was too much of it to keep it in the gun safe. I moved it to the van. Look, the van was parked in the garage. Nobody drives it but me. I was going to run the money up to the warehouse after I picked up the next load."

"You're a fucking idiot. You left all that cash in your van? If there wasn't enough space in the safe, your job - the only job you had - was to drive the cash up to the warehouse and do the transfer. That's a forty-five-minute drive, but you couldn't be bothered to do it. Maybe you were dropped on your head as a child or there was lead in the water at your elementary school, but you turned into one stupid, lazy man."

Carl looks down, and he feels the muscles tightening in his neck. If Tony comes across with one more insult, Carl is going to murder him. He could throw him in the safe and then lock the door. Or he could take the letter opener from the desk drawer and put it through Tony's windpipe. Messy but very satisfying.

"Where's JoAnn in all this?" Tony says.

Carl takes a couple seconds to compose himself. He stops thinking about killing Tony and cools down enough to talk. "She's staying with a friend," Carl says in a monotone.

"For how long?"

"A few weeks."

"Are you two separated?" Tony says.

"She said she needed some space."

"So, you asked her if the kid contacted her since he took off?"

"I called her twice. She says she hasn't heard from him. She thought he was here with me."

Tony rubs his palms against the sides of his head, like he's got a terrible headache. "Why did your kid take off with all our stuff, Carl? Why would he do that?"
Friday Night in Copperfield, Oregon - Amy

Amy rouses when the van pulls out of the gas station. The tires strike the edge of the asphalt as the van gets back on the road, and her head rocks forward before bumping against the headrest. She jerks awake, yawns, looks around, and then settles against her seat. She stretches her arms and rubs her palms against her eyelids. She has a dull headache, her ears are ringing, and she feels nauseous. She's awake less than 10 seconds before she has her first flashback about Buswell and the Grotto. She tries to think about other things.

"Where are we?" she says.

He glances in the rear-view mirror, checks to see if they're being followed by the highway patrolman. "Copperfield."

"Where's that?"

"We just got to the Idaho border."

"How much farther?"

"About two hundred miles."

She nods to herself. Realizes how long she's been asleep. She slept through the whole evening.

She looks though the windshield at the patch of pavement illuminated by the headlights. She watches the road wind back and forth along the edge of the Snake River. She thinks about how dark it can get at night when you're outside of a city. Then her thoughts drift back to what happened at the Grotto. In the video playing in her head, Buswell is on top of her. She can feel the weight of him sitting on her thighs, the pressure of his grip on her wrists. She feels his hand pulling her blouse up, and then feels Buswell get off her. She presses her palms against the asphalt, pushes herself upright. She sees Michael standing behind Buswell with his belt wrapped around Buswell's throat, his face pressed against Buswell's back. Buswell tries to get the belt off his neck, drops to his knees and then falls over. Buswell's body jerks a couple times as he lays on the pavement, his legs kicking out like a dog having a dream. Michael takes the belt from Buswell's neck, then puts his feet on Buswell's chest like he's going to push him into the river. Instead of pushing him over the edge, Michael stands up and leaves Buswell where he lays. She feels herself starting to cry, thinks she can't spend the rest of her life thinking about Buswell, forces herself to push those feelings of sadness down and to focus on what's happening now. Tries to distract herself by watching Michael's profile as the drives the van, his face illuminated by the dim glow of the instruments on the dashboard. Amy thinks he looks ten years older than he did before the fight in the Grotto.
Friday Night in Copperfield, Oregon - Michael

Michael continues south on Highway 71 alongside the Snake River. Michael's driving slowly, because the headlights in Carl's old van produce about as much candlepower as an old flashlight. There's not much room for error, either, because the shoulder between the road and the water consists of six feet of earth rolling down to liquid as black and shiny as old motor oil. Michael keeps checking the rear-view mirror for the Highway Patrolman's headlights, but after a while he quits worrying about the cop and concentrates on not putting the van into the river. If he doesn't control his thoughts, they alternate between memories of choking out Buswell with the belt, memories of stealing the guns and the van from Carl, and thoughts of what prison life would be like. He forces himself to pay attention to the road. He glances over at Amy and realizes she's watching him drive.

He reaches out and touches her hand. She gives him a weak smile.

He pays attention to the road again as he drives through a stretch winding back and forth with no shoulder or railing at all. Then the road straightens out again. He glances over at Amy and sees she's fallen asleep.

He tries to concentrate on his driving as feelings of impending doom well up inside him. He tries to control of his emotions, but it isn't easy. Few things feel as lonely as a deserted highway at night, especially when you're running on less than half a tank of gas.
Friday Night in Weiser, Idaho - Michael and Amy

It's midnight when Michael decides to stop at a turnout in Weiser, Idaho. There's a small parking area, a pair of picnic tables, and a portable toilet. Michael eases the van from the narrow highway onto the crushed rock surface and brakes to a stop. His body still aches from the fight with Buswell, and his eyes feel dry as sandpaper.

Michael shakes Amy's shoulder and tells her they're going to sleep in the van. He tells her there are sleeping bags with the camping gear. Amy rouses and rubs her eyes. She nods in assent.

Unfortunately, the plastic tubs in the back of the van take up too much space to unroll the sleeping bags. Michael opens the rear doors and hauls out the tubs, each about four feet long, two feet wide, and a foot and a half deep. As he pulls each one from the van, it hits the gravel with a thud. He leaves them where they fall.

He gets back inside, pulls the doors closed behind him, and unrolls a pair of rubber pads. Then they lay the sleeping bags on top of the pads. It's so cold they decide to zip the bags together to share body heat. Michael gets into the bag first, then Amy gets in and zips the bag up. They lie together like spoons, but neither of them can sleep. It's the worst and best night of Michael's life. Amy's, too. Neither of them has slept in someone's arms before or even been on a date. Michael's heart is pounding, and Amy can feel his heartbeat thumping against her back. She knows he's awake.

She rolls over and faces him. There's just enough light inside the van they can see each other's eyes. She puts her palm on his cheek and kisses him with tentative gentleness. For her, this act of kindness and intimacy feels like the antidote for what happened in the Grotto. For him, the hell of his past few weeks evaporates when Amy is in his arms. They both feel the magical moment of lips touching, discovering each other's kisses. He puts his hand on the swell of her hip as they kiss, not even thinking about what he's doing as he pulls himself closer to her. They're touching head to toe. The world disappears for them both. In that moment, if the world ended, they'd both accept their fate with no regrets. At least they had this moment. They kiss harder, more passionately as he slides his hand from her hip and cups her from behind. He thinks about how beautiful she is, how perfect the shape of her is, the softness and heat of her overwhelming his senses. She feels his mouth against the skin on her neck, the touch of his hand lifting the hem of her skirt until it's at her waist. Her knees start to tremble. Then he slides his hand across the silkiness of her bare legs. She exhales a breath from a place so deep inside her she didn't even know it existed.
Friday Night in Perry, Oregon - Carl and Tony

Carl and Tony drive through the night towards Boise, and it isn't a pleasure cruise. Tony's car looks good and goes fast but is supremely uncomfortable. The seat bolsters crush Carl's shoulders regardless of how he adjusts his position. The lumbar pad at the base of his back feels as hard as a railroad tie, and the headrest is tipped forward, stabbing Carl in the neck. By four in the morning Carl feels like he's been bent like a pretzel. When he tries to adjust the seat, Tony tells him to leave it alone, saying the car is a piece of precision machinery.

For emphasis, Tony stabs the accelerator pedal and runs the car up to a hundred and thirty. The engine roars like a dive bomber as the dashes of paint in the center of the road blur into a single line. The suspension of the car is built for racing, and Tony cuts back and forth between the sparse traffic on the road like he's playing a video game, with the front bumper coming within inches of a collision each time he passes another car. Carl has a sense of disassociating from his body. He knows if they crash at this speed he's going to die. He wishes he could turn the clock back and not charge Michael with theft or turn it back even farther to when he was a kid. Maybe he would have become a different kind of person as an adult – one who's in bed asleep before starting his day at an ordinary 9-to-5 job.

"I gotta drain my python," Tony says.

"What?"

Tony stomps on the brakes and then darts across the right lane, nearly clipping a trucker's front bumper. As they exit the highway, the trucker blasts his air horn. Tony responds to the sound by yelling "Fuck you!" as he flies down the exit ramp. He makes a sharp turn into the gas station, locks up the brakes, and skids to a stop in front of a pump.

Tony's sports coupe handles like a fighter jet and drinks gas like an aircraft carrier, and at the speeds Tony's driving, they have to fill the tank about every hundred and fifty miles. That's a good thing for Carl, since it gives him a chance to get out of his seat and pop his spine back into place.

A sign on the gas pump says it's legal to pump your own gas in Union County, and there's no station attendant, so Tony starts filling the tank. Then he orders Carl to stay with the car before he heads off to drain his snake. Carl waits dutifully, dazed with fatigue, watching the numbers flash on the pump. Ten gallons, eleven, twelve.

The sign on the gas pump says they're in Perry, Oregon. The sports coupe sits alone under the awning, but there's a concrete pad off to the south where tractor trailers are parked, their diesel motors clattering and yellow running lights glowing in the darkness like navigation lights on land-locked boats.

"Hey!" a booming voice says, rousing Carl from his dream state. "Are you driving this piece of shit?"

A man who looks like a relative of Bigfoot is striding across the pavement. He's six and a half feet tall, has a beard like red steel wool, and he's carrying the kind of bat that truckers use to check tires for proper inflation. One sound means the tire is properly inflated, another means low pressure, a third means the tread is about to peel off.

Carl shakes his head. "It's not my car," he says. He points towards the building housing a convenience store, showers, and a deli. "He's in there taking a leak."

"I almost wrecked my truck when you assholes cut me off back there." The giant points the tire thumper at Carl. "You understand me? You almost fuckin' killed me in your German toy."

Carl holds his palms out in the universal gesture of not being at fault. "I'm sorry. He drives like a maniac."

"It's all good," the giant says. "You're forgiven." Then he jumps up on the hood of Tony's car. Carl almost wets his pants, because he knows Tony is going to want blood when he gets back.

The man bounces up and down a few times for emphasis. It's a spectacle to see someone treating a hundred-thousand-dollar car like a trampoline. The springs on the front suspension bottom out each time he lands. The hood caves in, buckling around the edges like pie crust.

The gas handle clicks to indicate the tank is full. Carl ignores it, not wanting to get any closer to the car than he has to. The man-mountain hops from the hood to the roof and starts stomping it into a bowl shape.

A woman's voice comes through the speakers attached to the underside of the awning. "Hey! Out there at pump 6! I'll call the highway patrol if you don't get out of here!"

Carl hears Tony scream, "Get off my car!"

The giant pauses his roof-stomping while Tony runs back. Then he points his baseball bat at Tony and says, "You're the tool who almost got me killed. You earned this." He jumps onto the trunk and bounces the springs a few times. Tony's eyes bug out, and he emits a high-pitched scream. The trucker hops off the trunk to the concrete, walks around to the driver's side, unzips his pants, and urinates on the door handle.

Tony pulls the knife from his pocket. He presses a button and the blade flips into place.

"Back off _now_ ," Tony says. "Or I'll cut your pecker off."

The trucker finishes spraying down the door, shakes himself off and zips his pants. "You come at me with that knife, Elmo, and I'll tear your arm off and feed it to you."

The station attendant's voice comes through the speakers again. She sounds panicked this time.

"The highway patrol is on their way," she says. "You better get out of here."

The giant has arms much longer than Tony's, and he has fists the size of cinder blocks. As Tony runs at him, he pops Tony in the nose as a warning. Tony staggers and then regains his balance before he makes a second run, this time carving the air with his knife like a Musketeer. This time, the giant wallops him in the forehead with the tire bat, making a sound like an axe makes when it hits a hollow log. Tony wobbles with knees turned to jelly, and then he goes down face-first on the concrete. He looks like he's trying to do a push-up for a couple seconds, then lays still.

The giant points the tire thumper at Carl. "You want some of this, too?"

Carl shakes his head.

"When your friend wakes up, tell him to stop being an asshole. He'll live longer."

"I'll tell him," Carl says. "But he's not my friend."
Saturday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Carl and Tony

Carl's been behind the wheel since they left the gas station, and it's been a long, slow drive into Boise. When he goes over fifty miles an hour, the car's hood bounces like a spastic clam shell. Trailer trucks have tailgated and honked at him most of the way into Boise for doing forty-five on highway marked for seventy-five. Tony's in the passenger seat, and he's got a knot the size of a peach on his forehead. Usually Tony would be enraged by people honking at him, but the thumping he took at the truck stop subdued his hair trigger temper, and he's sulking instead.

Carl pulls into a motel parking lot and puts the transmission in park.

"Where are we?" Tony says.

"Boise. We made it to Boise."

"Right."

"I'm getting a room," Carl says. "I'm exhausted."

"Okay." The bruise on Tony's forehead has spread, and now he's got two black eyes to go with the black beard, the black boots, and the black leather body suit. He looks like he's impersonating a raccoon.

Carl goes into the lobby of the Wayfarer Inn and comes back out with a room key. He drives over to the parking space in front of the room.

There are two queen sized beds. Brown carpet, cheap furniture, bland art on the walls. Tony lies down on the bed closest to the door, and he doesn't even bother to get under the covers.

Carl washes his face, pulls the room darkening drapes over the windows, and gets under the covers in the bed closest to the bathroom. He's seldom felt anything as welcome as the texture of the pillowcase against his cheek. He's grateful he survived the trip from Hampton. He thinks about how Tony's driving and Tony's confrontation with the trucker could have gotten them both killed. And for what? Tubs of cash belonging to someone else. He decides if they get the guns and the money back, and he survives this trip with Tony, he's going to find a way to put some distance between himself and the people Tony does business with.
Saturday at Noon in Weiser, Idaho – Amy and Michael

Amy and Michael wake with the sun already high and bright over the rest stop. It's almost noon. Michael checks the Steadman campaign website to see what time his father is holding a rally at Boise State.

"Shit," he says. "I don't think we can make it to Boise State in time to see my dad."

"I'm sorry," Amy said. "I overslept."

"It's not your fault. I did, too. There's another rally tomorrow at the Capitol. We can go to that."

Amy is starting to think about practical things like wishing she were using some form of birth control. She considers getting her notepad out, so she can write PROs and CONs for what happened last night with Michael. For now, she weighs the PROs and CONs mentally.

PROs

It was her first time and she's glad it's over with.

She's glad it happened with Michael. He was sweet.

She's never been touched by another person that way, and it was glorious.

CONs

It hurt at first.

They should have used birth control.

It happened in the back of a van at a rest stop, for God's sake.

On balance, Amy thinks the PROs outweigh the CONs. Unless she's pregnant, in which case definitely not.

Michael tells Amy he needs to use the bathroom. He and Amy embrace and kiss one last time, both wishing they could brush their teeth, and then Amy unzips the sleeping bag. She watches Michael lace up his shoes and move to the driver's seat. He starts the engine, turning the knob for the heat to its highest setting so the interior of the van can start warming up. She sees him head over to the portable toilet.

Amy feels cold. She puts on Michael's windbreaker and then gets out of the van, waiting her turn to use the bathroom. She stands by the van, shivering in the cold, and takes in the surroundings.

There's a gentle roll to the land. Not a Douglas Fir tree in sight, either. Clear skies a shade of blue she hasn't seen before. Farmland in all directions covered with something low and green planted in uniform rows. She thinks about what it would be like to live in an agricultural area like this instead of in Hampton. Better, maybe. Different, for sure.

She hears the toilet door slam. Michael gives her a smile as he comes back. His hair's a mess, but she thinks he's handsome just the same.

"How's the bathroom?" she says. "Is it gross?"

"It's not too bad."

She nods and goes into the portable toilet, leaving Michael staring at the plastic tubs he pulled out the previous night.

When she returns to the van, Michael's got the back doors open and he's lifting the tubs back inside.

"What's in those things?"

"Camping gear. We might need it if we wind up living in the van for a while."

She nods, but she's already thinking about how much she misses her father and sleeping in her own bed.
Saturday at Noon in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

I'm in Boise, Idaho, outside the Steadman campaign headquarters. The headquarters is in an industrial office park south of downtown, and most of the cars parked near the building have Steadman for Senate bumper stickers, there are Steadman for Senate signs posted in the un-cut grass, and there's a Steadman for Senate banner hanging over the front door. I'm shocked by how low-budget the headquarters looks. I don't know much about running a political campaign, but I was expecting more than this. This seems like a low-budget operation unlikely to succeed.

I go inside to ask for details about Bill and Sandy's schedule for their time in Boise, and it seems quiet and businesslike in the office space. Tan carpet with a handful of desks and office chairs, all occupied. White acoustic tile and fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Steadman posters and event schedules on the walls. Two young women working at laptop computers and two bearded guys dressed like hipsters at a whiteboard discussing a change they want to make to the campaign web site. There's a lady behind the biggest of the desks, and she's talking to someone on her cell phone about scheduling a visit with donors.

I'd expected to see coffee-drinking, chain-smoking political operators yelling at each other about voter demographics and strategies for cutting opponents off at their knees. None of that here. It looks like a start-up operation for a business selling imported soap.

The lady with the cell phone finishes her call and looks at me.

"Can I help you?" she says. She has half-frame reading glasses, carefully coiffed shoulder-length brown hair, and brown eyes. She's wearing a yellow button-down blouse over a denim skirt and black pumps.

"I'm Delorean Harper. I'm a friend of Sandy Burroughs," I say.

She gets up from her desk and shakes my hand.

"Mindy Collette. I'm the office manager."

"Nice to meet you."

"I'm a big fan of Sandy's," Mindy says. "She seems very capable."

"She definitely is capable."

Mindy's cell phone buzzes in her hand but she doesn't look at it. "It's a relief to have her travelling with Bill."

"Why do you say that?"

"There have been threats."

"That's what Sandy told me."

"Did she tell you about the men who show up at the rallies? Sandy said they drive pickup trucks the color of mud. She told me to call her if I see anyone like that."

"No. She said someone posted threatening comments on the web site, though."

"That's true," she said. "That doesn't worry me as much as the other things."

"Like what?"

"Bill told me some men with guns came to the rally in Bonner's Ferry and wouldn't let them leave until the police and ambulance came."

I swallow hard and think about Sandy confronting a group of armed men on her own. I know she's tough, but I'm bothered she's involved in armed conflicts and hasn't said anything to me about it.

"Police and ambulance?"

"No one was hurt. Sandy used the emergency button on her car keys to call for help so there would be witnesses. She said it worked out fine."

"Okay. That's good. No, I didn't hear about that. I guess Sandy forgot to mention it to me."

"What about the dead rat left at the office door the other day? Did Sandy tell you about that?"

I'm nonplussed. "No. I'm sure I would have remembered."

"I've been thinking about buying a gun. I'm here alone a lot, and I'm concerned this might escalate."

"Has anyone called the police or the FBI?"

"Not yet. Sandy said she can handle it, and Bill thought it would look bad if the press found out. It would hurt the campaign if people knew Bill was being harassed at rallies or getting death threats."

"Really? I guess that's his judgment call."

Mindy nods.

"Can you tell me the best way to meet up with Sandy and Bill?" I say. "I know there are a couple rallies planned for this weekend, but I'm sure there's more going on than that. I don't want to interfere, I just wanted to say hello. Maybe there's a break between events where I could visit with Sandy for a few minutes."

"Bill only has one public event this afternoon. It's in about half an hour at the Boise State amphitheater. After that they have a donor meeting in Meridian, but there should be time after the rally for you to talk to her. Do you want me to call and tell her you're coming?"

"No. You don't need to call. I want it to be a surprise."

"What a nice thing," she says. "You're sweet."

"Like honey to a bee," I say.
Saturday Afternoon in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

I use navigation on my phone to make the short trip from the campaign headquarters to the Boise State campus. It's a few minutes after noon, traffic is light, and the sun's out. I've got the top down on the Mustang, got my sunglasses on. I drive north on West Boise Avenue, take a right on Lincoln, and leave the car in the Lincoln Avenue Parking Garage. The garage is almost full, and I don't see any brown pickup trucks or thugs carrying automatic weapons. I park at the outside edge of the second floor, with a view of the soccer fields to the west and the student union building to the north.

I walk back down to ground level, look at a map of the campus on my phone, and start towards the Centennial Amphitheater. The campus is spotless, with red brick buildings and occasional splashes of blue trim. The concrete on the sidewalks is as white as if it had just cured in the sun. Neatly-trimmed trees provide shade for the sidewalks, but there are wide, grassy areas between the buildings, too. Not a blade of grass is out of place. No trash anywhere. The architecture is consistent from building to building, from dorm to dorm. It all seems well-organized, well-funded, and safe.

I don't see very many students around. I know it's Saturday, but I'd expected to see more college kids sitting on the grass or walking on the sidewalks crisscrossing the campus. Then I get to the buildings up against the Boise River and realize the rest of the campus is empty because Bill Steadman's rally at the amphitheater has drawn a crowd.

The amphitheater is a bowl-shaped performance space with a concrete platform at the base of fifteen tiers of curved concrete seats. There are trees and shrubs at the perimeter, and a small road separating it from the Boise river. The seating spaces are covered with college kids, and people who couldn't find seats are standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the nearby grassy areas, or leaning against trees, or hanging out on the road, or standing on the sidewalk in front of Taylor Hall. Molly Hatchet's song "Dreams I'll Never See" is playing through loudspeakers mounted on poles at the corners of the platform. I watch a pair of campus security officers get out of a golf cart parked on the access road. Since there's no place to sit down, I find a tree to lean against and wait for the show to start. I'm drowsy from the sunshine and the long drive from the Oregon coast, the music is nice, and under other circumstances I would have thought about finding some shade and taking a nap.

The music on the public address system shifts gears into The Killers singing "All These Things That I've Done," with the lead guitar wailing like a siren song calling us to march off to war. Some of the kids start swaying to the music, some start dancing with each other in small clusters, and then Sandy and Bill step through the doorway on the side of Taylor Hall. The crowd cheers wildly. I'm surprised by how much these kids care about what any politician has to say to them.

Sandy and Bill walk the dozen steps to the back of the platform. She's ahead of him and wearing a blue blazer over a cream-colored skirt and high heels. She looks good. She's put on deep red lipstick and wraparound sunglasses and has her hair pulled back in a style I haven't seen her wear before. I turn my attention to Bill, and I admit he's photogenic. He's tall and lean in slim fit jeans, cowboy boots, and a white long-sleeved dress shirt. He's got a dark tan, and he's built like someone who does triathlons for a living, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. Sandy faces the tiers of seats in the amphitheater, taking up a position on my side of the stage. She scans the crowd for thirty seconds before she notices me leaning up against a tree. She gives me a brief nod but nothing more. The two campus security cops take up positions not far from the front corners of the platform. It seems unlikely to me that any of the kids in the audience are going to cause problems, but I guess you never know what to expect at an institution of higher learning.

Bill's speech seems crafted for the students. He talks about his college days, his desire to make things better for his fellow citizens, about his plans to make college loans affordable, about programs like 'Teach for America,' ways to improve the economy and make home loans more affordable for first-time buyers. Most of his speech is about things a college kid can connect with. He's keeping it relevant for the audience. What strikes me most about Steadman, though, is his charisma. The crowd hangs on every word he says, staying quiet except for punchlines where they laugh or applaud. He has them in the palm of his hand. If I lived in Idaho, I'd vote for him, too.

Ten minutes into the speech, a man comes down the sidewalk running between the platform and Taylor Hall. He continues onto the trail alongside the Boise River, and stops when he's got a good side view of Bill. Like me, he's on the service road separating the amphitheater from the thicket of trees on the riverbank. He's standing about forty feet from Bill Steadman, and about ten steps from me. Even though it's warm outside, he's wearing a sheepskin jacket with the collar turned up, and he's got on filthy jeans. He's about thirty-five years old, my height, but thin as a rail. Unwashed hair and hollow cheeks. What gets my attention isn't his clothing or his emaciated appearance. It's his intense, pissed-off attitude. His hands are jammed into his coat pockets like he either has clenched fists or he's holding a weapon. His eyes look like he wants to take a swing at someone. I remember what Mindy said at the campaign office about the creeps who show up at the rallies, and I think, "This is one of those guys." I consider the possibility he might take a shot at Sandy, and I decide to go over and introduce myself. I feel the familiar buzz in my veins I've experienced off and on since I was twelve years old and squaring off against a hired killer.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and come to a stop maybe five feet from where he's standing. I take a picture of him while I'm looking at my phone like I'm reading a text message. I can smell something coming from him, and it isn't body odor. It's a scent like gasoline mixed with garlic.

I put my phone away and go back to watching Sandy and Bill. After a minute or two, I turn to the man in the sheepskin jacket and ask him what he thinks of the speech.

He gives me a hard look and says, "What's it to you?"

I shrug in response. "Not much. Just taking the pulse of a fellow voter."

He glares at me before he turns and heads back in the direction he came from. It seems obvious to me he just wanted to get an in-person look at the candidate, and now he's leaving. I glance at Sandy, and I can tell she's watching me. I tip my head towards the raggedy man who's walking away, and she nods.

I start moving in the same direction he did, hanging back about fifty yards, just curious to see where he's going. I follow him past the communication building, the western studies building, the admissions office, and the student union. I lose sight of him when he enters the darkness of the Lincoln Avenue garage. There are three exits to think about: two at the south side on Belmont Street and one on the east side on South Michigan Avenue. I don't know which way he'll try to exit the garage, so I start running down the rows of cars, following the exit ramp upward, assuming I'll catch up to him at some point. In thirty seconds, I'm four levels up, and the hostile, emaciated man from the rally is nowhere to be found. That's when I hear a car backfire on Lincoln Avenue, the street running between the parking garage and the soccer fields to the west. I lean over the blue railing and watch a mud-colored pickup truck pull from the curb and head south on Lincoln, leaving a cloud of oily smoke in its wake. He hadn't parked in the garage after all. He'd just walked through the ground floor on the way to his truck.

I run down the exit ramp to the second floor, get in the Mustang, and rip down the exit ramp. There's a yellow Volkswagen Beetle in front of me blocking the exit onto Belmont. I follow the slow-moving Beetle out of the garage, gun the engine and swing around him to get in front on South Lincoln Avenue. The brown truck is long gone. I drive in widening circles around the Boise State campus for twenty minutes but never see the truck again.
Saturday Afternoon in Nampa, Idaho - Michael and Amy

Michael and Amy decide to have lunch at a truck stop in Nampa, a suburb of Boise. They order their meal after standing in line at the counter, then take seats in a booth. It isn't much of a honeymoon, but they're happy to sit beside each other and watch the traffic go by. As they finish their meal, Amy picks up a French fry, dips it in ranch dressing, and feeds it to Michael. Michael picks up his soft drink and holds the straw out for Amy to take a sip. They both giggle. Neither of them can remember the last time they felt so carefree or had the chance to act silly.
Saturday Afternoon in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

After abandoning my search for the brown pickup truck, I head back to Boise State, this time finding street parking near the parking garage. When I get back to the amphitheater, it's obvious the rally has been over for a while, and Bill and Sandy and the security guards and most of the students have gone. There are a few kids still sitting on picnic blankets, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. I ask a small cluster of students how long ago the candidate left.

"Ten minutes, maybe?" one of the girls says.

"What did you think of the speech?" I ask.

"I think he's yummy," the girl says.

One of the other girls nods in agreement. A boy wearing a Boise State tee shirt says, "He's too far behind in the polls. The ladies are right, though. He's got the looks."

"He gets my vote," the girl says.

The boy shakes his head. "I'm waiting for the televised debate to make up my mind."

I head back through campus towards the Mustang. When I reach the car, I call Sandy on my cell phone but don't get an answer. Again.
Saturday Afternoon in Boise, Idaho - Michael and Amy

Michael and Amy arrive at Boise State an hour and a half after Bill's rally ended. They decide to walk around on campus, looking at the architecture, the greenspaces between the buildings, the carefully tended trees, and the pedestrian bridges crossing the Boise River. They stand in the center of one of the bridges and watch people float beneath on pool float toys.

"Could you see yourself going to school here?" Amy says. She's still wearing Michael's windbreaker.

"It wouldn't be so bad," Michael says. "It's beautiful here." He puts his arm around her waist and they watch the river.

After a while, they go into the book store and look at the stacks of textbooks before checking out the sweatshirts, tee shirts, and varsity jackets with the Boise State logo. Amy holds up a Boise State sweatshirt against Michael's chest.

"You look like a college boy now," she says.

Michael pulls the sweatshirt on.

"Very handsome," she says.

"Maybe I'll wind up going to school here. Who knows?"
Saturday Afternoon in Meridian, Idaho - Sandy

After seeing the zombie at the rally at Boise State, Sandy feels relieved that the next stop is a meeting at a donor's house. Smaller spaces with smaller numbers of people feel more manageable to her, less stressful. There are fewer things to keep track of. At home visits, the voters were all personally invited by someone who's friendly to Bill's campaign, screening out the hecklers and the gun-toting crazy people. Big crowds like the one at Boise State heighten the sense of panic gnawing at her from the inside out. When she saw Delorean following the zombie away from the crowd, she was already so stressed-out that she didn't know if she was happy Delorean came, or glad to see him involved in dealing with the creeps at the rallies, or regretted inviting him to Boise. She wonders if panic attacks are a precursor to having a nervous breakdown.

As they pull into the driveway of the donor's house, Sandy feels her phone buzz in her blazer pocket. She ignores it. Bill tells Sandy the person they're about to meet could make or break the campaign. He tells her that Jane Castelli made a fortune in Silicon Valley as a venture capitalist before retiring to the Boise suburb of Meridian. "If she wanted to," Bill says, "She could finance the whole campaign out of her checking account. This meeting is important. It needs to go well."

Sandy nods. "I'm house-trained," she says. "I promise not to embarrass you."

"I know that," Bill says. "I'm just stressed right now."

"I understand that. I do."

A few minutes later, Sandy's standing in Jane Castelli's kitchen, surrounded by white cabinetwork with black granite counter tops, a high ceiling covered with stamped copper, and blue pendant light fixtures. It's the kind of house with custom woodwork in every room, overstuffed leather furniture, and wool rugs. It's late afternoon, and the French doors in the living room are open to the patio, where Bill Steadman and a group of potential donors are talking politics. The patio backs up against a private, hundred yard stretch of the Boise River. Sandy thinks the house is about as nice a slice of suburbia as anyone could hope to buy.

The kitchen countertop is stocked with pre-mixed bottles of orange juice and champagne, a pot of coffee, and a tray of snacks and cake. Sandy picks up a cup that looks like Waterford crystal, and pours herself coffee from an urn labeled to indicate it's Hawaiian Pea Berry. Unlike what she's been drinking on the road for the last few weeks, this coffee doesn't need cream or two packs of sugar to make it drinkable. Maybe being rich wouldn't be so bad, she thinks. She looks through the front window to see if there are any brown trucks lurking, and then turns to go back to the patio.

Sandy's phone buzzes, and she checks the screen long enough to see it's Delorean. She sends the call to voicemail and then heads outside, where the conversation continues between Bill and the donors. After a while Sandy leans against one of the pillars supporting the roof over the patio. She sips her coffee and watches the interaction between Bill and the wealthy couples. Bill stands at the head of a semi-circle of well-dressed men and women. He answers questions about his plans related to the tax code, business law, free trade, drilling for oil, gun rights, immigration law, and campaign finance law. The donors are well-informed, and they ask some of the most pointed questions Sandy's heard Bill have to answer. She thinks Bill acquits himself well and convinces the donors he would make things better for an upper middle-class business owner, not worse. After half an hour, the conversation turns to small talk about whether the Boise State football team is going to be any good in the fall, and the couples start leaving. They shake Bill's hand, tell him they'll be making donations, and then they say goodbye to Jane Castelli.

After the guests have gone, Bill and Sandy are alone with Jane. She's short and very fit, with jet black hair, a nose that's slightly too big for her face, and full eyebrows which remind Sandy of fuzzy caterpillars. To Sandy, Jane looks like someone who plays a lot of tennis and lifts weights.

Jane asks Bill if they can speak in private. Bill tells Jane that anything she has to say to him, she can say in front of Sandy.

"You sure about that, Bill?" Jane says.

"I'm sure."

Jane looks at Sandy and says, "Would you stay with the campaign even if you weren't being paid?"

Sandy nods her head. "I'd see it through anyway."

"All right," Jane says. The three of them sit down at a wicker table on the patio. "Let me be blunt with you, Bill."

"Please do."

"You're not going to make it."

"Meaning what?" Bill says.

"Meaning you seem like someone with good business sense. I agree with most of your ideas, and you've got some charisma. You're photogenic, which helps. But your opponent is an incumbent with six million dollars to spend. He can run saturation ads on every television channel and social media platform between now and Election Day if he wants to. Why are you even running?"

"It's like this," Bill says. "Our two senators vote more than ninety percent of the time in favor of whatever the President is backing. Doesn't matter if the choices they're making make sense for ordinary people or not. Why even send them to Washington? Just mail a rubber stamp with the Idaho state seal on it to the White House and tell the president he can cast our votes however he sees fit. I think most of the people in this state are more moderate politically than our leadership is, but those views are ignored. I decided to do something about it. I'm connecting with as many voters as possible, and what I hear from people I meet is that I seem like a breath of fresh air. They're going to vote for me."

"Maybe they will. I'd vote for you, too. The thing is, there isn't enough time left for you to meet everyone in this state in person. And I've only seen a handful of your television ads. So, unless you're about to unleash an avalanche of advertising saying why you're a better choice than Brett Kutchin, I think you're a lost cause. You seem like an intelligent guy. At some level you must realize you're going to fail."

"If you feel that way, why did you invite me to your house?"

"Because Kutchin is the kind of black-hearted Christian who cozies up to fundamentalists and white supremacists while doing everything he can to punish gays, immigrants, and women working outside the home. If you're not a white, heterosexual male, you're in trouble. He's created a toxic culture in this state which has real consequences at a personal level for quite a few people, and I want to put a stop to it. That's why I invited you to my home. I want to see you succeed. In terms of the fall election, though, Kutchin has so much inertia as a two-term senator I think he's unbeatable."

"I agree Kutchin is destructive, which is why I'm running. I don't think he's unbeatable, though."

Jane nods. "Between me and my friends you met tonight, we could put together half a million dollars for your campaign. But unless something big happens to upset the apple cart, or Kutchin has a heart attack, he's going to beat you in the election. So, we wonder if it makes sense to give you any cash at all."

"All right," Bill says. "I've heard you out and you've heard me out. If you don't want to donate to my campaign, I respect that. But if you think it's impossible for me to win, why did you invite me here in the first place?"

Jane says, "Wait here." She goes inside the house, comes back and hands Bill a manila envelope with Kutchin's name on it.

"What's this?"

"Consider it a gift. So far, the press hasn't gotten wind of it, but Kutchin was arrested six months ago for soliciting a prostitute on 14th Street in Washington, D.C. The police had a sting going and Kutchin stepped into the middle of it. They got him on tape asking what it would cost for some very kinky things, and the police cuffed him and impounded his car. When Kutchin appeared in court, he said he didn't do anything improper, he'd just pulled his car to the curb to ask for directions. The audio tapes tell a different story, which came out in court. Regardless, as one of the preeminent chest-thumping moral authorities in the country, it's a problem for him that he was charged at all. He's authored bills to cut funding to schools that have sex education, proposed mass firings of gay people who work for the federal government, and he's refused to confirm female nominees for the federal bench because he doesn't think women should work outside the home."

"So, you want to go after Kutchin for trying to turn the clock back to the 1940s?"

"No. I want to go after him because he's a repressive hypocrite. Statistics show LGBT kids are five times as likely as straight kids to commit suicide, and people like Kutchin are part of the reason why. People like him want to make it a law that being gay means you're an outsider, and less of a person than everyone else. If you must know why I care, my only son was gay, and he committed suicide when he was fourteen years old. This election is a chance for you and me to do something to set this right for other people and their families."

Steadman says, "I'm sorry to hear about your son, Jane. That must have been incredibly hard for you."

"It was, and it still is. But if Kutchin wasn't so active about trying to repress gay rights and women's rights on the senate floor, then I wouldn't care that he was picking up hookers in the red-light district. The thing is, he goes out of his way to incite intolerance against people whose only crime is they were born a certain way. That's the playbook fascists use to stir up their voting base and give them power. That's what Hitler did when he attacked the Poles and the Jews, right? Kutchin's doing the same thing, and he could decide to run for president someday. Do you want someone like that in the White House?"

"No. I don't."

Jane hands Bill a second manila envelope, this time with Bill's name on it.

"What's this?" Bill says.

"Opposition research on you. You've got skeletons in your closet, too."

"Oh?"

"Before I invest in anything, I do my homework. What I found, and it wasn't hard to find, is that you were adopted by the people you inherited your ranch from. Prior to your adoption you grew up on a compound operated by a group of religious extremists, and they used the place as a baby factory to generate welfare checks. If I understand correctly, when you were thirteen, being male, you were thrown off the ranch to prevent any competition with the adult men for the attention of the women. You lived on the street for a while in Boise and other towns before children's services picked you up, you went into foster care, and you were adopted."

"That's true, and I'm not ashamed of it."

"I agree. I think what you've done is to rise above a very difficult childhood. That's why I invited you here. You've got guts, and you have my respect. If you get elected, the pressures on you will be enormous, but I get the sense you're up for the challenge."

"Thanks."

"Unfortunately, if Kutchin uses this stuff in attack ads, it could be pretty incendiary. He could paint you as damaged goods, or even say you're still part of a cult. That could really hurt you, since you seem to want to take the high road in your campaign instead of fighting dirty."

"What are you saying?"

"I've given you something on Kutchin that could put him on the ropes. If you're willing to use it, my friends and I will get behind you for half a million. If the race becomes competitive, I'll give another half million."

"Even if you're convinced I'd lose."

"It would give you a fighting chance. Because the one chance you have is fighting dirty. And I guarantee he'll fight dirty if the race gets close. If you lose, you'd still be a recognized name in national politics. If he wins, and I think that he will, he'll be so damaged the ethics investigation will have him out of office within six months of his re-election."

"Why do you want me to leak the information about Kutchin instead of you leaking it? What difference does it make who the source is? And if you think he's going to be run out of office six months after being re-elected, why not just sit back and let it happen? Save yourself a million dollars. Why donate to me, or give me the dirt on Kutchin?"

"Because if you use the material on Kutchin in the press or in a televised debate, it'll make headlines all over the state, and your face will be on every web page and newspaper for weeks. You'll be the one who knocked down the champ in a fistfight. That's worth a lot in an election. This stuff is so bad there's a chance he'll resign. It could happen. That gets both of us where we want to be a whole lot faster."

"And if Kutchin uses the dirt on me, talks about Heaven's Cape - don't you think that will hurt me?"

"Not if you use the moment to say you're proud of coming from less than nothing and making something of yourself without being bought and sold by lobbyists or living the life of a fraud."

"I'm going to have to think about it," Bill says. "I don't want to smear someone to get people's votes."

"No one does. But this is a street fight. And in a street fight, the winners decide they'll do what it takes to win. The person who turns the other cheek gets their teeth knocked out."

Jane looks at Sandy and says, "What do you think about all this?"

Sandy says, "It's Bill's campaign and I've got his back regardless of what he decides. However, if Kutchin is the kind of person you say he is, the only reason he hasn't tried to smear Bill already is because he doesn't see Bill as a threat. That's a bad sign, because it means Kutchin thinks he can coast to a victory."

Jane points a thumb at Sandy and says, "You should keep her on staff, Bill. She's smart and she's loyal. That's hard to find these days."

"I know it," Bill says.

"Since you asked for my opinion," Sandy says, "It occurs to me if Bill decides to expose Kutchin's arrest for solicitation, isn't the timing critical? Suppose we expose Kutchin tomorrow, and he says he's going to retire. The Governor would have five months to replace him with some other well-known person who then has time to run a campaign on his own. Wouldn't it make more sense to wait until closer to the election to expose Kutchin? That would leave the opposition with less time to recover."

"Something to consider," Bill says. He gives Sandy a look letting her know he's angry with her for talking too much, for upstaging him in this meeting. Sandy knows she's going to get a dressing-down about it after they leave Castelli's house.

"That's a legitimate point," Jane says. "However, Bill's so far behind I think this needs to happen now, so Bill has the chance to get the exposure he needs as a viable candidate. If he waits until the last minute to expose Kutchin, it'll just reduce voter turnout but not change the result. Bill's too much of an unknown. Kutchin will deny the charges, or say they were fabricated, or he was the victim of partisan politics. I think it will take months of this playing out in the press before Kutchin's voter approval rating takes the kind of hit we need. People aren't going to believe it initially. Then the national press will get involved with digging up the story, and it'll become part of the news cycle people read every day. It takes a while to convince people they've been wrong about someone."

"I hear what you're saying," Sandy says. "But my experience has been the more time you give someone to recover when you knock them down in a fight, the more trouble they cause when they get up off the floor. If it were me, I'd wait to drop the bomb until closer to election day."

"I'm right about this," Jane says. "I've done my homework on this and I know I'm correct. The bottom line is that If Bill wants the money, he needs to out Kutchin soon or there's no point. End of story."

Bill glares at Sandy from across the kitchen table. She can tell he's furious her for arguing with Jane about campaign tactics.

Jane stands up from the table, indicating the meeting is over.

As she walks to the car, Sandy thinks about how it it's becoming difficult for her to keep a lid on her impulses. Even while she was arguing with Jane Castelli, she knew her opinion didn't matter, and Bill was going to be angry with her for interfering. It feels to her like the filter between her thoughts and her actions doesn't work anymore. Maybe she's worn down by lack of sleep and the stress of the campaign. Or maybe her insecurities, anxieties, and fears are justified, and she's just a pretender after all.
Saturday Afternoon in Boise, Idaho - Carl and Tony

Carl wakes at four in the afternoon, rubs his eyes, picks up his cell phone, and checks the credit card for activity. He sees charges from earlier in the day at a Nampa truck stop. Nampa is near Boise, so he knows he's getting closer to catching up with Michael. He gets out of bed, puts his shoes on, and leaves Tony sleeping in the room. He walks across the street to a pharmacy and buys a waterproof bag to put ice in, a bottle of aspirin, a couple toothbrushes and some toothpaste.

On the way back to the room, Carl fills the waterproof bag with cubes from the ice machine near their motel room and buys a can of Coke from a vending machine. He lets himself into the room, sets the can of Coke on the nightstand between the two beds, and tosses the ice pack and aspirin on Tony's bed. Then Carl pulls the blinds open, and sunlight floods the dismal motel room.

Tony stirs. He squints at the sunlight, blinks several times, then takes note of the ice bag and aspirin.

"You hungry?" Carl says. "You were asleep for a while."

"No," Tony says. "Thanks for the aspirin. My head feels like my skull's cracked." He palms half a dozen aspirin from the bottle, tosses them into his mouth, and washes the pills down with swallows of Coke.

"I'm going to get something to eat."

"Any new charges on the credit card?"

"A truck stop in Nampa earlier today. That's about half an hour west of here. Nothing since."

"All right," Tony says. "That's progress." He presses the ice bag against his forehead. "Bring me something back. I might want it later."
Saturday Afternoon in Boise, Idaho - Michael and Amy

Michael and Amy walk around the Boise River greenspace before strolling through the downtown area. As Michael looks at the faces of the other people on the sidewalk, and watches people eating at outdoor restaurants, he fantasizes about what it would be like to be one of the 'normal' people, carefree and untroubled. Amy notices Michael's expression darken, and she reaches out and squeezes his hand.

"We'll see your dad tomorrow," she says. "I'm sure he's going to want to help."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure he will." But he's not sure at all. He knows he's pinned all his hopes on a man he's never met, a man in the spotlight in a political contest who'd prefer his child not pick this exact moment to reappear and ask for help.
Saturday Evening in Boise, Idaho - Sandy

Sandy can tell Bill's avoiding eye contact with her after they leave Jane Castelli's house in Meridian. Bill's grim expression makes it obvious he's angry. When they get on the highway he says, "You could have damaged my credibility back there with Castelli. You know that, right?"

"I'm sorry. She asked for my opinion, so I gave it to her."

"You gave her your opinion and then argued with her when she didn't agree with you. After you said those things, if I'd just re-iterated your concerns, it would have made me look weak or stupid, like I was just parroting your ideas. Instead I had to sit there while she lectured both of us about how to run my campaign."

"I already said I was sorry."

"Yeah. I heard." Bill shakes his head. "God, I'm tired."

Sandy drives, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut during the meeting. Bill's holding the manila envelopes Jane Castelli gave him, and his expression reads like someone on their way to prison.

Sandy feels her phone buzz in her blazer pocket. She chooses to leave it alone. She'll catch up on voicemail when she gets back to her room.

When they arrive at the hotel, Bill gets out of the car without saying anything. Sandy can tell he's still angry. She wants to smooth things over with Bill before she goes to her room, so she follows Bill into his room and closes the door.

Bill sits on the edge of the bed, stares at his lap, and then opens the opposition folder bearing his name. Sandy sits in one of the chairs at the two-person table by the television set, and she crosses one leg over the other. If there's one thing that working on Bill's campaign has taught her, it's how to bide her time.

Bill starts leafing through the papers. There are three pages of text atop a stack of photographs. Bill ignores the writing, starts flipping through the pictures, and makes it through a dozen of the black and white images before he stops. His body shakes like someone coughing with their mouth closed. He tosses the pictures on the bed, gets up and goes into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Sandy hears a thump against the bathroom wall, followed by the sound of sobbing.

Sandy hears Bill say, "I quit. I quit. I quit."

She goes over to the bed, looks at the pictures to see what was so distressing. Pictures of the Heaven's Cape compound. Faded black and white shots show something like a summer camp run by sadists. Ramshackle buildings. Ragged clothes hanging from clotheslines. Women and children using wooden tools or bare hands to work a field. Boys breaking rocks with sledgehammers, none of them older than adolescent, all shirtless and thin enough you can count their ribs through the skin. A shot of Bill tied to a cross and looking terrified. In the picture Bill is an adolescent boy, but it's obviously him. In the foreground there's a bearded man with a bullwhip in his hand. Sandy thinks back to the dudes who came to the rallies in Bonner's Ferry and McCall. She wonders if the thug with the whip is related to those people.

"God Damn," Sandy says. She makes a mental note to knock the teeth out of anyone she meets who claims to be connected to Heaven's Cape.

She picks up the paperwork and reads that the pictures came into the public record fifteen years ago, when Heaven's Cape was investigated by state tax assessors for failure to pay property taxes. As a religious institution it qualified for certain tax breaks but was still required to pay property taxes. When the tax commission sent the county sheriff to the compound to notify the leaders a tax lien was being put on the property, the sheriff saw the squalor the children lived in and demanded a tour. At the time of the sheriff's visit, the chapel housed a gallery of photographs showing the abusive treatment of the residents. There were shots of people in a state of starvation, of whipping, of people going unclothed in summer and winter, of children working the farm fields in the blazing heat or panning for gold in a fast-moving stream. The photographs, including the one of Bill tied to the cross, were confiscated and entered into court evidence. The leaders of Heaven's Cape were prosecuted for false imprisonment, assault and battery, and statutory rape. The author went on to describe Bill's time living on the streets of Boise, being taken into the foster care system and being adopted by a childless elderly couple. Bill attended college in Moscow, Idaho where he studied economics and agriculture. After graduating, he helped the Steadmans run the ranch. When the Steadmans were killed in a car accident, Bill inherited the ranch and ran it on his own for three years. Then he sold the property for two and a half million dollars and registered as a candidate for the U.S. Senate race in Idaho. The author said Bill's chances of winning were poor, and questioned how much common-sense Bill had, since the campaign would leave him broke if he self-funded it.

Sandy's feelings of sympathy overwhelm her. She'd planned to get in touch with Delorean after she returned to the hotel, but Bill's crisis erases any plans she had. She sends Delorean a text, telling him she can't meet with him because there's an emergency. She asks him to meet her the next day after the rally at the state capitol. Then she looks at the bathroom door.
Saturday Evening in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

I'm watching a baseball game on the television set when I get a text from Sandy saying she can't see me because there's an emergency. She asks me to meet her after the rally tomorrow at the capitol. I wonder what the emergency is. Creeps with machine guns showing up at a Steadman rally? Bill had a heart attack? Who knows? I call her number again, but she doesn't answer. I don't understand why she won't answer my phone calls, and she didn't even ask me what happened when I followed the guy who showed up at the Boise State rally. Seems like something she'd care about.

I'm concerned about Sandy's personal safety, but if she wanted my help she would have asked for it. I go back to watching the ballgame, but I can't pay attention. After a few minutes I turn off the television set and fall into a fitful sleep.
Saturday Evening in Boise, Idaho – Sandy

Sandy taps on Bill's bathroom door. She lets out a long breath through pursed lips, knowing she's about to cross the boundary from professional to personal. She tries the doorknob. It's not locked, and she lets herself in. Bill's sitting on the floor and has his head in his hands. She sits down beside him and puts her arm around his shoulder. She tells him everything's okay. Everything's going to be okay. He shakes his head a couple times, cries for a while before stopping. She puts her head on his shoulder.

"My God," he says. "My God."

"I know."

"I've been trying to forget, but I never will."

Sandy's phone buzzes. It's not a text this time, it's a phone call – Delorean again. She presses the button to send it to voicemail and then silences the phone. Bill starts to stand up, and she does, too. He's taller than she is, and the top of her head comes to the bottom of his chin. She puts her arms around him to try to console him, letting him know he isn't damaged goods, whatever the pictures show. She presses the side of her face against his chest. He puts his arms around her, too. He's taking deep breaths now, trying to get himself under control.

"I'm sorry," he says.

She tilts her head back to look at him. "It's okay."

"I mean...I'm sorry for you to see me like this."

"I'm not."

She feels a flush of desire for him, his masculinity and vulnerability washing over her. She feels like she's melting into him both emotionally and physically. Their eyes meet, and they kiss. A small and fading voice in her head tells her she should leave now. She presses herself against him and stays where she is. This is where she's needed, and where she wants to be.
Saturday Night in Boise, Idaho - Michael

Michael finds a hotel near the Boise State campus. He's never rented a hotel room on his own before. Another first. He goes into the hotel office while Amy waits in the van.

"How many people are in your party?" the clerk asks.

"Just two."

"Queen bed okay?"

"Yeah. Fine."

"I need to see a driver's license and credit card. I also need the license plate number on your car."

Michael looks through the glass in the hotel office and reads the license number for the van aloud. He shows the clerk his driver's license and gets the Green Transport Associates card from his wallet. He slides the card across the counter.

She bends over a ledger and writes the information down. Then she writes out a paper receipt and hands it to him. He doesn't know what to do.

"You have to sign it," she says. "The card reader shorted out when someone spilled coffee on it this morning. We ordered another one but it's going to be a couple days. Until then we're stuck with paper."

Michael signs his name on the receipt.

"How long are you planning on staying?"

"I don't know," Michael says. "At least until tomorrow night."

"Okay, we'll register you for two nights. If you want to stay longer, just tell us."

She slides the driver's license and credit card back across the counter to Michael. Hands him a room card in a paper sleeve.

"You're in room 166. Just drive down to the end. It's on the left, by the stairs."

"Thanks."

Michael goes out to the van. He starts the engine and they roll down to the last open parking slot. They go inside the motel room and look at the bed and the furniture. The room smells of disinfectant and cigarette smoke. Aside from the white paint on the ceiling, every surface in the room is a shade of brown. Brown carpet, dark brown bed covering, light brown drapes, lighter brown walls.

Amy drops her overnight bag and puts her arms around Michael.

"I'm kind of glad to be out of the van," she says. "Aren't you?"

"Home sweet home," he says.

"I'll take the bathroom first, okay?" she says.

"Sure."

Michael watches the evening news while Amy's in the bathroom. There's a segment about the Steadman rally planned for the next day at the Capitol. Michael feels his anxieties notching back up again. Tomorrow is make-or-break.

When the door to the bathroom opens, Michael turns off the television set. Amy's wearing a tee shirt and has her hair up. She smiles, lifts the comforter on her side of the bed and gets under the covers.

"Everything okay?" she says.

"I hope so."

He picks up his backpack and goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He wonders what his father will think when his kid shows up out of the blue and begs for help staying out of jail.

"You are so fucked," he says to himself in the mirror. "What are the odds he's going to want to help?"
Sunday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

My plan is to meet with Sandy in Capitol Park after Bill's speech. Maybe she'll have time to talk to me then, but at this point I doubt it. Regardless, the state Capitol building is a mile from the hotel, and it's another dry, sunny morning, so I walk along the path through the green space between the hotel and the downtown area, appreciating the attractive mixture of old and new buildings. I arrive at the rally fifteen minutes before Bill's speech starts, so I decide to stroll around for a while.

I'm impressed. The Capitol is a handsome piece of architecture that looks like it's been there a hundred years and will be there at least a hundred more. It's shaped like the U.S. Capitol in Washington. The building is made of Boise Sandstone and topped with a beautiful dome, imparting a sense of the importance of government and aspirations for democracy. The symmetry of the wings of the building, the dome, and the grounds are beautiful.

I stop on the sidewalk in front of the Capitol steps facing downtown, checking out the view of Capitol Park across Jefferson Avenue, and of downtown Boise further to the south. The green space between the Capitol building and North 6th street is full of people holding Steadman signs. Police officers are stationed between the crowd and the steps, as well as at the perimeter of the crowd. I've still got a few minutes to kill, so I walk the perimeter of the property.

When I reach the far end of the Capitol grounds, I'm passed by a gold Chevy Tahoe with Steadman stickers on the doors. I turn and watch the Tahoe pull to the curb about fifty yards away. A highway patrol car rolls to a stop behind the Tahoe, and two officers get out. Then Sandy exits the Tahoe on the driver's side, and Bill gets out on the passenger side. The four of them are walking away from me with the two patrolmen in front, Sandy and Bill behind. Sandy turns her head and says something to Bill, and he leans towards her and rests his hand at the base of her back in a way that's so casual and familiar it can only come from intimacy. I stop walking. I'm just standing there taking it in. Their heads are nearly touching when she says something else to him. He hooks his hand around her waist, pulls her towards him and their hips bump together as they walk a few steps. Then he lets go of her, sliding his palm across her waist before his hand brushes against the curve of her skirt. She looks at him, smiles, takes his hand and squeezes it. She lets go of his hand as they turn the corner of the building and are greeted by cheers from the waiting crowd.

After a minute of standing on the sidewalk and feeling like a jilted high-schooler, I collect my wits and start moving again. I'm seething as I move along the sidewalk towards a place where I can watch the speech. I think about the previous night when Sandy couldn't talk to me because of an emergency, and I connect that with what I just saw. I remember her ignoring my phone calls and texts and I feel like a chump for coming over to Boise to see her. I'm not thinking clearly, just seeing the world through red lenses of anger. Do I want to help Sandy watch for the gun-toting zombies in their mud-colored pickup trucks? No. Do I want to listen to Bill's save-the-world speech? Not really. I've never seen a politician who wanted anything more than they wanted to be re-elected. Sandy seems to think Bill's authentic and wants to help other people. Could be. It would be easier for me to believe Bill's a saint if he didn't have his hands on Sandy's backside. Maybe I'm not as highly evolved as Bill. I'm not political. I don't have much interest in celebrity life. I guess Sandy's gotten a taste of it and likes it. Fair enough.

I take a position on the sidewalk on 6th street at the far end of the green space, so I'm about 50 yards from the Capitol steps. Sandy's on the platform at the top of the steps, a few feet away from Bill and his podium. I notice she's wearing the same blazer and skirt she had on the previous day at Boise State. I wonder if there wasn't time for her to make it back to her room to change before today's event. Seems plausible. Harsh of me to speculate about where she gets undressed or dressed and with whom, but under the circumstances I have to wonder. It's natural, I guess.

Bill pulls the microphone from the podium, walks to the edge of the platform at the top of the stairs, and says into the microphone in a deep, booming voice, "Is everybody ready for change?" He sounds like an announcer at a boxing match.

The crowd yells, "Yeah!"

I say, "I sure as hell am."

Bill says, "When?"

The crowd yells, "Now!"

I say, "Now would be good."

Bill nods his head theatrically and says, "How are we gonna make that happen?"

The crowd yells, "Vote!"

I say, "Go back to the hotel and leave. That would be a good start."

Bill smiles. A huge, victorious, confident smile. He holds his arms out like a bird stretching its wings to absorb heat from sunshine. He's a good-looking bastard, and there's a kind of coolness to the way he moves, looks, and talks. Buckets of self-confidence and swagger. Small waist, broad shoulders, thick black hair, angular face with a big chin. He could be a news anchorman at a television station if he wanted to be. Maybe he can become an underwear fashion model if his political career doesn't pan out. I'll have to check with Sandy to verify that, I suppose.

I look at the faces of the people standing near me who've come to watch the show. They seem delighted to be there. Maybe I'd be delighted, too, if I hadn't seen Bill and Sandy bumping hips on the sidewalk. It let the air out of my party balloon.

Sandy and I are at opposite ends of the crowd of people who've gathered to hear Bill's speech. We're both wearing sunglasses. Is she looking at me? I can't tell. Is she wondering if I'm looking at her? I can't tell. She gives a curt nod in my direction. I look at the tops of the heads of the hundreds of people who've come to the Capitol, and I realize three fourths are women. Women just seem to love the guy. I think that's been established beyond a reasonable doubt in the last few minutes.

Bill stands at the top of the Capitol steps and says, "The time is always right to do what's right. The time for action is _now_!"

The crowd roars its approval and agreement.

I say, "Amen, Brother." Then I start walking back towards the hotel, making my way south along the sidewalk on 6th. Drivers honk their horns and jump on their brakes as I step out into the street. I walk through oncoming traffic as thoughtlessly as a child moves through a wading pool. I just don't give a damn what happens anymore.
Sunday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Sandy

Sandy's standing at the top of the capitol steps, and she has her anxieties under control at the moment. She feels calm and confident, more like her old self. She tells herself it's because she got a good night's sleep, but she knows there's more to it than that.

She's doing what she always does when Bill's giving a speech: watching the faces of the people in the crowd, checking people's hands to see what they're holding, looking for sudden motions. Sandy notices Delorean standing on the sidewalk at the far end of the crowd. She wants to wave to him, put her arms around him, and tell him she's glad he came to see her. She nods her head in Delorean's direction to let him know she's seen him. Delorean has sunglasses on and she can't tell if he noticed. Despite the non-stop activity of the campaign, she's felt isolated and missed Delorean's company and the intimacy they share. Then she thinks about the night she spent with Bill, how it felt to console and love this broken, beautiful, amazing man. She thinks what she did last night helped put Bill back together, and wonders if she's the kind of person who collects one broken person after another and tries to fix them. She feels guilty about sleeping with Bill but also feels more alive than she's felt in a long time. The energy of the crowd, being at the center of attention, and having someone like Bill wanting to be her lover is exciting and she admits she likes it. She's on a different plane of existence than when she lived at the beach in a cocoon of boredom.

She thinks about Bill undressing her in the hotel bathroom as they kissed, how he ran his hands over her body, his fingertips barely touching her skin as he traced her hips. She remembers watching herself in the mirror as Bill made love to her. She's never let go like that with a man before, just let herself be uninhibited, unashamed, in the moment. She shivers but it isn't because she's cold.

"That can't happen again," she tells herself. "I've got to be professional about this."

She tries to focus on her job again. Scans the crowd for anything threatening. There are hundreds of people at the rally and it's hard for Sandy to see everything at once. Some people are carrying signs. Some are holding up cell phones to record the speech. No one looks threatening. There are uniformed officers at the edge of the crowd, and local television crews are recording the event. Everything seems orderly. No mud-colored trucks are parked nearby or driving along the streets bordering the Capitol.

When she looks back at where Delorean was standing, he's gone. She scans the crowd, realizes he's left the rally, spots him when he's a hundred yards away. He's on the 6th Street sidewalk heading south, walking away from her. She wants to call out to him. Then she watches him step off the sidewalk and cross the street without waiting for traffic to clear. Cars are forced to slam on their brakes to keep from running him down. He walks through oncoming traffic as if he doesn't care if he lives or dies. She feels her stomach fall. Her anxieties and fears come out of the container she'd buried them in, reminding her that nothing's changed. Everything around her is falling apart while she pretends she's in control.
Sunday Morning in Boise, Idaho – Michael and Amy

Michael and Amy are in the crowd at the Idaho state Capitol building when Bill strides up the stairs to the platform. Michael listens to the roar of the crowd and realizes just how important and loved his father is. As Michael listens to Steadman's speech, he feels strength swell in him, feeling confidence for the first time in weeks. Michael thinks, "My father is such a good man. I know he's going to want to help me."

Michael stands with Amy at his side in the morning sunshine. Michael is moved by Bill Steadman's presence and charisma like everyone else in the crowd. He likes Bill's sincerity, what he says about wanting to restore ethics and openness to how things are done in the U.S. Senate. He squeezes Amy's hand. Michael thinks he has a chance now. He thinks once Bill Steadman realizes Michael is his son and understands the kind of trouble he's in, he'll want to help. Maybe he'll intervene with Carl, try to convince him to drop the charges, and try to put things right so Michael won't go to jail. Maybe he'll write a letter to the court asking for leniency for Michael. Any help at all would be more than he's getting now.

After the speech is over, the police tell people who've stayed behind to talk to Bill they need to form a line on the north side of the lawn. Amy and Michael queue up behind fifty other people.

After half an hour of shuffling forward, they're within twenty feet of Bill. Michael's heart is pounding. Then a police officer with stripes on his sleeves tells the crowd they've run out of time, and Bill needs to leave. People in line ahead of Amy and Michael start to disperse. Michael sees Bill walk away and turn the corner of the capital. He and Amy decide to follow. They see two police officers get into a patrol car parked behind a gold car with Steadman campaign stickers, and the patrol car leaves. Michael and Amy approach Bill.

"Excuse me," Michael says. "Can I talk to you for just a minute?"

"I'm sorry," Bill says. "I'm running late for my next event. I need to go."

Amy says, "He's your son. Can you not talk to him for just a minute?"

Bill takes a half step back. "I don't have any children, and I need to leave. Excuse me."

"I'm Michael Ondevy," Michael says. "My mother is JoAnn Reeder and she told me you're my dad. She said you were together at Heaven's Cape a long time ago. I'm not here to cause trouble. I just need some help. It's important."

"I don't have time for this," Bill says. "I have to go."

Bill and the lady standing by his side get into the car and drive away.

Michael stands on the sidewalk and begins to cry. Amy puts her arms around him to try to console him.
Sunday Noon in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

After the fog cleared from my head, I made plans to check out of my hotel room, gas up the Mustang, and drive back to the Oregon Coast. Instead of leaving, though, I decided to stick around. I just didn't feel like leaving. I don't know why. You'd think I'd want to get out of there. I guess I didn't want to feel like I'd been run out of town by Sandy's celebrity boyfriend. Childish, I know. I stop at a liquor store near the hotel and pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels and a six pack of Coke. As the afternoon wears on, I sit in my hotel room and work through most of the Coke and half of the Jack. Sandy sends me a text from time to time. Funny she didn't have time for me before, and now she does. I don't know what to make of it. I read what she has to say, and I think about responding to her messages, and then I remember what it looked like when Bill had his arm around her waist and their hips bumped together as they walked. Not sure how to respond to that in a text. Under the circumstances, it seems like the best thing to say is nothing at all.

I take another drink.

When I try to be rational about it, it's not like we were engaged to be married. I thought we had a stronger connection than we did, I guess. We've known each other for quite a while and we've been through a lot together. Our relationship felt right to me in a way most of my relationships with women don't. I thought we had a future together. I feel blindsided by my inability to read people or recognize authentic behavior.

I take another drink.

Then I pour the rest of the Jack down the drain in the bathroom. Hard for me to see a way to improve my situation when I'm blind drunk. Might as well start now.
Sunday Afternoon in Boise, Idaho - Carl

Carl and Tony spend the day in the hotel room, eating take-out food and waiting for a new bill to show up on Carl's credit card. Tony asks Carl every few minutes to check his cell phone for activity on the card. There's an implied threat in Tony's repeated requests. If Michael stops using the card, and they can't track down the guns and the money, Carl is in very big trouble. Tony will stop pretending to be Carl's friend and will throw Carl under the bus with his bosses. Those bosses operate a chain of pot stores in three states, a human trafficking network, and an import and sales operation for synthetic Fentanyl. If Tony and Carl's bosses knew Carl had lost a very large pile of their hard-earned cash, they'd snuff Carl out, for sure. Probably snuff Tony out, too, since he's the one who recommended Carl for handling the bookkeeping for their business enterprises. Finding Michael is live-or-die for Carl and Tony.

Carl and Tony are sitting on their beds and watching a broadcast of a NASCAR race.

When a commercial break comes on, Carl mutes the television set so he doesn't have to listen to the advertisements.

"I've had enough of the race," Tony says. He gets off his bed, grabs the keys for the car from atop the dresser, and then goes out to the parking lot. He returns with a pistol. Carl didn't realize Tony had a gun in the car, and for a moment he wonders if Tony's decided to kill him. Tony walks into the bathroom and returns with a towel. Then he sits down at the desk and starts taking the gun apart, spreading the pieces of the gun across the surface of the towel.

"What are you doing?" Carl says.

"Cleaning the gun. What does it look like?"

"Do you think you're going to need it?"

"I think anything's possible, and if I need it, I don't want it to jam on me or misfire."

"He's a high school junior, Tony. We aren't going to have to kill him to get the van."

Tony has his back to Carl, but he looks up from what he's doing and makes eye contact with Carl in the mirror over the desk. Tony's bruise has spread across his face to his forehead, his nose, his cheeks.

Carl thinks Tony is one of the strangest and scariest-looking people he's ever seen.

"We don't know why he's here," Tony says. "Maybe he's got friends who don't want to give us the money back. Maybe when we catch up to him, he'll pull one of the guns on us that he took from the safe. It might not be as simple as you think, Carl. That's your whole problem. You never think ahead or plan. That's why we're here in this crappy hotel room, and why my car's been destroyed, and why we're down a hundred thousand dollars and two guns. Is that not obvious to you? It is to me."

Tony returns his attention to dismantling the gun.

Carl doesn't say anything. He stares at Tony's back, looks at how Tony's shirt is stretched across his torso as he works on the gun. Tony's still got his leather suit on, including the ostrich hide boots.

The commercial break on the television set ends, but Carl doesn't want to turn the sound back on. He thinks the noise might irritate Tony when he's trying to concentrate on the gun. Carl hears the click-click-click sounds of Tony loading each bullet back into the magazine.

It sounds to Carl as if Tony is humming. Tony's head rocks from side to side, in time with the beat of whatever tune that's playing in his head.

Tony slams the magazine into the butt of the pistol, pulls on the slide to load a bullet into the firing chamber. Then he twists in his chair and aims the pistol at Carl, eyeballing his unshaven face through the gunsights.

Carl feels a chill run through him. He knows Tony's angry, but he didn't think Tony would kill him. At least not yet.

Tony smiles, but there's no warmth to the smile. He's gearing up for a kill.

"You mind if I turn the sound on?" Carl says.

"After you check your cell phone to see if there's anything new on the card," Tony says. "That's the priority, right? That's what matters." Then he turns back towards the desk and starts polishing the exterior of the pistol.
Sunday Evening in Boise, Idaho - Amy

Michael and Amy decide to spend another night in Boise. Bill doesn't have any events listed on the campaign website for Monday, so they plan to go by the campaign office the next day to try to connect with Bill.

That night, before they fall asleep, Amy asks Michael what he'll do if Bill refuses to talk to him.

"I try not to think about that," Michael says. "When I do, I feel like I'm dying inside."

Amy puts her arms around Michael and holds him until he falls asleep. She thinks about her dad being alone, and she realizes how much she misses him. She's homesick, and as she lays in the darkness listening to the sounds of traffic from the nearby highway, she realizes she wants to go back to Hampton, whatever the consequences are.
Sunday Evening in Boise, Idaho - Sandy

After the rally at the state capitol, Bill has home visits with several groups of affluent donors. Sandy knows him so well she can tell he's stressed and distracted, but he soldiers on through the meetings anyway. She thinks Bill is bothered by the same thing that's eating at her: the memory of the boy's face when they left him standing on the sidewalk.

At the end of the day, Sandy is alone in her hotel room trying to contact Delorean. He doesn't respond to any of her text messages. Before she goes to bed, she sends him texts saying, "Why are you acting this way?" and "At least tell me you're okay."
Sunday Night in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

I fall into a restless sleep. I wake in the middle of the night and see there is another message on my phone from Sandy, this time asking if I am okay.

I send her a text telling her I respect that she's in a relationship with someone else now and I'm heading back to the Oregon coast. I mention that I'll drop off her gym bag and winter coat when the campaign office opens.

Then I fall back into a restless sleep. In my dream, I'm in a cave that smells like a chemical refinery. My eyes are burning and it's hard for me to catch my breath. I hear a pounding noise like a pile driver makes. Bam...Bam...Bam. Someone shouts and then there's the sound of gunfire. I jolt awake, breathing hard.
Sunday Night in Boise, Idaho - Michael and Amy

There's an attendant working late at the front desk of Michael and Amy's hotel. Without the interruptions of customers checking in and checking out, she's catching up on the stack of receipts that built up over the last two days. The replacement for the card reader arrived, and she's going through each of the paper billing charges that piled up. She presses the buttons to enter the card number, the expiration date, the security code, and the zip code for the owner. She taps the 'Charge' button on the card reader after entering Michael's information, and the room charge registers as _pending_ on the credit card web site.
Monday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Sandy

Sandy checks her phone for texts and sees the message Delorean sent. She wonders how he knows she and Bill slept together. She thinks about it for a moment and realizes Delorean must have seen Bill put his arm around her waist when they were on the sidewalk at the state capitol. It's too late for her to do anything about that. She feels the sinking feeling in her stomach again, the one reminding her she's a pretender who's been caught in a lie. To her it seems like more evidence she can't be trusted to do her job.

Her hand is shaking as she sends Delorean a text saying, "I understand you're angry and disappointed in me. Can we at least talk about this like adults?"

No response.

She sends another text, this time saying she'll meet him at the campaign office at ten.

No response.

Over breakfast at the hotel, Sandy tells Bill that Delorean must have seen the two of them on the sidewalk before the event. She says Delorean thinks the two of them are a couple now.

"So that means what?" Bill says.

"So, he told me he's heading back to Oregon. He's dropping some things off at the campaign office this morning that I asked him to bring. I just texted him that I'd meet him there at ten."

"We can go by there after my interview at the radio station," Bill says. "I'm sorry if I caused problems for you. Neither of us is married. We're attracted to each other. I don't think we have anything to feel ashamed about."

"It's not that simple, Bill," Sandy says. "Delorean and I were living together. I care about him."

Bill gives a small shrug. They eat their breakfast in silence. Then Bill says, "I've been thinking about Castelli's offer for financial backing if we publish the dirt on Kutchin."

"Knowing that Kutchin will smear you if you do that."

"I hoped it wouldn't come to this," Bill says. "But we're going to run out of cash before election day if nothing changes. Most of the donations so far have been small. And you have to act like you already _have_ money if you want donors to give you more of it. I've already burned through almost a million of my own cash so far just getting the campaign rolling. I had to rent office space, hire people, and buy enough advertising that voters know I exist. I had no idea how much advertising was going to cost when I started. It's eating me alive. I also pre-paid to rent the big venues for the fall like the Boise State arena. The most recent polls show me down by a lot. I've got to do something. If nothing changes, there won't be enough money left to finish out the campaign."

"That sounds pretty dire," Sandy says.

"It is."

"You have to be asking yourself what you'd do if you put all this effort into the campaign and you still don't win. What's the plan?"

"Failure isn't an option. I have to believe I'll win. I think publishing the dirt on Kutchin and getting the money from Castelli can make the difference."

"You know Kutchin is going to run attack ads on you about your time at Heaven's Cape. Are you ready for that? You seemed pretty crushed about it the other night when you saw those pictures."

"If I'm not tough enough to take it, I shouldn't be in the race to begin with." He picks up the newspaper and opens it to the politics section.

Sandy thinks about how Bill had a breakdown two nights ago in the hotel room, and now he's acting as if he doesn't care about his past being exposed. She thought Bill had such a powerful connection with her and needed her, maybe was in love with her, but now she feels like she's back where she was before they were together in Bill's hotel room: someone on the edge of a nervous breakdown who gets paid to drive a celebrity around.
Monday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Carl

Carl wakes at nine in the morning, looks at the clock on the bedside table, groans, picks up his cell phone, and logs in to his credit card account to check for new activity. He sees that Michael charged a room at a motel in Boise. Then he does a web search on the name of the motel, comparing the location to where he and Tony are staying.

"Hey, Tony!" Carl says. "Get up. My kid is staying in a hotel that's close. Let's go!"
Monday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Sandy

Sandy is with Bill in the production studio for KUDX, a public radio station in downtown Boise. She's checked her watch many times since the interview started because she's worried about missing Delorean at the campaign office. The interview began airing 'live' at nine thirty in the morning, and Sandy's watching from the rack room through a thick pane of glass. There's a kid with tattoos on his arms operating the audio console, and he's making minor adjustments to balance the volumes between the interviewer and Bill. Bill's voice comes through the speakers mounted over the console as he answers an easy question. Bill sounds confident and poised.

The interview is scheduled to last ten minutes, and they're almost out of time when the interviewer asks Bill what sets him apart from Brett Kutchin, the incumbent. Bill is silent for several beats, and Sandy wonders if Bill's freezing up. Then Bill says he'd be an ethical representative for the citizens of the state, and Bill Kutchin is a hypocrite, a fraud, and a degenerate. The interviewer's eyebrows go up when Bill says that. The kid running the audio console looks over his shoulder at Sandy, his expression registering surprise that the conversation has taken this turn.

The interviewer tells Bill he can't make a statement so critical of Brett Kutchin without backing it up with specifics. Bill says Brett Kutchin pretends to be a moral authority for the people he represents, but he's been living a double life, and it's time someone called him on it.

The interviewer pauses, feeling the weight of the moment.

"What are you talking about?" the interviewer says.

"Brett Kutchin was arrested for solicitation of a prostitute several months ago in Washington, D.C. He's a hypocrite who's not fit to be any kind of representative for this state. He needs to stop railing against women's rights and gay marriage on the floor of the U.S. Senate, and he needs to admit he's not a moral authority, he's a fraud. Until he can own up to who he is, I don't see why anyone in this state would want to vote for him."

"Wow," the interviewer says. "That's quite a charge you just made, and I'd like to know how you plan to back it up."

Bill reaches into the pocket of his coat and then reads the date and address where Kutchin's arrest occurred. He says the arrest is public record if someone takes the time to look.

The interviewer tells Bill if what he's saying is true, both he and Kutchin are about to get a lot more attention than they've been getting so far in the Senate race, where Kutchin enjoys a large lead in the polls.

Bill says he hopes that's true, because if people take the time to listen to what he has to say, he thinks they'll see how important this election is.

The interviewer thanks Bill for coming and then they sign off the air. The broadcast switches over to a pre-recorded story about recent economic statistics.

The kid working the sound console in the rack room says, "Holy cow."

The interviewer tells Bill, "You just kicked a hornet's nest. Hope you don't get stung by it."

"It had to be done. Someone has to speak truth to power."

Bill comes into the rack room and then he and Sandy exit the radio station. His cell phone buzzes as they wait for the elevator. He pulls his phone from his coat pocket and reads the text message.

"Castelli's giving us the money," Bill says. "Like she said she would."

"Yeah," Sandy says. "I guess that's good." But she felt in her gut it wasn't.

"The battle is joined," Bill says.

Sandy wonders if Bill just got played for a fool by Castelli and thinks the campaign is about to turn into a train wreck.

"We're going by the campaign office now, right?" Sandy says.

"Castelli wants us to come straight over."

"I promised Delorean I'd meet him at the office. This is important to me."

"There's half a million dollars at stake here, Sandy. Call Mindy and tell her we're going to be delayed by a couple hours. Delorean can wait."

Sandy feels the sinking feeling in her stomach again. The one reminding her that people get hurt when she breaks her promises.
Monday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

I wake up with a terrible hangover. The sun is shining through the gaps in the hotel room drapes. I squint at the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the bedside table and decide I'm going on the wagon. My head throbs with a killer headache and my mouth feels like it's full of cat fur. I shuffle into the bathroom and sip water from the tap. The water stays down, so I know my stomach is functional. That's positive. I swallow four aspirin with tap water. Brush my teeth. Take a few more sips of water. Stand under a hot shower for ten minutes. Sip more water. Shave. Put on clean clothes. Sip more water.

I check my phone. There's a message from Sandy saying that she'll meet me at the campaign office at ten. Can't say I'm looking forward to it.

Given the state of my stomach, I decide to skip the continental breakfast. My watch says it's almost ten, so I need to get moving. I carry Sandy's winter coat and gym bag out to the parking lot, blinking at the bright sunshine. I get behind the wheel and head towards the office park where the campaign headquarters is located. I have a Mustang GT that's seen better days, but it's still a pleasure to drive. As old as it is, the V8 engine still pulls strong, the manual transmission shifts smoothly, and the exhaust note has a throaty rumble.

The parking lot for the campaign headquarters is almost empty. I don't see Sandy's Camaro SS or the gold 'Steadman for Senate' Tahoe, so I guess Sandy has more pressing business to attend to than to come by and see me. At least she's consistent.

There's a red Hyundai Tucson parked in the space nearest the front door of the campaign office. I pick up Sandy's winter coat and gym bag from the back seat and take them with me. The door's unlocked, so I stick my head inside.

"Hello?" I say.

Mindy is behind her desk. She's got her reading glasses on and looks at me over her laptop computer screen.

"Well, hello," she says. "It's you again."

"I'm like a bad penny. I keep turning up."

She gives me a pleasant smile and says, "Welcome back."

I step inside. The office feels empty with just the two of us there.

"I wanted to drop these off for Sandy." I put the gym bag and coat on one of the vacant desks.

"Were you able to connect with her?"

"Not exactly. I think we had our signals crossed."

"I'm sorry. You came a long way."

"Yeah. I'm sorry, too."
Monday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Carl

Carl's waiting for Tony by the door of the hotel room. He's eager to get going, but Tony isn't in good shape to go anywhere. He slept in his black leather suit the last two nights, and the welt on his forehead has turned yellow and purple. He's got rings around his eyes that look like brushed-on grease paint.

"Lemme hit the can first," Tony says.

When they get out to the parking lot, Carl shakes his head. Tony's German sports coupe looks like it should be hauled to a scrap yard.

"That asshole ruined my car," Tony says. "I shoulda killed him."

"I think you tried to, Tony. He was just too big. The guy was a monster."

Tony walks around the car and says, "Shit. I don't think this thing can be fixed. I don't have insurance on it, either."

Carl pauses, and then says, "Do you want me to drive? I know how to get to Michael's hotel."

Tony shrugs his shoulders. "Why not? I don't want to drive it."

Carl gets behind the wheel. Tony gets in on the passenger side and slips the pistol into the glove box.

They drive the half mile to the Wayfarer Inn, and as they approach, they see Carl's blue van exit the hotel parking lot.

"That's him!" Carl says. He guns the motor to catch up to the van.

"Take it easy. Just follow him. Let's find out why he's here. There's got to be a reason."

Carl eases off the gas and they fall in behind the van, staying a few cars back. As they approach an office park, they're cut off by a trailer truck who turns in front of them as if they weren't there. Carl hits the brakes hard to avoid a collision and lays on the horn.

"You gotta be kidding me," Tony says.

The truck backs and fills a few times to make a tight turn into one of the lots, and they lose sight of the van.

When the road opens in front of them again, Carl yells, "Where the hell did he go?"

"We'll find him. We'll just check every one of the lots in the office park. It can't be that hard."
Monday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

I'm talking to Mindy in the Steadman campaign office when her cell phone buzzes. It's Sandy calling, and the two of them have a short conversation before Mindy tells her I've come by the office to drop off a few of her things. Then Mindy listens for a couple seconds before putting the cell phone down on her desk.

"Bill and Sandy had a change of plans," she says. "They're headed to a meeting with a big-money donor in Meridian. They won't be coming by the office for another hour or two."

I don't say anything.

"I'm sorry," Mindy says.

"It's okay. Sometimes things get complicated."

"I know how that goes. I have a small favor to ask, since you're here."

"Sure."

"Would you mind taking something out to the dumpster for me?"

"Not at all."

"You know that rat I was telling you about? I'd been keeping it until Sandy could look at it, but I can't stand having that thing in the office. It's started to stink. And I loathe rats. So, if you wouldn't mind..."

"Okay if I take a look at it?" I say.

"I hope you have a strong stomach."

Mindy and I enter the storeroom through an arched doorway behind the back row of desks. The space runs the width of the campaign office and is about ten feet deep. There's a door for a unisex bathroom, inexpensive metal shelving holding stacks of printer paper, napkins, a can of coffee grounds and a stack of filters, a few dozen 'Steadman for Senate' yard signs resting against the wall, and a trash can full of cups and boxes from take-out restaurants. There's a fluorescent light mounted on the ceiling, and the concrete floor is painted grey. The storeroom walls are covered in wood grain plastic.

"It's over here," Mindy says.

She moves the trash can out of the way, exposing a box that a computer printer came in. She opens the box and I lean over to see what's inside. There's a headless rat and a three by five-inch card with the words "Purify Yourself" scrawled on the card in child's handwriting. The rat smells of burnt fur, decay, and poison. The odor reminds me of the man I stood next to at the Steadman rally at Boise State.

"Is there anything written on the wrapping paper?" I ask.

"It just says 'For Bill Steadman' on it. I had no idea what it was, so I opened it up."

"Right."

"Sandy told me to hold onto it and not to call the police, but still ..."

"I know. Let me take this with me. Maybe I can find a lab that'll look at it."

"You're sure?" she says.

"I'm seldom sure. But I'm willing to try."

I use napkins to keep my fingerprints off the package wrapping paper, and I pick up the package and follow Mindy out of the storeroom into the main office area. I try not to inhale the smell coming from the rat. It's ripe.

I put the box on the desk farthest from Mindy's. "I'm going to leave this here for a minute. Let me make space in the trunk of my car and I'll be back for it."

I go out to the parking lot and pop the trunk lid on the Mustang. There isn't a lot of room, so I release the mounting bracket and shove the spare tire to one side. While I'm standing by the trunk, an antique blue van pulls into the parking place next to mine, and a boy and girl who look high school age get out. The boy hits the alarm key on his key fob and I hear the van's alarm chirp.

"Cool car, Mister," the boy says. He's tall and skinny, with an angular face and dark hair. He's wearing jeans, basketball shoes, and a concert tee-shirt from Death Cab for Cutie.

"Thanks," I say.

"Does it have the V8 in it?"

"It does."

"I like it."

"If you can use a screwdriver and a wrench, you can keep one of these old Mustangs running," I tell him.

His girlfriend has her hand on his arm. She's wearing a long skirt, boots, and a man's windbreaker. She has a pretty face and wears no makeup at all. They seem like nice kids. Under other circumstances I would have offered to give them a ride in my car if they wanted it.

"Do you know if Mr. Steadman is inside?" he asks.

"No. He's not here right now."

He takes that in, looks a little sad. "Well, I need to find him."

"There's a lady in there who might be able to help. I think he'll be around later today."

The two of them go into the campaign headquarters, and I go back to looking at the trunk, trying to figure out if the printer box will fit in there or if I'll need to transfer the rat to a smaller container. Mustangs are great cars, but trunk space isn't their strongest attribute.

I'm about to head back into the campaign headquarters when a black luxury coupe approaches and parks crosswise behind my car and the van so I can't back out and the van can't either. The coupe looks like it was stomped on by an ogre. The hood, roof, and trunk are all bowl-shaped, and I can't help but stare.

Two men get out of the car: a tall man wearing wrinkled and stained dress clothes, and a short man in a tight leather suit. The tall man has a grey pallor, beard stubble, and looks like he hasn't gotten his hands dirty or broken a sweat since he was in elementary school. The short one has two black eyes and an ugly bruise on his forehead.

The short man in the leather suit gives me a hard look. "What is this place?" he says.

I look over my shoulder towards the campaign office. There are Steadman banners in the windows, and campaign signs in the grass between the parking lot and the building.

"What does it look like?" I say. "It's headquarters for the Steadman for Senate campaign."

He glares at me while the tall man checks the front and back doors on the van. When the tall man walks past me I can smell his body odor.

"Okay," says the tall man. "It's locked."

"You got a spare set of keys?" the short man says. He watches me like he wants me to know he isn't putting up with any misbehavior from me. I stifle a yawn.

"No. There's just one set, and Michael has 'em."

"Break the glass," the short man says.

"I'd rather not," the tall one says. "This thing's got an alarm system that disables the ignition, and a siren you can hear for a mile. Let's just get the keys from Michael."

"Did you look in the windows?" the short man says.

"The tubs are in there. I can see that. I just don't know what's inside."

"You two mind moving your car?" I say. "I'm going to be leaving in a minute."

"Do I look like I want to move my car?" the short man says.

"No. You look like a raccoon with a leather fetish," I say.

He gives me a hard stare. "You keep this up, asshole, and you and me are going to drop gloves."

"How about now, Rocky? Since I'm not going anywhere."

"Maybe later, Sport," he says. "When it suits me." They head towards the campaign office. The short man gives me the finger as he walks away.

I finish wiping the tire grime from my hands and throw the rag into the trunk of the Mustang. I head for the office with the blood rushing in my ears. When I get inside, the two men are standing in the center of the office, and Mindy's over by the storeroom doorway. The kids are nowhere to be seen.

"Where's the kid?" the man in the leather suit asks.

"What kid?" Mindy says.

"The boy," the man in leather says. "His van's parked outside. Are they in the back?"

The boy appears behind Mindy. I hear him say, "Carl? What are you doing here?"

The tall man yells, "Michael! I want the keys to the van! Now!" His voice booms in the confined space.

"That's a coincidence," I say evenly. "I want the keys to the wreck that's parked behind my car. So I can move it and get the hell out of here. Maybe we can work something out."

The short man turns to face me. "You don't want to get in the middle of this," he says.

"Suppose I do."

"It'll be your last day on earth," he says.

"Doesn't seem like much of a threat coming from you."

I hear the boy tell Mindy the tall man is his stepfather.

The short man points his finger at me. "You're a dead man," he says.

The tall man says, "Just a minute, Tony." He looks at me, and then nods towards the boy standing behind Mindy. "That boy is my stepson, who took _my_ van, which is parked outside. I own it and it has _my_ belongings in it. He took it without asking permission first, okay? He _stole_ it. All I want are the keys to the van. Then we'll be on our way."

"He wants to give the keys to you, that's fine. You or your asshole friend put your hands on him, it isn't."

"Back off and get the fuck out of here," the short man says. "While you can still walk."

I hear the bathroom door close.

"Go screw," I say.

"It's like that, is it?" the short man says.

"You heard me."

I hear the boy tell the girl his stepdad is here. The surprise registers in her voice as she says, "Whaaat?"

The short man says, "Carl, get my piece from the car."

I'm standing by the office door, and the tall man is going to have to go through me to get the gun. I'm not going to let him leave.

The short man tilts his chin in my direction and says, "Not so big now, are you? You fucked with the wrong guy." He laughs like he's got the upper hand now. The abrasive heh-heh-heh sound of his laugh tips the scales. I decide that before we're done, I'm going to beat him flat or die trying.

Through the fog of my anger I hear Mindy telling the two men if they don't leave, she's going to call the police.

The short man tells Mindy if she doesn't want to get hurt, she should leave the police out of it. Then he tips his head in my direction and says, "Carl, when I go for this mook, get your boy and take the keys."

I run at him full-blast.

He's short, but he's got guts and knows how to fight, and he gets his hands up like a boxer's as I close the distance between us. I'm not interested in having a boxing match with him, though. I'm going to use my weight advantage and speed to run over him. I'm moving fast when we make contact, and I weigh at least forty pounds more than he does. I drive him into one of the office desks, and the two of us go down on top of the desk as it flips legs-up.

I hear the girl scream.

His eyes are bloodshot and bugged out and panicked. I've got him pinned against the overturned desk with my left hand and I start punching him with my right. He fights back, throwing one hook after another at the side of my head. I tip my ear into my shoulder to make it harder for him to hurt me, and then I go to work on his face like I'm trying to pound it into paste. When I connect with his nose I feel the bones give way, and then he quits swinging at me and starts trying to block my punches with open hands I slap out of the way before punching again, twisting my torso and aiming for a point on the other side of his bouncing skull.

After a dozen blows, his eyes roll up in his head and his body goes slack. There's blood streaming from his nose and mouth. I press off against him and get to my feet. My left ear is ringing from his punches, and my right hand is numb. Mindy's standing beside me asking me if I'm okay. Then the tall man enters through the office door, and he's holding a gun against the side of his leg. The pistol is black and has a narrow barrel with an orange dot on the gun sight.

"All right," he says. He's breathing hard, like he just ran up ten flights of stairs.

I'm standing beside the unconscious, leather-clad thug and I'm breathing hard, too.

"All right, _what_?" I say. "You planning to use that on all of us?"

"If I have to. Michael, you're coming with me."

I say, "No, he isn't. You're not taking any hostages here, and you're damned sure not taking a child at gunpoint."

I start walking towards him, opening and closing my hands to loosen them up in case I need to grab hold of him. The tall man raises the pistol and aims it at my head. His eyes go wide as he thinks about whether to pull the trigger, and at that point I put my shoulder down and go for him the same way I did his friend. Fast and hard, like I'm trying to sack the quarterback. We crash into the wall by the big whiteboard and I hear the air go out of his lungs with a whoosh. I take a step back as he moves to aim at me again. I trap his wrist with both of my hands and then shove his arm upwards, slamming my knee into his groin. He makes a loud grunting sound and starts to double over. I get one hand on the barrel and the other on his forearm and rock the gun back so far he either has to let go of it or I'll break his wrist. I hear him cry out in pain as he releases it, and then he sags against the whiteboard. I watch him slide to the floor, roll over on his side, and cup his balls in both hands.

I've got so much adrenaline in my body the target pistol feels weightless in my hands. I notice the safety is still on, so he couldn't have shot me even if he'd wanted to. Lucky me.
Monday Morning in Meridian, Idaho - Sandy

On the drive from the radio station in Boise to Jane Castelli's house in the suburb of Meridian, Bill and Sandy listen to National Public Radio. Bill's revelation about Brett Kutchin's arrest for solicitation has already ignited a firestorm of controversy in Washington D.C. and in Boise, too. Bill's phone is buzzing with texts congratulating him, or wanting to make donations, or make threats, or requesting an interview with him about the Kutchin claims. The Idaho attorney general calls Bill. Bill puts the phone on speaker, and the man's voice fills the car.

"Can you hear me?" The attorney general says.

"Yes. I can hear you," Bill says.

"Good. Then hear this: if your claim about Brett Kutchin turns out to be false, I will coordinate a civil suit against you for slander, and when I get you in court I'll cut your balls off with a rusty knife. Kutchin has a lot of friends in this state and I'm one of them. Understood?"

"The story is true," Bill says. "I have the paperwork to back it up."

"It better be. Or you're finished in this state." Then the attorney general hangs up.

Bill tosses his phone into the glove box and slams it shut. "That went well."

Sandy glances over at Bill. "I noticed."

\---

Sandy and Bill are sitting with Jane Castelli in her kitchen. Jane has the television on, and Bill Steadman and Brett Kutchin's faces are on the screen. The headline says, 'Mudslinging in the Idaho Senate Race.' Then the picture switches to Kutchin's face before switching again to a picture of Kutchin's arrest report for solicitation in Washington, D.C. During the fifteen-minute drive from Boise to Meridian, the press unearthed and published copies of Kutchin's arrest report. Sandy wonders if Castelli fed the report to the press after Bill's radio interview.

"You're a player now," Castelli tells Bill. "Here's your check."

She hands Bill a check from the Super-PAC she founded called Integrity in Idaho Politics. It's for half a million dollars, as promised.

"There's more where this came from," Castelli says. "Keep fighting. There are plenty of people like me who'll start donating, now that they know this is a real race."

"My phone is melting down with texts and phone calls," Bill says. "The attorney general chewed my ass on the way over from the radio station."

"Be careful what you wish for," Castelli says. "You just might get it. You're a contender now."

"Thanks to you," Bill says.

"What do you think about Bill's chances now?" Castelli asks Sandy.

Bill gives Sandy a look she takes for a warning, telling her to keep her mouth shut for a change.

Sandy's still angry she was unable to get by the campaign office to meet with Delorean, and she can't help herself. She says what she thinks.

"I think Bill's chances are better, but it's too soon to tell," Sandy says. "Kutchin could resign, and they could find a replacement who's popular and squeaky-clean. It'll still be tough for Bill to win if they replace Kutchin with a strong candidate soon enough. On the other hand, if Kutchin refuses to quit, Bill has a shot at winning if enough people are turned off by what Kutchin's been doing. I think the best we can hope for is that Kutchin doesn't quit, but he's so damaged that voters can't stomach going to the polls to support him."

Bill glowers at her from across the kitchen table.

"Right," Jane says. Her cell phone buzzes and she picks it up to see who's calling. She signals Sandy and Bill to be quiet. She listens to the caller, then says she'll pass the message along. She puts the cell phone down.

"How would you like another quarter million dollars?" Jane says.

Bill nods his head. "Absolutely."

"Some donors in Coeur d'Alene wanted to know if you could be there tonight. They're getting a group together, and they're bringing their checkbooks. They want to meet you in person to be sure you're ready for war."

"I can do that."

Sandy thinks about how it's a seven-hour drive to get from Boise to Coeur d'Alene. After they stop at the bank to deposit the check from Jane Castelli, there isn't going to be time to go by the campaign office, or to see Delorean. The campaign is devouring her life.
Monday Morning in Boise, Idaho – Michael

Michael is frozen in place after watching the violence unfold in front of him. Carl's on the floor under the whiteboard, and Delorean is holding the gun he took from Carl.

Delorean says, "What's in the van, kid?" without turning to look at Michael.

Mindy walks over to Delorean's side. "I'm calling the police," she says.

"I want to ask these morons a few questions first," Delorean says. "After that, you can call the police if you want to. Fair enough?"

"Okay. If that's what you want."

"What's in the van, kid?" Delorean says again.

"Just some camping gear."

"You mind showing me?"

"Okay."

Delorean leans over Carl and says, "If you give me any trouble at all, I'm going to beat you like a drum. Then I'll call the police and tell them your friend threatened to kill me, and you pointed a gun at my head. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes."

"Get up!"

Carl gets to his feet. Delorean tells Mindy he'll be right back. He hands her the pistol and says if the man in the leather suit makes any trouble, to shoot him. He shows her how to disable the safety.

Michael tells Amy he'll be back, and he follows Delorean and Carl out to the parking lot. Delorean walks one step behind Carl. Michael brings up the rear.

As they approach the van, Michael hits the alarm button on the key fob. The van's doors unlock and the headlights flash.

"Open it up," Delorean says. "I want to see what's so special about camping gear these cretins are willing to kill for it."

They step around to the rear of the van. Michael opens the double doors, exposing the big plastic tubs.

"Pull 'em out," Delorean says.

"I have a business," Carl says. "Let me explain."

Delorean slaps Carl on the back of the head so hard Carl almost falls over. "You open your mouth again before I tell you to, I'll punch your lights out."

Michael grabs the closest tub and pulls it from the van. It hits the ground with a thud.

"Open it," Delorean says.

Michael pops the lid, sees what's inside, and his body jerks like he touched an electrified wire. The tub is full of bundles of bills, each bundle several inches thick and wrapped with a fat rubber band.

"What the hell?" Michael says.

Delorean gives Carl a look. Then he tells Michael to get the other tubs out and to open them up, too.

Some of the tubs are full of camping gear, but most contain cash. Michael doesn't know how much it is, but it's a whole lot. Michael tries to reconcile Carl having this kind of money with calling the police after Michael stole a hundred and forty bucks from Carl's wallet. He can't fit both of those thoughts in his head at the same time. When he adds in the fact that his stepfather just threatened to kill someone, it's a lot to come to terms with. Michael never liked Carl very much, but he realizes he likes Carl a whole lot less now.

"Anything else in the van?" Delorean says.

Michael thinks about it.

"Kid. Anything else in the van?"

"Oh. Sorry," Michael says. "I was just trying to remember. There are two guns I took when I left the house."

"Where are they?"

"In the tub with the freeze-dried food."

"Let me see 'em."

Michael digs through the packets of food and hands the guns to Delorean, who looks the pistols over and shakes his head.

"Your name is Carl, is that right?" Delorean says to Michael's stepfather. "I heard your friend call you that."

"Yes," Carl says.

"Well, Carl, these look like pass-around guns to me, and I'll bet they have a history. If I had to guess, I'd say you hold onto them for your friend when he's not out shooting people."

Carl doesn't respond.

Delorean asks Michael to put the guns in the trunk of the Mustang and close the trunk lid.

As Michael walks away, he hears Delorean tell Carl he has thirty seconds to explain where the money came from or he'll call the cops.

Michael wonders if Carl and the short man will share a jail cell in the penitentiary.
Monday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Amy

Amy is shaken by the violence she just witnessed in the Campaign office. She thinks about how it was only a few days ago that she was assaulted by Buswell in the Grotto. It feels to her like the world has stopped spinning on its axis and is wobbling out of control. She pulls herself together emotionally, wondering how she could get back to the life she had a few days earlier.

Mindy asks Amy if she's okay, introduces herself, and they shake hands. Then Mindy goes back to holding a gun on Tony's unconscious body.

"Would you shoot him if you had to?" Amy asks.

Mindy thinks about it. "You know, after what just happened here, I think I would," she says. "He seems like someone who enjoys hurting people. I wouldn't feel guilty about it if I had to shoot him to defend myself."

Amy asks Mindy if it's okay to go outside to check on Michael. Mindy says, "Of course."

Amy goes outside and sees Michael, Delorean, and Michael's step-dad standing by the rear of the van. She watches Michael carry a pair of guns towards the open trunk of the Mustang. There are open plastic tubs on the asphalt, many containing rolls of bills. Amy's shocked to see Michael carrying guns. She feels like she's stepped into the middle of a reality show about organized crime.

Amy hears Delorean tell Carl he has thirty seconds to explain where the money came from.

Carl says he operates an accounting business for marijuana retailers in Oregon and says you can't put pot money into the banking system, so the money needs to be warehoused. That's why the money is in tubs, instead of in a bank account.

Delorean tells Carl that if the money is legit, and it belongs to him, he would have called the police when the money was taken. He says he thinks he should turn everything over to the cops and let them sort it out.

"Please don't do that," Carl says.

"Why not?" Delorean says.

"Because I'll make it worth your while not to."

Michael comes back from Delorean's car and tells him he locked the guns in the trunk of the Mustang. He makes eye contact with Amy and then looks away, as if he feels ashamed for getting her in the middle of this mess.

"What's your name?" Delorean says.

"Michael."

"Michael, did you know the money was in the tubs?"

"No."

"Why did you take off with Carl's van?"

"I took some money from his wallet and he charged me with theft. I'm probably going to jail. Bill Steadman is my birth father, and I came here to ask him for help."

"You're Bill Steadman's kid?"

Michael nods.

"That's why you came to the campaign headquarters. Because your stepfather, who we now know is an upstanding pillar of the community, wanted you to go to jail for lifting money from his wallet. And because you hoped your birth father would intervene."

Michael nods his head and says, "Right."

"Have you talked to Bill Steadman yet?"

Michael says, "I never met him until yesterday. I saw him at the Capitol and told him who I was. Then he kind of ran away from me."

"How old are you?" Delorean asks Michael.

"Seventeen."

"Do you still want to live with your stepfather?"

"Not if I don't have to."

Delorean shakes his head and says, "I think we need to come to a new equilibrium. Don't you, Carl?"

Carl doesn't say anything.

"Here's what's on offer, Carl. You're going to drop the charges against this kid immediately. You're going to fill out a parental consent form to emancipate him, too. When I hear from him you've done both of those things, and he has it in writing that he's free and clear, we can have a conversation."

"What's emancipation?" Michael says.

"It means you're an adult and he doesn't have any authority over you anymore," Delorean says.

"For real?"

"That's right. You'll have to go to court to make it official, but if you have money in the bank and a parental consent form, it won't be a problem. And he'll have money in the bank, won't he, Carl?"

Carl nods. "I'll tell him as soon as it's done," he says.

"He's going to have to see it on official letterhead before you get any of the money back."

"What about the guns?" Carl says.

"What about 'em? You and leather-boy just tried to kill me," Delorean says. "I'm not giving you your guns back. I might drop them off at the police department and tell them I think they were used in shootings. How does that sound?"

"I need the guns. You can keep the cash." His voice is shaking when he says it.

"All of that money for those beat-up guns," Delorean says. "You and your friend must be very bad men."

Carl doesn't respond.

Delorean says, "You're a piece of work, Carl. When I hear from Michael you kept your part of the deal, I'll be in touch."

"What about the gun in the office?" Carl says.

"The one you aimed at my head?"

"I'm offering you a lot of money. One hundred seventeen thousand four hundred fifteen dollars."

"That's a pretty specific number."

"I'm an accountant. I totaled it up before Michael took the van."

"You can have the guns back. Drop the charges against the kid and cut him loose legally."

"How do I know you'll keep your part of the deal?" Carl says.

"If your guns can be matched with unsolved crimes, why would I want to hold onto them? That would make me an accessory to a crime, and worse. I'm better off giving them back to you."

"What about the van?"

"What about it? Did you murder someone in it?"

Carl says, "No. No, I didn't do that."

"Then shut up about it."

Carl looks at his feet.

Delorean says, "Listen up, Carl. We're going to put your friend in your car, and you're going to get out of here and never come back. Because if you ever do come back, or bother me, or your kid, or his girlfriend, or the lady in the office, we'll testify you pointed a loaded gun at my head and your friend threatened to kill me. That's aggravated assault, which is fifteen years in prison."

Carl looks up, nods his head. "I promise."

Amy feels like she's taken a turn down a dark alley and found herself on the wrong side of town. She's never seen violence like this, or heard people talk so casually about murder. She hadn't realized she'd been living in a bubble of comfort and safety back in Hampton. Now she wishes she'd stayed there.

Delorean and Michael's stepfather go inside the campaign office. Amy goes over to Michael and they hug each other. A few minutes later Delorean and Carl come back out of the office, carry-dragging Tony out to the bashed-in car before strapping him into the passenger seat. Then Carl gets behind the wheel, takes one last look at Michael and the van, and starts the engine.

Michael watches Carl drive away. Amy expects Michael to cry or look upset. Instead, Michael raises the middle finger on his right hand and waves it at the car as it leaves the parking lot.

Amy thinks about the PROs and CONs of what just happened, but she doesn't have her notebook with her, so she can't write anything down. She wonders if it's a good thing or bad thing that Michael just split permanently from his step-dad. Based on what she just saw happen, it's a good thing.

Delorean looks at Michael and says, "Kid, are you okay?"

Michael nods. "I think so. At least I won't be going to jail."

"That's no small thing."

"What's your name?" Michael asks.

"Delorean."

"Are you going to give my stepdad his money and guns back?" Michael says.

"If he keeps his part of the deal."

Michael doesn't say anything.

"I'm sorry to tell you this, but you're going to have to get used to taking care of yourself. I can't see you living under his roof anymore."

"Why are you doing this for me? You don't even know me."

"Your stepfather and his friend are killers. I hate to see a kid have to deal with people like that. I've been there myself, and it'll ruin you."

Amy thinks about how she's a different person than she was a week ago, and wonders if she's been stained by the world she stepped into. In her old world, things were predictable, safe, and boring. In her new world she doesn't know from one minute to the next what's going to happen. As much as she cares about Michael, she wants her old life back.
Monday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

I'm back inside the campaign headquarters. Mindy's put the office furniture in order, and she's using spray cleaner to get the blood stains from the carpet.

I tell Mindy that Carl and his friend are never coming back, and I can guarantee that.

"How?" she says.

"They tried to kill me, and I'll press charges if they ever come back or bother me, or you, or either of the kids."

She looks thoughtful. "So, we're not going to call the police on those creeps?"

"Do you want to spend the next six months of your life in court? To have it all come to nothing if someone on the jury isn't convinced those two are at fault, or they think I provoked them somehow?"

"No," Mindy says.

"Then the deal I struck with those clowns is a better deal."

"Won't they just hurt someone else if they're never arrested?"

"I'll see to it they don't. But I want to make sure you and the kids are kept out of it."

"Oh."

I go outside and haul the tubs of money in and stack them near the bookshelves where the coffee filters and printer paper are stored.

Mindy lifts an eyebrow as I carry the last tub past her desk.

"What are you putting in the storeroom?" she says.

"Leverage."

\---

I'm standing by my car while I talk on the phone with Eric Fullmeyer. Eric is a federal marshal involved with the witness security program. We met several years ago when I testified at a murder trial in Alamogordo, New Mexico. The killer was hooked up with a Mexican drug cartel, and by testifying against him in open court I signed my own death warrant. Sandy was a police officer at the time, and she testified at the trial, too. After the trial I talked to Eric about relocating under an assumed identity. WITSEC rejected me, saying I was too unstable and violent to be in the program. Eric was sympathetic to my situation, and he relocated me to the Oregon coast at his own expense. We've been friends ever since.

"I have a request," I say. "What with me being a taxpaying citizen and all."

"Right. When was the last time you paid taxes?"

"And I think we would both agree federal employees are public servants."

"If you think I'm your servant, you must be stoned."

"My body is a temple, Eric. I'd never poison myself that way."

"I have to be in court in five minutes. Can you please get to the point?"

"I want your crime lab to analyze a rat."

Eric laughs. "Did you just say 'rat'?"

"Yes. The rat and the package it came in. Maybe there are fingerprints or something else that can help us backtrack to the idiots who sent it to the Steadman campaign office."

"Are you involved with the campaign now?"

"No."

"Then why are you in the middle of this?"

"Because I'm concerned for Sandy's safety."

"She can take care of herself," Eric says.

"I know that."

"Why didn't Sandy call the FBI if she thinks the rat's connected to a serious threat to Steadman?"

"The campaign manager says they're concerned about negative publicity if it gets out that Steadman is being threatened."

"Okay. So, you want a crime lab to look at the package?" Fullmeyer says. "Fine. Suppose we find evidence of a felony or some credible threat. Since Sandy doesn't want law enforcement involved, what am I supposed to do then?"

"Tell me what you find. I'll take it from there."

"She's going to be pissed we're interfering in this, and you know it. If she wanted help she would have asked for it."

"The office manager said Sandy wanted to look at it herself, but she hasn't had the chance."

"Then aren't you the helpful one?" Eric says. I can hear the disapproval in his voice.

"I think I met one of the guys who sent the package. The threat is real."

"Oh?"

"She's had armed confrontations with some of his buddies. I met one of them a few days ago. Try to imagine a zombie in a sheepskin coat. One who smells like a can of bug spray."

"Is that right?"

"Yes."

Fullmeyer is silent for a moment. "Did the package come through the mail?" he asks.

"No. It was left on the campaign headquarters doorstep."

"That's too bad. If the rat came through the mail, we could have turned the mess over to the postal inspectors. Remind me why you have your panties twisted in a knot about a dead rat. That sounds like a prank."

"The rat was decapitated, charcoaled, and smells like the zombie who showed up at Boise State."

"Ah," he says. "The rat has a connection to another visible threat."

"Exactly."

Eric pauses. "Okay. I'm willing to have someone look at it, but I'm not sure what we're going to get off a scorched rat. What do you expect us to find?"

"Maybe the package has fingerprints on it."

"Did you touch it?"

"No."

"What about the person who opened the package?"

"Her name is Mindy. She's the office manager for the Steadman campaign in Boise."

Eric sighs. "Text me the address. I'll send someone by to pick it up. We'll need to get Mindy's prints, so we can exclude them."

"Thank you, Eric."

"Right. You owe me."

"I would have thought giving you a chance to protect the commonwealth would be reward enough," I say.

"I'd reach through the phone and choke you unconscious right now if I could," Eric says.

"Nobody's invented an app for that yet."

"I'm going to check into that," he says. Then he hangs up.
Monday at Noon in Boise, Idaho - Carl

Carl's driving the wrecked coupe as they head west out of Boise. He's steering with his right hand and cupping his balls in his left, trying to insulate his aching testicles from the road vibration transmitted through the car's stiff suspension. Despite how bad he feels, he thinks he's lucky compared to Tony. Between the beating at the truck stop and the beating at the campaign office, Tony's face is gruesome. There's dried blood on his nose and chin, and he's got new bruises on his cheeks to match the one on his forehead. While Carl is making an inventory of Tony's injuries, Tony lifts his chin and squints at Carl through swollen eyelids.

"You're awake," Carl says.

Tony groans, then touches his nose like he's checking to see if it's broken. "Did we get the money back?"

"Not yet, but I think we might."

"Did we get the guns back?"

"Not yet, but I think we will."

"Did I win the fight with that asshole?"

"No, Tony. You got your clock cleaned. That guy's a brawler, and he can hit. You popped him pretty good a few times and he just shrugged it off."

"I don't remember much after he tackled me."

"It didn't go well, Tony," Carl says.

Tony's lips are swollen from the beatings he's taken, accentuating his pout. "That guy was an asshole. He had a mouth on him."

"Well, that asshole has the money and the guns," Carl says. "But he said we might get the guns and the money back if I cut my kid loose legally. Otherwise everything goes to the police."

"Coulda been worse, then."

Carl glances at the blood that's dried on Tony's beaten-on face. "Yeah. It could have been worse."

"You're gonna cut the kid loose, right?"

"Yeah, Tony. I'm cutting him loose."

"I remember telling you to go to the car to get the gun."

"Yeah, after he started pounding on you I did that. Then I pointed the gun at him, but I was slow about pulling the trigger and he hit me like a ton of bricks. He got me up against the wall and smashed my balls and took the gun."

"It's okay," Tony says. "At least you tried."

"I did try, Tony. I'm sorry. I haven't used a gun before. I didn't know what I was doing."

"We're fucked, aren't we?"

"Yeah, we are. But not as bad as we could be," Carl says.

"Assume he gives us the guns back," Tony says. "Assume he does that. You and I are on the hook for the cash. The people we work for aren't going to ignore it that we lost the money."

"I know."

"How much cash was in the van?"

"One hundred seventeen thousand."

"You know of any way we can come up with that much cash in the next day or two? It would be better if we could put it back without making a fuss. I got maybe ten large in cash. No way could I come up with the rest of it."

"I been thinking about that," Carl says. "I'm going to take out a loan against my retirement account to make up the difference. You can tell your bosses I figured out a way to put the money into the banking system this time, by doing a swap on my 401K. They'll like that because the money's clean."

"You think you can get that done soon?" Tony says.

"In two business days."

"That would be better than wearing a concrete overcoat."

"It would."

"Or being put through a meat grinder."

"No argument."

"Do you think that asshole will keep his word and give us the guns?"

"I do," Carl says. "And when I get them, I'll grind them down to metal shavings. Then I'll just be down however much cash he keeps. But I won't be in jail, and I won't be dead, so that seems like a bargain."

"Why do you think he'll keep his part of the deal? What if he goes to the police?"

"Money makes the world go around. If he talks to the cops, they'll take the cash and guns and he'll have nothing except the satisfaction of making our lives harder. We'll be screwed, but he'll have nothing."

Tony's checking each of his teeth with his fingertips, like he's trying to figure out if any of them are going to fall out. "True."

"But if he doesn't go to the police, maybe he gets a payout. You saw the car that guy's driving. He needs the cash."

"Okay. But suppose he keeps the cash and disappears, or he gives the guns to the FBI."

"I don't think he'll do that," Carl says. "He wants me to cut my kid loose. If he jerks us around, the kid is vulnerable, right?"

"Yeah. Okay. I can see that. But why does he care about your kid? Does he know him or something?"

"He thought we were gonna take Michael and kill him. I guess it set him off," Carl says.

"I wasn't gonna kill him. I just wanted the damned keys."

"I'm just telling you how it was," Carl says.

"I know."

"So, he'll stick with the deal, so I'm sticking with the deal."

Tony is quiet for a while. Then he says, "After we get the guns back and the money back, I'm going to track that asshole down and close out his account. I can't live with this hanging over my head."

"What do you mean?"

"Since the first time I got my ass kicked on a playground when I was a little kid, I never let anyone get the better of me. Ever. Maybe someone beats me in a fight. I come back later with a rock or piece of pipe. Wait until his back is turned and then tee off on him. When I lose a fight, it's a temporary setback followed by me putting somebody in a wheelchair or a casket. You can take that to the bank."

Carl shakes his head. Lets out a slow breath. Wonders when the nightmare will ever end.
Monday Afternoon in Idaho - Sandy

Cell phone service is spotty between Boise and Coeur d'Alene, but when Sandy and Bill drive through small towns like Cascade, Donnelly, and McCall, their phones have service, and Bill's phone buzzes with one text message after another. In between the small towns, Bill's phone goes silent again. Under the current circumstances Sandy thinks not being able to get cell service is a plus. There's a certain kind of loneliness in the empty spaces between small towns where a sense of peace settles over her. She experiences the natural beauty of landscapes that haven't been plowed or clear-cut or paved with asphalt yet.

Bill interrupts Sandy's reverie by saying the messages he's getting since the radio interview are an even mix of positive and negative comments. In general, the negative comments are meaner than the positive comments are supportive. Negative comments include "You're a damned liar," or "Watch your back, you son of a bitch." The positive comments are more along the lines of "Glad to see you do this," or "Kutchin had it coming."

If not for the stress of the campaign and the guilt about how things played out with Delorean, Sandy would have enjoyed the drive quite a bit more. The scenery between Boise and McCall is some of the prettiest Sandy's ever seen. Highway 55 is a National Scenic Byway, and it follows the Payette River from just above Boise all the way to Payette Lake about 80 miles to the north. The road meanders through canyons cut by the river, passes through forests so beautiful Sandy wants to sell everything she owns just to buy property there, and then continues past Lake Cascade, one of the most gorgeous pieces of water she's ever laid eyes on.

When they get to McCall, Bill checks the CNN news feed. As they drive through downtown McCall, Bill discovers Brett Kutchin has found and published a copy of the picture of twelve-year-old Bill strapped to a cross. Kutchin is quoted as saying he is innocent of all charges, and he claims Bill is a member of a religious cult.

"Kutchin published the picture of me being whipped on the cross," Bill says. "CNN picked it up."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"You sure?"

"No."

Bill falls silent after that. They head west out of downtown McCall, then connect with Interstate 95 in New Meadows and head north through the remote towns of Pollock and Riggins. It's high-desert driving, with barren hills rising on both sides of the dusty, twisting road. After Riggins, the road follows the Snake River north through Lucile, and on through Slate Creek before turning northeast through White Bird. The untouched natural beauty of the river and the hills settles over Sandy like a mild sedative. She's able to forgive herself for her flaws and feels grateful to be alive and to be seeing what she's seeing. She's able to forget about the campaign and just exist as an ordinary person for a while.

They're passing through Grangeville when Bill breaks his silence.

"Let's get off the road for a while and stretch our legs, okay?" he says.

Sandy exits the highway onto Main Street in downtown Grangeville. Most of the buildings are one-story and weather-beaten, as if the town has been hardened to endure one brutal winter after another.

"You see that hardware store?" Bill says.

"Sure."

"That's where they abandoned me when they threw me out of Heaven's Cape," he says. "I was thirteen years old, and they sent me into the store with a five-dollar bill and told me to get a pair of leather work gloves. When I came out, the men who brought me were gone."

"I'm sorry, Bill."

"I'm glad I got out of there, but I wouldn't wish being a homeless child on anyone. I don't know which is worse: being at Heaven's Cape or sleeping in a cardboard box when you haven't eaten anything in two days."

Sandy doesn't say anything.

As they approach the Grangeville City Park, Bill says, "Why don't you park it right here?"

Sandy pulls to the curb.

They get out of the Tahoe and walk across the grass to one of the picnic tables. There's a community swimming pool on the east side of the park, and picnic tables and playground equipment for small children. A warm breeze blows through the park, and the chains on the swing set creak in the wind. There's a car repair shop across the road, and Sandy hears an air impact wrench going. Someone's getting tires put on or taken off. It's a weekday and the park is almost empty.

"Do you feel like walking?" Bill says.

"I just need to get out of these heels." Sandy goes to the back of the Tahoe and puts on her running shoes.

After walking the perimeter of the park several times, Bill says he wants to see if Heaven's Cape still exists.

"What?" Sandy says.

"I need to see it. I need to get closure. Seeing that picture of me on the cross made me feel small and controlled by other people. I don't want to feel that way anymore. Do you understand? I need to confront it."

"Do you even know how to get there?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe."

"How far do you think it is from here?"

"An hour or less."

"I'm game," Sandy says. "But do you think we can still make it to Coeur d'Alene in time to meet with the donors?"

"It'll all work out." They get up from the picnic table and start walking back to the Tahoe. "Let me drive," he says. "It'll be easier for me to find it that way."

They get back in the Tahoe and continue east on Main Street for a few hundred yards before Bill hits the brakes hard and turns right on Mount Idaho Grade Road.

"I'm pretty sure I recognize this turn," he says.

They leave the city behind and wind back and forth through low hills at the base of Mt. Idaho. They follow Mt. Idaho Grade Road until it merges with Highway 14, a two-lane road that follows the South Fork Clearwater River. The road hugs the edge of a rocky hillside on the left side of the car. On the right side, there's a river that looks like a fly-fisherman's wet dream. The water is crystal clear, with a mirror-smooth surface blemished by whitewater forming on the backside of rocks and logs interrupting the flow. There are turnouts along the way, but Bill is so intent on driving that Sandy doesn't even ask whether they can park for a while and enjoy the view. They continue past the Castle Creek Campground.

"I think I remember seeing that campground on the way into Grangeville," he says.

Sandy looks at him and says, "Honestly, I'm shocked you remember any of this, Bill. You were just a kid, and that day must have been so traumatic. I would have blocked it out."

They pass through the tiny towns of Golden and Fall Creek before they come to the end of the highway in Elk City.

"I've been through here before," he says. "I'm sure of it."

Elk City is small even by small town standards. There's an RV park, a coffee shop, a post office, a tiny hotel, a few dozen houses along Main Street that look like they've endured hard winters and a difficult economy. There's a large field on the south side of town, and tree-covered hills rolling down into the valley where the houses and buildings are. It's a quiet and beautiful place left over from a gold rush that petered out a long time ago. Bill's driving slow, taking his time, looking at each of the intersections, trying to backtrack through twenty years of memories.

They park the Tahoe and go into the coffee shop, where Bill asks the waitresses if anyone has heard of the Heaven's Cape compound from a long time ago. One of the women says it created a stink in Elk City a few years back when the Heaven's Cape clan got out of prison for dodging taxes and other crimes. They returned to the area, started paying off the back taxes on the property, and now they're farming on the same land they were on before. She says people don't like 'em, but they keep to themselves and don't cause trouble.

"How many people are living there now?" Sandy asks.

The waitress says, "Hard to tell. What we see are the men coming through. They have these old brown pickup trucks. Some have red shields painted on the doors."

"Do you know where Heaven's Cape is located?" Bill asks.

"I've never been there, but I think you go south out of town on Mother Lode Road until it turns into a forest service road. It's out there somewhere."

"Okay," he says. Bill and Sandy leave the coffee shop and get back in the Tahoe. Bill steers onto a gravel road where a faded sign for Mother Lode Road is posted.

"This seems right," Bill says.

"You sure you want to do this?"

"I'm sure."

They follow five miles of gravel road until Mother Lode Road turns into a forest service trail that's so rutted and potholed Sandy wonders if the Tahoe will get stuck.

"Bill, are you certain you know where you're going?" Sandy says. "I'm concerned we'll high-center this thing. If you do that, we won't be able to get a tow truck. We haven't had cell service since we left Elk City."

Bill doesn't respond. They drive in silence, continuing for several miles until Bill slows and takes a right turn.

"This is it," he says.

The Tahoe rocks and shakes across a bridge made from logs surfaced with scraps of two-by-fours, plywood, and kitchen cabinet doors with chrome hardware still attached. Bent and rusting nails sprout from the surface like beard stubble. Sandy holds her breath while they cross, praying the bridge doesn't collapse under the weight of the Chevy.

They reach the far end of the bridge and drop six inches to the dirt.

"That bridge is one of the most fucked-up things I've ever seen," Sandy says.

"It's all they knew how to build," Bill replies.

"Maybe they should have checked out a book from the library."

Bill looks over at her and says, "These people aren't engineers, Sandy. They're old testament polygamist survivalists."

"I don't know what that even means."

"It means they live off the grid and keep contact with the outside world to a minimum while they wait for the apocalypse. And in the Old Testament it says Moses had two wives and King Solomon had more. So as far as they're concerned, the Bible says it's okay to have as many wives as you want. It's their kind of religion."

"It sounds like a sick kind of religion," Sandy says.

"To you and me."

They enter a treeless area where primitive buildings have been erected in an arc around a plaza of hard-packed earth. The walls of the pine-board buildings were painted with whitewash that's faded yellow with time and been coated with grime from waist-high snowfall and blowing dust. There are buildings Sandy assumes are communal living quarters, another with a thick stovepipe coming through the roof she takes for a mess hall, and in the center of the semi-circle there's a structure with a peaked roof that looks like a frontier chapel. Off to the east, there's a plywood-sided cabin in front of a wall of fir trees, and to the south she sees acres of waist-high corn.

"How long did you live here?" Sandy says.

Bill shuts off the engine. "I was born here. Twelve years."

They look through the windshield into Bill's past.

"Seems like it's still intact," Sandy says.

"Yeah. I just want to walk around a little. Then we can go."

Sandy gets the clip-on holster from her purse and attaches it to the waistband of her skirt. They get out of the car, and Sandy feels a tingling sensation on the back of her neck. She knows they're being watched. She's always been able to tell when someone is staring at her butt or watching her breasts bounce when she walks. It's an instinct she's had since she was an adolescent. She turns in a circle, trying to figure out where the voyeur is. She doesn't see anyone, but it's unnerving that someone is watching her, and she can't see who or where they are. Sandy follows Bill across the packed dirt of the plaza and onto the platform of floorboards outside the chapel.

Sandy's on edge because she knows things could go wrong here. Cicadas are trilling in the trees beyond the buildings. It's sunny outside, but the interior of the chapel is dark when the two of them step inside. She waits while her eyes make the adjustment to the gloom.

Faint light streams into the chapel through a pair of circular red windows, illuminating a man standing by the altar. He notices Bill and Sandy, looks up, nods in recognition and says in a gruff voice, "Welcome, Brother Bill. I hoped you'd come. Get up here and greet me properly."

Bill walks towards the man, and Sandy follows close behind. Her skin is crawling as if she'd just walked through a spider web. As they approach the old man, Sandy recognizes him. It's the same face she saw in the picture of Bill being horsewhipped. The face is twenty years older, but it's the same man who tied Bill to a cross and thrashed him. Sandy feels heat rising in her.

"I've got something to say to you, you despicable asshole," Sandy says.

The old man's eyes narrow and the skin around his mouth tightens. "You're trespassing on private property, and you'll watch your tongue in God's house," he says.

Bill puts a hand on Sandy's shoulder to restrain her. "Just a minute, Sandy," he says.

Sandy hears men's voices coming from the plaza outside the chapel doors, glances over her shoulder and sees a horse-drawn wagon parked by the Tahoe. Ten men or more climb down from the wagon. The men are emaciated, hollow-eyed, all wearing filthy coveralls or jeans. She watches one of them open the passenger door of the Tahoe, lean in, and pull her purse out.

She un-holsters her gun and clicks off the safety. Then she looks at Bill and says, "We need to leave now."

The fat man says, "My boy stays."

One of the workmen steps onto the floorboards at the rear of the chapel and says, "Aaron? Is everything okay?"

The fat man says, "Tell the brothers to come in."

Sandy watches the crew enter the chapel. She counts how many of them there are and considers whether she's willing to empty her gun into a crowd to clear a path for her and Bill to leave.

When she turns back towards Bill, the old man is holding a .44 snub-nose revolver at arm's length, with the gun barrel pointed at her forehead.

"Move, and I will send you to hell," he says.

While she's thinking about whether she can shoot the old man before he can pull the trigger, he cocks his pistol. She hears footsteps drumming on the floorboards of the church.

She smells something like a mixture of garlic and bug spray and glances over her shoulder again. The men are standing a few steps away and have filled the aisle of the chapel shoulder-to-shoulder. The two men closest to her have revolvers drawn. One of the gun barrels is pointed at Sandy's back, another is pointed at Bill.

Sandy feels the rough grip of the pistol on her hand. Feels her heart hammering the inside of her ribcage with a ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk. Blood is rushing in her ears.

The old man says, "You threaten me in God's house? You either give the gun to one of the brothers or you can leave this earth now."

Sandy knows she's quick enough with her gun that she could shoot Aaron before he can pull the trigger. If she does that, it's a certainty she and Bill will die on the floor of this ramshackle chapel at the hands of Aaron's men.

"Live to fight another day," she thinks. She's recognizes she's about to find out what hell is like, but she's still breathing, and so is Bill. At least for now.

She holds her gun at her side by the trigger guard.

"Take it," she says.

Bill says, "I'm sorry," as one of the hollow-eyed men lifts the pistol from her fingers.

Rough hands grab both of her arms as something hard slams the back of her head. She sees a kaleidoscope of stars, feels her knees buckling, and has vague sensations of being carried from the chapel and laid on a horse-drawn buckboard. She knows she's being hauled somewhere on a road, her head striking the wood every time the wagon wheels hit another bump. Sensations of being lifted from the buckboard and carried indoors, the musty air smelling of dust and old wood and rusting metal. Laying on a mattress, and the pressure of something against her wrist. The room feels as if it is spinning so fast she might vomit. She wills herself to keep her wits together as the pain in her head explodes.
Monday Night in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

Eric calls me a few minutes after midnight. I'm doing some stretching exercises before getting into my hotel bed.

Eric doesn't say hello or ask me how it's going. Those niceties are lost on Eric.

"Results are in on your pet," he says. "It's dead." This is Eric's version of humor.

"I'm aware that the rat's dead. What with him being headless and all."

"There's more," he says.

"Tell me."

"The rat tested positive for arsenic, gold, and radioactivity."

"Come again?"

"Maybe the rat was some kind of superhero," Fullmeyer says. "Like one of those guys that has a titanium skeleton, or a nuclear reactor instead of a heart."

"Sure," I say. "That would be my guess, too."

"Lots of arsenic. Like he drowned in it. Small particles of gold. Enough radioactivity it was noteworthy but not dangerous. You're not going to get any tumors from being around it."

"That's still a strange combination."

"Lab tech said you could make a jock out of the rat pelt and the radioactivity wouldn't make you sterile."

"That's a relief."

"You never know," Fullmeyer says. "You might want to have a family someday."

I let out a long breath.

"Anything else?"

"The prints on the package and the card we recognized belonged to the office manager. Mindy, I think her name was. We got other prints but didn't get any hits on them."

"Okay," I say. "Thanks, Eric."

"You're welcome. I'm going to assume you'll tell Sandy about the lab results."

"Right."

"And leave me out of it. She hates it when guys treat her like a damsel in distress, and I don't want a bite taken out of my backside."

"I promise you'll get full credit," I say, laughing.
Tuesday Morning outside of Elk City, Idaho - Sandy

Sandy wakes to sunlight flooding the dismal cabin, lifting her cheek from a thin mattress smelling of mildew and sawdust. She sits upright, tries to pull her hands to her face, and the metallic sound of steel on steel echoes off the bare plywood walls. She looks at the pair of antique handcuffs that binds her left hand to the bedframe, grunts, and pulls against the cuffs with the kind of force you'd use to yank a drowning man out of a river. She pulls until the skin on the captive hand turns white and she gasps out loud. Then she relaxes her muscles and hisses. Spits on her free hand and rubs the saliva against the skin rubbed raw by the rusty jaws of the handcuffs. She rubs the grit from the side of her face before she touches the knot on the back of her head.

Her eyes start to well up with tears, and she clenches her hands into fists hard as oak, tightens every muscle in her body and then screams louder and harder than she ever has before. Then she wipes the tears from her eyes. Adjusts her posture so her back is straight. Takes a set of deep breaths and lets them out slow.

"It's time to get down to business, girl," she says.

She looks up at the underside of a cabin roof made from slats of pine running lengthwise beneath tar paper. In a few places, the tar paper has cracked or peeled away from the slats, and sunlight streams in through the openings into the dusty air.

She rotates her body on the thin mattress and surveys the room. The cabin is square-shaped with a high ceiling, about fifteen feet on a side. There are two other beds in the cabin, each with a thin mattress on a simple metal frame. Both are empty. No bed linens, no lamps, no carpet, no plumbing. The walls are made of wooden studs with plywood nailed to the exterior. No insulation or electrical wiring she can see. A single round window perhaps two feet across is mounted up high on the wall to her right. Blue sky is on the other side of the glass. She guesses the window faces south, towards Boise. Towards where Delorean was, before he headed back to Oceanside after he saw her with Steadman. She feels herself starting to cry again and pushes the remorse and sadness away that's building inside her. Brings her focus back to where she is now. Starts thinking about how to get out of there. If she can get out of there.

"I will survive this," she says. "I _will_ get out of here."

She looks down at her feet. She's still wearing the jogging shoes she put on for the walk in the city park in Grangeville. They aren't too useful under the circumstances, but if she can get free of the cabin, they could help her get away fast. At least that's one thing in her favor.

There's a yellow plastic tub on the floor at the foot of the bed she guesses has been provided for her to use for toileting. She notices the bed frame is secured to the cabin floor with round-headed bolts. She gets off the bed and stands beside the bed frame, hooks her hands under the bed rail, and uses the force of her thighs to pull upward. She's able to pull the bed frame an inch off the floor before the bolts make a hollow sound against the wood, and she wonders if the floor of the cabin is rotten. She thinks that maybe if she pulls hard enough and long enough she could break the bed free one bolt at a time. She realizes that even if she did that she'd still be handcuffed to the bed. It's a goal, though. Something to aspire to.

She pats the pockets of her blazer, checking the now-empty pocket where the cell phone should be. She rests her hand on her waist where the gun and holster should be.

She wonders why they've taken her hostage in this cabin instead of shooting her and burying her in the corn field. Maybe because of the confrontations at Bonner's Ferry and McCall and Coeur d'Alene there is some desire on their part to punish her before killing her. She doubts they'll ever let her go. Not willingly, anyway. She considers the possibility Bill is already dead. She knows the time she has left in this lonely cabin is a reprieve, a brief grace period to sort out a plan.

She tells herself she's been in other difficult situations and has always been able to find a way out. Her father told her plenty of times that her strongest weapon isn't her fists or her anger. It's her mind, her intelligence and cunning. God, she misses her dad right now. She'd give anything to hear his voice or feel his presence.
Tuesday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

I'm waiting outside of the Idaho Museum of Mining and Geology, and I'm on a fool's errand. Since I feel like something of a fool for coming to Boise to begin with, the visit to the mining museum seems appropriate somehow. The museum is closed now, and there's a cardboard sign in the window that says, "Bring us your mystery rocks." I would have preferred to talk to someone in the geology department at Boise State University, but I know what I want to ask about sounds crazy, so I decided to pay a visit to the mining museum off Old Penitentiary Road instead. I arrived twenty minutes before the mining museum opens, so I take the opportunity to walk around.

The men's penitentiary that's next door to the museum is a tourist attraction now, as is the women's ward. These antique prisons are small by today's standards, and the rock they're built from is Idaho Sandstone quarried from nearby hills and installed by convicts who laid the blocks under the watchful gaze of prison guards. The warden's home, the prison itself, and the other structures built by the prisoners are beautifully made, with artistic flourishes and skill evident in the rock work done more than a century ago. It seems remarkable the structures are still intact. I guess punishment is timeless.

The walls of the men's prison are two stories tall, and there's a catwalk built from plumbing pipe and planks of wood hanging from the top. At the corners there are small guardhouses where a jailer making his rounds on the catwalk could get out of the rain or escape the oppressive darkness of a graveyard shift. One of the historical signs says the men's prison was open for more than a hundred years, was active until 1973, and at one time housed 600 inmates. To me that seems like an impossible number of prisoners compared to the size of the place. The inmates agreed; riots in the 1970s over living conditions preceded the transfer of large numbers of prisoners to other facilities. Before the riots happened, the prison was so overcrowded even the solitary confinement building had five prisoners to a cell.

The women's ward is across the road from the men's penitentiary, and it's puny by comparison. The exterior walls enclose a small courtyard around a one-story building containing a handful of cells. There are historical signs describing the crimes committed by the women who were incarcerated there. The crimes are serious, but putting a woman in a cage that small seems wrong to me regardless of what they did. Each of the cells is just large enough for one bed and one toilet, and has a door made from a lattice of corroded steel. Welcome to hell, ladies.

I've wasted enough time that the mining museum doors have opened, so I head inside to look around. It's a more modern and well-equipped facility than I expected from the modest exterior. There's a flat screen display showing the formation of continents on the earth's surface. There's a seismograph, an extensive collection of rocks, minerals, and gems from the different regions of Idaho, a large display of rocks fluorescing under a 'black' light, a diorama of a mining camp, a piece of old-time drilling equipment, a station where someone can look at sliced rocks under a microscope, an exhibit about the huge lake that covered southern Idaho for millions of years, and rocks created by the bodies of microorganisms three and a half million years ago. I'm the first visitor to the museum that day, so the volunteer who's manning the museum comes over and introduces himself to me. His badge says his name is Jasper Wheeler. Jasper is my height, balding, has grey beard stubble, is skinny as a rail, and has skin the color of fresh sunburn. I'd guess his age at 65 or better. He's wearing khaki cargo pants and a green long-sleeved shirt under a vest that has at least a dozen pockets on it. When he shakes my hand, I realize just how hard and calloused his hands are.

I tell him I don't have a mystery rock for him to identify, but I want to ask him a few questions.

"Sure. Ask away," he says. I can tell he hopes I'll give him a challenge beyond what he usually gets from visitors to the museum.

"Can you tell me how someone in Boise would be exposed to radioactive material?"

He puts his chin down like he's taken aback by my question, thinks about it for a second before answering.

"Several different ways. They could wear an old watch that has glow-in-the-dark material on the dial. Not too much of a threat because the amounts are so small. Or they could be exposed in a radiology department in a hospital if they worked there or had radiation therapy. There's some potential for harm if someone made a mistake and got too much exposure. Or you could dig something out of the ground that has uranium or thorium in it. There are places in the Salmon-Challis National Forest north of here that fit the bill. If you handled material dug out of the ground and didn't realize it was radioactive, you could be exposed. Sometimes gold mined up there is a little radioactive. I'm not talking about the kind of gold you buy in a jewelry store, right? We're talking about raw gold extracted from ore."

"Assume the radioactive material came from a mine. Is there any way to know which mine it was?"

He laughs. "Well, that's a tough one. There are over 800 mines and prospects in Custer County, which includes the area we're talking about. Up near Stanley there's one called the Lightning Mine. At one time, it was a valuable piece of property because it was rich in uranium and thorium. That's the most obvious possibility. I don't think that mine's been in operation for years, though. I believe it's tapped out."

"Is there any way to narrow it down?"

"Sure. You could go through the old geological survey literature and narrow it down quite a bit. Some very detailed surveys have been done of the whole state. It's all available online if you look for it. Of course, there's also the chance someone's found a pocket of something nobody knows about yet. It's happened plenty of times before."

"Suppose you concentrated on areas where there's a history of uranium. Could you look at the mines nearby that are known to produce gold and check those for radioactivity?"

"Well, sure. If you have a search warrant and a whole lot of time. Most of the mines in Custer county are so old you'd get killed by a cave-in if you go poking around with a Geiger counter, but you could give it a shot. However, it could also be the gold came from a riverbed or was blasted out of a hillside on private property with a water cannon. I think you get my drift. We're talking about trying to find a needle in a haystack. There's just too much ground to cover. Do you follow me?"

"I do."

He gives me a small smile, like he wants to let me know what I'm asking for is impossible.

"What about arsenic?" I say.

"What about it?"

"Suppose you found traces of arsenic and gold at the places that were radioactive?"

His eyes narrow. "I'd suspect heap leaching."

"What's that?"

"It's one way to separate gold from the ore that contains it. You crush the ore into dust and treat it with a whole lot of an arsenic-rich solution, and that separates and liquefies the gold from the quartz or granite, or whatever kind of ore it is. That liquid mixture of gold and arsenic winds up in a reservoir at the base of the heap called a 'pregnant pond.' If there really is uranium, too, you could use nitric acid and sulfuric acid to leach that out of what's in the pregnant pond. What you're left with is the residue of gold and the residue of uranium, too. Remember we're talking about very fine gold powder, not nuggets, right? The particles of gold are typically quite small unless you've found the Mother Lode."

"How much arsenic would you need?" I say.

"That depends on the amount of the ore, and how rich it is in gold. Suppose the ore was quite rich. There might be one ounce of gold in a ton of ore. That would be exceptional. It takes big money to fund the kind of facility you need to handle the tons of ore and the quantities of arsenic required, because the gold is such a small percentage of the mass. Either that or you need a small army of day laborers. Small operations don't use the leaching approach anymore because of the cost, the obvious risk of contamination, and concerns about poisoning the water table. It's no joke. You better know what you're doing if you're leaching gold."

"Suppose you didn't know what you were doing?"

He scratches the grey stubble on his chin. "Meaning what?"

"Suppose you're an amateur, and you came into contact on an ongoing basis with thorium or uranium and arsenic while you were trying to get the gold out of the ore."

"You, sir, would be fucked," he says. "At least until your organs shut down. Then you'd be dead."

"In terms of symptoms?"

"Well, arsenic is quite bad for you. It's rat killer, right? And it can be absorbed through the skin on contact as well as through your lungs if you're breathing in the fumes. You could have heart problems, abdominal pain, dizziness, mental issues. Liver and kidney problems like super-low blood pressure. Your skin can change color, too, I think."

"What about thorium or uranium?" I say.

"Depends on the level of exposure. Hair loss, disorientation, fatigue, cataracts, among other things."

"Can I show you a picture?"

"Sure."

I pull out my cell phone and show him the picture I took of the guy who showed up at the amphitheater at Boise State.

"Who knows?" he says. "He looks like he's either on a starvation diet or he has health problems. When did you take the picture?"

"A few days ago."

"The coat's weird for this time of year. Could be he has kidney failure and his blood pressure's so low he feels like he's freezing. Or maybe he's wearing a coat to cover something up. Maybe he had a gun under the coat and didn't want people to know he had it."

"You seem pretty savvy for a geologist."

"I was an army medic before I became a rock hound."

I nod. "Okay. Well, I appreciate your help. Thanks."

"There's another approach you could take to finding these guys," he says. "If someone is leaching gold with arsenic."

"I'm all ears."

"You could call up the people who buy gold locally and ask if any of the gold they're getting shows trace amounts of arsenic or thorium or uranium. If so, who are they buying it from, and where did the sellers dig it up? That would be faster than wandering around with a Geiger counter. If you don't get any hits that way, call up the chemical suppliers and ask if there are any local individuals buying large amounts of arsenic. They might not tell you, but you never know until you ask. You could pretend to be from the BLM or EPA when you do the asking."

"Do you know local gold buyers?"

He gives me the small smile again. "Sure, I know 'em. You never told me who was exposed to radioactivity or arsenic, or how much gold we're talking about, or why you want to track these people down. What's this about?"

"I'm not sure yet. Some people are following a friend of mine around and making threats. I'm concerned the threats are going to escalate to violence," I say. "They sent a package to my friend that showed traces of arsenic and gold, and it was radioactive enough it made a Geiger counter hop."

"Do you know what the Geiger counter registered?"

"No. The guy at the lab said it was radioactive enough to be noteworthy, but not enough to do harm."

"Do you know what kind of Geiger counter he used?"

"No."

"Do you know who tested it?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Someone competent. I'd rather not say who."

"The reason I ask is that one counter might register twice what another one does. You gotta know what you're doing. It's not simple. Even a granite counter top can register on a Geiger counter."

We stand there for a moment. I'm taking in what he's told me.

"What do the police say about your friend's problem?" he asks.

"They don't know about it yet. If they did know, they'd say that no crime has been committed yet and to leave it alone."

He gives me the small smile again. "I see. But you're not going to leave it alone."

I give him back the small smile this time. "I've dealt with people like this before. I know that when someone is making threats, the more you ignore them the more violent they get. If I leave it alone and my friend gets hurt or killed, I'll never be able to forgive myself."

"And your plan is to do what?"

"To find these people, have a discussion with them, and dissuade them from making more threats."

"Dissuade them, huh? And how are you going to dissuade them?"

"I'm a creative guy. I'll find a way."

He crosses his arms. Looks skeptical. "Suppose they don't want to be dissuaded?"

"Then the time for polite conversation is over."

He rubs the stubble on his chin. Looks at me with an amused expression.

"All right," he says. "Maybe you can handle yourself in a confrontation. You look like you can. But if I can give you one piece of advice, it's this: if these guys do have a gold mine, and you show up on their property alone and uninvited, they might shoot you on sight. That is, if you don't trip a land mine or step on a bear trap on your way onto the property. Miners are big on doing things that prevent trespassing. Mining claims in wilderness areas and on private property operate by jungle law. There's no police to fall back on if the dissuading doesn't go well."

"I accept that."

He lets out a long breath. "Suppose you can't find the mine you think these guys are working. What would you do then?"

"Wait until the next time one of them shows up. Force him to arrange a meeting between me and his boss."

"You seem like a stubborn cuss," he says.

"It's like Theodore Roosevelt said. Believe you can and you're halfway there."

"Maybe so. If they do have a gold mine, I think I should go with you when you meet these folks."

"Why would you do that? We just met. Why would you want to get involved in my problems?"

"Because you need someone to watch your back if you're going prospecting, and if they have a significant gold find and they haven't registered the claim, I'd like to know where it is."

"And what would you do about it?" I say.

"That depends. If they're destroying the water table with arsenic, I'll contact the EPA. If they've found gold and haven't filed a claim on it, I'll file a claim myself and kick them off the property. On the other hand, if there already is a valid claim, we could find out from the BLM who owns the claim and where they live. That would be useful information if you wanted to dissuade someone from bothering your friend. Don't you think?"

"You sure you want to stick your nose into my problems that far? You might get it cut off."

"I can take care of myself, and as far as I can tell, you don't know jack shit about mining. If you're going after a gold mine, you need me."

"Why don't we take it one step at a time, Jasper? You stay here with your mystery rocks, and I'll leave my cell number with you. You call the gold buyers and let me know what you hear. If you find something out, we'll take it from there."

"Okay. But you gotta promise me you won't cut me out on the gold mine."

"I couldn't care less about the gold," I say.

"That's what everyone says before they find some."
Tuesday Afternoon in Boise, Idaho - Amy and Michael

Amy and Michael are at the Riverside park in Boise, and their mood is lighter since Michael's dad agreed to drop the theft charges. They've been holding hands while they walk the shady path along the Boise River, and talking about college majors. Amy talks about studying pre-med. Michael says he's thinking about engineering. They find a picnic table in the sunshine and sit beside each other. For the first time since they ran away together, Amy and Michael turn on their cell phones. The phones buzz with a flood of delivered messages built up during the time they had the phones turned off. Amy ignores the texts for now. She summons the courage to check the news in Hampton for postings about the altercation with Ike Buswell. She feels a chill run through her while she waits for the news pages to load.

"What's it say?" Michael says.

Amy scrolls through the city and school-related news.

"There's nothing about Buswell," she says. "Nobody knows about it."

"That's good, right? If he was dead, there'd be something about it."

Amy gets onto her Facebook account. She reads the postings from kids studying for finals during dead week. There's nothing mentioned about the violent encounter with Ike Buswell.

"Nobody's talking about it on Facebook, either," she says.

"Check Buswell's Facebook page."

Amy uses the search input field to find Ike Buswell's Facebook page. It shows him at the beach in Longview, Washington with a group of guys from the wrestling team. In all his pictures he's wearing a shirt or coat with the collar turned up, so you can't see any bruising on his neck. He's very much alive and his old self: making crude comments about a classmate, giving the finger to the person holding the camera, and drinking vodka straight out of the bottle.

"He looks like he's okay," Michael says. "I don't know if that's good or bad."

"Good, I think."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so."

"I think we can go home," Amy says.

"I think so, too. We might have to deal with Buswell again, but I'm not afraid of him anymore. I'm just not sure where I'll be living. I'm not staying in that house with Carl, though."

"We have an apartment over our garage we rent sometimes. There's nobody staying there now. When we get back I can talk to my dad about you living there. You might have to pay rent, but it's a nice place."

"Seriously? That sounds great."
Tuesday Afternoon outside of Elk City, Idaho - Sandy

Sandy sits on the edge of the bed she's handcuffed to, waiting for someone to come. No one returns. Her headache fades as the day wears on. As the daylight dims in the cabin, she hears voices carried on the still air. Men calling each other by name, talking to each other. Men and women praying and singing hymns. She knows that she's not far from the chapel. The singing lasts an hour and then it becomes quiet again. She hears footsteps outside the cabin, hears someone shaking the hardware on the outside of the door. There's the rattling sound of metal-on-metal, someone making sure a lock is secured. She hears footsteps scuffling away on the dirt and thinks about what just happened. She learned something: even if she gets free from the bed, the door is locked from the outside. There's some kind of padlock on a latch that must be dealt with.

As the day wears on, she relents to the pressures of her body and uses the plastic tub on the floor for toileting. It's not easy in near-darkness with one hand handcuffed to the bed frame, but there's no other choice. There's no toilet paper, either, but that's the least of her concerns for now.

She lies down on the bed and tries to clear her mind. She knows she needs to sleep. If she can't think clearly, she won't be able to defend herself. She curls into a ball to try to conserve body heat, and waits for sleep to free her from the hell she's trapped in.
Wednesday Morning outside of Elk City, Idaho - Sandy

Sandy's grateful when she wakes and sees the sunlight coming in through the window. She's survived another night. She reminds herself she can survive others. She tries to be grateful for small things, like the sun warming the cabin when the sunlight hits the tar paper roof, and the fact that her headache is gone. She touches the back of her head where someone hit her with the butt of a gun. The knot is smaller than it was the day before. That seems like a good sign.

Her body aches but is otherwise healthy. She uses the plastic tub to perform her toileting again. It's degrading, and the odor coming from the tub makes her feel dirty. She wonders when and if someone will come to empty it, or to let her get a drink of water.

With nothing to do in the cabin, confined to the bed by the handcuffs, her mind wanders. She fantasizes about shattering the bones in the hand with the handcuff on it. Maybe if the hand were crushed she could fit the broken bones through the jaws of the handcuff and escape. If she had a hammer to work with, she'd consider trying it.

She sits on the thin mattress for most of the day, standing beside the bed sometimes when her butt feels numb. Does push-ups against the bed frame. Lies on her back on the mattress and does leg-lifts and crunches. Rolls over onto her forearms and locks her legs straight, does plank position until her legs and arms and abdomen shake with fatigue. She feels her body warming up. She's ready to fight if she gets a chance. Just one chance. That's all she asks. She thinks she can escape if there's any opportunity at all to get away. If they don't shoot her from across the room when they come back. Or just leave her here to die from starvation or from kidney failure due to dehydration.
Wednesday Afternoon in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

I'm eating lunch at a sandwich place near the hotel when Michael calls. He says he got a text from his stepfather saying he contacted the district attorney handling the theft charge and told him he wants to dismiss all charges. He's also put the paperwork together to emancipate Michael and deposited ten thousand dollars into a checking account in Michael's name.

"That's excellent progress," I tell him. "You can prove you have the means to support yourself now. You'll have to go to juvenile court to formalize the emancipation," I say. "Do you have any teachers who'd be willing to say you're mature and responsible?"

"I think so."

"Great. When you get home, you'll need to get those endorsements, and get the emancipation paperwork from your stepfather and turn it in to the court. You haven't said anything about your mom. Do you think she'd fight it?"

"No. She'll do whatever Carl tells her to do."

"Okay. Then I think it's going to happen."

"Can I ask you a favor?" Michael says. "You've done a lot for me, but I'm going to ask anyway."

"Anything, kid."

"Could you help me talk to my father just one time? My real dad, not Carl."

I think about it.

"Are you there?" Michael says.

"Yeah, I'm here. Okay. I'll see what I can do. I thought you were headed home."

"Not until I talk to my dad."

"You sure you want to do that?"

"I want to know why he never tried to find me."

"Okay," I say. "I can see that."

"Then I'll go back to Hampton. Amy said she thinks I can live in the apartment over her garage."

"Amy is the girl who was at the office with you yesterday?"

"Right."

"She seems nice."

"She _is_ nice. She came all the way from Oregon with me to help me find my dad."

"You should hold onto her," I say. "That's a big commitment on her part."

"I know."

I'm thinking about how I can get Michael a meeting with Bill Steadman. I plan to call Mindy at the campaign headquarters and ask her to put us on Bill's schedule. I don't know how long it will take to arrange, or if Bill will even go for it.

"Shouldn't you be in school?" I say.

"It's dead week before finals. I already put Amy on a plane back to Portland. I've got four days until finals start."

"Okay. Where are you staying?"

"I've got a hotel room by the Boise State campus."

"We're almost neighbors, then," I say. "Okay. I'll be in touch."

"Mister Harper?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"Sure."

I call the campaign office and talk to Mindy. When I tell her I need to have a short meeting with Bill, she says she's not sure when they'll be back in Boise.

"They were headed to Coeur d'Alene for a big money dinner, but the donors canceled after Kutchin published a picture of Bill tied to a cross. The donors said they want to postpone for a week to see if anything else is published about Bill. I sent a text to Bill and Sandy telling them the meeting was canceled, but I never heard back. I assume they'll be back here before long. I'm just not sure when."

"Let's do this," I say. "Contact Bill and tell him his son wants to meet with him before he goes home, and he'll be here for another couple days. Tell him Michael doesn't want to cause problems for him, just wants to talk for a few minutes. Okay?"

"Bill has a son? That's news to me."

"The boy who was at the office the other day when those men came."

"That boy is Bill's kid?"

"That's right."

Mindy is silent for a moment. Then she says, "Wow. Okay. I promise to pass the message along."

After I get off the phone with Mindy, I send Sandy a text that says, "Bill's son wants to meet with him. Michael doesn't want anything from Bill, doesn't want to make trouble. Just wants to talk. Would you please get in touch with me about arranging this meeting? After that, I'll be out of your hair, and Michael will be out of Bill's hair, too."

No response. I'm getting used to not hearing anything from Sandy, though. I guess what she's doing with Bill is too important.
Wednesday Evening outside of Elk City, Idaho - Sandy

As the day wears on, the light coming through the window in Sandy's cabin begins to dim. It's late afternoon, and her stomach has been growling since mid-morning. She sits on the edge of the bed doing leg-lifts, bringing her legs up, letting them down. She does leg-lifts until the muscles in her thighs and abdomen burn. Then she stops, waits a few minutes, and starts doing push-ups again. Takes a break when she feels herself beginning to sweat. She doesn't want to be wet with perspiration when it gets cold in the cabin.

She feels the cabin cooling off and buttons her blazer to contain body heat. Turns up the collar to keep the warmth at the back of her neck. She runs the palm of her free hand against the rough cotton of the blazer, feeling its texture. Fingers the polished brass buttons in front. Slips her fingers into the coat pocket, feels reassured by the touch of her fingers against silk. She slides her fingertips along the seam at the bottom of the pocket, pinches the seam, and feels something hard where the cloth lining is folded over on itself. Slides her fingernail under the fold and feels the familiar shape of a bobby pin. She's shocked. She works the fabric out of the way and slides the bobby pin back and forth between her thumb and forefinger. She'd checked the pockets of the blazer before and didn't notice anything.

"I'll be damned," she says. "How could I have missed that?"

She hears footsteps coming and pushes the bobby pin back where it was, folding the pocket lining back over the pin. She hears a metal-on-metal sound as the padlock on the door is opened, and then the door swings inward on its hinges. A woman stands in the doorway. She has broad shoulders and wide hips and wears a prairie settler's white dress and sun bonnet. Her face is round, with blue eyes and smooth, creamy skin. The evening sun backlights her through the thin cotton dress as she stands in the doorway. She's obviously pregnant, third trimester. Her breasts hang pendulously against the fabric of her dress. There's a small key on a loop of string around her neck.

The woman puts her hands together in silent prayer and bows before entering the cabin. Her bare feet pad across the dusty floor. Sandy looks past her through the open doorway. She sees bare earth in the foreground and a slope maybe a hundred yards away that's covered with fir trees. No other people or buildings. She thinks if she can reach those trees, she'll be a lot harder to catch.

"May I please have some water?" Sandy says.

The woman nods curtly before she bends over to pick up the plastic toileting tub. Sandy considers reaching for her, getting a forearm up against the woman's windpipe, and choking her out. Thinks about what that might do to the baby the woman is carrying. There might not be much choice, though, if she wants to survive. She decides to wait until she's had the chance to get the cuffs off so both of her hands are free when she tries to get hold of the woman.

"Thank you," Sandy says.

The woman carries the toileting tub outside, closes the door behind her. Sandy hears the latch and padlock being set.

Like all cops and ex-cops, Sandy knows that some old handcuffs can be defeated with a piece of wire, and she wonders if that includes the one on her wrist. Sandy reaches into her blazer pocket for the bobby pin. Straightens it out. Uses her fingernails to pop the small ball of rubber from the end of the pin. Pushes the tip into the double lock slot on the ancient Smith & Wesson handcuffs. Bends an L shape into the end of the pin. She presses hard with her fingernails to add a hook onto the L shape. Then she reverses the bend of the hook and eyeballs the finished product. Okay. She slides the hook into the vertical slot on the flat piece of metal at the base of the handcuff, pulls the hook gently to one side, and the jaw of the handcuff pops free. Just like it did when the instructor showed her how to do it at the police academy in Santa Fe, New Mexico. She feels a sense of elation. Feels her heartbeat increasing. Now she can fight and survive. She has the element of surprise on her side. She pumps her right fist in the air, then leaves the jaw of the handcuff lying on her left wrist - and waits.

A few minutes later the woman returns. Sandy hears the lock on the door being opened, sees the woman standing on the stoop, and this time she has a plastic tub and a pitcher of water at her feet. Sandy's still sitting on the bed. The woman bows her head and puts her hands together in prayer before she enters the room. Comes across the floor to Sandy's bedside, carrying the plastic tub. Sandy can see the tub's been washed out, and still has a small amount of water in it. The woman leaves the tub on the floor, goes back to the doorway, returns with the pitcher of water and puts it beside the tub. The pitcher looks like it was made in a different era, when faded prints of wild roses were in fashion.

The woman leans forward and puts her lips near Sandy's ear, as if she doesn't want her words to escape into the room. Sandy can feel the woman's lips brush against her earlobe, smell the woman's perspiration and the soap she used to wash her hair, can feel the woman's breasts pressing against her shoulder, and feel the weight of the woman's belly against her thigh. The woman whispers, "I heard the menfolk talking. They're coming for you tonight. Prepare yourself as best you can."

Sandy locks her hand around the woman's forearm, pulls her off balance towards the bed frame, and clicks the jaw of the opened handcuff around the woman's wrist. The woman doesn't resist at all, or cry out, or even seem surprised. She's submissive, as if something like this has happened to her before and she's learned to accept it.

"You call out for help," Sandy says, "and I'll break your neck."

"I heard that plenty of times from menfolk," the woman says in a whisper. "I know how to be quiet." She looks at the floor.

Sandy thinks about what to do next. She picks up the pitcher of water and takes several long pulls from it.

"How many men are here?" Sandy says.

"Just Aaron. The rest of them are mining."

"How many women?"

Sandy watches the woman's thumb twitch across the tips of her fingers as she adds up the number of women in the compound. "Fourteen," she says. "Most are in the fields, except for a few watching the children or cooking."

"Did you see Bill Steadman, the man who was with me when I came here yesterday?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He may have went out mining with the others. Ain't seen him today."

"Is he okay?"

"He could walk when I saw him."

"Why are we being kept here?" Sandy says. "Is it because this is where Steadman was born?"

"Aaron says Steadman made a child with one of the womenfolk a long time ago. That's blasphemy. Steadman is not pure, and shames us all by trying to be a prophet like Aaron. He needs to be stopped before he brings the heathens down on us. If that happens, it will be time for the great tribulation. We're all prepared for rapture if God calls the purifying fire down on us."

Sandy lets out a long breath. "What you mean is Steadman needs to be stopped before the outside world finds out what goes on here?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You said the men are mining. What are they mining for?"

"God's metal, ma'am. Gold."

"How close is the mine?"

"It's a fair walk. I'm tired by the time I go there and back. Up a big hill, down a big hill, you know?"

"When will they be back?" Sandy says.

"Sundown. They always come back for prayers at sundown."

Sandy thinks about how much time she has left to escape. The sunlight coming in through the window and doorway is fading. Maybe another hour before darkness falls.

Sandy hears the old man shouting.

"Elizabeth!" His voice sounds distant, as if his words are carrying a hundred yards or more. "Where are you?"

"You think he'll come to check on you?" Sandy says.

"He'll keep hollerin' for a while first. Then he'll get angry and look for me. He don't like it when I'm not obedient."

"Aaron is the fat one with the beard?"

"Yes ma'am. He's the prophet."

"The prophet? What do you say we just wait here?" Sandy says. "I think the prophet could use some exercise. Let him look for you. Maybe he'll work off a few pounds."

"He'll get his exercise using his whip on me if I don't come pretty quick."

"Even though you're carrying a baby? He'd still beat you?"

"All the womenfolk who come of age carry the prophet's children. Sometimes he has to beat the devil out of us when we're disobedient."

"You've got to be kidding me," Sandy says. "That old goat is the father of your child?"

"Yes'm. He's the father of all the children here."

Sandy hears the old man yell again, louder and closer this time.

"Sounds like he's coming," Sandy says.

The woman's eyebrows pull together as if she's afraid. "Yes ma'am."

"You look worried."

"When he uses the whip, it feels like he's tearing my skin off. Maybe I've earned it, but I can't say I like it."

"I don't blame you," Sandy says. "Listen, I need you to do me a favor."

"Yes'm?"

"Lie down on the bed and turn your back to the door."

"It isn't proper to lay down during the day. That's slothful."

"Maybe so, but why not take a short break? You're pregnant. Get off your feet for a minute."

Elizabeth searches Sandy's expression to see if she's serious. Then she lifts herself up onto the mattress. She's got her back to the open doorway, and her broad shoulders and wide hips mean Aaron's going to have to come into the room to see if Sandy is lying next to her.

Sandy tells her, "That's perfect. Now don't move, and don't say another word." Then she walks across the room, hides behind the opened door, and waits for Aaron to come.

Within thirty seconds, Aaron's boots hit the wooden stoop outside the open door. Sandy sees Aaron's shadow spill like an oil stain across the cabin floor.

"What are you doing, woman?" Aaron shouts. Sandy feels the force of his voice in her gut.

Then Aaron speaks with barely contained rage. "You lazy wretch. You lie down with that woman? I will hide you for this, and make no mistake."

Elizabeth doesn't say anything.

Sandy hears his boots echoing on the wooden floor. She leans out from behind the door and watches the backside of Aaron's faded coveralls shuffling towards Elizabeth. Sandy tiptoes around the door and through the open doorway, pulls the door closed behind her, and hears Aaron cry out in surprise. She slaps the latch on the door closed and slips the padlock in place, trapping Aaron like a wasp in a jar. She hears Aaron yelling at Elizabeth. Sandy peers around the corner of the building, looks toward the center of the cluster of whitewashed buildings and sees an old pickup truck. No one is in the driver's seat. There's a horse-drawn wagon parked nearby, with two men on the driver's bench and two more riding in the bed. The Tahoe is gone, and there's no sign of Steadman.

Sandy can hear the men's voices carried on the still air. One of the men says Aaron's always in the chapel when they return from the mine, but this time he isn't, and he doesn't understand why.

Aaron's muffled shouts come through the cabin walls. Sandy wonders if the men will be able to hear him. She can't stay where she is.

She sees the tracks the horse-drawn wagon carved in the dirt. If the woman in the cabin was right, and Steadman went to the mine with the men, then maybe they left him there. Or maybe he's here in one of these buildings. She can't just go up to Aaron's minions and ask, though. They all have guns, and she doesn't.

She circles around the outside perimeter of the white buildings, staying in the shadows and peeking through the windows. She sees two women caring for small children in a nursery, and several women working in a kitchen. No Steadman.

She thinks it's a matter of minutes before the men find Aaron locked in the cabin and launch a full-scale search for her. The quickest path back to civilization is along the forest service road towards Elk City. That's several miles of isolated road, and she knows they'll look for her there first. Maybe that's her advantage – she can go in the opposite direction, go deeper into the forest towards the mine where Steadman could be waiting for her. She looks at the tracks left by the wagon. Instinct tells her that's the right way to go.

She starts running, following the wagon trail across the hard ground and into the trees, trying to avoid the rocks and ruts that would result in certain injury. She follows the path deeper into the forest as darkness falls, working her way uphill on the rutted, uneven path to the point where the trail crests a ridge.

Down the hill and down she goes as the night becomes pitch black. Clouds have rolled in and covered the sky, so there's no starlight or moonlight to navigate by. She realizes it would be folly to keep going. She'll fall over a cliff or break an ankle. It's time to stop.

She takes a dozen steps off the trail, holding her hands in front of her face so she doesn't run into a tree. She goes far enough in she can't be seen by someone coming down the trail, curls up on the pine needles, and tries to sleep. She started the day chained to a bed frame and now she's outdoors on the cold forest floor.

"You did it," she says as she waits for sleep to overtake her. "You stayed tough, and didn't give up on yourself. Nice work, lady."
Thursday Morning outside of Elk City, Idaho - Sandy

Sandy jolts awake to the sound of a horse-drawn cart coming down the trail. Remembers who she is and where she is and why she's laying on carpet of pine needles on a hillside. She hears wagon wheels slapping against rocks and tree roots, the sounds of the wagon frame creaking on the uneven surface. She hears the driver calling out to the horses to tell them to take it easy, to go slow. Sandy peers around the tree and sees two men on a buckboard, one holding the reins, the other a repeating rifle. She waits until they're well past before she stands up.

Her hands and feet ache from the cold. She's stiff from sleeping on the forest floor, and she goes through a few stretches to loosen up. She opens and closes her hands to try to get blood flowing. While she's doing that, she watches the wagon move another hundred yards down the sloping trail. Then the men dismount before soaking rags in pitch poured from a bucket. They wrap the rags around long pikes, spark the pitch with a cigarette lighter, and disappear into a cave she didn't realize was there. She's found the mine.

She waits a few minutes, and then checks the uphill trail for more traffic. She sees the men come back out of the cave. They lift cans from the buckboard two at a time and carry them inside. A few minutes later they come back for more. After they've emptied all the cans, they enter the cave a final time. Sandy waits a few minutes and then heads down the trail. The entrance is bigger than she thought it would be. It's wide as a garage door, and torchlight produces a dull yellow glow in the tunnel.

She steps inside and moves from shadow to shadow, following the faint voices of the men working their way deeper into the mine. She hears more voices and feels a rush of excitement, hoping one of the voices is Bill's. Then she realizes most of the sounds are coming from behind her, that the two men in the buckboard were lighting torches in advance of a work party, and now she's trapped between the two groups. She feels her heart starting to race. She keeps moving forward in the tunnel, looking for a place to hide. If she's caught unarmed by the two groups of men, she knows she's dead.
Thursday Morning in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

I'm checking my cell phone for messages from Sandy while I'm eating breakfast. Still no response from her, and the breakfast isn't inspiring, either. Maybe another day or two of waiting to hear from her and I think I'll give up and go home. Then the phone buzzes in my hand, and it's Jasper calling. My expectation is not high that a volunteer at a mining museum will be able to tell me much about the arsenic-and-gold-enriched rat, but he says a local buyer has been getting gold he thought was heap-leached. The gold was very fine powder with a residue of arsenic and was faintly radioactive. The buyer told Jasper in confidence he thought the seller was from the Elk City area, and he wondered if the old Gold Point mine had been re-opened. When Jasper asked the buyer about the volume, the man gave him an earful.

"Here's what he told me," Jasper says. "Most of these small-time miners come in with a pill bottle that's a quarter full of gold dust they've panned out of a river. Not this time. This guy comes in once a week like clockwork with an old-time glass jar full of the stuff. Thirty ounces of gold dust. Finer than you would pan out of a river, and it has the smell of arsenic on it."

"Is that right?" I say.

"This isn't just one guy doing placer mining. Someone's using machinery to grind the ore down, and using heap leaching to separate the gold from the ore. Which means someone is processing at least thirty tons a week of ore. That's a whole lot of rock, and it would take a big operation to do that. What's curious, though, is there seems to be an industrial scale operation up in the Elk City area, but I've checked all the mining claims filed in the last few years in that area, and those claims look like it's just people scrambling around on hillsides and in creek beds looking for whatever they can find on the surface. There's nothing industrial documented like this."

Jasper is convinced these miners are the source of the charcoaled rat dropped off at the Steadman headquarters. In his mind, the obvious place to look is the Gold Point mine near Elk City, because it was so productive before being abandoned. I agree with Jasper it's worth taking a look.

I call Michael and tell him I'm going to be gone for the day checking out an abandoned mine, and I'll contact him if I hear anything from Steadman. Michael asks if he can come along to check out the mine, and I can't think of a reason to disagree, so the three of us meet in the parking lot of the mining museum.

Jasper is driving a Toyota Land Cruiser that's been modified for off-road use. With enormous tires and a jacked-up suspension, the Toyota looks like it wouldn't be out of place at a monster truck rally. It's a metallic gold color, which I guess I should have expected given Jasper's affinity for gold. There's an off-road jack bolted to the hood in case we're rock-crawling and need to lift one corner of the truck. Bright red gas cans are attached to the tailgate in case we run out of gas, and there's a snorkel air intake running from the right front fender up one of the windshield pillars to the roof line. Behind the back seat there's a gun rack holding an assault rifle, a pump shotgun, and a deer rifle. Jasper says he's a big believer in being prepared. If we need to stop a riot or feed ourselves by hunting game, I think we're covered.

Although we're in a war wagon, this is supposed to be a relaxing highway drive up to Elk City and Gold Point. According to Wikipedia, Elk City is tiny, and Gold Point is a ghost town on a forest service road. So, the off-road monster we're riding in isn't necessary. We're just going up there to see if someone's operating a mine. If the Mustang had a bigger interior, it would have been just fine for the trip. I guess we could have driven Michael's van, but there are no back seats, so we're left with Jasper and his Land Cruiser. I think Jasper was pleased to have a reason to take it.

Jasper has a GPS system mounted to the dash, and the digital map for our route indicates we'll arrive in four hours. Jasper pushes a CD into a slot, and I hear the beginning strains of Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries' coming through speakers mounted in the doors. I can't help but think of the movie 'Apocalypse Now,' when Robert Duvall says he loves the smell of napalm in the morning. Remembering characters in that movie like Bill Kilgore, Colonel Kurtz, and Benjamin Willard leads me to thoughts about madness and addiction.

There are a lot of different addictions in this world. Most people are addicted to something, whether it's safety, sex, money, drugs, popularity, or power. In Jasper's case, he's addicted to gold. Since he heard about the action in Elk City, he's been obsessed. He wants to get up there, find the gold, and see if he can stake his own claim. He's reminded me several times that no new mining claims have been filed in that area in years, so someone has either found a rich vein on an existing claim, or they're trying to fly under the radar of the Bureau of Land Management. If that's the case, Jasper plans to file a claim for himself and defend it with his arsenal. He's got Gold Fever.

I don't care about the gold. I just want to see if the mine will steer me towards the leader of the zombies who've been bothering Sandy. I owe her my life several times over, so getting these people off her back would be a nice parting gift from me. It seems like she's decided she wants to be with Bill now. Maybe she'll follow him to Washington, D.C. if he wins his campaign. It's her life, and I wish her well.

Michael's in the back seat, and I hear him swear as we enter the foothills north of Boise. I ask what's bothering him, and he holds up his cell phone for me to see it. He's looking at a news site which shows a picture of a shirtless boy strapped to a cross. A bearded thug holding a whip is in the foreground. The title of the picture says, 'Senate Candidate was Tortured by Cult as a Child.'

"What the hell?" I say. "That's Bill Steadman."

Michael nods and looks like he wants to cry. He shuts his phone off, and I stare out the window at the brown hills.

After seeing the picture, my thoughts turn darker. The image of young Bill Steadman being whipped on the cross is burned into my mind. I want blood, and if the psychopath in the picture is connected to the people who've crawled out from under a rock to threaten Sandy and Bill, my plan is to turn them into fertilizer.

"You're pretty quiet," Jasper says. "Aren't you excited? We're going after gold, boy. Gold!"

"Yeah. Sure. We've got a drive ahead of us, don't we?"

"About four more hours."

"I'm going to try to sleep," I say. "I haven't been able to sleep much lately."

"Understandable. I can't sleep either. I've got gold fever! This is it! We're gonna be rich!"

I recline the seat and close my eyes, but I can't sleep. Not now.
Thursday Morning outside of Elk City, Idaho - Sandy

Sandy pushes deeper into the mine, praying she won't be caught. The tunnel opens into a space that reminds Sandy of what she saw at Carlsbad Caverns when she visited there as a child. She's in an opening several stories tall and wider than she would have thought possible. There's an uneven floor, an uneven ceiling, and fat columns of rock to keep the roof from collapsing. She feels the weight of the mountain over her head, smells the mixture of stale air, charcoal, chemicals, and rock, and has the sense the whole thing could cave in. In the center of the space there's a heap of powdered ore surrounded by a moat of foul-smelling black liquid. There's a boiler tank the size of a semi-trailer, a rock crusher that looks powerful enough to smash a car into dust, and a pile of cut wood the size of a small house. No sign of Steadman.

She starts working her way around the perimeter of the room. At intervals there are tunnels which extend into the mountain like spokes from an axle. It reminds Sandy of the ant farm she had as a child, where there were tunnels connecting rooms to more tunnels. She realizes there is no way of knowing how many rooms there are, or how many tunnels. She feels overwhelmed by the predicament she's in. She's either going to have to get out of there and bring back help to do a methodical search, or get one of these miners alone and make him tell her what they've done with Steadman. She can't leave now without being seen, though.

She picks an unlit tunnel, goes far enough in she's in complete darkness, and waits and watches the men working the mine. After a few minutes they have a fire going under the boiler. She hears the creaking and clanking of the boiler expanding as it heats, followed by hissing and thumping as the flywheel on the steam engine starts to spin.

Then one of the men pulls a long lever, and the belt connecting the steam engine to the rock crusher engages. Sandy's never heard anything as loud as that old machine. It sounds like the world's biggest hammer pounding on a slab of granite. The walls and ground shake. She shoves her fingertips into her ears to get relief. One of the miners dumps a wheelbarrow load of rock into the funnel that feeds the rock crusher, and the noise steps up to the next level. Even with her fingers in her ears it feels like she's going to go deaf if she doesn't get out of there soon. Smoke from the boiler curls up to the ceiling of the mine before drifting out through the exit tunnel. Sandy thinks that when people use the term 'hell hole,' this is the exact place they were talking about. The bottom of the boiler glows red, and as the morning wears on, the temperature in the mine rises. Thank God.

Sandy watches the men use fabric to strain the sludge out of the moat. They stoke the fire under the boiler and load more rocks into the funnel for the crusher. Some of them head into the tunnels with wheelbarrows, pickaxes, and torches. The man who operates the boiler lets off excess pressure from time to time, filling the air over the boiler with a cloud of steam.

The longer she stands there, the more certain she is that Steadman isn't in the mine. Or if he is there, he's already dead. None of these men are going off to check on anything and then returning. They're crushing rock and sifting through muck, looking for specks of something she assumes is gold. And every one of them is either wearing a sidearm or has a rifle within reach. She can't imagine these miners come to work armed this way every day. They're on alert.

It's about a hundred yards between where she stands and the opening for the tunnel that leads outside. She decides she'll wait until the miners have their backs to her, and then she's going to make a run for it. Unfortunately, there are a dozen armed men between her and the entrance. If one of them finds her before she gets out of there, she's done for.
Thursday Morning in Elk City, Idaho - Delorean

Jasper drives through Elk City without even slowing down, and then heads out of town on Mother Lode Road.

"Don't you want to stop and ask around?" I say. "See if there's anyone here who knows about mining activity? There's a cafe and a hotel. Let's go inside."

Jasper answers without taking his eyes off the road.

"I don't want to foul the nest by telling people we're here," he says. "We're headed for Gold Point, which is where I think the action is. Maybe another twenty minutes." As we leave the town behind, Jasper puts the gas pedal down. The Land Cruiser rocks and rolls as we continue at twice the posted speed limit.

I look over at Jasper and watch him lick his lips. "I can smell the gold," he says. "I'm sure of it."

"That's great. But we'll never get there if you put us into a ditch. And we've got a kid in the back seat. Slow the hell down." The scenery flashes by. I'm surprised Jasper can stay on the road at these speeds.

He glances in the rear-view mirror.

"Oh. Right," he says. He lifts his foot from the gas and we continue at twenty over the speed limit.

I turn in my seat and look at Michael. His head is resting against the door pillar. Despite everything, he's asleep.

It's another fifteen minutes of twisting forest service roads until we get to where Gold Point used to be. All that's left are a few tumbledown shacks topped with rusted corrugated metal. There's a shallow creek between the highway and the sad collection of buildings. Jasper pulls off the road and slides to a stop on the gravel and dirt parking area.

Jasper says, "Here we are!" He seems as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.

"Jasper, we haven't seen another car since we left Elk City, and this place is deserted. You sure this is it?"

"It could be. Gold miners are like city rats. They're everywhere, but they're tricky. You have to look for 'em and take 'em by surprise."

Michael rubs the sleep out of his eyes and yawns. He asks if we're at the mine.

"According to Jasper, maybe so," I say.

The three of us climb out of the Land Cruiser. Jasper goes to the back, pops the tailgate. Pulls out a backpack and straps it on. Lifts the shotgun from the gun rack, hands it to Michael. Lifts the deer rifle, hands it to me. Takes the assault rifle and cradles it in his arms.

Michael hefts the shotgun like he's trying to guess how much it weighs.

"What's this for?" Michael says.

"In case we get separated, or you get between a mama bear and her cubs," Jasper says. "Be ready to use it. It's loaded, and there's one in the chamber. Just shoulder it, press the safety button on the trigger guard to release the safety, and pull. And be damned quick about it. To use Delorean's term, it will usually dissuade the bear from coming after you."

"You sure it won't just make the bear mad?" Michael says.

"If a bear is charging you, it's already mad. Shooting it won't make it much madder. The shotgun is pump action," Jasper says. "Pull the fore stock in and out to eject the spent shell and load a new one. You empty that thing into a bear, it'll stop. But don't wait until it's on top of you to decide to shoot."

"What about the guns you're carrying?" Michael says. "Are those for bears, too?"

"These are for two-legged problems," Jasper says. "Sometimes gold miners are territorial, just like a mama bear can be. You get between them and their mine, you better be prepared to defend yourself."

I look at Jasper. "Should we leave Michael in the car? I thought we were just looking for the mine today, not going to war."

"How about it?" Jasper asks Michael. "It's up to you. You can stay here or come along. It's going to be an hour or more to get up this slope and look around. Maybe a little less to come back down. If they've reopened the mine, my guess is that it's uphill from here somewhere."

"I'm coming," Michael says.

"You ever fired a gun before?" I ask him.

"No. But how hard can it be?"

"It isn't hard," I tell him. "A couple simple rules: never point the barrel at another person unless you're prepared to pull the trigger. Carry the gun with the barrel pointed upward. Never climb over an obstacle with the barrel down, because if you fall and drop the gun, you'll get dirt packed in the barrel and it will explode the first time you shoot it. And keep the safety on until you're ready to fire so if there's an accident and you drop it, it won't go off. Can you remember all that?"

"I promise," he says.

"Sounds like he means it," Jasper says. "Let's go." He hits the button on his key fob and the door locks slam down with finality.

"Where to?" I ask. "This is your area of expertise."

"Circle around these old buildings and then head uphill to the old Gold Point mill. See if there's any evidence of activity. Depending on what we find, go farther uphill. If they've kept what they're doing a secret this long, they're deep in the trees and far up the hill. Wouldn't you guess?"

"That makes sense. But wouldn't there be mining tailings around? Piles of ore the gold's been extracted from?"

"You would think," Jasper says. "But this is one hell of a big forest, and moving a bunch of rock from point A to point B might not be noticed unless you make the effort to look for it. Let's roll."

We spend a few minutes checking the abandoned buildings in the tiny town of Gold Point, but we don't find anything but rotting wood, rusting sheet metal, and a small amount of garbage left behind by transient visitors. We continue on a foot trail that begins on the back side of the Gold Point buildings and goes up the hillside through a dense stand of fir trees. After a while I can see the large, metal-topped roof of a building.

Michael says, "Hey, Jasper. What's that?"

"That, my boy, is the old Gold Point mill."

The trail is just wide enough for one person, so Michael and I follow Jasper up the trail single-file, with the straps on Jasper's backpack creaking as the load shifts from side to side.

The trail terminates in an opening where the Gold Point refining mill stands.

"The buildings seem pretty well-preserved," I say. "Why is that?"

"This place was operated until the seventies," Jasper says. "It's only had forty years to go to seed. They used steam power to crush the ore, and gravity filtration to get the gold out. Logs cut uphill from here were dragged down to make fire for the steam engine. Plenty of water in that creek at the bottom of the hill to make steam out of. It was a pretty self-contained little money machine until the gold ran out."

"Wow," Michael says.

"Wow, indeed. Too bad we didn't own it. You boys be on your toes, now. You hear?"

Michael looks at me for reassurance, and I nod. There's no evidence of any recent mining activity, and I think that within a few hours we'll be in the Land Cruiser headed back to Boise. I think this is a needle-in-a-haystack situation, and it's unlikely we'll find a mine by wandering around in a huge forest.

We walk around the structures that make up the refining mill, and I'm surprised by the condition of the buildings and equipment. There's a small amount of rot and rust, but everything is in much better shape than what we saw at the bottom of the hill. We look for evidence of human activity, but we don't see anything other than trails heading uphill into the forest. I assume the trails were used for skidding logs down the slope to provide firewood for the mill.

Jasper points out that the entry for the old Gold Point mine shaft has either collapsed or been blown shut by dynamite to keep people out. There's a wall of rubble on the side of the hill that faces onto the refining structures. Warning signs posted at the perimeter of the rubble warn about the potential for landslides.

"What do you think?" Jasper says.

"I think there's nobody here," I say. "But I'm surprised by how well kept the buildings are, like someone's keeping this place alive."

"I think so, too," Jasper says. "Some things are missing I would expect to still be here, like the rock crusher used to break up the ore. The big steam tank and engine are gone, too. The belts that connect the steam engine to the rock crusher. Where did all that stuff go? Those things are way too big to be carried off by hikers, and they don't have much value as scrap. I think they've been moved and put to use somewhere else."

"And the rest of the equipment here," Michael says. "Whoever is keeping the buildings in good repair is doing that to protect the other machinery, until it's needed for spare parts or for something else."

"Seems like it," Jasper says.

"Suppose you're right," I say. "How would they get the equipment out of here, and where would they use it?"

"You give me a big enough lever and I can move the world," Jasper says. "Anything can be moved if you have the right equipment to do it. I think someone dismantled everything and used pulleys to drag it off, or they put it on a wagon or sled one small piece at a time, hauled it up one of these skid roads deeper into the forest, and put it back together. It's also possible they hauled it downhill to the place we left the car and then dragged it off from there for scrap. I just don't know. We could try to find a historian who knows about this place. There are people who specialize in the history of these old mines."

"What now?" Michael says.

"I counted three skid roads on the back side of the refining building," Jasper says. "We pick one and follow it uphill for fifteen minutes or so. If it doesn't seem promising, we turn around and come back. Take the next skid road. And so on."

"Wouldn't it be faster if we split up?" Michael says.

"It would," I say. "But that would leave you on your own, and I'd rather not do that. We don't know what we're going to find around here."

"He's not a child," Jasper says. "Let him decide for himself."

"I think we can get to a solution faster if we split up," Michael says. "It's parallel processing. Let's do it."

"Okay," I say. "Each of us takes a road, heads out for fifteen minutes. Then turn around, come back, and circle up. If one of us finds something, great. The three of us will pursue that route. If not, we'll go back down and call it a day."

I pull out my cell phone and check for a signal. Nothing. I turn to Michael. "Are you sure you're okay with being by yourself?"

Michael shrugs. "If I get into trouble or get lost, I'll just shoot the gun."

Jasper nods his head. "That goes for each of us. You get into trouble, fire a round. The other two will come back here, join up, and then come for you. Agreed?"

I follow an old skid road uphill for a quarter mile to a place where the terrain flattens out and there's a clear-cut area. Nothing but old tree stumps bleached grey by sun, weather, and time. Someone cut a lot of trees here a long time ago. I walk the perimeter of the clear cut. I don't see any evidence of recent activity. Twenty minutes have passed. I hustle back down the trail to the Gold Point refining building.

Half an hour has gone by since we separated, and there's no sign of Michael or Jasper. I keep checking my watch. Forty minutes. I'm becoming concerned about Michael's safety when I see him jogging down the road towards me. He's holding the gun with the barrel up, one hand on the stock and one on the fore stock like I told him to.

"You're late," I say. "We agreed on half an hour."

"I know. I'm sorry. It took longer to get back than I thought."

"Did you find anything?"

"The roads Jasper and I were on joined together uphill into one big road. It looked like people have been there. There are tracks from a wagon and maybe a sled. Jasper told me to come back and get you. He said to hurry up."

"Let's go, then," I say.

Michael jogs away with the gun barrel held high. I fall in behind, trailing him up the path until it joins a second path in a wide opening. When I arrive, Jasper is sitting on a stump. Michael and I rest our rifles against one of the stumps and catch our breath. A twenty-minute uphill run has me breathing hard.

"There's smoke coming out of those trees yonder," Jasper says. "Not much of it. But there's smoke. That isn't fog or clouds. Am I right?"

I look across the hillside towards Elk City, and I agree that traces of smoke are visible in the treetops half a mile to the east. The skid road continues in that direction. Is it possible Jasper found the needle in a haystack? I still doubt it, but now it seems possible.

"Let's take a look-see, shall we?" Jasper says. "Just figure out if someone is running a mine up here. Once we get close enough to be sure, I promise we'll turn around and head back down. If it's some hikers cooking dinner, we'll find that out, too."

"All right," I say. "That okay with you, Michael?"

"Absolutely," he says.
Thursday Afternoon outside of Elk City, Idaho - Michael

Michael looks down the slope and thinks about how far they've come. The Land Cruiser they arrived in is so far away it looks like a tiny gold rectangle. The roofs of the ramshackle buildings at the base of the hill look like they're intact. Interesting how distance changes a person's perspective, Michael thinks.

Michael's arms feel tired. He's been carrying a shotgun around for several hours. Up the hill, down the hill, back up the hill. When he first held the gun, it felt like power. Now it feels like dead weight in his sweaty hands. There doesn't seem to be much in these hills you need to shoot at. It's just one fir tree after another all the way to the horizon.

Michael, Jasper, and Delorean are walking on an unmaintained dirt road. Michael guesses that a long time ago it was part of the network of roads created for hauling logs down the hill to the refining mill. Jasper is out in front, walking at a pace Michael wouldn't have guessed someone that age could maintain. He looks old and out of shape, but he can climb a hill like a mountain goat, that's for sure.

They're getting closer to the source of the smoke they've seen drifting through the treetops. Michael smells something like burned wood, which he expected. He also hears a banging, crashing sound, and the closer he gets to the source of the smoke, the louder the noise becomes.

Michael says, "You guys hear that, too, right?"

"I hear it," Delorean says.

"I think, my boy, what you're hearing is the sound of a rock crusher," Jasper says. "The smoke is coming from the steam engine that's used to power the crusher. You want to get gold out of a mountain, you gotta bust up a whole lotta rock. I have to give these miners their proper respect. Hauling all that machinery up here, boring into the mountainside, getting a setup like this working from ancient equipment ... it ain't easy."

"Okay," Delorean says. "Now that we're certain there is a mine here, we can sort out the claim on this thing, right? Figure out who owns the property, work our way up the chain."

"Sure," Jasper says. "After I see it with my own eyes. We're too close. I'm not turning back now."

Delorean turns to Michael, tells him to hang back. Says he doesn't know if it's safe for him to be there.

"I want to see it, too," Michael says.

"You could get your ass shot off trying to get a look," Delorean says. "Why don't you wait here?"

Jasper says he thinks it would be safer for everyone to stick together. Michael agrees.

"All right," Delorean says. "But we're not getting into a gunfight. If this turns into a conflict, we leave. Understood?"

Jasper and Michael both nod their heads. Jasper winks at Michael.

"Take the safeties off of your firearms, boys," Jasper says. "It's jungle rules now."

A few minutes later they come to the source of the smoke. Someone has used the trail as a staging area for a mine and drilled a tunnel into the side of the mountain. Smoke drifts from the tunnel, and there's a din coming from inside. Bam...Bam...Bam...Bam. Faint orange light flickers off the tunnel walls. Just outside the opening, there are two teams of horses harnessed to buckboards. The horses nicker and flick their tails. There's a bucket of pitch and a dozen empty five-gallon cans in one of the buckboards. The entry to the tunnel is fifteen feet wide and looks like an ugly mouth, with raw chunks of black granite jutting into the opening like broken teeth.

"Okay," Delorean says. "We've found the mine. Let's get out of here."

Jasper walks past Delorean into the tunnel without saying a word.

Michael's curiosity gets the better of him. He looks at Delorean and says, "Can I take a look, too?"

"God damn it," Delorean says. "Michael, go back down the trail a hundred yards and find a tree to hide behind. If you hear shooting, run for the car. That's an order."

As Michael turns to leave, Jasper reappears at the entrance to the tunnel.

"Get your asses in here," Jasper says. "You gotta see this."
Thursday Afternoon outside of Elk City, Idaho - Sandy

The longer Sandy hides in the mine, the more she feels like time is running out. Sooner or later, one of the men will explore the tunnel she's been hiding in and either call out for help or shoot her on sight.

She tries to focus on the moment, taking a stab at guessing the time. By her estimation, it's about three o'clock. God, it's noisy in the mine. After a time, she tires of jamming her fingers in her ears, so she tears the lining out of her blazer pockets to make crude earplugs and shoves them into her ear canals. It helps to reduce the noise level, but not much.

The jaws of the rock crusher slam together with enough force she feels the impact in her bones. Bam...Bam...Bam...Bam. A wheelbarrow load of rock goes into the funnel above the jaws, and pebbles come out below, where they're pulverized into powder by grinders. The powder drops onto belts carrying the ore onto a pile that men spray with something black and poisonous. She'd rather clean septic tanks with a toothbrush than work in a gold mine, Sandy thinks.

Then she looks across the cavern and notices three men peering from the tunnel where she entered the mine. She doubts her sanity as she recognizes Delorean and the boy she knows as Bill Steadman's son standing with a third man. All three are carrying rifles. The man standing next to Delorean shrugs off his backpack, leans his assault rifle against the wall of the tunnel, and pulls out a cell phone to snap a picture.

Without thinking, Sandy seizes the opportunity and runs for her freedom. A few seconds into her sprint she hears the pop-pop of gunfire coming from behind her. Delorean steps out of the tunnel and into the cavern. He's yelling at her, animated, telling her to come on.

She's got her running shoes on, and it's a good thing she does. She's a blur of speed as she dodges rabbit-like around the obstacle course of crushed rock and mining equipment. The miners have all been alerted to her presence by the sound of gunfire, and they've put down their shovels and pickaxes and wheelbarrows and drawn their guns. She sprints around the moat that surrounds the heap of foul-smelling ore. She hears more gunfire behind her, feels something like a slap on the side of her neck as she passes the deafening machinery of the rock crusher.

Delorean and the man with the assault rifle are both shooting now, laying down suppressing fire to keep Sandy from being shot by the miners. As she approaches, Delorean stands aside, and she runs into the tunnel. She slows to a walk and then stops. Puts her hands on her knees. Gasps for breath. Sweat is shining on her skin. She hears the deer rifle and the assault rifle firing, pausing, firing. The boy, Bill's son, comes back to check on her. He's got a shotgun in his hands.

"Are you okay?" he yells. She nods.

"You're bleeding," he says. He points at her blouse near her neckline.

She holds her hand against her neck and then checks her palm. Sees blood on it. She could have cut herself running past the machinery, or she could have been shot.

She looks at the boy's face. He has the same chin, straight nose, and intelligent eyes as his father. The same confidence in his bearing. Her sense of urgency about finding Bill steps up to a new level as she looks at Bill's spitting image.

"We need to find your dad," she says. "He needs help."
Thursday Afternoon outside of Elk City, Idaho - Delorean

Sandy is still breathing hard as we embrace. I ask her what the hell she's doing there. She asks me what the hell I'm doing there. She says she was looking for Bill, but she doesn't think he's in the mine anymore, or if he is there he's already dead. She says she and Bill were visiting Heaven's Cape when they were separated at gunpoint, and she was held hostage. She was told Bill might have been taken to the mine. There's blood on her neck and blouse. I have no way to tell how serious the injury is. I just know we need to get her out of there and get medical attention for her.

I hear the pop-pop of gunfire from the cavern followed by the authoritative boom of Jasper's assault rifle. If I were a miner I'd keep my head down. Jasper's gun sounds like a cannon.

I go back to where Jasper stands. He's got the rifle stock against his shoulder and moves the gun barrel back and forth as he sweeps the cavern with his gunsights.

It's a standoff. They have more than a dozen men with pistols and repeating rifles, and even though they're pinned down behind mining equipment and columns of rock, we're trapped, too. If we run, they'll chase us through the tunnel and track us down. If we stay and continue to trade gunfire with them, we'll run out of bullets before long.

My ears are ringing from the gunfire and the rock crusher as I lean over Jasper's shoulder and yell, "The lady was a hostage. She's hurt. We've got to get out of here and get her to a hospital!"

Jasper puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out the keys to the Land Cruiser. He shouts, "Go! I'll hold them off."

"You can't do it forever," I yell.

"Bring me the shotgun," he shouts. "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

He nods.

I lean the deer rifle up against the wall within easy reach of Jasper, then go back to Michael and ask him for the shotgun. I make sure a shell is chambered, carry it back to Jasper and put it beside the deer rifle.

Jasper looks at me and yells, "Women and children first! You hear me? Get them to safety, get help, and come back. That's an order, soldier!"

No one has fed the ore crusher for a while or let off any of the excess steam in the boiler, and the empty crusher jaws slam together with the force of a jackhammer. Bam...Bam...Bam...Bam...Bam. Smoke rises from the red-hot surface of the boiler before flowing across the roof of the cavern and out through the tunnel. My eyes burn from the wood smoke.

I take a last look at Jasper. Shiny-eyed with gold fever, he's found the gold mine and the war he was looking for. It's clear to me he's decided to go out in a blaze of glory.

"Go!" he yells. "I told you to go!"

Sandy, Michael, and I turn and run. We're exiting the tunnel when we hear Jasper's gun. I wonder how many rounds he has left. Then I look at the horses and wagons and get an idea.

"Michael," I say. "Help me unhitch this buckboard."

We free the horses from their harnesses and then Sandy tries to shoo the horses down the trail as I dump the bucket of pitch across the hauling bed.

"Grab one side of the yoke," I tell Michael. The two of us strain against the weight as we pull the buckboard into the tunnel. I shout at Jasper to get his attention. He looks over his shoulder at me in surprise.

"I told you to go!" he yells.

"Help us tip it over," I yell back. "We'll block the tunnel and set it on fire."

Jasper, Michael and I do a dead-lift on one side of the buckboard, raising a pair of wheels off the ground and then tipping the wagon on its side. One of the miners sees what we're doing and unleashes a barrage of fire at us. Bullets ricochet off the walls of the tunnel, spraying us with rock chips. Jasper touches his hand to his cheek and then looks at his bloody fingertips. He scowls, makes eye contact with me, and picks up his assault rifle.

"You got a lighter?" I shout at Jasper. The jaws on the rock crusher are slamming together much more rapidly now. BamBamBamBamBam. With no one letting off the pressure in the boiler, the rock crusher has gone into overdrive.

Without lowering the gun, Jasper reaches into his cargo pants and retrieves a Zippo lighter marked with the U.S. Army logo. He hands it to me and then aims the assault rifle across the overturned buckboard towards the rock crusher.

"You want a piece of me?" Jasper screams. "Come get some!"

Then Jasper unleashes a half-dozen rounds, the echoes from the gunfire in the confined space hitting me like punches to the gut.

I spin the flint wheel and touch the flame to the buckboard. We watch the fire race across the pitch-coated boards, and in moments the wagon turns into a fireball. We've blocked the exit for a few minutes, but I know as soon as the fire goes out the miners will be after us. Michael and I grab our rifles and run.

As we exit the mine, I see Sandy's unhooked the horses from the other buckboard, and she's waiving her arms to shoo them down the trail. The horses regard her with curiosity but don't move. Jasper points his gun barrel at the sky and pulls the trigger. The four old nags bolt at the sound and thunder down the trail like wild mustangs.
Thursday Afternoon outside of Elk City, Idaho - Michael

Michael is in front as they run down the trail towards the Land Cruiser. The lady's in the middle, followed by Delorean, with Jasper bringing up the rear. Michael imagines himself getting out of there alive, getting back into the Land Cruiser and pulling the door closed, locking the door, and watching this place recede in the rear-view mirror. Michael knows he had a near-death experience going into the mine. He's glad Amy wasn't there.

They've almost caught up to the horses when a thunderclap explodes behind them, and they stop and look back towards the mine. A jet of grey smoke pours from the mine entrance and the ground trembles. Jasper yells "Cave in!" as an avalanche begins on the hillside above the mine. The landslide picks up speed and roars down the hill, scouring everything in its path and snapping tall trees like matchsticks. As quickly as the avalanche began, it stops. Michael stands open-mouthed, gaping at the scar on the side of the mountain. The green carpet of fir trees now has an open wound that starts a hundred yards uphill from the mine and continues several hundred yards towards the valley floor. Reddish-brown dirt, fallen trees, and boulders as big as houses are scattered in the cut on the mountainside.

Jasper shrugs off his backpack and gets out a first-aid kit. He introduces himself to Sandy and starts looking for bandages for her wound and his own.

"There's no point in hurrying now," Jasper says. "They're not coming after us anymore. Not after that."

"What about those men who were in the mine?" Michael says.

"I'm sorry, Michael, but if we hadn't defended ourselves, we'd all be dead," Jasper says. "They declared war on us, and in war there are always casualties. Never forget that."

Jasper wipes the cut on Sandy's neck with an antibiotic pad and applies a bandage.

"This doesn't look too serious," Jasper says. "Looks more like a cut than a gunshot wound. You should get a tetanus shot, and maybe antibiotics, too."

"Thank you for that," Sandy says. "You seem to know what you're doing."

"Army medic," Jasper says. "It's what I do."

"Your face is cut," she says.

"I know that. I've had worse."
Thursday Afternoon outside of Elk City, Idaho - Sandy

On the walk downhill to the Land Cruiser, Sandy tells Delorean, Michael, and Jasper about what happened when she and Bill arrived at Heaven's Cape. She describes how she and Bill were separated from each other in the chapel, how she escaped, and about her search for Bill which led her to the mine.

"I'm not sure Bill's still alive," she says. "These people are crazy. Their leader is considered a prophet. Everyone does what he tells them to. The sad thing is it's possible he's Bill's birth father. He may also be the father of many of the people living there. He created a harem of women and a small army of men in his little utopia. It's nuts. I assume he's been funding it all with the gold mine. The one that doesn't exist anymore."

Sandy asks Jasper and Delorean how they found the gold mine. Delorean tells her about the radioactive, arsenic-and-gold-coated rat.

Sandy says, "So you had Eric Fullmeyer analyze the rat left at the campaign headquarters? That's how you found the mine?"

"The rat tested positive for gold, arsenic, and radioactivity," Jasper says. "Arsenic is used in heap leaching to get gold out of crushed ore. So, it seemed likely the rat came from a gold mine. There aren't many areas in Idaho where the rock has trace amounts of thorium or uranium in it, but some do, like this area. I asked the gold buyers I know if they were buying anything that was heap leached and they told me someone in the Elk City area was bringing in quantities of it. The most productive mine near Elk City is the old Gold Point mill, which is just downhill from where we stand. So, we started our search here."

"I thought if we could find the mine the rat came from, I could figure out who owned the mine, and that would tell me who's interfering with Bill's campaign. I planned to put pressure on them to leave you and the campaign alone," Delorean says.

"I'm glad you did," Sandy says. "But you told me you were going back to Oceanside. I thought I might never see you again." She feels a powerful sense of loss and sadness overwhelming her.

Delorean puts his arm around her shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm sorry," Sandy says. She puts her forehead on Delorean's shoulder and tries to hold the tears back.

They walk the rest of the way down to the Land Cruiser. They put the rifles back in the gun rack and get in. Jasper and Michael sit up front, Delorean and Sandy in back. The act of getting into Jasper's Land Cruiser and fastening her seat belt makes her feel more normal and more like herself than she's felt since she and Bill were taken hostage at Heaven's Cape.

"Do you know how to get to Heaven's Cape?" Delorean says. "You walked to the mine from there."

"I think I can find it," Sandy says. "It's off a forest service road connected to Mother Lode Road."

Jasper puts the key in the ignition. "We might have driven by it on the way here. It shouldn't be that hard to find."

"Are we going to go there to look for my dad?" Michael says.

Sandy nods. "We are. And we will."

Jasper starts the engine and drops the transmission into drive.
Thursday Afternoon outside of Elk City, Idaho - Delorean

Sandy and I are holding hands in the back seat of the Land Cruiser, and we're a few miles outside of Elk City when Sandy leans forward and taps Jasper on the shoulder. I hear her tell Jasper she recognizes the turn up ahead. He hits the brakes, exits to the right, and we come to a stop at a bridge that looks like trolls assembled it from tornado debris. Axe-scarred logs lay across a ditch that's deep enough to swallow our car. Leafless branches hang from the logs like scraggly oars.

"Guess they never heard of a chainsaw," Michael says. "Or concrete."

Jasper looks through the windshield and scowls. "The bridge is a joke. You sure you don't want to cross it on foot? This thing weighs three tons."

"I crossed it in a Chevy Tahoe," Sandy says. "It'll hold. Just stay in the middle."

"Everybody buckle up," Jasper says as he shifts the transmission into four-wheel drive. "And pray."

Jasper eases the Land Cruiser onto the bridge and rolls forward at a walking pace, picking his way across the patchwork quilt of cabinet doors and scraps of plywood. The wood pops and creaks as we crawl forward. The Land Cruiser dips and then bounces as we exit the bridge onto hard-packed dirt.

"Shee-it," Jasper says. "My hands are sweating."

We roll to a stop in front of a building that looks like a frontier chapel. The other buildings look like a mess hall, a barn, and dormitories. Off to the east there's a solitary cabin with a peaked roof. It's late afternoon, and the sun beats down on the dirt and horseflies and primitive buildings. It feels as if we've exited the modern world and entered a frontier movie set.

"This is where you were kidnapped?" Jasper says.

"At gunpoint," Sandy says. "In the chapel."

Jasper nods to himself. "I think we better get the heavy metal, then. Hadn't we?"

We get out of the Land Cruiser, and Jasper goes back to the tail gate. He lifts the assault rifle from the gun rack and checks for the presence of a shell in the firing chamber.

"Do you have anything left?" I say.

Jasper pops the magazine. "A few rounds. I should have been better prepared."

"Anything is better than nothing."

Sandy reaches past me and takes the pump-action shotgun from the rack. She pulls back the bolt on the receiver partway and sees there's a live shell. "One round's enough for me. Don't get between me and Aaron."

"Aaron?" I say.

"The psycho who handcuffed me to a bed." Then she points towards a cabin at the tree line. "Right. Over. There," she says, stabbing the air with her index finger to emphasize each word.

"Is that right?" Jasper says. "We'll just see about that."

I lift the bolt-action rifle from the rack and pop out the magazine. "Two rounds left." I slap the magazine in and slide the bolt forward.

"What do you want me to do?" Michael says.

"Either stay behind Jasper and me or wait in the car." I say. "What'll it be?"

"I want to come. I promise I'll stay back."

Jasper nods at Sandy. "Where to?"

"Let's start with the sleeping quarters."

The buildings have the feel of old army facilities. There are no personal items visible in any of the rooms. Everything is meticulously clean. There are pot-bellied stoves and firewood racks and brooms made from corn husks and poplar branches. Chairs hung from wall pegs so no one is tempted to sit down during working hours. Rows of metal-framed beds in the sleeping rooms, each with a footlocker made from pine boards. Each bed is identical to the next, with a thin mattress, starched linens, and a heavy wool blanket folded at the foot of the bed. Narrow windows mounted high on the walls give views of the sky and nothing else. There doesn't appear to be any electricity or running water.

In a few of the rooms, we encounter barefoot women dressed in prairie dresses and sunbonnets. The women look up from their diaper changing or clothes washing or floor-scrubbing in surprise, but then they return to their work without saying a word.

My response to being ignored is to yell, "Hey! Wake Up! Have you seen Aaron, or the man taken hostage?" The women shake their heads and go back to their chores. All we can do is to move on to the next building.

We're walking around the backside of one of the dormitory buildings when we find a four-hole latrine built over a deep pit. The smell from the sewage pond is stomach-turning. A cloud of black flies swarms around us in the late afternoon sunshine.

"Why do they live like this?" Michael asks.

"Because someone tells them to," I answer.

"Why don't they leave?"

"It's all they know."

We move on to what seems to be the communal day-care center. Inside the building, a grey-haired babysitter tells us she thinks Aaron went to the mine. She says everyone at Heaven's Cape felt the ground shake earlier that day, and she heard Aaron say he was going to the mine to check on his boys.

"How long ago did he leave?" I ask.

"An hour or two."

"Any idea how long it takes him to get there and back?"

She shrugs her shoulders and goes back to changing a diaper.

We find a thin young woman baking bread in the communal kitchen. I ask her if she knows anything about the stranger Aaron took from the chapel. She doesn't answer, just looks at the floor. I tell her it's important not to lie, someone's life may be at stake. She says she doesn't know anything about what happened in the chapel, but she thinks someone may be in the root cellar. She says she's heard noises coming from beneath the floor. She leads us to the storage room behind the cooking area and shows us a trapdoor. There's a crude wooden ladder laying on the floor alongside the cans of lard, jars of peaches, baskets of un-shucked corn, and bags of bulk rice. Sandy grabs the rope handle, pulls on it, and peers through the opened trapdoor into the gloom.

Sandy sags to her knees.

"Oh my God," she says.

I look past Sandy into the root cellar. Bill Steadman squints up at me from the darkness. He's gagged, has his hands tied behind his back, and he's sitting cross-legged on a dirt floor.

I shake my head in wonder. Michael peeks around me. "We found him!"

"Looks like it," I say.

Jasper scratches the stubble on his chin. "I'll be damned. A P.O.W. camp in my own back yard."

Jasper and I lean our rifles against the storeroom wall and lower the ladder.

\---

After we get Bill out of the root cellar, we walk him outside and sit on the boardwalk in front of the kitchen. Bill seems dehydrated but is otherwise okay. Sandy sits on the boardwalk on one side of Bill. Michael sits on the other. Jasper stands guard.

I go back into the kitchen to get a pitcher of water. The lady says she's sorry about the man in the root cellar.

"Me, too," I say. "We're going to be leaving soon. You can leave too, if you want."

She shakes her head and looks at the floor.

"Can I ask you a question?" I say.

"Yes."

"Aaron is the prophet here, right?"

She nods. "He is the holy one."

"Right. I get that. Does the holy one sleep in the rooms where all the beds are, or does he have a place on another part of the property?"

"The chapel has a room on the backside. That's where his bed is."

"Have you been in there?"

She nods. "All the womenfolk have. When they come of age Aaron calls them there to be blessed."

"Oh?"

"I drank the purifying fire with him and then the prophet touched me."

"I bet he did."

"Now I'm holy, too."

"No doubt."

I take the pitcher out to the boardwalk and hand it to Bill. He nods his head in thanks and takes a long pull of water. Sandy puts her arm around Bill's shoulder.

Bill wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again," Bill tells Sandy. "I thought I'd die in that root cellar."

Michael shakes his head.

Sandy tells Bill how she escaped from the cabin the previous day, how Jasper, Michael, and I found her at the gold mine, about the gun battle with Aaron's militia and the collapse of the mine.

Bill looks over his shoulder at Jasper and me. "Thanks, from the bottom of my heart."

Jasper shrugs. "You're welcome. Glad to do it."

Bill nudges Michael with his shoulder. "You came, too."

"I sure did," Michael says.

Bill looks at the bloodstain on Sandy's blouse. "You're hurt."

"It's not bad."

"The woman in the kitchen told me Aaron has a room to himself on the backside of the chapel," I say. "I want to take a look at it."

"That sounds like a capital idea," Sandy says.

Bill, Michael, and Sandy stand up, and the five of us walk across the dusty plaza towards the chapel. The sun is low in the sky, and the rickety whitewashed buildings reflect a golden tone. We cast long shadows as we approach the back of the chapel.

Aaron's room is as big as some of the dormitories. There's thick wool carpet the color of ox blood. Ornamental rugs hanging on the walls. A king-sized bed topped with a gold-colored comforter. A gold fabric tent hanging over the bed like mosquito netting. A black leather sofa, a kerosene heater, and a padded recliner. A roll-top desk and office chair. By the bed, a small table with an ashtray, a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of whiskey and a set of shot glasses. A Winchester repeating rifle leans in the corner, and a gun belt hangs from a peg near the door.

"This room seems like a cross between a man-cave and a whorehouse," I say.

"It's great to be king," Jasper says.

"Prophet," I say. "Aaron is a prophet."

"Oh, right. How could I forget?"

"Maybe you were distracted by the canopy bed and whiskey."

Sandy lifts Aaron's gun belt from the peg and puts it over her shoulder. Then she picks up the Winchester repeating rifle. "I don't think Aaron needs these."

"Can't he just smite people with a staff?" I say.

"It's easy to be dismissive," Bill says. "But as far as the people here are concerned, he really is a prophet."

"It's easy for me to be dismissive because he's a fake, a sadist, and a pimp."

There are framed black and white photographs mounted on the wall over the sofa, and I take the time to look at each one. Shirtless children planting seeds by hand in a plowed furrow. Young girls in pioneer dresses washing clothing in galvanized tin tubs. Adolescent boys using pickaxes to cut their way into a wall of rock. A girl about five years old hauling water in buckets yoked across her tiny shoulders with rope. In each of the pictures, an older man scowls, or points, or shouts orders. In every picture, the man has a horsewhip in his hand.

Sandy slides open Aaron's old roll-top desk, exposing Bill's wallet and cell phone, Sandy's purse, pistol, cell phone, and the keys for the Tahoe. "Jackpot."

An older woman with a pinched face and ice-blue eyes enters the room and says Aaron will be angry with us for being in his private place.

"Oh?" Sandy says. "I've got a message I'd like you to pass along to Aaron. If I ever see his face again, I'll put him down like a rabid dog. You got that?"

"You're full of sin," the woman says, glaring at Sandy and then at me. "You're going to hell."

I consider her comment for a moment and then I say, "Lady, based on what I've seen since I got to this shithole, I'm already there."

The woman gives me a sour look and storms out of the room.

"We should go," Bill says.

"On that we agree," I say. I walk outside into the cooling evening air.

\---

We find the Chevy Tahoe parked in the barn. It still has the campaign stickers attached to the doors.

Bill sees his car and says, "Thank God."

"Yeah. Thank God for the Tahoe," I say. "Bill, before you leave, Michael and I would like to have a conversation with you. In private."

Bill looks at me. "What's this about?"

"Michael is your birth son, and he'd like to talk to you about something important. Can you spare a few minutes for that?"

Bill glares at me, then turns towards Michael.

"Of course, Michael. I don't think we need to include Delorean in the conversation."

"He's my friend. I want him to be there."

Bill pauses. "Okay. If you want it that way."

The three of us step outside the barn. Fireflies are winking on and off in the grassy area between the barn and the other buildings.

"Bill," I say, "I think what Michael would like to know about is what happened when he was born. He's curious about why things worked out the way that they did. Is that right, Michael?"

Michael nods.

"I can see that," Bill says. "It's like this, Michael. I was a child myself when JoAnn and I were together, and she became pregnant. I'm sorry to say I never even saw you after you were born. I was punished and thrown out of Heaven's Cape before that happened."

"Why didn't you ever try to find me when you became an adult?" Michael says. "Weren't you curious about what happened to me or my mom?"

"Of course I was curious, Michael, but I didn't know what I'd say to you if I ever met you, other than that I'm sorry I wasn't able to be a good parent. I didn't know what I'd say to JoAnn, either, except that she meant something important to me when I was a boy, and I'm sorry we were separated."

Michael looks at the ground. "Why did you run away when you met me at the capitol? It's like you wished I didn't exist."

"I never wished that, Michael. But so much time had passed since you were born, and I'd tried to put the time at Heaven's Cape behind me. I've always felt shame for not being a good father to you, and for not being able to care for you when you were born. When I saw you, those painful feelings all came back and were just too powerful for me to deal with. I regret it that I wouldn't talk to you, Michael. I apologize."

Michael turns his face away from Bill. I watch him wipe tears from his eyelashes with his fingertips.

"Michael," Bill says, "When we met, you said you needed help with something. What is it?"

"It's okay. Delorean took care of it."

Bill gives me a skeptical look. "Is that right? What was the problem?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Michael says.

"Okay," Bill says.

Michael looks at Bill for a second, then makes eye contact with me. "Thank you."

"I didn't do anything," I say.

"Yeah, you did." Then Michael walks away, going back into the barn where Sandy and Jasper and the Tahoe are.

Bill Steadman regards me with a heavy gaze. "You going to tell me what Michael's problem is?"

"Nope," I say.

"You going to tell me why he wanted you here for that conversation?"

"I suppose it's because he doesn't trust you," I say. "If I had to hazard a guess."

I go back into the barn.

Sandy has the tailgate of the Tahoe open. Jasper and Michael are watching her go through her luggage. Sandy looks up at me and smiles.

"Everything's still here," she says. "I'm surprised."

Bill says, "That's good news. We can get out of here."

"We could do that," Sandy says. "But I think we should call the police. I want to press charges against Aaron for false imprisonment and assault and battery, at a minimum. I assume you want to do the same."

"If we go that route, the campaign is over," Bill says. "The press will connect me with Heaven's Cape again, and Kutchin will say that this proves I'm still part of the cult. I just want to leave."

"You've got to be kidding? After what he did to us? Aaron is a psychopath. He should be in a cage."

"When I was in that hole I thought I was going to die. Now, seeing you and seeing daylight again, I want to get out of here and put this behind me. I don't want to waste another minute on this place."

"Maybe you can forget about what happened here. I can't."

"I'm going back to the campaign. Are you with me or not? You told me you'd stick with me until election day, no matter what."

Sandy crosses her arms.

"When I make a promise, I keep it. No matter what. But we're making a mistake not pressing charges against Aaron. He's dangerous."

"He's an old man who's got nothing left," Bill says. "Let's get out of here."

Sandy shakes her head. "Hold on a minute. There's something I gotta do."

She picks up Aaron's gun belt and repeating rifle and walks out through the barn door. I follow her into the night. Fireflies wink on and off across the compound, and candlelight is visible in the windows of the whitewashed dormitories. It's as pretty as a postcard, in a sick kind of way.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"I want to leave Aaron's guns where he can find them."

"Why would you want to do that?"

"Bear with me."

I follow her between a pair of buildings. The smell of the latrine hits me like a slap. "Oh."

The moonlight is bright enough that the latrine pond shines like black oil. I watch Sandy toss the gun belt and repeating rifle onto the reeking sludge. The weapons land on the muck with an obscene sucking sound, and then submerge. Bubbles of fetid gas pop in the craters where the guns disappeared.

"Unless Aaron's got scuba gear, those are going to be tough to retrieve," I say.

"Even with scuba gear."

"Maybe he could strap one of those tree-shaped car air fresheners to his scuba tanks. Those work great."

Sandy laughs. "Yeah. Totally."

We walk back towards the barn.

"I'll be waiting for you when the election is over," I say. "If you still want to be with me."

Sandy stops walking and takes my hand in hers. The fireflies are circling around us like tiny comets. She puts her arms around me and holds me tight. I put my arms around her, too, and feel her hair against my cheek and her silk blouse beneath my palm. We stay like that for a while, and then we hear Jasper and Michael's voices. They're calling out for us, trying to figure out where we've gone. Sandy and I let go of each other and start walking back to the barn. I wonder if I'll ever feel her in my arms again.
Thursday Night in Boise, Idaho - Delorean

It's almost midnight when I make it back to my hotel room.

I send Eric Fullmeyer a text to see if he's still awake.

He texts back, "Hell yes. What's up?"

I call his number, and after he picks up, I tell him about what happened at the gold mine and Heaven's Cape. Since his lab work on the rat led me to the mine, I figured he'd want to know his efforts paid off.

"Let me get this straight. The radioactive rat did come from a gold mine?" Fullmeyer says.

"It did."

"And you and the geologist and Steadman's kid had a shoot-out with the miners, and rescued Sandy and Bill Steadman?"

"Well, we rescued Sandy from the mine. We got Steadman out of a root cellar at Heaven's Cape."

Fullmeyer says, "You rescued a candidate for the U.S. Senate from a fucking _root cellar_?" And then he laughs. He should do that more often. He's got a deep, rich laugh like he's happy all the way down to his bones. He laughs for a while, then calms down.

"When you put it that way," I say, "it does sound like a long shot."

"Way to go. I would never have thought to look there."

"It's what's called outside-the-box thinking, Eric."

"Uh-huh. But you also blew up a gold mine?"

"That was accidental."

"Convenient, too. I have to say that I like your style. Scorched earth. No holds barred."

"The boiler for the steam engine blew. We were just trying to get out of there with Sandy."

"Guess it's a good thing you interfered in Sandy's business. She might be gone if you hadn't."

"Bill Steadman, too."

"Right. Him too. Well, unless there's something else you want to tell me about, I think I'm going to hit the rack."

I pause for a moment, then tell Eric about what happened with Carl and Tony and Michael at the Steadman campaign headquarters.

Fullmeyer laughs out loud again. That deep, rich, I-love-life laugh he reserves for special occasions.

"Why didn't you tell me about that sooner?" Fullmeyer says.

"I'm not proud of what happened there. I almost beat one of them to death."

"Is that the one you took the gun from? Sounds like he had it coming."

"No. I took the gun from the other one."

"And gave him a beating, too?"

"Yeah, but not as bad."

"Proportional force, then?"

"They pushed my buttons," I say. "When things got physical I went all-out."

"You are a wrecking crew, my friend," Fullmeyer says. "A lunatic one-man wrecking crew."

"I'm a victim of circumstance. There wasn't much choice."

"You weren't much of a victim if you took their money and beat the hell out of them."

"It was them or me. They called the play."

"And you took one of their kids away?"

"You had to be there. No way would you have let those two goons take a kid at gunpoint."

"That's true," Eric says. "That's a fact."

Then I tell Eric about the guns I took from Carl and Tony at the campaign headquarters. Fullmeyer says a forensics lab can use an acid etching method to raise the serial numbers on the guns even if they were scratched off. He says when the numbers are stamped on, it compresses the metal underneath, so compressed metal for the numbers is still there and will be visible when acid etches the softer metal around the numbers.

Fullmeyer agrees with me it's likely the guns were used as murder weapons based on Carl's desperation to get them back. He says Tony sounds like a killer.

I asked Eric if there's a way to check to see if the guns were used in killings. Fullmeyer says there's no way to run a gun through the forensic system without setting off alarm bells if a match is found for an unsolved crime. So, I need to be prepared to have ATF agents, FBI, and local law enforcement talking to me about Carl and Tony if a match is found. And they're going to take the cash, since they'll assume the money is connected to the guns. They're also going to want to know why I didn't call the police when I took the guns away from Carl and Tony. Their first inclination will be to assume I'm either an accomplice or a bandit.

I explained to Eric that when I understood the situation with Michael and his stepfather, I used the guns and money as leverage to separate Michael from a dangerous situation.

"I understand your intent," Fullmeyer says. "What you did was noble. I'm just saying that if I run a ballistic check on those guns, and we get a hit on them, you better be prepared to do some fast talking."

"I just hate letting these assholes walk," I say. "I think Tony is a stone-cold killer. Carl is involved, but I doubt he's ever killed anyone."

"Okay," Fullmeyer says. "Assume you're certain Tony's murdered people with those guns. He and his buddy tried to kill you. You give them the money and the guns back, they'll come after you because you know something about them that makes them vulnerable. Or, you don't give them the money or the guns back, they'll come after you because you took something from them and made them vulnerable. Do you see a theme here?"

"They're coming after me regardless of what I do?" I say.

"You robbed a pair of killers. What did you think would happen?"

"Something unpleasant?"

"If they're resourceful enough to figure out where you live, they're going to make a project out of you."

"I think that's right," I say. "Any advice?"

"Watch your back. Stay strapped. Stay ready."

I laugh ruefully. "Thanks."

"Either that, or take the war to them," Fullmeyer says. "Be proactive."

"I'm trying to keep Michael out of it. I know they're going to hurt him if I rock the boat. Maybe hurt his girlfriend, too."

"Don't rock the boat, then," Fullmeyer says. "Sink it."

That Fullmeyer is a fountain of wisdom, isn't he?
Friday Afternoon in Boise, Idaho - Jack Spelling

As governor of Idaho, Jack Spelling is the man who has to deal with the aftermath of Brett Kutchin resigning from the U.S. Senate. In a short, televised appearance on Friday morning, Kutchin cited the toll the character assassination in the press had taken on his family and was resigning from the senate and the re-election campaign. As inconvenient as Kutchin's resignation is for Jack Spelling to deal with, the leaked audiotape of Kutchin bargaining with a prostitute about whips and rubber suits made Kutchin's re-election bid look like a losing proposition.

Spelling would like to appoint himself as the replacement for Brett Kutchin, but state laws won't allow it. So, Spelling appoints Sam Egger, the lieutenant governor of Idaho, as Kutchin's replacement. The lieutenant governor is a squeaky-clean family man with four kids who've never been in trouble. His wife's in Junior League. He's the son of a wealthy timber baron and is a regular churchgoer. He has a degree in forest management he's never needed to use. Most days when he's not nodding off in the state senate chambers, he can be found at the golf club working on his chip shot. He seems like a safe bet, given the circumstances.

The governor also knows when someone owes their job to you, you can expect loyalty and favors from time to time. As lieutenant governor, Sam Egger has done everything the 'real' governor has ever asked him to do. And this is the second time Egger has been appointed to an important job by Jack Spelling. Egger's first appointment was to the lieutenant governor's desk when the previous lieutenant governor, Clive Steptoe, quit his job to go back to his cattle ranch. Clive had tired of presiding over the state senate and going to ribbon-cutting events. In Clive's mind, presiding over the state senate was akin to herding cats. Not much got done despite his best efforts, and after a while the whole process seemed pointless to him. When that happened, one of Jack Spelling's biggest campaign donors heard the news of Clive's departure and took the opportunity to make a request on behalf of a family friend. The donor's wife was friends with Egger's wife, and Egger's wife thought Sam needed a little nudge to move his career forward. Because of a few phone calls, Sam Egger was turned into Lieutenant Governor. And when Kutchin decided to quit being a U.S. Senator, Egger was pushed into that job, too. He jumped from being a wealthy nobody to Lieutenant Governor to U.S. Senator without ever having to hold down a job or even to have a well-informed opinion about anything. As it happens, that makes him fully-qualified for the position of U.S. Senator.

Tough luck for Egger that it's election season. If he wants to hold onto his senate seat, he must convince the good people of Idaho he should be their representative in Washington. Idaho almost always votes along party lines, so that shouldn't be too heavy a lift, even for Egger. Governor Spelling thinks it's a near-certainty Egger will be elected to the U.S. Senate without anyone having to break a sweat or write big checks for advertising.
Friday Night in Hampton, Oregon - Michael and Amy

It's Friday night when Michael drops off the van at Carl's house. He pushes the car keys through the mail slot on the front door and walks over to Amy's father's Ford Explorer. When he gets in, she squeezes his hand and they lean together to kiss. She drives them back to her house, where they go up a set of exterior stairs and enter a small apartment over the garage.

Amy's dad agreed to let Michael live there if he promises to take care of the place. No smoking in the apartment, and no pets, either. There's a cable television hookup and Wi-Fi he can connect to. He'll have to pay rent, but it's just a couple hundred bucks a month. Just enough to cover his piece of the electrical, water, and natural gas bills. Amy's dad says he'll knock a hundred bucks off Michael's rent if he's willing to mow the lawn once a week. It's a sweet deal.

There isn't a lot of financial pressure on Michael. After Carl put ten thousand dollars into a checking account in Michael's name, Michael opened a different account Carl can't access and transferred the money from the old checking account to the new. That way Carl can't change his mind and take the money back. Carl also dropped the theft charges and filed paperwork with the juvenile court to emancipate Michael. Michael just needs to give the juvenile court two references from adults who say he's responsible enough to live on his own, show he's got financial reserves to live on for six months, and show he's got a place to live. Amy's dad seems mellow about the living arrangements and already said he'd be willing to be a reference for Michael.

Michael's got two days to study for the Calculus 2 final. After the long drive back from Idaho, he's mentally and physically tired. He just wants to get a good night's sleep so he can start getting ready for Mr. Pickney's hellish exam. Mr. Pickney warned the students it was going to be the hardest test they've ever taken, but Michael's not worried. After what he's been through in the last week, it'll be a piece of cake. If he gets a bad grade on a test, so what? He's alive, he has a girlfriend who loves him, he has a new place to live, he doesn't have to deal with Carl, and the charges for theft have been dropped. The world seems like a lot better place.
Monday Morning in Hampton, Oregon - Michael and Amy

Amy's dad is working from home, and he tells her she can take the car to her exam if she wants to. Amy drives Michael to school and then they head up to Mr. Pickney's classroom for the Calculus 2 final. Amy had two days to study for the test and felt like she understood the material okay. Integrals and derivatives make sense to Amy, but Mr. Pickney is a demon when it comes to making tests, and the problems on his exams often don't look like anything they've covered in class. You're not given formulas and told to use them to find a solution. You're given word problems and told to figure out what formulas should be used. In each problem there is a do-able first half and a mind-bending second half.

For example, part one of the last problem on the test says, "A sailor travels the equator of the earth in his boat. If the water beneath the boat is a mile deep, and the sky above the boat is ten miles high, what's the area of the annulus defined by the water beneath the boat and the annulus defined by the air above the boat? Assume the radius of the earth is 4000 miles." An annulus is a ring-shaped region bounded by two concentric circles. So, Amy figures there are three concentric circles: The surface of the earth beneath the water, the surface of the earth at sea level, and the surface of the air ten miles above sea level. So, for each of the two annulus shapes, she calculates pi multiplied by (the outer radius squared) minus pi multiplied by (the inner radius squared). It's an easy question. But that's the way Mr. Pickney's tests work: any math topic is fair game, and he tosses you simple questions to build your confidence before he crushes you with graduate-student level math theory problems.

Part two of the question says, "Suppose an evil villain uses earth's gravity as a weapon against humanity. If he varies earth's gravity between zero G's and a thousand G's, define a formula that reflects the size of the waves our intrepid sailor will encounter on his journey. Extra credit: what's the volume of water in the peaks of the waves above sea level?" Amy wants to cry. She wonders what's wrong with Mr. Pickney's brain. How does he think this stuff up?

Amy can't get her notebook out, but she mentally composes a PROs and CONs list: _Why the hell do we have to learn Calculus?_

PROs

Seems like most universities want you to take it before you apply.

Useful if studying physics or engineering.

CONs

For most practical purposes, Calculus appears to be a useless, brain-melting topic invented by the devil.

Even though there are more PROs than CONs, she's so tired of Calculus that she doesn't care. This might be her last Calculus class, unless her college curriculum requires it.

Amy presses on. She hasn't taken Physics, but it seems likely that super-powerful gravity would translate to smaller waves than if you had a tiny amount of gravity. That sounds like an inverse function, so the function would be something like y = 1/x, where y is the wave height, and x is the gravity. The volume of the water under the peaks of the waves would be the integral of 1/x across the range of 0 to 1000, which is the same as the natural log of x, or ln(x).

\---

Michael's sitting in the Calculus final exam, too, and he feels better than he's felt in a long time. He's not living with Carl anymore, the charges about the stolen money have been dropped, and he's got a girlfriend for the first time in his life. She's beautiful, too, and when they're together it feels ... fantastic.

Because of Michael's trip to Idaho, he hasn't had time to study for the Calculus final at all. He'll have to wing it, but because he's always been a natural math student he figures he'll take a cut at the exam. If he gets an 'F' he'll just re-take the class next year as a senior. No problem.

His memory of what was covered in class is pretty good, and he's able to work his way through the test without too much difficulty. As he approaches the end of the exam, though, his brain feels like a piece of burnt toast.

Michael gets to the final question that talks about the sailor circumnavigating the earth's equator. He answers the first part about the area of the rings of water and air above and below the boat. Easy. The first question isn't Calculus; it's a confidence-building gift from Mister Pickney, so Michael figures that second part of the question must be hard. That's the way Mister Pickney writes test questions - he throws you an easy one, and then he slaps you down with something impossible.

Michael reads the question about the height of the waves on the ocean being affected by gravity, and he starts writing his thoughts down. This part of the test is a mixture of both Calculus and Physics, and since Mr. Pickney tossed an evil villain into the mix, Michael decides to have some fun with the answer. Here's what he writes:

If gravity is zero, all the water floats off into space. Zero wave height. If gravity is a thousand times stronger, the heat from the compression of the water would boil off the ocean. Zero wave height. Even if we exclude heat from compression, it seems safe to assume that at a thousand G's, there would be no wave height at all since gravity is the restoring force on a wave surface. When a wave goes up, gravity pulls the wave back down. Wind is what makes waves, and gravity is what smooths waves back out. Between 0 and a few G's, there's a sweet spot where it's possible for there to be waves caused by wind, and for gravity to pull the waves back down and restore the flat surface.

So, what would the formulas look like?

One behavior applies between zero gravity and the point where there is enough gravity for water vapor to coalesce and form oceans. Or maybe we fudge the problem and say that even at zero gravity the water sticks to the surface of the earth for some reason. Regardless, as we approach zero gravity the wave height would trend towards infinity, since there's no restoring force to flatten the waves after the wind blows across the water.

Another behavior applies in the gravitational range where the ocean exists. In that case, downward force on waves = mass x acceleration, where gravity (G) is the acceleration. As G goes from 0 to 1000, the downward force increases to the point where the restoring force overpowers the force of air to create the waves to begin with. Imagine if the ocean were made of something a thousand times heavier than gold or lead, how tall would the waves be when the wind blows across that surface? Zero. Of course, at 1000 G's, the earth would collapse into itself after the moon fell into the earth and the resulting explosion vaporized the seas.

So, if I were to plot the behavior, it would be a reciprocal graph with a function like y = 1/x, where y is the wave height, and x is the gravity. Smaller gravity = bigger wave height. Bigger gravity = smaller wave height. As gravity approaches 0, wave height approaches infinity. As gravity approaches infinity, wave height approaches 0.

The volume of the water under the peaks of the waves would be the integral of 1/x for any of the gravity settings, which is the same thing as the natural log of x, or ln(x).

However, I'd prefer the evil villain just left things alone, so Amy and I can keep being around each other, and go to college together, and someday sail around the world together. I'm in love with her, and she's in love with me, and I just want to keep things like they are. Is that okay with you, Mr. Pickney?

A bell rings on Mister Pickney's desk and he says, "Pencils down, _now_!"

There is a collective sigh of relief and resignation in the classroom. The room smells like fear sweat. Mr. Pickney goes through the classroom picking up the tests.

"I'll post the scores this weekend," Mr. Pickney says. "I hope you all have a great summer. I'll be seeing some of you in Calculus 3 in the fall."

One of the boys sitting next to Michael whispers, "Like hell you will."

Michael points his index finger at Mr. Pickney and makes a clicking sound. "See you there," he says.

Amy and Michael pick up their backpacks and put them on. On the way to the door, Amy asks Michael if he was able to solve the last problem about gravity and waves.

"Yeah. I told Mr. Pickney the two of us are going to sail around the world together someday, so leave gravity alone."

"Are you kidding?"

"Not at all."

Michael is smiling when he opens the classroom door, but his expression changes when he sees Ike Buswell. Buswell's wearing a windbreaker with the collar turned up, and he steps forward to block the doorway, so Michael can't leave the room. Michael notices the fingers on both of Buswell's hands have medical tape wrapped around them. He thinks about how he broke the toilet tank lid on Buswell's fingers when Buswell trapped him in the toilet stall. He remembers how scared he felt then. He doesn't feel scared at all, now.

"It's the milk-maid and the dweeb," Buswell says. "Don't think I've forgotten about you two."

Michael says, "Get out of our way so we can get to the next test."

"Payback is a bitch. I'm coming for you."

Michael shrugs off his backpack and clenches his hands into tight, hard fists. He can feel his heartbeat pounding inside his ribs, jacking up his blood pressure as he gets ready to go to war. He's not hiding in the bathroom this time, and his skin is tingling as he takes a step forward. He's close enough he can connect with a punch. God, that would feel good. He'd love to land one on Buswell's face, right here, right now. "You want a piece of me, fat boy?" he says. "Come on. I'm right here."

Mr. Pickney pushes between Michael and Buswell and says, "What's going on here?" He points a finger at Buswell. He shouts, "You! Get out of the way and let my students leave!"

Buswell gives Mr. Pickney a hard stare for a moment before shrugging his huge shoulders. He makes a kissing noise, turns, and walks away.

Mr. Pickney tells Michael, "If he bothers you again, you should tell the principal."

"Okay. I'll do that."

Michael and Amy start down the hallway towards their Biology exam. They're walking side-by-side, and he catches her hand in his own and squeezes it. He watches Buswell turn the corner ahead of them and disappear.

Amy feels chilled, but she keeps walking. "Aren't you afraid of him?"

"No. And cowering would just make the bullying worse."

"I still wonder if we should have gone to the police."

"Let's just focus on the Biology exam, Amy. Let's just get through the next two hours."

"I'm not worried about the test," she says. "I've got enough points accumulated I'm getting an A in there, guaranteed. I'm worried about what comes after."

Michael squeezes her hand. "It's going to be all right."
Monday Afternoon in Hampton, Oregon – Michael and Amy

Michael is sitting on his bed in the garage apartment he's renting from Amy's dad. His A.P. European History notes are scattered across the bedspread, and he and Amy have been quizzing each other for an hour for the exam.

It's four in the afternoon when Michael gets a call from Delorean.

"How'd the Calculus exam go?" Delorean says.

"Real good," Michael says. "I'm just studying for my A.P. European History exam."

"I took that class when I was in high school, too."

"How'd you do on the final?"

"Got a five."

"Solid."

"There's a lot of material, isn't there?"

"Yeah."

"How's it going with your stepfather?"

"Okay, I think. I downloaded the emancipation reference forms and printed them out. I just need to have Mr. Pickney and Amy's dad sign the forms that say they think I'm responsible enough to live on my own, and then turn them into the juvenile court. I think that's the last of the paperwork. Then I'll be legally free."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Pretty great."

"How's the garage apartment?" Delorean asks.

"It's nice. The Wi-Fi router is kind of flaky, but otherwise it's ideal."

"How's Amy doing?"

"Amy is fantastic. She's always fantastic."

When Michael says that, Amy looks up from her notes and smiles at him. She reaches over and takes his hand in hers. The two of them look at each other and soak up the feelings of connectedness and acceptance and attraction. If Michael wasn't on the phone, he'd put his arms around Amy and kiss that incredibly soft spot at the base of her neck. He might kiss her other places, too.

"You sound happy," Delorean says.

"I am."

"Okay, then. Sounds like your stepfather kept his part of the deal. We need to arrange a meeting with him to return the packages."

"Do you have a place and time in mind?"

"I don't know Hampton all that well. We need somewhere that's neutral and private. Not his house, not your house."

Michael thinks about it. "There's a place behind the high school called the Grotto," Michael says. He describes the path, the trees, the river, the fact that there's one way in and out of there.

"You think you could show it to me?"

"Sure."

"Let me look at it before you contact Carl, okay?"

"I'll be through studying in about three hours, if you want to go over there and look at it together."

"Why don't you text me your address? I'll come by and pick you up. I need to rent a car, and I have to drive over from the coast, so it'll be close to seven thirty by the time I get there."

When Michael puts his cell phone down, Amy asks him if he really thinks she's fantastic.

"Of course," Michael says.

"You're not bothered by the way my skin looks?"

"I feel sad you were burned like that, is that what you mean?"

"No. I mean ... you don't think I'm ugly?"

"Amy," he says. He holds her hand in his and looks at her with soulful eyes. "I think you're beautiful all the way through, in every way."

She thinks about that, and then says, "When my mom left us, I tried to take her place by doing the things she did, like the shopping and laundry and cooking. She never showed me how to use the stove, and the first time I tried to cook dinner I leaned over one of the burners and caught my dress on fire. My dad heard me screaming and came and poured water on me to put the fire out."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. It's not your fault."

He holds her hands. They both look at the pattern on the comforter on the bed.

"I've been mad at her for a long time," she says.

"I don't blame you."

"You think I'm beautiful all the way through?"

"Can't you tell?"

"I thought so. I just wanted to be sure."

Michael leans in and kisses her.

"You're here now," she says. "I'm so glad for that."

"And I'm not going anywhere."

"Did you tell Mister Pickney you wanted to sail around the world with me?"

"Yes."

"Do you mean that?"

"Of course."

Amy leans in and kisses him.
Monday Night in Hampton, Oregon - Delorean

As I drive into Amy's neighborhood, I see a black Camaro parked several houses down from Amy's address. A cloud of vape smoke rolls from the interior of the Camaro as I pass.

I pull to the curb in front of Amy's house. I take note of the license plate on the Camaro, then send a text to Michael telling him that I'm waiting in the street. A minute later, Michael opens the gate by the corner of the garage. I flash the headlights on the truck and Michael waves his hand in recognition. Michael latches the gate, then walks towards the truck. I keep an eye on the Camaro as Michael reaches the truck and gets in.

"What happened to the Mustang?" Michael says.

"I needed more space for this trip. I've got a delivery to make."

Michael nods. "It's a capacity problem."

"It will be tomorrow, when I have the money with me."

The truck has four-wheel drive, a beige vinyl interior, and weighs about three tons. It's overkill for delivering the money, but the Mustang just isn't big enough. I would have preferred to rent a large sedan, but the truck was all they had left at the car rental place in Tillamook. When I hauled the cash back from Boise in the Mustang, it was difficult to get the convertible top closed after I loaded three tubs of Carl and Tony's money inside. There wasn't enough space for the other two tubs, so I'd left the spare tire behind and filled the trunk top-to-bottom with rolls of cash. For this outing I wanted something bigger.

I pull away from the curb, taking it slow as I exit the neighborhood. As I reach the stop sign at the end of the block, I glance at the rearview mirror and see the Camaro ease away from the curb. Maybe it means something. Maybe not.

Michael guides me through evening traffic to the Hampton High School parking lot, which is empty aside from a few cars near the gymnasium. We get out of the truck and follow the trail through the fir trees to the Grotto.

"This is nice," I say.

Michael's standing at the railing overlooking the Hampton River. "It can be. The last time I was here, Ike Buswell tried to throw me over the rail, and then he assaulted Amy."

"Is that right?"

"It was close."

"Mind my asking why he did that?"

"He's a predatory bully and he had me cornered in the men's room. Instead of taking a beating, I used a toilet lid as a sledgehammer and smashed his hands."

I laugh.

"I choked him out with a belt when he got on top of Amy. I thought I might have killed him, but he was just unconscious. Now he's threatening to get even with me and Amy. I'm not afraid of him anymore, though."

"So, Buswell tried to kill you by throwing you into the river, and he would have raped Amy if you hadn't intervened. Do you know where he lives?"

"I think I can find out."

"I want his address."

"Why?"

"Because if anything happens to you or Amy, I'm going to cancel him out like a postage stamp."

"You mean that?"

"You can take it to the bank."

When we leave the Grotto and head back towards Michael's house, it's dark. I'm watching the rearview mirror and see a pair of headlights turn when I turn, and the car accelerates to keep up when my truck drives through yellow lights.

"What kind of car does Buswell drive?" I ask.

"A black Camaro, I think," Michael says. "Why?"

"I think he might be behind us."

Michael twists in his seat to look behind us.

"I don't want him tailing us back to Amy's house," Michael says.

"I understand, but I think he might have been parked on your block when I came by to pick you up."

We continue south on Smithfield, with the Camaro several cars back. The street light turns yellow as we approach the intersection for Red Oak Drive. I put the left turn blinker on, wait until the yellow light turns red, but instead of turning left I stomp on the gas pedal and head straight through the intersection. I watch cross-traffic fill the rear-view mirror, leaving the Camaro on the far side of a stream of luxury SUVs and sedans.

"Is he still behind us?" Michael says.

"We left him on the other side of the traffic at that intersection."

Michael doesn't say anything.

"Did you tell anyone you were staying at Amy's place?" I say.

"Just Carl."

"Then either Buswell's been stalking you, or Carl told him where to find you."

"What are we going to do?" Michael says.

"You're not going to do anything. You just got out of trouble and I want you to keep it that way. What am I going to do? ... That's a whole different question."

I pull the truck to the curb and lets other cars pass by. I watch my rear-view mirror and see the profile of the Camaro approaching. As the black car passes, I hit the truck's high beams, pull out onto Smithfield, and accelerate until I'm right on the rear bumper of the Camaro. I stay tight on the Camaro's bumper until I'm forced to stop behind several other cars waiting at an intersection.

I pull to within inches of Buswell's rear bumper and drop the truck into four-wheel drive. I wait until Buswell looks in the rear-view mirror. Then I ease forward and watch his eyes go wide when I pull forward and hit the Camaro's rear bumper. The car in front of the Camaro rolls through the intersection, so Buswell is next in line. A pearl white Cadillac Escalade crosses the intersection in front of the Camaro as I mash the gas pedal to the floor. The taillights of the Camaro shatter and the rear bumper flattens. I hold the truck's gas pedal on the floor, pushing Buswell into traffic, and then the Camaro launches forward, coming within inches of the rear bumper of the Cadillac. The Camaro paints two smoking strips of melted rubber on the pavement as it escapes.

I let off the gas pedal, put my turn signal on and turn left at an easy pace. Then I drive on as if nothing's happened.

"Jesus Christ," Michael says.

"He's stalking you. Now he knows you're not going to take it lying down. It's going to cost him to keep bothering you."

"Don't you think this will make it worse?"

I shrug. "I don't see how. He's following you around because he's looking for an opportunity to hurt you."

"I'm not afraid of him."

"I know that, but he's a threat. If we don't do something about it, he's going to catch you alone and make you pay for what you did to him."

"I defended myself. That's all I did."

"You also scared him for maybe the first time in his life. He wants you gone so he doesn't have to be reminded you could have killed him if you wanted to."

"Now I wish I had. What if he goes after Amy?"

"I'll find a way to put a stop to it, Michael. I guarantee it."

"Amy thinks we should go to the police."

"What would you tell them? That you almost killed Buswell after he tried to kill you and sexually assault Amy, and you didn't report it when it happened? And now you're nervous because you saw Buswell at school and in traffic? What would the cops make of that? If they ask Buswell about it, he'll say you attacked him when he had his back turned. You and Amy can say different, but the fact you didn't go to the police sooner makes it look like you're guilty and Buswell was too proud to report it."

We drive in silence.

Michael says, "I wish everything could go back to the way it was."

I laugh. "Don't we all?"

"I don't see a way out of this," Michael says. "I think I'm screwed. Again."

"Buck up. You've got me on your side."

"You think you can fix this?"

"I do."

Michael looks out the side window of the truck.

"Tell me about changing conceptions of French national identity and culture since the 1960's," I say.

"What?"

"You've got your AP European History exam tomorrow morning, right? It's guaranteed a question like that will be on the exam. I took that test, and I still remember it."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's right."

"So, focus on that. I'll take care of Buswell."

"And Carl and his creepy friend with the guns?"

"Them, too."
Late Tuesday Afternoon in Hampton, Oregon - Delorean

Michael and I are carrying the tubs of cash from the Hampton High School parking lot into the Grotto. The tubs aren't heavy, but they're unwieldy enough we each carry one tub at a time. On our last trip out to the truck, I notice a black Camaro parked at the far edge of the empty parking lot. The Camaro's windshield is facing in my direction, but I can't tell if someone is inside.

I go around to the passenger door of the truck and pull the lever that pops the back seat forward. I loosen the scissor jack from its mounting bracket, exposing a foot-long piece of black steel with a socket welded to one end. I pop it from its mounting bracket and feel the weight in my hand. Then I lock the doors, lay the wrench atop the last tub of cash, and lift the tub from the truck bed.

"What's the wrench for?" Michael says.

"Maybe something. Maybe nothing," I say.

"That's pretty cryptic," Michael says.

"I'm a riddle."

"Right."

"Wrapped in a mystery."

"What?"

"Inside an enigma."

"Churchill said that about Russia," Michael says.

"I knew that."

"Uh-huh."

We have the Grotto to ourselves. Michael's classmates are at home studying for finals, and the teachers and administrators at the high school have all left for the evening. We stack the tubs on the concrete bench in front of a wall of ugly black rock. All the surfaces in the Grotto have a fine layer of mist on them. The river hisses and churns on the other side of the railing.

I'm wearing a black long-sleeved tee shirt with the logo of The Fat Pelican brewpub on the shirt pocket. Faded blue jeans and steel-toed work boots. Leather work gloves. Michael's wearing a grey denim jacket over black jeans and black basketball shoes.

"I'm going to send Carl a text to tell him we're ready, okay?" Michael says.

"Please do."

Michael's fingers are a blur as he sends the text to Carl.

Thirty seconds later, Michael's cell phone beeps, and then Michael says Carl will be there with Tony in ten minutes.

"That's your cue," I say. "Get out of here. Either go back up the trail and head into the trees, or I can give you the keys and you can take the truck. You have to leave, though."

"I'm not going."

"I'm giving you an order. You're not going to be here for this."

"I'm not afraid."

"I know you're not. But if you see this go down, that's one more reason for Carl and his friend to feel threatened by you. I don't want that to happen, and neither do you."

Michael thinks about it.

"You're sure?" he says.

"I'm sure."

"I'll wait in the forest," he says. "If you need my help, just shout, okay?"

"I will. After we conclude our business, I'll come find you."

"Okay," he says.

He starts to leave, then comes over and wraps his arms around me.

"Umm. Thanks."

He lets go of me and wipes his eyelashes with his fingertips. I watch him run down the path and then head into the trees.

I wait. I kick small rocks beneath the railing and watch how long it takes for them to splash near the boulders in the Hampton River.

"That's a hell of a long way down, isn't it?" I say.

The river hisses its response.

Five minutes later, Buswell comes down the path. He's wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt over red sweatpants and white leather basketball shoes. He's carrying a baseball bat and slamming the bat into the railing every few steps. The railing makes a gonging sound every time the bat hits the metal.

He comes to a stop in front of me. There's white medical tape wrapped around the fingers on both of his hands, and he's slapping the barrel of the bat against the palm of his hand. I haven't seen him up close before, and I'm grateful for that. He's got a piggish nose, cauliflower ears, small blue eyes, a receding chin. Blond hair cut high on top and tight on the sides. Built like he lifts weights about four hours a day. Not someone I'd like to get into a wrestling ring with, but then again, I'm not planning on wrestling with him.

I'm standing against the metal safety railing, and a sound like radio static comes from down below, where the river water hits the rocks.

"Look who's here," Buswell says. "Mikey's pet gorilla. Where's Mikey?"

"He went for a walk."

"I've got a score to settle with you," he says, pointing the bat at me.

"You should get out of here while you still can. And leave Michael alone."

"I don't take orders from you," Buswell says.

I shrug. "I tried to warn you. Whatever happens, remember that."

"You don't scare me."

I've got the socket end of the tire wrench cupped in my right hand, with the rest of the wrench hidden inside the sleeve of my shirt. I open my hand and let most of the wrench slide through my fingers before I grab the handle. Then I slap the socket end of the wrench in the open palm of my other hand. "Okay, stud. You want this fight, you got it."

"You don't know what you're getting into," Buswell says.

"I think I do. You're a punk who's used to scaring people and hurting them, too. Maybe you can beat me in a fight, maybe not. But if you want to find out who the big dog is, it's going to cost you."

Buswell's nostrils flare as he measures his odds. He scowls at me. I stare back.

Buswell points his baseball bat at the plastic tubs.

"What is all this shit?" Buswell says. "What are you retards up to?"

"It doesn't involve you."

Buswell steps over to the tubs, staying out of my reach. He rests the bat against his shoulder and then pops the lid on a tub. He sees the rolls of cash and sputters, "What the hell?"

I watch him pop the lids on the other tubs.

"What the fuck?" Buswell says. "Is this a drug deal?"

"I took up a collection. To buy you a new brain."

"Is that right?" Buswell says. "Maybe I'll use yours after I bash it out of your head."

"Clever. You have a special way with words."

Buswell turns his head in response to the sound of Tony and Carl's arrival. Carl's wearing blue dress slacks and a blue and white pinstriped shirt. Tony's dressed in black leather again, and he's applied heavy makeup to cover the bruises on his face. Tony's makeup is two shades lighter than the rest of his skin, so he looks a like a ghost with a suntan. I untuck my shirt, exposing the butt of the .38 that I took from Carl's van in Boise. Then I drop the tire wrench and hook the thumb of my gun hand in the waistband of my blue jeans. Buswell is startled by the sound of the wrench hitting the pavement. He looks at me, sees the gun butt, and takes a half-step back.

Tony and Carl glance at me standing by the railing, and at Buswell standing by the tubs.

"Who the hell are you?" Tony says to Buswell.

Buswell looks at Tony with disdain. "Someone you don't want to mess with."

Tony gives me an accusatory stare.

I shrug. "He's an uninvited guest. I asked him to leave. He won't go."

"He'll go if I say he goes," Tony says.

"Okay," I say. "That works."

Tony glances at the gun in my waistband, then back up to my face. "You bring everything?"

"The money's all there. Every dollar of it."

"Where are the guns?" Carl says.

"Two are in the tubs," I say. "The other one's in my waistband."

Tony nods, and then lifts his chin towards Buswell. "Hey, gym rat. You've got five seconds to leave and not look back."

Buswell looks at Tony. "I don't take orders from dwarves. Go screw yourself." Then he reaches into a tub and lifts a rubber-banded stack of bills out.

Tony glares at me as if Buswell's behavior is my fault. "What the fuck?"

"He's a special guy, isn't he?" I say.

Buswell shoves the bills into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

Tony pulls a palm-sized chrome-plated pistol from the pocket of his coat. When he does that, I slide the .38 from my waist band. Tony's eyes flick in my direction to take in the fact that I'm holding a gun now, too. Then Tony turns his attention back to Buswell. He tells Buswell that if he doesn't put the money back he's going to kill him.

Buswell stops digging in the tub, looks at Tony, and realizes Tony's got a gun in his hand. He lets go of the roll of bills and straightens up.

"Guess I'll be on my way, then, elf-man."

Tony aims the pistol at the ground near Buswell's feet and pulls the trigger. The sound of gunfire cracks hard in the confined space of the Grotto.

"I changed my mind. It's too late," Tony says. Then he spits on the pavement.

"What do you mean?" Buswell says.

Tony lifts the pistol to point at Buswell's chest.

"I mean you're not going anywhere," Tony says. "Time's up. Drop the bat."

"I'll put the money back," Buswell says.

"I know you will," Tony says. "Get on your knees. You're done."

I watch the fear flash across Buswell's face. Then he raises the wood over his head like a tomahawk and rushes at Tony, swinging the bat like a hatchet. Tony's gun goes off as the bat slams into his shoulder, then fires a second time as Buswell cocks his arm to swing again. When Buswell connects with the bat, it snaps Tony's head to the side as if he'd been swatted by a grizzly bear. A shudder goes through Tony's body and his knees go out from under him. As he falls to the pavement, Tony's pistol fires a third time.

Buswell looks at me with his eyebrows pulled together. He lets go of the bat and clutches at his stomach with both hands. He lets out a loud groan.

"I'm shot," he says through gritted teeth.

"You should have left when I told you to."

His eyes are unfocused and glassy. He looks past me at the Hampton River. He nods his head.

"All that money," he says. Bubbles of blood are forming on his lips. His hands drop to his sides, and I see the blood on his hands and the shiny, red-black stain on his sweatshirt.

Carl looks at me with his eyebrows raised.

Buswell staggers towards the tubs of cash. His foot catches on Tony's lifeless hand and he goes down on all fours. He's still for a moment, then turns his head back in my direction like he wants to see if I'm still there. Then his body goes slack, as if someone flipped off the power switch. He makes a grunting sound as he flattens against the pavement.

Carl and I stand silently for a time. Then I swing my arm like a discus thrower and watch the .38 fly out over the water. There's a clacking sound as the pistol caroms off one of the boulders, and then a splash.

Tony and Ike lay together as if they'd collided and knocked each other unconscious. Carl walks over to the tangle of arms and legs. He leans over, rests his hands on his knees, and watches Tony, like he's expecting him to revive. Then he stands upright.

"I don't think either of them are breathing," he says.

"That's unfortunate."

"Are the other guns in the tubs?"

"Yes."

"And all the money is here?"

"Every dollar."

I walk over to the tub Buswell was digging in, move rolls and stacks of rubber-banded bills out of the way. I reach down to the bottom and pick up the target pistol and the .357. I hold the pistols in front of me, so Carl can see them. Carl nods. I walk over to the railing and throw them one at a time as far out over the water as I can.

"We're done here, right?" I say. "We're completely square."

"We're done," Carl says.

"You leave your boy out of this, and we stay good. If I hear you don't keep your part of the deal, I'll come back and find you."

"I understand."

"Then I guess we don't have anything else to talk about."

"What about these two?" Carl says, gesturing with his chin towards the bodies.

"What about 'em? That's your problem to solve."

I pick up the tire wrench I'd dropped on the pavement earlier and then walk back down the path towards the truck. The sound of the hissing river echoes in my ear as I make my way along the trail.

As I approach the parking lot, Michael falls in step beside me.

"Is everything okay?" he says.

"In a way."

"I heard gunshots."

"Tony had a disagreement with Buswell that escalated."

"Any casualties of war?" Michael asks. "That's what Jasper called it, remember?"

I don't answer him.

As we reach the truck, I look across the parking lot and see Buswell's black Camaro sitting like a loyal pet waiting for the master's return.

"You okay?" Michael says.

I unlock the truck and toss the tire wrench behind the seat. The two of us get in, and I sit behind the wheel in contemplation for a few seconds.

"Are you all right?" Michael says.

I start it up and put it in drive.
Wednesday Morning in Hampton, Oregon - Michael

On Wednesday morning, the top story on the morning news is about the bodies of Tony and Ike being found in the Grotto behind Hampton High School. The report says a substantial amount of cash was found on Ike's body. Tony's got a criminal record for possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute, and for assault and battery, so the police speculate that Tony and Buswell killed each other in a drug deal gone wrong.

Michael reads the story and says, "I think I'm free."
Third Week of June in Idaho - Bill Steadman and Sam Egger

There are a few headwinds holding back Egger's momentum in his senate campaign: he has the personality of a bowl of oatmeal, his stump speeches are delivered in a monotone that puts most audiences into a coma, and voters are still so bothered by the Kutchin sex scandal they're willing to listen to what Bill Steadman has to say. Polls show the race is dead-even.

A few weeks ago, Bill Steadman was concerned about running out of money. Now he has two million dollars to work with, and he's taking in several hundred thousand a week without even trying. Egger is campaigning hard, but Steadman is out-fundraising him by two to one.
Last Week of June in Boise, Idaho - Bill Steadman and Sam Egger

Bill Steadman and Sam Egger are onstage at a televised debate. The moderator has been lobbing softball questions at the candidates for half an hour like "Why do you want to be involved in public service?" and "What makes you the best-qualified candidate?" Both candidates have canned answers ready that they've given in interviews a dozen times before. Then the moderator asks Egger whether he thinks the Fifth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution is still valid. Egger is silent. The moderator asks Egger if he wants to hear the question again. Egger's eyes get wide and he turns white as a sheet.

The moderator asks Steadman what he thinks about the Fifth Amendment.

Steadman says, "I'm going to take the Fifth on that question," and the audience laughs.

"Seriously, though," Steadman says, "There's more to the Fifth Amendment than saying someone shouldn't be forced to testify against themselves at trial. It also says there shouldn't be a trial for a felony unless a grand jury agrees there's enough evidence to indict the person, and that a person can't be tried more than once for the same crime, that a person can't be deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process. The Fifth Amendment is one of the bedrocks of the American legal system, and I think we should all be grateful it exists, because it protects our rights. As your senator, I'd do everything in my power to protect and preserve those rights. The fact that Egger doesn't even know what the Fifth Amendment is about is ridiculous. How can someone who wants to be elected to the U.S. Senate, a body whose sole purpose is to pass laws, not have taken ten minutes to look at the Constitution? Think about it."

The moderator starts to move on to the next question, but Egger interrupts, saying, "I knew we had those rights, I just forgot for a moment those were part of the Fifth Amendment."

Steadman says, "How about the Thirteenth Amendment? Do you know that one?"

Egger is silent again.

"Have you heard of slavery?" Steadman says. "News Flash: The Thirteenth Amendment says slavery is illegal."

The audience roars with laughter.

From that point on, Sam Egger's performance in the debate is horrific. Whenever the camera shows his face, his expression reads like the human version of a deer caught in headlights.

At the end of the debate, both candidates are given sixty seconds to make a closing statement.

Egger goes on the attack, saying Steadman grew up in a religious cult where women were used like breeding cows, that Steadman was a drifter living on the streets, and he can't be trusted with a job as important as being U.S. Senator. Egger reminds people he has experience as Lieutenant Governor, and his opponent has never held a public office.

The moderator tells Steadman he's got sixty seconds to respond.

"It's true I started out with nothing," Steadman says. "I grew up in a place where women and children were treated very badly. That's not my fault. And it's true I was homeless as a child for a while, and that was hard on me. However, because this state cares about its children, social services found foster care for me until I was adopted by a loving couple who I consider my real parents. They raised me and taught me about the value of work and family and community, and how to treat people with respect, and how to run a business that provides jobs for people and helps feed people, too. I'm not embarrassed by the fact that I went through some tough times and was able to make something out of myself. That's a good thing, right? That's how people become stronger, by overcoming adversity. That's what the U.S. is all about, or at least what it _should be_ all about. What our leadership in the U.S. Senate should be focused on is making sure every person is treated equally and fairly in the eyes of the law, and people have a chance to succeed. What the U.S. Senate _should not be doing_ is slamming doors closed on people because they're gay, or they're women, or they're sick or disabled, while they bend over backwards to make sure the richest one percent have special tax breaks. By the way, in case you hadn't noticed, the way tax breaks for the one percent get paid for is by raising the taxes on the middle class and the working poor. It's ridiculous that our leaders are hypocrites and frauds and we keep re-electing them. It's time for a change in this country and my opponent is more evidence of that. Egger should be embarrassed he started his life with a silver spoon in his mouth and has done nothing since he was born except to float along on the opportunities his rich and influential friends at the country club sent his way. My goal as U.S. Senator will be to try to repay the people of this state for the opportunities I've had, and to do everything I can to ensure the children of this state have opportunities to make something of their lives. I'd like to close by thanking all the people who've come to my rallies and shared their dreams with me and worked tirelessly to support my campaign. It's been the greatest experience of my life. Thank you, people of Idaho."

\---

When the voter polling data comes out after the televised debate, Bill Steadman leads Sam Egger by nine points.
End of June in Moscow, Idaho - Sandy

Sandy and Bill are on the University of Idaho campus in Moscow, Idaho. It's summer session, but the space separating Theophilus Tower, McConnell Hall, and the Living and Learning dormitory has a thousand people in it. Electronic music is pumping through speakers mounted on poles. A stage has been erected on the south end of the lawn, and colored lights at the edge of the platform flash red, white, and blue in sync with the beat of the music. Two security guards walk through the patchwork of beach towels and blankets laid on the grass, asking people to leave the space near the stage clear, and to not to smoke or vape during the rally.

Bill's getting ready to make his pitch to the crowd. There's a tall curtain set up as the backdrop for the stage, and he and Sandy are using the privacy the curtain affords to check the batteries for Bill's headset microphone. He doesn't like to hold a microphone when he's talking because it makes it harder for him to gesture with his hands. Two student volunteers are standing nearby as go-fers in case Bill needs something to eat or to have his cell phone recharged. They gape at Bill as if he were a movie star.

Sandy feels the tingling sensation on her backside that tells her someone's staring at her. She looks over her shoulder and sees a man standing behind the student volunteers. It's an elderly dude wearing new jeans, a long-sleeved white tee shirt, and a cowboy hat. Eyeglasses with bent frames. He's got one of Bill's campaign flyers in his hands. Sandy assumes he wants Bill to sign the flyer, but there's no time for autographs now. She guesses he's checking her out because he's a horny old goat who likes the way she looks in a skirt. She gets stared at by men so often that it makes her feel tired.

She turns back towards Bill and checks the power indicator on the microphone one more time. Sees it's got a full charge and the wireless connection with the public address system is working properly.

She looks over her shoulder once again and sees the elderly dude is still standing there. She notices he's got a pot belly and looks like he's recently shaved his beard off. The top half of his face is either sunburned or wind burned, but the bottom half is pale, like the skin hasn't seen daylight in years. She thinks he's a farmer who's come to town in his new store-bought duds to see the rally.

Bill asks Sandy if the mike's okay and she says it's fine. Bill says, "Time to go make some new friends." Then he heads for the stage. She watches Bill climb the stairs and go onstage through a slit in the black curtain. The audience starts to applaud. When she turns back, the two student volunteers are gone, and the pot-bellied man in the cowboy hat is gone, too.

She composes herself for a moment, then goes around the corner of the stage to check on the crowd. The pot-bellied man is standing up against the front of the stage, maybe ten feet from Bill. She'll need to ask him to move away from the stage and sit down so other people can see.

The man notices Sandy looking at him, and he stares back at her. When their eyes meet she realizes it's Aaron, the prophet from Heaven's Cape. He's shaved, and he's cut his hair and put on different clothes, but it's him. She thinks about how satisfying it would feel to knock the teeth out of his head as payback for what he did to her at Heaven's Cape. That would be a good start for the kind of beat-down she'd like to give him, one brutal blow after another.

The music stops playing, and then Bill's voice booms through the speaker system.

"Hello, Moscow!" Bill says in a deep, theatrical voice. He puts his hands on his hips, surveying the audience.

The crowd roars its welcome.

Aaron shoves his hand into the front pocket of his jeans, grabbing for something. Sandy starts running, sprinting flat-out across the grass in front of the stage. Aaron struggles to remove something from his pocket, watching her with frightened eyes as she closes the distance. She locks her arms across her chest like a battering ram before she collides with him, knocking him off his feet. They go down together on the grass, with her on top and her face inches from his. His glasses are askew, his eyes panicked. She smells a stomach-turning mix of cigar, cheap cologne, and the funk of old-man body odor. Feels the fat of Aaron's belly against her chest and his belt buckle against her forearm as she scrabbles for Aaron's gun hand. Her fingers touch the gun barrel as the pistol goes off. The pain is excruciating. It feels like someone drilled a road flare through the muscles in her thigh. Her instinct is to wrap her hands around her leg, do anything she can to reduce the pain, but she redoubles her effort to get a grip on the gun. Finding the gun barrel again, she grips it as tightly as a drowning man grabs a rope. Her other hand finds Aaron's wrist and she locks on tight. He tries to pull his hand away from her, but years of weight training and a surge of adrenaline give her the advantage in strength. She uses the leverage of her two hands to rotate the barrel to the side and upward, snapping Aaron's index finger as the gun fires a second time. Sandy feels a flash of heat against her chest, feels Aaron's foul breath on her face as he screams at her. She's got his gun hand immobilized beneath her, but she can't get the pistol free. She's in so much pain she wonders if she'll black out.

Aaron's forehead and hers are touching when he whispers, "You took my boys. You took all my boys from me."

Aaron makes another effort to twist the gun barrel towards Sandy, and she counters by pressing the gun barrel back towards Aaron with every bit of strength she has left. The gun fires a third time. Sandy feels another flash of heat against the skin on her chest, feels Aaron's body jerking beneath her as a long exhalation of cigar breath hits her face. Aaron's body shudders before going still.

Sandy feels Bill's powerful hands pulling her off Aaron. One of the security guards leans in and pins Aaron to the ground with a knee. As Bill lifts Sandy upright, she watches the guard wrench the pistol from Aaron's lifeless hand.

Sandy hears Bill yelling, pleading for someone to call for an ambulance. She hears the second security guard say, "It's bleeding like hell," then watches him remove his belt and loop it around her leg. She feels him cupping the back of her thigh with one hand and pulling the belt tight with the other. Ordinarily, she'd punch a stranger out if he put his hands under her skirt like that, but under the circumstances she doesn't even care.

Sandy watches the bloodstain spreading across Aaron's white shirt like an animated shield. She thinks about the red shields painted on the sides of the mud-colored pickup trucks, and about all the crazy, violent people she's had interactions with since she became a police officer. She thinks that at some level she always knew her life would lead to a moment like this one. If you spend enough time around crazy people, you either get hurt or become crazy yourself, she thinks. She gives herself credit for keeping it together when Aaron shot her, though. She kept him from killing Bill or spraying the crowd with lead. That's all she ever wanted to do in her life: step into the fray and keep something bad from happening to other people. Now that she's done that, despite what's happened, she feels a sense of completeness. Despite all the self-doubt, and self-criticism, and fear, she did what needed to be done. That's all she could ask from herself, and it feels like it's enough for the first time in her life. She doesn't feel like she's a pretender anymore. She knows her father would have been proud of her if he'd lived long enough to see what she just did. She went to war just like her brothers did. She didn't panic in the face of enemy fire, or let fear keep her from doing what needed to be done. Mission accomplished.

She leans against Bill and feels herself becoming dizzy. The air in front of her shines. She smells the cologne Bill wears. Feels the fabric on his cotton dress shirt beneath her palm.

"You're a beautiful man," she says. She looks into Bill's eyes. Dark brown with flecks of gold. She feels like she could fall into them and not come back. Maybe she'll do that. That wouldn't be so bad.

"What?" Bill says.

Her vision starts to tunnel, like she's looking at the world through a shrinking piece of pipe.

"Hey! Are you okay?" Bill says.

She presses her body against Bill's. "You wanna dance?" she says. She rests her cheek against his shoulder like music is playing and they're alone together. God, it feels good to be this close to him again.

"What? What are you talking about?" Bill says. She hears the panic in his voice.

The security guard yells, "Catch her."

Sandy feels Bill's strong arms pulling her tight against him, then feels herself being lifted, cradled, and carried towards the parking lot at a run. She thinks that now she knows how a bride feels when she's carried across the threshold of the honeymoon bedroom, except she's bleeding to death, she's nearly unconscious, and the groom just wants to be friends.
Third Week of July in Oceanside, Oregon - Delorean

There's a stereotype that it always rains in Oregon, but like all stereotypes it isn't actually true. It rains frequently in the western part of the state from November to June, but summer season is very dry, with cloudless skies and gentle breezes. This summer, a storm in mid-July brought an inch of rain down on the Willamette Valley, the Coastal Range, and the beaches. No one minded that the rain cleared the smoke and slowed the progress of Tillamook Burn #5 enough that the fire crews could put it out.

Blue skies and clean air returned to the Oregon coast, and that seemed like cause for celebration. Hey, it's Saturday afternoon and I'm getting ready for a run on Oceanside beach. It doesn't get much better than that.

While I'm in the bedroom changing clothes, I get a phone call from Jasper. He tells me he's filed for a mining claim on land near where the Heaven's Cape people had been operating, and he wants me to come over and work the claim with him.

When he makes the offer, I laugh before telling him I'm going to leave the mining to the professionals.

"As you so delicately put it when we first met," I say, "I don't know jack shit about mining."

"Don't let that stop you, my boy. Anybody can learn mining if they put their mind to it."

"Well, I appreciate the offer, but I'm not planning to relocate to a mining camp."

"If you ever change your mind, I want to know about it. You're good troop," he says. "You've got grit."

"Thanks, Jasper. That means a lot coming from you."

"If you join me, you get a half share. If you don't, you still get a quarter share of whatever comes out of the ground. That's a promise. You hear me?"

"I hear you. That's generous, since you'll be the one busting your knuckles with a pickaxe."

Jasper laughs.

"Well, that's true," he says. "That's what I do."

We're both quiet for a moment.

"If you hadn't come back for me that day at the mine, I would have been shot to pieces," he says. "You know that, right?"

"You'd have done the same for me," I say.

"I told you to leave, and you wouldn't. I haven't seen that kind of loyalty since I left the army."

"It seemed like the right thing to do, Jasper."

"I shouldn't have gone into the mine after we found it," he says. "I knew better, and I was asking for trouble. It's lucky I didn't get us all killed. It's that damned gold fever. My brain just shuts down sometimes."

"Nobody's perfect, Jasper. If we hadn't gone in there, Sandy might not have made it out alive."

"Maybe," he says. "I saw the news about her being hurt at the Steadman rally up in Moscow. How is she doing?"

"Better every day. She's walking pretty good now. It just takes time." I start to choke up.

"I'm glad to hear that. She seems like a mighty fine lady."

"She is. She's the best." I wipe the back of my hand against my eyes.

"Well, I just wanted to check in on you to see how you're doing. You're always welcome at my claim. Okay? Or if you need somewhere to stay when you're in my neck of the woods, there's plenty of space."

"Thanks, Jasper. I appreciate the offer. And If you ever make it over here to Oceanside, I hope you'll stop by, too. Maybe I'll come see you with Sandy when she's moving around a little better."

"All right," he says. "That sounds like a good plan. And you're going to be hearing from me about the mine."

"I'll look forward to it."

I put the phone down and take a few deep breaths. I put my running gear on, and I head down to the beach.

\---

It's late morning when I start my run, around eleven o'clock. The tide is out, leaving a hundred yards of flat sand between the surf and the beach grass. That's just how I like it, and I head south towards Netarts. Blue waves, blue skies, and the air smells of saltwater, rainfall and coastal pines. A squadron of Brown Pelicans passes me on their way north towards Cape Meares. The birds synchronize their altitude to match the rise and fall of the waves cresting offshore. It's something to see.

I'm down near the waterline, where the sand is still wet enough to provide a decent surface for running. The shoes I'm wearing are perfect for beach running, too. The sole is wide and flat, there's lots of arch support, and the fabric is waterproof. You can't have everything, though. Now that the smoke from the forest fire is gone, the beachcombers and day-trippers from Portland have returned. I dodge kids throwing Frisbees, dogs running in and out of the surf, and older couples trying to find shells or sand dollars. In my experience, you need to be on the beach early to find intact sand dollars, because once the sun's up the seagulls find them first and peck the meaty centers from them.

I'm not running alone, unfortunately. There's a coastal highway on the hillside above the beach, and there are scenic turnouts every so often where tourists can stop and take a picture of the Pacific Ocean. I've noticed the roof line of the same car - a black one - parked at three of the turnouts during my run. I've gone about five miles south from Oceanside by then, and someone is up there on the road above me. It seems unlikely to me they're driving, stopping, driving at the same pace I'm chugging along on the wet sand. They're pacing me, watching me, figuring out how fast and how far I run. I think about the stomped-on black car Carl and Tony were driving in Boise, but this one hasn't been stomped on, and it's a four-door sedan, not a coupe. The make and color of the car is a coincidence, though. People have brand loyalty. They tend to buy the same kind of car over and over. Still, it can't be Tony, and Carl seems too harmless to stalk me. Maybe this is connected in some way to those guys, though. Time will tell.

I'm grateful they're being this obvious about it. They could have just gotten ahead of me and used a rifle to shoot me in the back as I went past. It's easier to plan for a threat when someone tips their hand and lets you know you're being watched. It gives you a chance to plan. I don't know whether they want me to know they're watching me, or they're following me to see where I run, or if they don't know where I live and they want to follow me back to my house. It would help to know what their intent is, so I can plan a response.

One thing I've got going for me is that I've run on the beach a hundred times, and I know the coastline like I know the scars on the backs of my hands. I know where deer trails cut through the vegetation facing onto the beach. Those trails lead from the sand up to the highway and on into the foothills of the Coastal Range. That's helpful. I also know where the highway turnouts are, even if I can't see them from my vantage point. If I wanted to meet the driver at one of the turnouts I know when to head for higher ground.

As you approach the town of Netarts, the beach narrows before terminating at a jetty that's been built to provide a small harbor off of Netarts Basin Boat Road. At that point, I'm forced to either take my run inland onto Netarts Bay Road or to turn back towards Oceanside. I want to stay on the sand, so I turn around and head for home. I choose not to alter my run just because someone is following me. I'm going to do what I'd planned to do, although I'm annoyed that this part of my day, the private part where I get out of my own head and just exist for a while, is being interfered with. I turn up the tempo for the homeward leg, running at about a six-thirty pace. Five miles back to downtown Oceanside, and another three hundred yards up Maxwell Mountain Road to my rental house. About half an hour. It's not far.

I run a mile towards Oceanside and see the black roofline of the sedan at the first turnout. He's turned when I turned. At that point I'm certain he's following me, but I keep going. I don't see him at the second or third turnouts. I assume he's either gone down the road to pick a spot where he can wait for me, or he's waiting for me at my house. I run another half-mile before I find one of the deer trails that lead from the beach up to the coastal highway, and I scramble up the slope. There's salal, and wild blueberries, and scrubby azaleas, and thorny wild roses, and beach grasses which found purchase in the crumbling, sandy soil, and I grab onto them and haul myself up the hillside. There are small hoofprints and deer pellets on the path as I climb.

I'm breathing hard when I reach the top of the hill. It's something of a relief to see pavement again. I can run faster on asphalt than I can on sand, and there are trees I can stand behind if someone starts shooting. I'm staying on the shoulder of the road, moving at the fastest pace I can sustain while I scout the roadside for a weapon. I find a rock the size of a grapefruit, and I pick it up and take it with me. After a few minutes of running I pass the next turnout where I'd expected to see the black sedan, and not long after that, another turnout. No sedan. Only a couple more turnouts to go if he's parked on the road into Oceanside.

The coastal road veers back and forth, with Douglas Firs and Coastal Pines making it impossible for me to see more than fifty yards ahead of me. There are flashes of the blue Pacific through the trees. I can hear the surf sighing against the beach. Seagulls calling out to each other. A van passes that's full of college kids. There are surfboards on the roof of the van, and a rack hanging off the back that's loaded with fat-tired beach bikes.

As I approach the next turnout I see the outline of the black sedan. It's top-of-the line, German, one of the big ones executives drive or are chauffeured in. There's a man standing at the front of the car, and he's got his back to me while he watches the beach. His hands are buried in the pockets of his black slacks. White pressed dress shirt. Black cowboy boots.

I run onto the gravel, slow to a stop, and drop the rock. The noise startles him and he turns to look at me. The last time we saw each other was at Heaven's Cape.

His expression tells me he's shocked I'm not down on the beach.

"You've been following me," I say.

"How'd you get up here?"

"I took one of the game trails that lead down to the beach. What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk to you, but not in front of Sandy," Bill says. "I was driving into Oceanside when I saw you going onto the beach for a run. I thought I'd check out the scenery while I waited for you to come back."

"You could have just waited at the park."

"I didn't know how long it would be."

"Again, what do you want?"

"I'm going to offer Sandy a job," he says. "She can be my chief of staff if she wants it. I'm up by twenty points in the polls. Unless a meteorite kills me, I'm going to win. And I want her to come with me to D.C. I need someone like her who I can trust to watch my back."

I wipe the sweat out of my eyes with my forearm. "Why are you telling me about it? That's her decision to make, not mine."

"Because she won't go if you tell her to stay."

"And?"

Steadman lets out a long breath like he's trying to keep his irritation under control. "Think about somebody besides yourself for a minute. This is a huge opportunity for her, and you and I both know that if she stays here with you, it'll be because she feels guilty about what happened between us."

I laugh out loud. "Are you a psychiatrist? You reached into her head and diagnosed her behavior? Impressive."

"Ask her point blank why she's staying with you. See what she says."

"This conversation is over. You want to offer her a job, do it. She wants to go, she can go. She wants to stay, she can stay. I'm not telling her to leave, and you're an idiot to think that I would."

He purses his lips like he's in deep thought. He looks past me at the road, then back at me and says, "She loves me."

"You think so. And yet she lives here with me. I'm the one who sat with her at the hospital for two days while she recovered from surgery, and I'm the one who takes her to rehab every day for her leg. Where were you while that was going on?"

"I had to keep going. That's what she would have wanted me to do. Thanks to her, I'm going to win the election. If she hadn't been there to protect me..."

"Then someone else would be ahead in the polls. Someone not all that different from you, I would guess."

He crosses his arms and leans his hip against the fender of the Mercedes, tips his head back so he's looking at me down his nose. "That's what you think of me? That I'm just another phony politician?"

"You were back on the campaign trail the day after she almost bled to death. I looked it up. You didn't even stick around to see how the surgery turned out. Maybe you can explain that to her when you offer her a job."

"You can't just stop a campaign when something goes wrong," he says with contempt, as if it pains him to have to explain something so obvious to the dullest pupil in the class. "It's like a freight train. There's too much in motion to shut it down. I had no choice."

"Nice metaphor, professor. Like a freight train. I need to write that one down."

"You're a colossal ass," Steadman says. "I don't know what she sees in you."

"I've been called worse. Then again, I consider the source. The pot calling the kettle black and all that."

He pushes off against the car fender, drops his hands to his side. I see the flush in his cheeks, the muscles in his neck and face tightening, watch him clenching and releasing his fists.

I take a step forward, so he can reach me if he wants to.

"Hey, Boss Man," I say, lifting my chin in his direction. "You want to take a swing, take it."

He locks eyes with me before looking away. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Get me down on your level. I don't have time for that crap."

"I bet. What with the campaign being like a freight train and all."

"There are more important things at stake here than the kind of juvenile games you want to play. I'm trying to change the world for the better."

"Uh huh. Go team. Rah."

I look past him at the jade blue of the Pacific, the ribbons of sea foam, the haze of the horizon, the small dories fishing for shrimp, the seagulls floating on the ocean breeze like kites. There's a nice view from up here. Maybe I'll start jogging on Oceanside Highway more often. I hear a popping sound coming from the north. Someone's setting off firecrackers in Oceanside. Fourth of July was a couple weeks ago, but people still set off fireworks on nice days like this one.

"You should do what's right for Sandy," he says. "You know I'm right."

I stifle a yawn.

"Thanks for educating me," I say. "Well, duty calls. I must get back to my pedestrian life. Ta-Ta."

"God, what a prick," he says.

"That's what the girls always say when they get a look at it. It's a gift."

Then I turn back towards Oceanside Highway and start running. I hear a car door slam, an engine starting, the crunching of rubber on gravel, and the screech of tires hitting pavement and clawing for traction. For a moment I wonder if he's going to try to run me down. Then I hear the Mercedes exhaust muting as Bill rips around a curve on his way back towards Tillamook.

\---

Later that day, Sandy and I are sitting at the picnic table on the deck of the rental house. I'd pushed the table close to the deck railing, so all you need to do to see the Pacific is turn your head a little bit to the south. It's a glorious view. All that blue is still there. The beach, the birds that fly over the small mountains projecting from the ocean. The surf, the vans disgorging children and beach chairs and people carrying small hibachis down onto the sand. The line of customers queued up outside of Joanna's restaurant. It's all very beautiful and reassuring and precious and rare.

Sandy and I made chicken enchiladas and fresh lemonade for lunch, and we've just finished our meal. She's sitting beside me at the table, and Michael and Amy are on the other side. They're a month into their summer vacation and seem happy about not being in school. Michael says they both aced every final exam despite being away the week before finals, so their grades look solid for college applications. Sandy asks where they're thinking of applying.

Amy says, "Wherever we can both get in." She ticks off a list of a dozen universities, categorizing them as reach schools, likely acceptance schools, and safety schools.

Michael's got his arm around Amy's waist, and he rests his head on her shoulder. Then he looks up and his eyes meet Amy's. They kiss. Sandy smiles and winks at me. I wink back.

Then I think about the possibility of Sandy leaving me for Washington, D.C. and I feel the weight of depression start to settle on me.

Sandy nudges me with her elbow. "You've been pretty quiet since you came back from your run," she says.

"I'm just thinking," I say.

"What about?"

I give Sandy the kind of look where you try to connect with someone's soul through their eyes.

"Thank you," I say.

"For what?"

"For this. For now. For always." Then I kiss her like it's the last kiss we'll ever have.

I hear Amy giggle.

"Get a room," Michael says quietly.

"Wow. That was intense. What was that about?" Sandy says.

"Something about the salt air just brings out my virility."

Sandy rolls her eyes. Amy laughs.

"Right," Michael says. "I'm feeling the virility thing, too." He yodels like Johnny Weissmuller did in the Tarzan movies, drops to the deck and starts doing push-ups.

"I don't get no respect," I say.

"We don't want you to get a big head," Sandy says. "It's important to be humble."

Then Sandy's phone buzzes and she pulls it out of the pocket of her shorts. "I need to take this," she says. When she gets up from the bench I see the puckered, silver dollar-sized scar on the top of her thigh where the bullet went in. There's another scar just like it on the other side of her leg. She balances for a moment against the tabletop, then moves towards the kitchen with the stiff-legged gait she has now. She holds the phone up to her ear and I hear her say, "Hi, Bill."

"Thanks for inviting us over today," Amy says.

"You're welcome," I say. "Any time."

Michael looks out over the rooftops at the beach and the Pacific. "Can we go down to the beach?"

"Of course."

I get up from the table to tell Sandy I'm taking the kids down to the water. The sliding glass door between the kitchen and the deck is open, and I hear her tell Bill she'd love to go to Washington.

I pull up short, frozen in my tracks. I take a breath, and then I walk back towards Amy and Michael.

"Hey," I tell Michael. "She's on the phone. Let's just go."

The three of us take the stairs from the deck down to the grass and then head down Maxwell Mountain Road, past Joanna's and The Fat Pelican, past the post office and on towards the water.

"It's beautiful," Amy says as we step onto the sand. "You're lucky you get to live here."

"I think so, too."

I look uphill towards the house. Sandy's come outside onto the deck, and she's holding one hand up against the side of her head. I assume she's still on the phone with Bill. She waves at me with her other hand. I wave back and then look away.

Michael picks up a sand flea's shell. "Are there any sand dollars?"

"Quite a few. They're easier to find when you get farther down the beach."

"I'd like to have one to remember today," Amy says, squeezing Michael's arm. "Our first trip to the beach together."

The three of us head south, threading our way through the dogs running in and out of the surf, and the kids playing tag, and people flying kites. Within a quarter mile, the number of tourists thins out, and after a half mile it's just the three of us. We've found plenty of sand dollars, but every single one has had the center pecked out by a seagull. Those seagulls are diligent.

Amy reaches down. "Look at that! I found one."

"How about that?" I say. "Not easy to find one before the seagulls do."

"Let's keep going," Michael says. "I want one, too."

"Sure. Why not?"

I look back towards Oceanside. I can still see the rental house at the top of Maxwell Mountain Road. Sandy's not outside on the deck anymore. I wonder if she's inside packing her suitcase.

"Look at this," Michael says. He picks up a sand-encrusted football and then lobs it to me underhand.

I catch it one-handed, then slap it against my other palm to try to get the sand off.

"I'm going deep," he says. "Drill it to me."

He sprints away on the moist sand. When he's gone out about thirty yards, he cuts left and heads for the beach grass. I throw a perfect spiral, leading him a little too much. He has to run all-out to catch it, but makes a fingertip catch. He shouts in triumph, then holds both arms over his head and struts around like he's the heavyweight champion of the world.

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" Michael yells. "Who's your daddy?"

Amy giggles.

"Now it's your turn," Michael says, challenging me.

I put my head down and lean forward as I sprint past Michael. When I'm about twenty yards ahead I cut right towards the surf.

I glance over my shoulder and see the ball slicing through the air. He's thrown it too far in front of me, and I'm kicking up water as I make a diving catch, full extension, grabbing for the leather and laughing out loud as I hit the surf. The chill hits me like an electric shock.

I pick myself up and stand waist deep, waves slapping at my backside, gasping from the cold but still holding the ball. I point the pigskin at Michael.

"Touchdown!" I shout. I'm laughing as I stride onto the sand.

"Hey," Michael says. "I'm sorry. The wind caught it."

"Right," I laugh. "It was the wind's fault. It's okay. It's all good."

I flip the ball to Michael. I take my shoes, socks, and shirt off and leave them up near the beach grass. We start walking again.

I feel the warmth of the sun on my back and legs. A squadron of pelicans passes by, headed south towards Netarts Bay.

"How's the water?" Amy says. "Is it as cold as it looks?"

"One hundred percent."

"What happened to the salt air making you feel virile?" Michael says.

"Hey, Tarzan," I say, "I can be cold and virile at the same time."

Amy reaches down and picks up another intact sand dollar.

"That's two," she says.

"You've got great eyes," I say. "I missed that one."

Michael flips the football to me. I catch it and then watch him sprint away from me. He runs with his elbows out, shoes kicking up little divots of sand in his wake. After he's gone out about thirty yards, he cuts left towards the beach grass and yells, "Now!"

I cock my arm and throw a spiral pass, leading him just a little too much. He reaches for it, catches it and pulls it into his chest. He's laughing as he comes to a stop near the beach grass, where the sand is dry. He steps back onto the wet sand, kicks the powder off his shoes.

"Man, you always make me work for it," he says.

"I don't want you to get lazy."

Michael smiles, then throws a high, arcing pass to me. I catch it and feel the sting of the leather against my palms.

"Again!" Michael says. "Throw me a hail Mary."

He sprints away from me, elbows out, feet kicking up divots of sand, a blur of speed.

"Go, Michael!" Amy shouts.

I take a pair of short steps and then launch a high spiral, hoping I got it right.
Third Week of July in Oceanside, Oregon - Sandy

Sandy leans against the railing and soaks in the view of the beach and the ocean and the small mountains in the water near Oceanside Beach. The afternoon sunshine reflects off the Pacific, sparkling like a diamond chandelier. The public parking lot at the bottom of the hill is busy with cars and minivans loading and unloading dogs, children, young lovers, and elderly beachcombers. There are people on the sidewalk outside the restaurant and the brewpub, and she hears people's voices carrying up the hill. The sky is a color of blue she doesn't remember seeing before. She's seen clear sky over the Pacific plenty of times, but this time the sky shines like a polished sapphire.

Over the sounds of the crashing surf and the seagulls calling to each other, she hears her cell phone buzz. She picks it up from the deck railing, sees that it's Bill Steadman calling again.

"Hello?"

"Sandy, it's me. Sorry our call dropped earlier. I was going through some mountains when I called you, and I lost cell service for a while."

"That's okay, Bill. I figured it was something like that."

"So, have you been thinking about my offer?"

"To be your chief of staff? Sure, I've been thinking about it."

"When I called before, I wasn't sure whether you accepted, or you just thought the idea was appealing."

"Both."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I haven't accepted but the idea is appealing."

"I'm surprised that the choice is that hard. What are you leaving behind? You can step up to the big leagues and make a difference in how this country works. You could have a direct influence on how huge amounts of money get spent and how laws are drafted. You want to have a say in the future of this country, here's your shot."

"I get that."

"So, what's the issue? Why are you hesitating?"

"I have a life here, Bill. Give me time to think."

"This is Delorean's doing, isn't it? I knew that he'd try to guilt you into turning the job down."

"Why would you say that? I haven't even told him about your offer."

Bill pauses. "Just a feeling I have."

"Based on what?"

Bill doesn't answer.

"Bill," Sandy says. "Delorean never pressures me to do anything. He's loving and supportive and a very decent guy. I make my own decisions, though. Understood?"

"Okay."

"Just give me some time to think about it."

"All right. Get back to me with your answer when you can. Make sure the answer is 'yes'. We need to start making plans."

"You'll hear from me after I've made up my mind."

"Fair enough."

She looks down the beach towards Netarts Bay and picks out Delorean, Michael and Amy. They're about a quarter mile away, and Delorean's taken his shirt and shoes off. Looks like Michael and Delorean are playing catch with a football. Amy's leaning over to pick something up off the sand. Sandy would have liked to be on the beach with the kids, but it's just as well she stayed at the house. She can't walk more than a hundred yards before her leg starts to cramp up. Even though the bullet went all the way through the muscle, it still feels like there's something stuck in there. Maybe a piece of lead or a bone fragment was missed by the surgeons. The last few days she's dialed back on the painkillers because she didn't like floating through her days on a cottony opioid high. She feels more alert and connected to the world around her now, but there's a price to pay: she's much more aware of the pain she carries around with her. Her physical therapist keeps telling her it will get better in time if she keeps stretching and doing the exercises, trying to be as active as possible. She moves around as much as she can at the house, and on Maxwell Mountain Road, and on the beach.

She shuffles over to the picnic table and takes a seat, resting her leg lengthwise on the bench. Her hand falls naturally to her thigh, where she squeezes and kneads the muscle before her thumb finds its way to the numb, puckered, pink skin on her thigh where Aaron's bullet drilled a hole. Sandy's father was a Marine, and he had a scar like that on his right hip. Whenever she'd asked him about the scar he refused to talk about it, always saying that other people got hurt worse than he did. Now she understands his silence. Whenever she talks to a doctor, or physical therapist, or Delorean, or anyone else about what happened, it makes the pain fresh again. Like Aaron just shot her.

If she doesn't keep herself busy enough, though, her thoughts often drift back to the shooting. She knows that she kept Aaron from killing Bill, or killing anyone else at the rally, and that makes the pain feel like it was worth it. She wonders if that's how her dad felt about his gunshot wound, too. Like the pain was worthwhile because he kept his promise as a soldier to do what needed to be done, and to make the sacrifice when he had to. She thinks that once you've done that, proven to yourself that you've got what it takes, things get easier. Her mind feels quieter than it used to. She feels more grounded, like there's no self-doubt, no self-criticism, no fear, and no concerns about being a pretender. She's the real deal: a no-quitter who'd rather be dead than to run from a fight. That's a proven fact. She knows her father would have been proud of her if he'd lived long enough to see her lay it all on the line. She went to war like her dad did, and her brothers did, and she didn't run from enemy fire, and paid the price to get the job done. She crossed the finish line.

Washington, D.C. can wait.
Acknowledgements

Many thanks to my friends and family whose careful eyes and thoughtful suggestions helped shape this book into what it is today. Your encouragement, support, and help has meant the world to me. I owe you one.

Many thanks also to the fine people of the State of Idaho for their hospitality, generosity, and for sharing the most beautiful place on earth with me.

Other Books by David Kearns

All The Way Down

All The Way Under

All The Way Back
