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to the edge of the tree line. A collapsed snowbound barbed-wire fence bounded an overgrown pasture. Must’ve run cows in here once. Crops were hit-and-miss, just alfalfa in the open spaces; go down ten inches, and you hit the solid bedrock of the Canadian Shield.

Griffin settled in, took out his binoculars, sat on his pack, and studied the layout of the farm. Slow memories of watching other houses in other climates informed his patient scrutiny.

Gator’s red Chevy truck was parked in front of the house. As the sun settled on the western tree line, the lights were more pronounced in windows of the square cement-block shop. No lights on in the decayed story-and- a-half house or the barn. Then. Boop. The display light came on, highlighting the restored red antique tractor set next to Gator’s sign.

Griffin ran the binocs over the tractor graveyard that spilled off the back of the shop. Made a note. Gator was smart. Don’t underestimate him. Like Rumpelstiltskin, he had figured out a way to spin that rusty old iron into gold.

No sign of a dog. Looking down the field, toward the road, he saw the windbreak of pines. Set in orderly rows, the trees extended from the woods to within fifty yards of the shop.

In the fading light he tried to examine the ground between the pines and the shop. Looked worked over, hints of shadows forming in tire ruts. Get a little colder, it might harden enough to let him go in without worrying about making tracks.

Then he popped alert. He had movement. Gator coming out of his shop. Just pulled the door shut, didn’t look like he was locking it. Then he walked toward the house, carrying something in the crook of his arm.

It got better. Five minutes later Gator reappeared, got in his truck, started it up, and rumbled around the horseshoe driveway in front of his shop. As he turned toward the road, his headlights swept across the field, and Griffin watched them travel across the brush where he sat, touching his face.

Up in a crouch now.

As the taillights faded down the road, he started toward the pine windbreak, moving sure and steady.

Damn. Like going in on a raid.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Driving back from the pay phone at Perry’s, bouncing in his seat. Man, it was happening. Sheryl had talked to a big-time hitter. The Shank. Get ready, she said.

Okay.

So first thing-he had to start arranging his alibi. Just in case. He’d need some trading material. Wanted to be sitting back talking in the sheriff ’s office, handing some meth trade over to Keith, if Broker got hit up here. Be good if he had more than just some lights moving around the old houses on Z in the dark. What he needed was something tangible, like some names Keith could go slap the cuffs on.

Driving into town, he’d seen those lights again at the Tindall place. Now was the time to make a check. So go trolling. Work his pattern.

As he slowed for the crossroads and turned west on Z, he was curious, strictly from a professional point of view, what Shank would use on Broker. Would he take the wife and the daughter, too? Wondered if the guy would be willing to compare notes with an amateur. Always wondered what he was like. A young guy? Older? And how much did he get paid for a job like this?

Then the saw the flicker of light in the windows of the Tindall place. He switched off his headlights 300 yards from the house, then cut the motor and rolled up to the driveway. Yep. Somebody in there with a flashlight. He reached under the seat, withdrew the Ruger.22 pistol, his own flashlight, and a two-foot length of one-inch pipe wrapped in electrical tape.

So who we got? Go see.

He eased open the truck door, left it ajar, and stuck the pistol in the back of his waistband under his coat. Then he hefted the pipe and padded up the drive. A rusted-out ’89 Chevy Nova was parked in front of the house. Car he’d seen in town. Some kid driving. Miracle he got the piece of shit up the drive in the snow.

Silent on the snow, he eased up to the porch, starting to remove the pistol from under his coat. He could make out a single figure moving in the strobe of the light beam. Uh-huh. This was no beer party. One guy, looked like he was searching for something on the baseboards of the musty living room. Flimsy plastic bags, some containers, tubing, and what looked like a hot plate appeared in a flash of beam near the guy’s feet.

Gator slid the pistol back under his coat and gripped the pipe. The beat-up Nova was a clue; this was strictly Beavis and Butthead hour. He went through the open door fast, switching on his light, holding it up at arm’s length in his left hand, angled down like cops do.

“Hi there,” Gator said. Closing the distance fast. The person froze in his light. Neither getting ready to fight or run. Stone froze. Like he thought: a kid, maybe eighteen, nineteen. A kid as rusted out at the car he drove. Gator immediately saw there was no threat in him. Definitely starting to get the look: circles under his bugged-out eyes, pinched face, unkempt hair, dirty jeans and jacket. Dumb shit, wearing tennis shoes in the snow. Gator even noticed his filthy fingernails. “Drop the light, get your hands up,” Gator yelled, grinning in the dark as he tried his best to sound like every pumped-up, control-crazy cop he’d ever met.

The kid’s flashlight clattered to the floor, illuminating a corner of peeling wallpaper, backlighting him. “Who’s there?” he blurted. His voice sounded like he looked-skinny and desperate.

“I’ll ask the questions. Now slowly lift your coat and turn around.” Gator put the light in his eyes.

The kid did as he was told. “I didn’t do anything…,” he whined.

“Shut up,” Gator ordered. “Empty your pockets. Real slow. Drop everything on the floor.”

Car keys, a wallet, some crumpled bills, change. A pipe for smoking meth wrapped in a red bandanna. Gator noted that the pipe and the scarf were the only items that came out of the pockets that appeared tidy and well cared for. Reluctantly the kid let a folding buck knife fall.

“Kick the knife toward me.” The knife skittered across the floor. “Now turn around, approach the wall, and get on your knees.”

“You gotta identify yourself,” the kid said uncertainly as he turned around. “Can’t just-”

Gator took a step forward and swung the pipe, slamming it in a short, powerful arc into the back of the kid’s right thigh just above the inner knee.

“Ow, shit.” He crumpled to his knees.

“Belly up against the wall, motherfucker!”

“Okay, okay, goddamn-” The kid scooted on his knees and hugged the wallpaper, digging his fingers into it. He was gasping, no, sobbing.

What a pussy. “Now, put your arms straight back, palms up. Do it!”

“Am I under arrest?” He extended his arms, hands shaking.

Gator tested an old chair, decided it would hold his weight, and sat down. “Name?”

“If you’re a cop, you gotta identify yourself, don’t you?”

“I don’t see any cops. You see any cops?” Gator said amiably. “Just you and me. Nobody else for miles.”

“Oh, shit. It’s you.” The kid’s voice began to shake. He cast a furtive look over his shoulder, trying to make out the dark shape behind the bright multiple halogen bulbs.

“Turn around. Keep your hands straight back. Now, what’s your name?”

After a long moment the kid said, “Terry Nelson.”

“Any relation to Cal Nelson?”

“My dad.”

“Cal was a year ahead of me in school. He still work for the power company?”

“Yeah.”

“He know you’re into this shit?” Gator aimed a kick at a can of paint thinner, sent it crashing across the floor into the wall.

“Aw shit; it is you,” Terry said hopelessly.

“I asked you a question.”

“My dad and me ain’t talked much lately.” From trembling lips, Terry’s voice sounded lost, confused. Like a