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Oh, fuck me, now what?

Sheryl opened the door, got out, eyes darting up and down the road. The kid was now doing the same thing, wild eyes tearing around, looking at Sheryl, the car, the road. A girl, red hair coming out of a ponytail, stuff matted in her hair. She staggered the last few steps and threw herself on the hood of the car. Like it was a safe place. She was covered with snow, her trousers were torn, and she had a long bleeding cut across her cheek.

“Help. There’s a man with a gun. He shot Uncle Harry,” she panted.

Great. Who the fuck was Uncle Harry?

Sheryl moved forward and took the kid by the shoulders. Two powerful diametrically opposed emotions clashed in her chest; she felt an instinctive impulse to comfort her. And she wanted her to disappear.

“Jeez, kid, what happened?” Sheryl said, feeling the bone-deep shudders coming off the kid’s shoulders, into her hands.

“He’s in the woods. He’s after me,” the kid said, panting for breath.

“Okay, okay.” Sheryl tried to think. “He’s after you. How far away is he?”

“I don’t know, they got him,” she panted.

They?

“Hey, maybe we should get you out of sight,” Sheryl said, eyes darting up the road, then at the dense hostile trees.

“We should call…,” the kid started to say.

“No, we gotta hide you first. Get you outta here, someplace safe.” She turned, dashed back to the car, leaned in, and punched the trunk release. Saw the bottle of spring water in the dashboard caddy, plucked it up, and hurried back. “Here, drink this, it’ll help calm you down.” She thrust the plastic bottle into the kid’s gloved hand. “Don’t cry now.”

The kid bunched her forehead, blew a strand of loose hair from her face with a fierce huff, and said, “I’m not crying.”

“Okay, right.” Firmly, Sheryl gripped the shoulder of her jacket and walked her around to the back of the car. The kid started to resist. “Look, you said a guy with a gun. We gotta get you outta here. If he sees you in the car with me, he’ll be after me too. So you gonna hide in here.” Sheryl lifted the trunk lid.

“No way,” the kid said. She threw the bottle of water at Sheryl’s feet and started to back away.

“Sorry,” Sheryl said, pitching forward, throwing her arms around the kid, hauling her up, and falling forward with her over the edge of the trunk. Shit, the kid was strong. “This will be easier if-”

Then the kid punched her in the forehead with a soggy wet-gloved fist and almost staggered her.

“Fuck this,” Sheryl grunted and pounded the kid right back, stunning her enough to stuff her arms and legs free of the lid and slam it shut. As the kid’s feet beat a hollow tattoo on the inside of the trunk Sheryl ran back, yanked open the door, leaned on the horn. Listened to it echo into the still trees.

Tried yelling again, “Shank, Shank, over here!” into the gathering darkness. Wait a minute. Think. What if the person who’d been shot was still alive, was on the phone, calling the cops? Who’s they?

Not the time to be jumping up and down yelling.

Sheryl jumped back into the car, turned on the dome light, and checked her face in the rearview, to see if she showed any damage where the kid punched her. Seeing none, if you didn’t count the panic in her eyes, she drew her hand across her forehead, straightening her hair, and then, for one long second, she looked up and down the road. Reached for her cell, checked her slip of paper, and punched in Shank’s number, listened to it ring. Got the fucking voice mail of the person the phone had been stolen from. Oh, great. She dropped the phone, put the car in gear, and drove slowly, scanning the trees to the left. Stopped, waited a minute. Nothing. C’mon. Where are you?

Then she crept farther down the road, right to the edge of the open lot next to the green cabin. She began to shudder. The shaking started in her belly and worked up into her arms and her throat. If she’d learned one thing living her life, it was not to hang around the scene of a shooting.

Then she picked up a flare of lights up the road. She killed the headlights, really shaking now as she saw the red vehicle sitting in the driveway of the target house. Two people. Running toward the house.

That’s it. Sorry, Shank, but it looks like every man for himself.

Lights off, keeping her eyes straight ahead, not even looking off the road when she drove past the driveway to the green cabin. When she rounded the turn past the house, she switched the lights back on, accelerated, and reached for her cell and punched in the second number on the slip of paper.

Chapter Fifty

Keith Nygard sat at his desk in the sheriff ’s office in the corner off the courthouse, chewing a toothpick, his eyes drifting between reading an accident report and frowning at the snow on spin cycle in his window. He heard a knock on the doorjamb. Looked up. Saw Gator Bodine standing in the doorway. He looked different.

“Hey, Gator; you look different,” Keith said.

Gator shrugged, brushed his knuckles along his cheek. “Just treated myself to a shave and a haircut at Irv’s.”

“What’s the occasion?” Keith put the report aside.

“Barnie called me from Bemidji. Just sold that old 1918 Case Model 9-18, the one with the big steel wheels.” Gator shrugged. “What the hell, thought I’d take a break, maybe go to the Anglers, have a sit-down meal.”

“What’d you get for it?” Keith asked.

“After Barnie’s commission, I should see about eighteen thousand.”

“No kidding. I’m in the wrong racket. Grab a seat.” Keith indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk.

Gator lowered himself in the chair. “Ah, reason I’m here-besides dropping in to see Mitch, down the hall”- Gator always visited his parole officer when he sold a tractor, offered to buy him a beer; Mitch always grinned and just shook his head-“is, ah…” Gator cast his eyes around.

Keith nodded, got up, walked over, and shut the door. Resumed his seat.

“Reason is, I ran Terry Nelson’s kid out of the old Tindall place the other night. He had all the ingredients. But he’s pretty far gone. Had him an electric hot plate for a heat source. Check this, when I caught him, he was wandering around looking for someplace to plug it in. So, like that.”

Keith shook his head. “Jimmy Raccoon Eyes. Christ, has that kid gone south fast. Can’t believe he used to run the hurdles. He graduated high school just two years ago. Hot plate, huh? Christ. The electric’s been off in that place for years.”

“Uh-huh. So I hassled him some. Came up with some names.” Gator withdrew a folded sheet of ruled paper from his jacket pocket, slid it across the table. “One of them’s in high school. A senior named Danny Halstad. They been out at Tindall’s cooking on a propane stove.”

“How much?”

Gator shrugged. “Strictly their own use. A gram maybe. But if they keep it up, others will copy them.”

“Okay.” Keith slid the folded sheet across his desk and dropped it in his drawer. “What about the Mexicans?”

“They’re keeping to themselves. Stay in that trailer on the building site. I think they got the message after you popped those guys.”

Keith grinned. “You know, you got a flare for this snitching sideline.”

Gator flashed on Shank’s parting words: What do we do with snitches? “That ain’t a term I like, Keith,” Gator said evenly, but keeping his voice suitable humble.

“Yeah, well, you dumb fuck. You did it to yourself.”

After letting an appropriate amount of time pass, Gator asked, “So what about that thing we talked about?”

“Forget it. You ain’t gonna get your hunting rights restored, I don’t care how many meth labs you help me bust. We’d need a pardon from the governor. And that just ain’t gonna happen anytime soon. I checked with Terry”-Terry Magnason was the county attorney-“you should be happy with the local deal we worked with Mitch and Joey”-Joe Mitchell was the county game warden-“long as you hunt, quiet like, in the Washichu you can have your