the truck came on. Poe began walking through the waist-high grass, toward Harris and toward the machine shop. Isaac followed in a daze.
They were across the field and near the muddy torn- up ground by the machine shop when Poe slowed to let him catch up. “We’re good,” he said quietly. “He knows where I live and if he found my jacket he wouldn’t still be here.”
“You think he’ll see us being here as just a big coincidence,” said Isaac.
Poe nodded.
Isaac was about to discuss it further but then he wondered if Harris could somehow hear them, even from up there. Poe began to walk more quickly as they passed the building where the Swede was lying. Not anymore, he thought. The Swede is already gone. The coroner’s probably already been here, the DA, everyone. Half the town, judging by the tire tracks. What’s- her- name, coroner’s daughter, Dawn Wodzinski. Due to inherit the family business. Her father being both county coroner and funeral home director. No, knowing her is not going to help you. The DA is that new guy. What’s- his- name.
Meanwhile see how fast Poe is walking. Relieved he doesn’t have to look at what he did. Because of him a person is dead but he’ll forget that detail soon enough. He’ll remember he’s innocent. He’ll remember it was your choice to do what you did. Meanwhile it was him who wanted that fight, didn’t care what the cost was because the cost was not to him—it was to you and the Swede and he will not take any of that off you. Know him well enough for that.
They made their way up the fireroad through the trees, climbing the hill under a dark gray sky Their pants legs were soaked and stuck with burrs and grass seed and Poe climbed with long strides, staring only at the ground in front of his feet. Isaac nearly had to jog to keep pace, it was humiliating and he was angry at Poe for that as well. There was the sharp odor of crushed weeds and skunk sumac, a more pleasant smell of damp soil. They passed a dug- out mudhole where a vehicle had gotten stuck, clods of dirt sprayed up the sides of the trees. He could feel his face getting hotter and he tried to calm down. Sacrificed on the altar to others, presenting Isaac English. His own fault. Not the Swede you traded for Poe—traded yourself. You aren’t going to California. Aren’t going anywhere.
They reached the top of the hill and Harris stepped down nimbly to meet them. He didn’t look particularly threatening—around fifty, skinny legs and nearly bald, hair close- cropped around the sides and back of his head. Then a much younger cop got out of the truck, a barrel- chested Asian man only five or six years older than Isaac. He was wearing sunglasses despite the encroaching darkness, holding an M4 carbine at low ready. Isaac only vaguely recognized him. He was not one of the cops everyone knew.
“Y’all stay cool,” said the second officer.
Harris appeared to grin despite himself. He gave a signal and the man lowered his rifle.
“That Billy Poe?” said Harris.
“Yessir.”
“Come here a lot, do you?”
“No sir,” said Poe. “First time.”
Harris looked at Poe for a long time, then at Isaac.
“Alright,” he said. “First time y’all have been here.”
The other cop smirked and shook his head. In addition to his assault rifle, which had such a short barrel it might have been a submachine gun, he had a load- bearing vest with several extra magazines for the rifle, a baton, some other equipment Isaac didn’t recognize. He could have been a military contractor just out of Iraq. Harris, by comparison, had only his pistol, handcuffs, and a small police flashlight.
“Interesting place to spend the night,” the officer said.
“Sure is. Now Billy, you don’t have any strange proclivities, do you, coming out here at dark with another young man?”
“No sir. Not at all sir.”
“Well, I guess in that case I won’t arrest you.”
The two looked at him.
“That was a joke.”
“You want me to check them out?” said the other cop.
“They look fine from here,” said Harris. “I don’t think we need to lay hands on them. Maybe if they promise to stay out of trouble we can give them a ride home.”
“We can walk,” said Isaac.
“You ought to take the ride.”
“What are y’all doing out here, anyway?” Poe said.
“Let’s go,” said Isaac.
“You two are good boys,” said Harris. “Officer Ho, why don’t you take your fancy night goggles and go sit in those bushes. See who else comes onto the premises.”
“It’s still soaking wet down there, boss.”
“I apologize,” Harris told him. “Go ahead and wait till it’s to your liking.”
Ho scowled and collected his things and made his way down the fireroad cradling his assault rifle. The other three watched him go, looking down over the meadow and the river. In the distance most of the hillsides were nearly black but there were a few patches of errant light where the land shone a bright green. They stood quietly watching the colors change until the light was gone completely.
Harris said: “Like an advertisement for church, isn’t it? You wonder why people don’t notice what a beautiful place this is.”
“They’re all a bunch of freakin complainers,” said Poe.
Because none of them have jobs, thought Isaac, but when he glanced at Harris the police chief seemed thoughtful. It seemed likely he had already taken that view into consideration.
After a minute Harris motioned them toward the backseat of the Explorer and started it and, after flipping a switch to lock the differential, pulled a wide U-turn through the forest. This truck would not have gotten stuck in that mudhole, Isaac noted. There were plenty of other cars here besides this one. At the top of the fireroad Harris got out to open a gate and they turned south on the main road.
“You two stay out of that area,” he said. “I don’t want to see you there again.”
There was a Plexiglas divider between them and his voice came through muffled. He slid the panel open.
“Did you hear me,” he said.
“Yessir,” said Isaac.
It was dark in the back and Isaac couldn’t see much, just the back of Harris’s bald head and the glow from the computer between the front seats. They were driving very fast down the curving river road. Your money and notebooks are still down in the meadow. Unless someone already found them. Not likely. That place is covered with junk and what they wanted was in plain sight in the machine shop.
“Son, I can’t remember your name but I know your daddy. He was the one working in Indiana when that Steelcor mill caught fire.”
“Isaac English. My dad is Henry.”
Harris nodded. “I was sad when that happened,” he said. “Your sister is the one that went to Harvard, isn’t she?”
“That’s her,” said Isaac.
“It was Yale,” Poe said. “Not Harvard.”
Harris made a modest hand gesture. “Excuse me,” he said.
“No problem,” said Isaac.
“You all still live in that big brick house?”
“What’s left of it.”
It was quiet after that. Ahead of them, where the river bent, Isaac could see the lights scattered along the hillside that was Buell. He closed his eyes, heard the tires whirring against the road in the darkness, thought you can’t really be sure what you were thinking. How pure was that decision. What thoughts you were having without being aware of them, you can barely see the surface of your own mind, there’s lower layers running all the time. I just want to sleep, he thought. But you won’t. Meanwhile big Otto he’s sleeping all the time. What made you throw
