Praise for The Bargain

Aaron Gansky’s The Bargain questions the lengths we will go to in order to save the ones we love and shows us the lengths that God will go to in order to draw us to Him.  Gripping, thought-provoking, and gritty in its depiction of humanity, The Bargain reads like a modern day retelling of the story of Sodom.  This story has teeth that latched on and wouldn’t let go even after the final page. Highly recommended.

Jason Brannon,

author of The Maze

Aaron Gansky’s The Bargain is as much a study in the human condition as it is a fascinating, captivating story. The characters are so real and their lives so intriguing I forgot I was reading fiction. This book should be on everyone’s book shelf . . . after being read thoroughly and enjoyed completely.

Mike Dellosso,

author of Fearless, Frantic, and Rearview

Aaron Gansky writes in prose so tight, you can twang it like a rubber band.

Maurice Gray,

author of To Whom Much Is Given and All Things Work Together

THE BARGAIN BY AARON GANSKY

Published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614

ISBN 978-1-938499-77-7

Copyright © 2013 by Aaron Gansky

Cover design by Ken Raney, www.kenraney.com

Interior design by The Fast Fingers, www.thefastfingers.com

Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at:

www.lighthousepublishingofthecarolinas.com

For more information on this book and the author visit: www.aarongansky.com

All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words.

When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “The Bargain by Aaron Gansky published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trade marks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

Brought to you by the creative team at LighthousePublishingoftheCarolinas.com:

Eddie Jones, Maurice Gray, Rowena Kuo, Meaghan Burnett, and Brian Cross

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Gansky, Aaron.

The Bargain / Aaron Gansky 1st ed.

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

The act of writing a novel is a labor of love, and, contrary to what many believe, an act of will on the part of a community of a people. While my name appears on the cover, several more names deserve recognition as well.

The idea of this novel came to me in college in a writing class taught by Bret Anthony Johnston. He helped me form the concept, and taught me how to write well. He took my immature, amateur writing, and turned it into something I could be proud of. To this day, his voice echoes in my ears as I write. In that way, he still guides the construction of my prose. Think of him as my Creative Obi Wan Kenobi. I already do.

The primary composition of my manuscript happened while I attended Antioch University of Los Angeles. And while I had several mentors and friends to help me along in the process, none helped more than Rob Roberge, who kept my prose honest, free from melodrama, and tightly woven. Steve Heller, director of the MFA program at AULA, also has his fingerprints on my work, as does Gayle Brandeis. Dennis Fulgoni is a constant reader of my work, encourager of my prose, and identifier of stale clichés.

If my words are fresh and unique, it’s at his bidding. In the same line, Steve McLain, co-host of our Firsts in Fiction podcast, never failed to encourage me and act as a very insightful sounding board throughout the writing process.

Lastly, and most importantly, I owe the completion of this book to my loving and supportive wife Naomi Gansky, who, for two years while I taught full-time and worked tirelessly on my MFA, never failed to pick up the slack I left around the house, and never once complained about how much time I spent at the computer.

Chapter 1

Wednesday, September 2nd

I hadn’t been in Hailey more than a day when my sister-in-law Aida insisted I meet “a fan.” While this wouldn’t have been shocking if I were some Hollywood celebrity or professional athlete, I was neither. I was a writer, a journalist actually, for World News Weekly. I’d spent the last few years making my niche as a chronicler of the human condition. Even after winning the George Polk Award, I didn’t get many “fans.” Most I ever got were some complimentary e-mails, and those were few and far between. For the most part, the world ignored me.

Aside from directions and the name Mason, she gave me no more information. My wife Nadine and I had just arrived at Aida’s house the night before after a marathon sixteen-hour drive from Denver. I suggested stopping halfway to break up the trip, but Nadine insisted we press on. Her urgency and determination likely were the result of sickness—ovarian cancer is never gentle. Had I been more observant at the time, I would have realized that she was trying to tell me something—this urgency was an unspoken message, a presage of the severity of her disease. Perhaps I was hopeful that seeing her sister would do her some good. Likely, the thought was a byproduct of my wife’s terminal optimism. Regardless, I was ignorant, but not blissful—maybe just uneasy.

The weather in the California desert shifted quickly. Yesterday, it felt like I was back in Darfur under an angry African sun. Today the sun felt lazy, as if, rather than baking the sands beneath, it simply reheated them like yesterday’s leftovers. The wind swept warm across the desert. Hailey wasn’t close to the same elevation as Denver, but it was almost four thousand feet above sea-level, high enough to bring snow in the winter. One doesn’t normally associate snow with the desert, but Hailey was a town of contradictions, a hypocritical town that prided itself on its consistent inconsistencies.

Mason lived off of Highway 29, the only paved road in Hailey. It paralleled the underground Mojave River. Multiple sets of train tracks flanked the cracked pavement.

The beauty of the riverbed provided a stark contrast to the otherwise depressing landscape. Golden cottonwood trees and creosote bushes grew interspersed throughout the winding, sandy trail. The trees, not as dense as a wood or forest, provided an undulating shadow of semi-constant shade.

Hailey was a town to drive through, not to stop in.

Rolling up my window, I steered off the highway and onto a dirt road.

Fantastic. Nothing more obvious than dust on a black car.

I thought of my wife, sick to the point of exhaustion, sleeping at Aida’s. Meeting the fan meant pleasing Aida, which would please Nadine. I hoped the visit wouldn’t take long. Maybe I could sign a copy of the latest World News Weekly and be on my way, but something told me it wouldn’t be that easy.

Mason’s mobile home fit the architectural fashion of Hailey—ruinous and in disarray. A chain link fence surrounded his property as if he had something of value he wanted to protect, but the rusted gate hung open.

Maybe he expected me.

I drove to his sagging patio and parked. His front door opened before I made it up the three steps. He looked exactly as I expected, like a man who lived in a dump. His faded jeans had no knees. His T-shirt had more wrinkles than an octogenarian. He kept his fisted hands shoved deep in his pockets, like two apple-sized tumors on his thighs. He’d shaved his head, but not his face. Black stunted whiskers grew on his cheeks and chin like a dying lawn.

“Mr. Reedly?”

“You must be Mason. See me drive up?”

He shook his head. “Felt you. House shakes whenever someone pulls in.” He waved me inside, and I followed.

The interior of his house matched the exterior—ignored and in disrepair. Apparently, the olive shag carpet and paisley couches had journeyed together from the seventies to now and showed signs of the long trip. Dusty paintings of desert sunsets hung on the walls next to over-the-top action movie posters. Dirty dishes decorated the Lilliputian kitchen. If he had a laundry basket somewhere, he’d not been trained in its proper use.

“Don’t mind the mess. Aida hasn’t come by yet.”

“What do you mean?”

He grabbed a pair of old jeans from an ancient recliner, tossed them across the room, and motioned me to sit. I did, reluctantly; the chair slid back uneasily, unsure if it should recline or not.

“She comes by once a week and cleans the place up. I’m not one for cleaning really—suppose you can tell. Besides, the water in this town is horrible. Ever try getting dishes clean in brown water? You gotta boil the water first; then you can wash in it. It’s really an all day ordeal.”

“I can imagine.”

“You should see how much money the market makes on paper plates. It’s outrageous.” He sat on the couch facing me. “That’s the first thing you learn about business in a town like this—sell what the people need. Paper plates, purified water, the usual.”

“You’re a businessman?”

He cracked each of his knuckles in turn, twisting his fingers to one side or the other. “Own the gas station off 29.”

He didn’t need to stipulate, since Hailey only had the one Gas ‘n Go. Nadine and I stopped at it on the way to Aida’s last night. She slept in the car while I made a pit stop. The restroom reeked of urine boiled under the pressing heat of the waning summer. Graffiti covered graffiti, brown water dripped from a rusted spigot, and a fan hummed, but did not spin. I’ve seen better welcome wagons.

“How’s that work for you?”

“Good. For most people this town is just a place to stop on their way to bigger and better things—the big cities. Only reason they’ll stop is to get gas or take a leak. That’s where I come in. Business is steady.”

“So you get a lot of travelers through here?”

“Not like we used to. Hailey used to be the popular stop on the way to Vegas. Highway 29 was one of the major roads up that way. But then, about twenty years ago, they built the I-21. It cut about an hour off of most people’s travel time. Only those looking for a bit of nostalgia come down this way.”

I crossed my legs and leaned forward, not because his story interested me, but because I worried if I leaned back anymore, the recliner would snap in half. I’d have to wash my clothes the second I got back to Aida’s. Judging by the smell in the room, I’d wager he had a cat locked up someplace, maybe hiding under the mounds of clothes or stacks of dishes.

I wanted to get back to my wife. Each second here was another away from her. I tried to steer the conversation toward a point, rather than listening to anymore of his brochure-babble. “Aida says you’re a fan?”

“Yeah. Read all your work, especially the ones you did after 911 and Katrina. Makes me feel smarter. The way you show the people’s determination and resolve to rebuild; it’s inspiring. Really.”

I fidgeted. Couldn’t we get to the point? I didn’t want to sound rude, but he pushed me closer and closer to snapping with each word. He spoke like a man hiding something. I’d had enough conversations with criminals and thugs to recognize the stalling tactic. He wanted to say something, but he wouldn’t get to it unless I pressed. “Listen, I appreciate the opportunity to meet you, but if there’s nothing else, maybe I can sign a magazine and get back to Aida’s. My wife—”

“Is dying. I know.”

Anger surged through me. Instinct told me to pick him up, to throw him against the cardboard-thin walls. But, I refrained. I knew what it’d do to Nadine if she heard I’d attacked the man Aida wanted me to meet. I’d caused her enough grief in our seven years of marriage. I didn’t need to add more now.

I took a deep breath and tried my best to behave rationally. “Aida told you?”

“There are no secrets in Hailey,” he said. “Not from me anyway. I’m a bit of a town historian. I keep my ears close to the tracks.” His smug attitude soured my stomach.

“You’re proud of that?”

He sighed. “You seem upset. You want a drink? I should have offered you one when you came in.”

I unclenched my jaw and fisted my hands. “Stop dancing around questions and start telling me what you know. You didn’t call me here for an autograph.”

“Okay. Long story short, this town’s my responsibility.”

“Your hobby, you mean. Responsibilities are assigned by someone in authority. So unless you’re secretly mayor of this cesspool of a town, you study it because you like it. I can tell by the way you talk, like you’re some sort of deranged tour guide.”

“Don’t get all upset. I meant exactly what I said. You’re anxious to get back to Nadine; I get that. You’re worried about her. You’re scared.”

My words came out in a dangerous whisper. “You pretentious snake. Don’t pretend to know me or my wife.”

Mason put his hands up slowly, like I’d drawn a gun. “You’re getting all red. Take a breath, man. I didn’t mean to upset you. Let me try this again.”

He extended his hand to me, slowly, like he thought I’d throw a punch. I thought about it. Instead, I counted to ten and took his hand. I had to keep cool for Nadine’s sake, no matter how much this man needed to be taught to respect my wife’s and my privacy.

He shook my hand. “My name is Mason Becker. I’d like to hire you to write ten articles.”

The corner of my mouth curled up. “I’m not exactly a work-for-hire kind of guy.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“Even if I were interested, you’re not making a very strong case here. Twenty-five hundred per article isn’t much. You’re talking to a Polk Award winner. WNW pays me quite a bit more.”

“Twenty-five thousand each.”

I swallowed hard.

“Can’t tell by looking, but I’m good for it.”

“You rob a bank? What’s a man like you doing with a quarter of a million dollars to throw around?”

“I’m going to assume you meant that in the nicest possible way.”

“I didn’t.”

He cracked his knuckles again, kept his eyes on mine. “Aida said you might react this way. I’ll be clear and quick. Ten articles in eight days. Each must focus on a citizen of Hailey and highlight his or her good qualities. I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars each.”

“I’m not interested in community-interest pieces.”

He continued, as if I had summarily agreed. Either he wasn’t listening, or he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Either way, he’d end up disappointed. “There are two conditions. You can’t tell anyone what you’re doing, and you can’t ask where I got the money.”

I turned to the door. “We’re done here.”

“You can’t afford to walk away.”

I turned, unsure of what to say. Wisdom told me to get out of the house before I did something I’d regret, but he kept pushing, and I wanted to push back. I spun around quickly and covered the short distance between us. I was taller and stronger and wanted to make sure he knew it. I stood inches from his face and breathed, “Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t afford?”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “If you don’t do it, Nadine will die.”

I snapped. Grabbing his shirt with both hands, I lifted him off the ground and threw him toward the kitchen. He slid back to the counter, but hardly blinked. I raised my fist high above my head, waiting for him to give me a reason to strike. “Are you threatening my wife?”

“We will all die,” he said. “Nadine, Aida, you, me. Everyone in Hailey.”

I lowered my fist. “You’re out of your mind.”

He stood up and straightened his shirt. It’d torn near the collar and sleeves. “Guess I do sound pretty crazy. May I explain?”

I took a few deep breaths and unfisted my hands. I gave in to curiosity. “Make it quick.”

“This is going to sound insane, but I promise everything I tell you is true.” He paused. “Are you familiar with the story of Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“A Bible story. Refresh my memory really fast.”

“Four thousand years ago, God told Abraham He was going to destroy an evil town called Sodom. But, because God loved Abraham, He sent an angel to tell Abraham of His plans.

“Abraham bargained with God. Essentially, he argued that God shouldn’t destroy the righteous with the wicked. God agreed not to destroy the town if Abraham could find ten righteous Sodomites. Abraham couldn’t even find one, and God made good on His promise. Burned the whole town until virtually nothing remained.”

Paranoid delusional. I made a note to call the cops on my way out. I’d met crazy people before, but Mason was a whole other kind of insane. “So Hailey is Sodom, and you’re Abraham.”

“If you want to look at it like that. Luckily, I only have to find five.”

“Why ten articles then?”

“Insurance. You don’t know Hailey’s people. Finding righteousness here is a lot like finding diamonds. You gotta go through the blackest coal to find them, but most of the time all you get is messy.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. His rambling gave me a headache. I needed to move, to get out of this dump of a house, but his paper-thin story somehow sucked me in. Maybe I just wanted to stay to poke holes in his ideas, to show him how insane he was. “Since you know this town so well, why aren’t you the one writing the articles? It’d be cheaper.”

“I know the people, yes, but I’m not the writer.”

“And God told you this? What does God need articles for?”

“An angel actually, but he spoke for God, yes.”

I smiled. If nothing else, his story entertained me. I prepared my next line, ready to point out his logical fallacies, to ridicule his little faith, but my phone rang. I recognized the number.

“Hey Aida.” Static muddied her words, but I put enough words together to get the message. “Newland Community Hospital,” and “Nadine,” and “coughing blood.”

The line went dead.

I couldn’t breathe.

Chapter 2

Wednesday, September 2nd

“Nadine?” Mason asked.

“I—How do I get to Newland Community Hospital? Please.”

“You’re in no shape to drive. Give me your keys.”

While my mind moved slowly, wrapped up in worry for Nadine, Mason moved quickly. He took charge, grabbed my keys and, before I knew it, had me in the passenger seat of my Impala. He slunk behind the wheel and played the part of Mario Andretti. The desert landscape sped by, an endless sea of sand. The car was quiet—I was too worried to speak.

Mason downshifted and floored it up the incline of I-25 as it moved toward Newland. The engine roared, an animal on another planet. This couldn’t be my car, couldn’t be happening. The desert stretched on, hill after hill, valley after valley. Creosotes flashed by.

How long had we been driving? Minutes? An hour?

Mason shifted back into fifth, scanned the desert before us. “Fifteen more minutes.”

Concern creased his face. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought it was his wife in the hospital. I immediately regretted the way I treated him in his home. Embarrassed and humiliated, terrified and helpless, I searched for something to say, something to do. I hated being powerless, at the mercy of others, at the mercy of God.

I swallowed, folded my hands in my lap. I leaned forward, as if it’d somehow make us go faster. I cleared my throat, studied Mason from the corner of my eye.

No doubt, worry had him as bad as it had me. “Back at the house—”

“Forget it,” he said.

“Thanks.”

We pulled into the hospital exactly fourteen minutes later. Mason slipped out of the car as if he’d been driving it his whole life. “Follow me. They’ll be in the ER.”

I struggled to keep up with him. Fear slacked my knees. My breath came in uneven heaves. I worked hard to keep my breakfast down. “I never should’ve left.”

He charged through the ER doors, walked to the front nursing station, mentioned my wife’s name, and asked for information.

The nurse in pink scrubs looked him over dubiously. “Family?”

He pointed to me. “Her husband.”

Pink Scrubs nodded. “She’s been admitted.”

Mason looked as surprised as I felt. How long had Nadine and Aida been at the hospital? ERs were anything but quick. Nausea welled inside me. I tasted sour bile and told myself not to panic.

Mason moved quickly, like a doctor who worked here daily. He hardly checked signs en route to take me to my wife.

How quickly everything changed. Less than an hour ago, I threw this man across the floor of his house, stood over him ready to crush his face. Now, I followed him, a frightened dog tailing his master. He might be crazy, but he’d stepped up when the situation called for it. He took charge in a way no insane man could. I’d misjudged him. There must be more to Mason Becker than he let on.

“Here.” Mason pointed to the room and took a step back. “Go ahead. I’m going to talk to the nurses.”

I nodded and stepped into the room. Heavy drapes obscured the bright desert sun. Nadine was in bed, covered with a thin blue blanket. Her skin paled to the color of ash, her eyes sealed shut. She lay on her side, facing the door.

The room felt like dark water, like I’d fallen from a ship in a torrential storm. I needed to see the light above, needed the hope of a salvation, but water filled my lungs, and I couldn’t breathe. Safety slipped away. My lungs burned in a quiet, wet fire.

This is how she dies, I thought. This is how our life ends.

Aida rubbed her back. “Breathe, Connor. Sit down. You’re going to pass out.”

I inhaled, felt my knees weakening again. I found the closest chair and sat. I took her hand in mine. So cold, my heart froze.

Aida said, “You got here quick. Mason must have been driving.”

“Is she sleeping?”

“I think so.”

I put my other hand on hers, squeezed gently to warm it.

I wanted to ask what the doctors said, wanted to know everything. The lack of information terrified me, but I worried the answers I so desperately desired might not be the ones I wanted. Steeling my nerves, I asked Aida, “How is she?”

In the dark, Aida seemed pale. “She’s in good spirits. Made jokes most of the time until she fell asleep.”

“Sounds like her.”

“I think she’s scared.”

“We all are.”

She moved her hands in small circles over Nadine’s back, like she was washing a car. “We’re waiting on a couple of x-rays and blood tests.”

“How did you get admitted so quickly?”

“I called Dr. Singh on our way down. He’s got a friend here at Newland Community and made a call. When we got here, they were expecting us. It was a bit of a whirlwind. No waiting. They took some blood, snapped a few x-rays, and wheeled her to this room.”

A year ago, Dr. Singh diagnosed Nadine with ovarian cancer. He’d walked us through the process step-by-step. He had an incredible bedside manner; even put me at ease. I wished he were here now to comfort me, to spin some doctor-speak and make me believe Nadine would pull through.

“Dr. Singh had a thing for Nadine. He’d flirt with her. She ever tell you that? Right there in front of me.”

Aida laughed. “Isn’t he eighty years old?”

I grinned. “Not sure he’s that old, but yeah. Old enough to be her father, at least.” I paused for a moment. A heavy fear sat on my chest. I took another breath, forced myself not to cry. “He’d call her beautiful, or a song, or a princess. Before we left, he started calling her Xena. ‘You’re a warrior,’ he’d say.”

Aida laughed again. “You have the worst North Indian accent. It’s almost offensive.”

“He was right, though.” I held her hand tighter. It’d warmed, but now my palms ran cold. “She’s the strongest woman I know. Kinda makes you wonder how she ended up with me, doesn’t it?”

“Not really. She’s a fixer, and you’re about as broke as they come.”

In any other situation, I’d have prickled at Aida’s dig. But here, holding my wife’s hand, expecting the worst news of my life, I actually agreed with her. I kissed Nadine’s limp fingers.

She checked Nadine’s IV and sat down again. After a lengthy silence, Aida continued. “Take your degrees and awards off your walls, and what do you have left?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Nadine.” By the look of surprise on Aida’s face, I guessed it wasn’t the answer she expected. “She’s all I really have. Even with the degrees and awards, I’m nothing without her.”

Aida stopped rubbing Nadine’s back for a minute. She stared at me and went back to the slow, circular motion. “Connor, it doesn’t look good. I’ve worked around death and disease so long, it’s like we know each other.”

I swallowed hard. The lump in my throat didn’t go away. I closed my eyes, gripped Nadine’s hand harder. “You’re not a doctor.”

“I’m a nurse, and she was coughing up blood. Doesn’t take an MD to know that cancer and coughing up blood is not a good mix.”

“The cancer’s in her ovaries.”

“It can spread, Connor. I think hers may have gone to her lungs.”

The room started to spin. I leaned back, put my hands on my head. “You’re wrong. You can be wrong. You’re not a doctor.”

She frowned. “I wanted you to be prepared for the worst when the doctor comes in. If that makes you mad, so be it.”

Anger loves a target, normally the closest person. I’d learned that early in my life. I’d used it to protect my mother. Whenever I stepped between her and her drunk boyfriends, they’d turn their attention—and their fists—to me.

When I got older, I learned to hit back.

Now Aida interposed herself between me and God, so she could be the target of my wrath.

From behind me, Mason said, “Don’t give up hope. I’ve seen miracles happen before, and I’m sure God will work a miracle with Nadine as well.”

I stood and clenched my fists. “You mean the same God that’s going to destroy Hailey? He’s going to kill all those people but let Nadine live?”

He pressed his fingers together until the knuckles cracked. “Let’s not talk about that now.”

Aida stood up, her hand on Nadine’s shoulder. “What’s he talking about, Mason?”

“It’s about time for lunch,” he said. “What can we bring you, Connor?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Aida turned on Mason. “Don’t try to change the subject.”

Mason spoke calmly, still clearly in charge. “I’ll rephrase. We’re getting lunch, Aida and I. I’m guessing you want to stay here with Nadine. The tests they’re running are going to take some time, even though Dr. Singh put a rush on them. We won’t have answers for another few hours. In the meantime, you should eat.”

I unclenched my fist and sat back down. “I want nothing you’re offering.”

“Arby’s it is,” he said. “C’mon, Aida.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers. I want to know what Connor was talking about.”

Mason sighed and took Aida’s arm. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

“Don’t you sigh at me.” She grabbed her purse on the way out. “I’ll not be sighed at, Mason Becker.” They disappeared down the hall.

I took Aida’s spot behind Nadine. I put my hand on her back and rubbed the way Aida had. The muscles of her back went slack, then tightened. She must be freezing. I moved my hands in circles, my forehead on the bed, breathing in rhythm with her. A single word played over and again in my mind: God.

* * *

When Mason and Aida returned, I sat in the same seat, my hands running laps over Nadine’s back. I moved to her neck, slid my fingers through her thin, short hair. She’d refused to wear a wig during chemo, something Dr. Singh admired in her. And though he told her it’d be a couple of years before she could get her hair back to the same length, she’d somehow managed to grow nearly six inches back in a matter of months.

They hadn’t argued since their return. I’m not sure what Mason told Aida, but it’d miraculously appeased her, had tamed the wild beast. They flipped the television on and kept the volume low. Mason pulled out a deck of cards and played solitaire. Aida told him stories of when she and Nadine were kids.

I didn’t say anything. Never thanked them for the food they’d bought for me, never asked questions about inside jokes or how Mason’s business was doing. I didn’t like small talk, and I liked the company even less.

The sun set, and the room darkened. Mason started grumbling about dinner shortly before the doctor finally walked in. Aida muted the television and sat at attention.

The doctor’s long black hair and fair skin made me think of Snow White. How young was she? Had she even finished med school?

She introduced herself as Dr. Umberson, a friend of Dr. Singh’s, and spoke with a southern accent.

“Sorry for the delay. I know y’all have been waiting some time for these results.” She spoke like a waitress apologizing for a long wait at a restaurant. “You must be the husband.”

I wondered what gave me away. The slumped shoulders? The creases of fatigue and worry etched on my face? My hands persistently fidgeting with Nadine’s hair, neck, shoulders, back, hands?

“Give us the good news,” Mason said.

“I wish I could. When she came in, my fear was that the cancer had metastasized.”

The word punched me in the gut, left me breathless.

“These tests confirm that.”

Mason put a hand on Aida’s knee. “Her lungs?”

“And lymph nodes. Cancer of the lymph nodes spreads throughout the rest of the body pretty quickly. We’d have to run a few more tests to find all of it.”

I inhaled slowly, held the oxygen in my lungs. “So, what, more chemo?”

Dr. Umberson shook her head. “We can make her comfortable. That’s about it. People with cancer like Nadine’s …” She paused. “They don’t make it very long.”

“What are we talking about here? A year? Two?”

Aida whispered from the corner of the bleak room, “If we’re lucky, months. Realistically, days.”

Chapter 3

Wednesday, September 2nd

“Home is in Denver. We just drove down yesterday. Sixteen hours. Now you want me to take her back? Won’t that kill her?”

Dr. Umberson shook her head. “You want her to be comfortable. She’d be most comfortable at home. The travel shouldn’t be an issue for her health.”

Aida spoke up. “Stay with me. Only place cleaner than my house is a hospital. Plus, my house isn’t filled with sick people.”

Nadine breathed a little easier, though each breath came with a rattling echo.

World News Weekly paid me, in part, for my ability to make quick decisions. They sent me to war-torn Darfur. On September 12th 2001, I packed a car and drove to Ground Zero. My plane to New Orleans followed on the heels of Katrina. Often, my ability to survive and remain calm in the bleakest of situations trumped my ability to write. I’d learned to survive, to push through, by putting emotional distance between myself and those whom tragedy overcame.

No matter how bad the situation, I had a flight scheduled out of it, a flight back to safety, a flight to Nadine. Now, I didn’t have that comfort, could not separate myself from the tragedy, could not console myself that I’d only be in pain for a short time. Without Nadine, there was no time.

In sickness and in health.

I nodded. “Whatever’s best for her. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

Nadine murmured. “Aida’s. Stay at Aida’s.” She exhaled, her eyes still closed. How long had she been awake and quiet? How much had she heard?

I knelt beside her and kissed her forehead. No matter how weak, her voice comforted me. It’d been too long since I’d heard it. “Won’t you be more comfortable at home?”

She didn’t respond. Too painful?

Aida nodded. “It’ll be easier for her.”

“What do you know?”

“I’m her sister. Known her all my life. And I’m a nurse. I think I’m qualified to say what might be best for her.”

Guilt punched me hard. I’d lost my temper, and Nadine had heard me. What would she say if she could speak? How disappointed would she be? “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

Nadine’s lips pulled tight, a deliberate but weak smile.

* * *

Nadine’s jeans swallowed her emaciated waist. Two sizes too big, easy. When I bought them for her a few years ago, they were too small. In the last few months she’d lost close to forty pounds. My hand rested on her knee as she lay back in the passenger seat of the car. The hospital had released her a few hours after we decided to take her back to Aida’s, when she felt strong enough to sit up and eat.

“Is it the drive? Dr. Umberson said we could fly to Denver. I’m sure Aida would drive the car up. Then she could stay with us a few days.”

“I’m staying at Aida’s.” The cancer, the coughing up blood, destroyed her voice, robbed it of the melodic wispiness I’d fallen in love with in the food court of Cherry Creek Shopping Center nine years ago. She’d been playing piano, a Norah Jones number, while I worked on my article about the Indian Ocean Tsunami and its effect on the people of Sri Lanka.

“Why?” Night in the Mojave was dark. No street lights illuminated Highway 29. I followed Aida’s taillights like a beacon.

“Seven years,” she whispered. “I’ve been your wife for seven years. I’ve followed you across the world. I’ve earned your indulgence.” I’d not heard this sharp of an edge to her voice in years. It took a lot of work to get her angry, though I seemed to be pretty good at it.

I knew I’d reached the end of her patience, but I pressed on, and hated myself for it. “I need a reason.”

“Faith.”

My stomach knotted. We’d had this argument countless times, and it never ended well. I’d gone with her to church several times in the two years we dated but stopped shortly after marriage. I had no interest in converting. I’d been honest with her about my intentions from the start. But still, she pushed and pushed and cried about my eternal security.

At first I found her faith refreshing and cute. Her sanguinity and optimism fascinated and inspired me. With her, I had hope; I wanted to believe—not necessarily in something, but simply to believe—though belief, for me, was uncommon, unfamiliar, and a little intimidating. Her faith helped me find hope for those in darkness, hope for them to rise from ashes, phoenix-like, and persevere when hope itself was a flame in a vacuum.

Though proud of my accomplishments, Nadine never felt like my articles were enough. They brought light and inspiration, became hope for a people, for a nation, for the world. Belief alone would not suffice. It always came back to faith, to a belief in.

“We’ve been through this, Nadine. I’m more facts than faith.”

“They’re not opposites. They go together.”

“How?”

She sighed. “I’m too tired to do this now.”

I squeezed her knee and wondered if my nausea was due to the winding highway or the guilt of antagonizing my dying wife. How did I get to this point? When had it become so important for me to not believe in God? “Look, I’m sorry.” I sighed. “Don’t even know what I’m doing anymore, what I’m saying.”

She took a ragged breath and put her hand on mine. “Things are going to get difficult. I want you to be ready. You’ll need something bigger than yourself to get through this.”

By “this” she meant her impending death, and by “something bigger than yourself,” she meant God—Jesus. She’d learned to use generic terms when speaking with me about issues of faith. I’d made it very clear to her how much spiritual specificity irritated me.

I reached for the radio, hoping the distraction would ease my nerves.

“They’re getting married.”

My hand never reached the radio. It took me a minute to figure out who she meant. “Mason and Aida? When?”

“This week.”

“Why so fast?” Then, I understood. “She wants you to see the wedding.” I moved my hand from the radio dial back to her knee.

It made more sense now. At the hospital, Aida insisted on bringing Mason back to her house with us. He didn’t have a car at the hospital, and I wasn’t about to let him drive mine again. I told Aida to drop him off at his house, so Nadine could rest and get some sleep.

Her answer was swift and final. “I’ve been sleeping all day. I’ll sleep just as well with him there.”

I couldn’t argue with her. And now, playing the scene back in my mind, I understood. “A week?”

* * *

It was late when we got back. And though we were all tired, none of us could sleep. Some invisible need or unspoken imperative demanded we stay awake, demanded we enjoy each other’s company while we could. But the conversation lulled often, broken by awkwardness and irritation.

Nadine, my wife, Aida’s sister, would die soon.

What could we say?

Aida had the most experience in this department. As a hospice nurse, she worked with terminal patients daily. But this was her sister.

Twelve years ago, Nadine and Aida’s parents died when a train derailed behind their housing development and crushed several homes. Nadine was eighteen. Aida was fifteen.

Hailey had seen more than its share of tragedy in its existence, but none echoed through the years like the derailment. It left Nadine to raise her sister alone, something she did remarkably well.

Nadine told me once how she’d done it. She trusted the faith of her parents, embraced their Christianity and relied on Christ for her strength. Without Him, she assured me, she’d have been crushed by the weight of depression, stress, and early-onset responsibility.

I felt a similar weight now, and Nadine would do everything she could to see that it didn’t crush me. For her, that meant feeding me a steady diet of Jesus, no matter how much I threw it back in her face.

Aida poured me some coffee. Mason refilled his cup. We sat, feet up, watching Wheel of Fortune reruns from the eighties. Nadine had a thing for Pat Sajak. She lay stretched out on the couch, her head in my lap. She liked it when I played with her hair, rubbed her back.

I admired my wife more than I could express, but I was not a man of faith. It was foreign to me. I’d made it this far relying on myself; it’s what I knew, what I trusted, and that’s how I’d continue.

Aida excused herself to make Nadine’s bed and asked her if she wanted more morphine.

“No.”

I put my hand on her damp forehead and became suddenly aware of the delicate weight of her head on my leg. My stomach cramped. I doubled over and buried my face in my hands. I wanted to pick her up and hold her forever, but all at once wanted to be held by her, to feel her courage, to understand her ability to stare death in the eye unblinking. A voice echoed in my head. Two words repeated, an insatiable echo that nauseated and crippled me. There, in front of Mason, Nadine, and Aida, no matter how much I struggled to conceal them, tears framed my face, and I wept for the first time in my adult life, the echo in my mind chanting mantra-like:

I can’t.

I can’t.

I can’t.

I can’t.

I can’t.

Chapter 4

Thursday, September 3rd

If Mason noticed my red eyes, he did not say. Mercifully, he didn’t mention my breakdown from last night, either. We stood in the early morning while the sun rose over the distant hills. I’d not expected it to be so cold here in the desert, especially on the foothills of summer. Nadine swore it stayed hot and dry until late October. We sipped coffee for a few minutes, making a point not to say anything to each other. He didn’t want to say something to upset me, and I hadn’t decided if he was truly insane yet.

Because he had not gone home, Mason wore the same gray sweatshirt and holey jeans. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, arms straight, and he fidgeted in the chill. When he did speak, it came through chattering teeth. “You think I’m crazy.” He paused. I didn’t say anything.

“I don’t expect you to believe me. You’ve got no reason to. But what I said before was true.” He rocked back on his heels and looked off toward the growing sun. He pulled his hands from his pockets long enough to crack his knuckles and replace them in his pockets. “Hailey has seven days, starting today, before it’s destroyed. You’re the only one who can save it. God’s given you a gift, and you have to use it, because if you don’t, we’re all going to die. Hundreds of people. But if you do what I ask, if you take the time to write a few articles, you can save them. You can save us. You can save Nadine.”

“How exactly is writing articles going to save her?”

“God rewards those who are faithful. He’s worked miracles before, Connor. He can do it again.”

“Right.”

He sighed. “I’ve offered you money, the chance to save yourself and your wife, a chance to save hundreds of people. What do I have to do to get you to write these articles?”

I folded my arms across my chest, hoping to find some relief from the chilling wind. “You can’t make me do them.” I calculated each word as it came. “Last night Nadine talked with me on the ride home. She said I needed something bigger than myself, a higher power, if you will, to get through this. We went to church for a bit when we were dating, but I haven’t been since we married. She hounds me about it all the time. But I’ve never needed God.” My eyes shifted to my shoes. “But last night …”

“I know.”

“She has to know. I have to tell her.”

“Can’t happen.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t make the rules. I do what I’m told. God wants you to write the articles, and we can’t tell anyone about it.”

“Wait. God asked for me by name?”

“Yeah, sort of.”

“You have to be more specific.”

He bounced on the balls of his feet, took another sip of coffee. Golden sunlight spilled over purpled mountains, ignited diamonds in the sand. “What if He did? Would it matter to you?”

I paused and thought of Nadine. “It would matter to my wife.”

Mason shook his head. “We can’t tell her.”

“Look, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it for her. She needs to understand that. I’m not going to lock myself in a room for the next few days to knock out a few articles while my wife struggles to hold on to life unless she knows I’m working for her. I don’t care what you tell her, but if you want me on board, you’ll find a way to explain it to her.”

He cracked his knuckles, then scratched his neck. “Sounds fair.”

The air warmed quickly in the full light of the sun. Lanky shadows stretched out from our feet. “Tell me how it works.”

He turned his head quickly toward the river. Didn’t want me to see his smile, but I caught it on the corner of his mouth. “He wants an article a day. I’ll pay half up front and half upon completion of the article.”

“You said each should focus on someone in Hailey. What are you looking for here? Biography?”

“Up to you. However you want to reveal the important information, so long as you focus on the good. Paint the people in a positive light, but don’t lie. He wants a complete picture, but the emphasis should be on the good, like you did with Sri Lanka. People in Hailey are survivors, too.”

I chuckled. Had he really just compared one of the most destructive tsunamis in history to his dirty little town in the California desert? These people had no concept of what it took to persevere beyond destruction that widespread.

“I’m sure they’re identical. When do I start?”

He pulled a cigarette from his sweatshirt pocket and lit up. “Grab your notebook. I’m your first story.”

Chapter 5

RACING TRAINS

Shannon told Mason she was pregnant the summer before their senior year. It was a few months after he saved her life, and four years after his brother had been dragged out of their house, arrested, and summarily imprisoned. They sat by the railroad tracks overlooking the river, about a mile down from the cement company where her mother worked.

Their future, life after high school, lay spread out before them, as far away as the moon, as close as the railroad tracks. They were seventeen, coming up on thirty.

She took a drag on a foul cigarette she’d lifted from her mother’s purse and offered it to Mason. He shook his head. When she smiled, he noticed that her teeth had already begun to yellow.

“One of these days, you’ll be smoking just like me, Freak.”

“Maybe. But not today.”

He wrote her name in the loose sand on the slight embankment that ran up to Highway 29. A shrill, distant train whistle split the still dusk. They’d learned how to tell the speed and distance of a train based on the reaction of the tracks. Since the skin on their hands was too thick and calloused, they’d lie on their bellies and press their cheeks to the cold rail. The humming of the track told them how far off the train was and how fast it traveled. This particular train, five or six miles away, accelerated rapidly.

They came here when life got too big. Highway 29, up the slope behind them, ran parallel to the tracks at the base of the embankment. Between the tracks and the road, Shannon and Mason had a privacy they couldn’t find elsewhere.

Years ago, Shannon invented a game out of a purely juvenile lust for adrenaline. She called it Racing Trains. The rules were simple: Run in front of the train. Jump when it got too close. Last one off the tracks won, or died.

It gave them a way to grab hold of their lives when they felt they had no control. Soon, it became a staple of their summers.

She made Mason do it first, when they were in junior high. Eager to please her, he ran as quickly as he could. To his surprise, his feet rushed over the rough wooden ties fluidly. He felt fast. He felt good. He hadn’t realized how fast he was, nor did he realize how much he liked running. When he got to high school, he made sure to join the track team.

Shannon, however, did not have the same quickness. Her running was coupled with wheezing and hacking, frequent complaints, and early jumps. In their years of racing, Shannon had never won.

Shannon raced to flirt with Death, to stare into his cold eyes and wink.

Mason raced to forget. The wind rushed past his ears and all sound evanesced except the shrill horn of the train.

Racing on the tracks was like running on a trampoline. The ties bowed and bounced, and their feet never hit when they thought they might. At first, they fell, collapsed, scurried up from their knees and fell again. The rails shrieked and screamed. Chills iced their spines, and their teeth hurt.

When they jumped just ahead of the train, dirt swirled and stung their faces. The slipstream clawed at them and threatened to vacuum them under the screeching wheels. Their skin drew tight, and their breath was sucked away. Off the tracks, they still ran, feeling their feet lift off the ground, running on air, and they understood what it was to be small in their world.

It was too early to take to the tracks—they would wait. Mason watched Shannon take a long drag on the cigarette. She was a professional.

* * *

Mason turned thirteen the week six police officers flooded his home and dragged his brother Greg to the driveway. They said Greg was resisting and used their nightsticks to “quell the threat and ensure cooperation.” Mason wondered what qualified as “resisting.”

Was it when Greg grabbed the coffee table, kicking and screaming while six men clawed at his limbs and face? Was it when he shielded his neck and chest from the batons that crashed down on him? Was it when he demanded to know what he had done? Or was it when he tried to stand up? Likely, it was when they threw him to the concrete. It was then that he found his feet, and in the amber light of the garage from which Mason and his parents watched, hit one officer square on the jaw.

That crack, like stepping on a too-dry cottonwood branch by the river, still rang in his ears at times. For a teenager, his brother handled the officers well, as if he’d spent his life fighting. But, unlike Mason, his brother Greg did not always think things through. The physical evidence of the officer’s injuries (bruises, cracked ribs, broken jaw), sustained during Greg’s arrest, were enough to persuade the jury to vote “guilty” on the additional lesser charges of resisting arrest and assault on a police officer.

After the trial, after the guilty verdict, the bailiff escorted Greg from the courtroom. From then on, whenever anyone mentioned Greg’s name, he saw a seventeen-year-old man-child dressed in a white jumpsuit, chained hand and foot, shuffling over mock wood flooring. On his way out, Greg glared at Mason and whispered two phrases: “be strong” and “do right.”

Odd words for a convict, though they burned his mind and seared his conscience. It begged the question: what was justice? Did justice even exist?

He decided then to be a lawyer in that courtroom. There would be a day when he would defend the innocent, or prosecute the guilty. He would be strong. He would do right.

* * *

Mason didn’t make many friends growing up. Painfully shy, he kept to himself, content to study, to learn. His teachers termed him “socially awkward.” They’d had smart students before, but none as reserved as Mason. However, they couldn’t argue with his intellect.

Ms. Knowlton, his third grade teacher, called Mason’s mother in for a conference early in the year.

“He’s too bright for third grade. I tested him earlier this week. He’s reading at an eighth grade level, and he’s already showing signs of being able to do algebra. His mind just isn’t on the same level as these other children.”

“I’m very happy to hear that,” his mother had said.

“I think it’s time we promote him. There’s an opening in Ms. Brea’s fifth grade class.”

“That’s two grades. I don’t think he’s even ready to skip one.”

“I can do it, Mom. I want to.”

His mother put a hand on his shoulder, but didn’t take her eyes off Mrs. Knowlton. “He’s too young. He wouldn’t make any friends.”

Mason looked at his mother. “I don’t have any friends now.”

“How about fourth grade?” Mrs. Knowlton asked.

“No skipping. He needs friends.”

It took three years for Mason to make his first friend. Shannon was taller than all the boys. Her stringy almond hair always looked in bad need of good shampoo and worst of all, she smelled of tobacco. His first thought was that her mother must be a chimney. He didn’t realize until the following year that Shannon was the chimney. Did junior high students really smoke?

She approached him one day in the middle of the school’s quad with everyone watching. “Buy my lunch, Freak, and I’ll sit next to you.”

“Me?”

“Who else, Freak?”

“My name is Mason.”

Shannon cackled. “I like Freak better. Now, buy me lunch.”

He thought it a small price to pay for a friend. No one else would speak to him, or even sit near him. They became friends by necessity more than choice, though Mason could never quite pinpoint why Shannon liked him.

“Don’t be stupid,” she’d said when he asked again.

“I want to know. You’re so cool. I’m not.” He pushed his glasses up, hating his weak eyes. He’d worn them since third grade, a necessary evil, one more thing for the popular kids to ridicule. His eye doctor insisted he wait until high school to make the switch to contacts, an opinion Mason didn’t think held much medical weight.

Shannon took a drag on a cheap cigarette before she answered. “You’re different. You’re good. Everyone else in this town is selfish and petty. But you, you’re good, Mason.”

“I’m not good,” he replied quickly. “My brother …”

“You are not your brother, Freak. Don’t ever think you are.”

“But aren’t you afraid, even a little?”

“Of what? You?” She cackled. “No more than I’m afraid of a flower. You’re harmless.”

He didn’t want to be dangerous, but at the same time he didn’t like being harmless.

“Let’s go.” She walked out her front door.

Mason followed at her heels. “Where are we going?”

“Train’s coming, and you’re going to race it.”

“Me?”

Shannon made for the tracks, running directly behind the Cluster, and stood on them. “It’s a game I made up. Simple really. Get on the tracks, then run. When the train gets close, jump.”

“That’s it?”

“Last one off the tracks wins, unless they’re dead.”

* * *

Shortly after they started high school, Shannon became distant and irritable. Mason called her every day, but she didn’t answer for a week. When she finally picked up, her tone had an axe’s edge to it. “What do you want, Freak?”

He lay on his bed, legs crossed at the ankle. He thought about leading with a joke, just to lighten the mood, but had no discernible sense of humor. Instead, he got right to the point. “Why won’t you talk to me anymore?”

“Aren’t you too busy for me with all your advanced classes? Isn’t Chemistry taking up all your time?”

“Shannon, you know I can pass these classes in my sleep. I’ll always have time for you.”

“You are so thick, Freak.”

He took a moment to respond, running through the possibilities in his mind. “You’re mad about my schedule, aren’t you? Because we don’t have any classes together?”

“You didn’t even talk to me about it.” He heard tears in her voice. “You think you’re so smart, Freak, but you can be really stupid sometimes.”

He sat up. “You want me to drop my classes? I can do that. I’ll see a counselor tomorrow.”

She sighed. “You’re clueless. How would that make me happy?”

“What do you want? Really? I’m stupid, so tell me!” He’d never raised his voice to her before, and it felt strange, startlingly nice. The forcefulness of his voice intrigued him. Maybe he wasn’t as harmless as she thought.

Shannon nearly shouted into the phone. “You think this is what I want? To live in a house with mildewed walls and broken windows? Torn screens and dead lawns? Cabinets that don’t close? I want out of this place! I can’t live like this!”

“What’s that got to do with my classes?”

She groaned. “I don’t know why you have to rub it in my face. You’re smart; I get it. You’re getting out of Hailey. Great. Don’t spend the next four years rubbing it in.”

Something in her voice demystified her, revealed the Shannon within the Shannon. She’d grown spiny quills to protect herself. Beneath her poisonous barbs, she was a defenseless animal. He wanted to pick her up and hold her, to reassure her that he’d take her with him. His future was her future, but he could never say that, not as a freshman. Even if he could, she’d never listen.

He sat on his bed, hand on his forehead, and stared out his window to the dead tree out back. He thought of his sister, his brother. They’d never made it out. His parents, though they kept their finances well balanced, had been sucked into the town like quicksand.

The tree, dead bark and bristly branches, more than anything, gave him the courage to speak. “What if I take you with me?”

* * *

A few days after Shannon’s appendectomy, only weeks from the end of their junior year, Mason’s SAT scores arrived in the mail. 1560 wasn’t too shabby. With his straight-A average and his ability on the track, most colleges would be thrilled to have him. He’d targeted Stanford, but Princeton and Harvard made strong cases. They’d been in contact with him most of the year, as had Brown, though he was less interested in them.

Shannon called as he dropped the rest of the mail on his kitchen table. “Come over, Freak.”

Mason heard it as an imperative. He hopped on his bike and pedaled as quickly as he could from his house off Highway 29, one of the few nice homes in Hailey, to the Cluster, a group of homes between the tracks and highway 29. Ash and cement dust coated the roofs and the few living trees and lawns struggled to survive.

He started talking as he pushed through the front door. “What’s wrong?”

Hunched over, Shannon tore through her mother’s purse. “I need a cigarette.” She whimpered, clutched her stomach, and fell over.

Mason’s mind seized. He took a deep breath and chastised himself for panicking. Think. Ambulance? Too far. Like it or not, it was up to him.

A plan formed in his mind, and he raced to execute it as quickly as he could. The list repeated in his head like a skipping CD. Bike home, get car keys, drive back, get Shannon, speed all the way to the ER at Newland Memorial.

Less than ten minutes passed before he was back at Shannon’s. She lay on the couch, scratching at her stomach. She’d pulled her shirt up over her scar. Her stitches had popped off of her incision. The wound was swollen, pink and puffy. Pus and blood ran down her stomach to her side.

“Mom’s gonna kill me for bleeding on the couch.”

Mason told her to be quiet, picked her up, and carried her to his parents’ dirty Honda Civic.

He pulled the car onto 29 and floored it, passing cars on the dirt shoulder, on double yellows, whatever he needed to do. So much blood. He had no time to drive legally. Through shouted obscenities and blaring horns, Mason raced to the ER.

As he passed from Hailey to Newland, a new sound entered the chorus of horns—sirens. Red and blue lights split the dark of night. Mason didn’t stop. His heart raced, his throat swelled. He prayed.

Let me get her there.

The police cruiser pulled alongside him and motioned him to pull over.

Mason pointed to Shannon.

The officer nodded, then sped in front of Mason.

Mason kept his bumper close to the cruiser. He pulled into the ER entrance of Newland Memorial and leapt out of the car. The police had already opened Shannon’s door and helped her out of the car and into a wheelchair. A doctor came out to meet them, and Mason followed close after.

The other officer stopped him. “Hang on, kid.”

“I have to know if she’s going to be okay.”

“Your sister?”

“Friend.”

“Right. We need to talk about your driving first.”

The condescension was clear in the officer’s voice, and Mason didn’t like it. He thought of his brother. “It’s my parents’ car.”

“License?”

Mason shook his head.

“You know you were speeding, right?”

“And passing illegally, failing to pull over when directed, reckless endangerment. I know. Can you at least tell me how she is, if she’s going to be okay, before you arrest me?”

The cop grinned and motioned to the backseat of the cruiser. “ID?”

Mason handed him his school card and sat half-in, half-out of the backseat.

“Mason Becker? I’ve heard of you.”

“Really? How?”

The officer handed Mason the card. “I worked as a correctional officer before I joined the force. Your brother Greg, he talks about you a lot. Says you’re pretty bright. A genius or something?”

“I do all right.”

“Greg doesn’t get a lot of visitors.”

Mason said nothing.

The officer sighed. “You got guts. Greg never mentioned how gutsy you were.”

“I’m only thirteen.”

“I’ve taken some pretty gutsy thirteen-year-olds into custody. Most of them from your parts there in Hailey.”

A female voice came over the radio, but Mason couldn’t quite understand what it said. “Copy.” The officer looked back to Mason. “Parents are on their way.”

“I bet they’re mad. No, not mad. Disappointed.”

“Should be proud of you. I would be. What you did took guts. You did right, no matter what your parents say. So if they yell, take it all with a grain of salt. They should be happy we’re not taking you in or impounding their car.”

“Yeah.”

“So, your friend. She worth all this?”

Mason answered immediately. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“You two close, then? She your girlfriend?”

“Not like that. Just my friend.”

The officer smiled. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

* * *

Weeks later, Shannon told Mason what she remembered about that night: an intense pain, a searing fear, but mostly a profound relief. She knew she was going to die, and it strangely comforted her. She wouldn’t regret anything in her life, except maybe dying too early and leaving Mason alone.

“I’d be fine. I’d miss you, but I’d be okay.”

Shannon chuckled. “You’d get eaten alive. Let’s face it, you’re not exactly Hailey material. You’re too good. Only reason you’re still around is ‘cause you run with me. No one in Hailey’s dumb enough to mess with me.”

She had a point. Mason never did fit into Hailey. In fact, most people in town hated him and his family. They resented their unity, their happiness, their success. After his sister’s suicide and brother’s arrest, the town hated them a little less, but the old grudge didn’t die easy, no matter how miserable his family became after that.

The surgeon had not properly sterilized his instruments for Shannon’s appendectomy. No matter how common infections were after surgeries, hers had been pretty advanced; ripping out her stitches complicated things further. On her return trip, the surgeons took no chances. They wanted to make sure everything else was in order; they re-opened the week-old incision and shuffled her insides like a deck of cards. She stayed in the hospital for a week to monitor her healing and her reaction to the transfusion.

When she got home from the hospital, she curled up on the blood-stained couch and watched movies until she couldn’t stay awake. Mason called to check on her. She didn’t answer.

She didn’t speak to him for a number of days. Finally, when she’d returned to school the following week, Mason called her on it. “What’s wrong with you? I save your life, and you won’t talk to me?”

“Know what your mom said to mine?”

Mason’s stomach fell. His mother, while gregarious and polite, could be overbearing and often said hurtful things. In a highly emotional state, like after her baby had been arrested for driving without a license and a dozen other infractions, she must have said something devastating.

“She said, ‘God knows why he’d want to save her.’”

“No.”

“She did.”

Mason sighed. “Look, that’s my mom. Tact isn’t exactly her middle name. So she said something stupid. I didn’t say it. You can’t punish me for what my mom said.”

“Yes, I can.”

Irritation rose like a rotten orange in his stomach. “What do you want me to do? Want me to spank her? Send her to bed without dinner? Name it, Shannon, I’ll do it. Move out? What?”

“What I want …” Her voice cracked. “I just want you, Mason. I want you and me to get out of this place. I want something better.”

And then, she kissed him.

Shannon’s window faced east. On the other side of the house, the sun sank behind desert sands. She didn’t turn on any lights. She held him hard against her in the cave-dark room.

She tasted of tobacco and mint. He’d fantasized about this moment, longed for Shannon since the first time she looked him in the eye and called him “Freak.” In his exuberance, the racing of his pulse made his mind and tongue slip. He whispered, “I love you.”

Shannon recoiled and pushed him away. “What? What did you say?”

He thought his response through. If he repeated it, it might spell the end of their friendship. Shannon liked him at arm’s length emotionally, but now, apparently, closer physically. He didn’t understand, but he didn’t complain. “Nothing.”

“Look,” Shannon said. “If we’re going to do this, you can’t go messing it up by saying stuff like that. You’re stupid, Freak. You don’t get it. You’re just dumb.”

Mason nodded.

“What are you, twelve? Men don’t love. Men can’t love.”

She pushed him back on her bed. Mason didn’t resist, didn’t say anything more. He kept his mouth shut and his heart open.

* * *

The sun set beyond the mountains on the horizon. It peeked through two peaks and sent its waning warmth to Shannon and Mason as they lay on the embankment.

“I’m getting out of here,” Shannon said. “I can’t stand it anymore. This place makes me sick. I throw up like every morning. I can’t do it anymore.”

Sitting among the cotton-willows near the riverbed and appreciating the gentle breeze escorting the scent of junipers from the lower desert, Mason quietly enjoyed the day. The desert held a certain charm. Though hot in the summer, the dusks, here with Shannon, were the moments he woke for. He wanted to tell her so, but feared it’d mean the end of whatever they had.

“Aren’t you sick of this place, Freak?”

He nodded.

“What’s your dream? Where are you going after you graduate?”

Immediately his mind went to Princeton. Still, Shannon would never make it to New Jersey. How could he tell her he wanted to move across the country? That he wouldn’t be able to bring her, no matter how much he wanted to?

Mason shrugged. “Haven’t thought that far ahead, really. Just want to graduate.”

“You have to have a plan. Make something up if you have to.”

Mason didn’t like making things up, but he relented. Shannon needed to be taken care of, handled gently. “I’ll be a rock star.”

“Shut up, Freak.” Shannon giggled, more cackle than laugh. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” Mason replied. “All I need is talent.”

She smacked his arm and took his hand in hers. Shannon showed physical affection when she wanted to. If he’d tried to hug her or hold her hand even after their first kiss, she’d pull back quickly, insult him and his family, and withdraw from him for a few days. She’d complain he took things too fast, that he tried to force too many things. But the kiss, which had completely caught him off-guard, had been her idea.

So, he rolled with the punches. If she offered, he accepted quickly, but never made the mistake of showing unrequested affection.

“You have to have a plan, Mason. So you can take care of me.”

“What?”

“I’m cold. Put your arm around me.”

Shannon wore overalls and a tight red shirt. Summer died early this year, but August still warmed the earth. Shannon couldn’t be cold. He put his arm around her. She rested her head on his shoulder. “What are you going to do, for real?”

Mason had an answer, just not one she wanted. “I’ll figure something out.”

“You’d better. And fast.”

He didn’t look at her when they spoke. He didn’t need to. He’d committed each curve of her body, every outfit she owned, to memory. Hers was an understated beauty, a shine a rock might receive when being wrapped in sandpaper.

“Why all the talk of the future?”

“You have to think about the future, Freak. You have to plan. Otherwise you’re just spinning your wheels. What’s the point?”

Mason stared at her. “You haven’t talked like this before.”

“You don’t like talking about it?”

Of course he didn’t. “It’s weird, that’s all. You go all through high school and never do homework or study for a test, and now you’re all concerned about the future.”

“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me. And what’s with the intervention?”

“Inquisition,” Mason corrected.

“Shut up. You have to plan, that’s all I’m saying. Like you—you plan all the time. Not me. But that’s going to change.”

“Why?”

“Forget it, Mason. You’re stupid anyway.” She sat up, wrapped her arms around her knees and let her hair fall around her face.

Mason sat up and put his hand on her back. She shrugged it off. Mason sighed and lay back down. “Sorry.”

“I suck at planning, so you have to do it. You have to get us out of here.”

In the dusk the lights of the trains illuminated the dust and dirt like a suffocating mist. The ground trembled under the weight of a coming train. It moved slowly, worked against inertia and the weight of a new load of concrete. It’d be here in a few minutes. Shannon finished her cigarette and flicked it on the tracks.

“I’m pregnant.”

The word made him imagine his dead sister, swinging in the blackened tree outside his window, suspended by her neck from a green 100-foot extension cord. The picture rose in his mind like a photograph appearing on the brown negative as it soaks in a chemical basin. His neck tightened, swelled like a deep-seeded panic he couldn’t swallow.

He remembered blood-stained aluminum bats, white jumpsuits, twelve irritable strangers in a courtroom staring at his older brother.

Pregnancy and fatherhood had never been part of his plan.

His silence unnerved her. “Say something.”

Mason’s face had no color. “You shouldn’t be smoking.”

She laughed. “That could be the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I didn’t mean to ...”

“No, Mason. It’s fine. I mean, I had it coming.” Another long silence stretched across the desert. The train gathered momentum, jogged down the tracks. “I kinda thought you might be excited.”

“I am, it’s just that—”

“I’m not getting an abortion. I won’t do it.”

“No, no, no. That’s the last thing I want.” He looked at her stomach. It seemed flat, like normal. Maybe she’d decided to play a really bad joke.

“I can’t finish school,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, Mason. That’s why you gotta plan.”

Mason closed his eyes, let the sun warm his face.

“This is your fault, too, you know.”

As he recalled, she was the one who forced the issue.

“I thought you loved me.”

“I didn’t think I was supposed to.”

“You’re stupid, Freak. You don’t get girls at all.”

Mason shook his head. “You’re the only one I talk to.” He felt inadequate, ill-prepared, nervous and fearful. Sweat threatened to break out across his forehead. His voice choked, his pulse pounded his chest. In his neck, in his head, behind his eyes, panic moved in and pressed against his conscience.

“So,” she said. “What’s the plan?”

In the distance, a shrill whistle of the train split the warm summer’s air. It’d gained massive momentum and ran toward them at incredible speed.

Life is complex at seventeen, how much more at thirty? Forty? Eighteen?

“We race.” He took his spot on the tracks.

She shook her head. “Mason, my stomach hurts. I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Fine. I’ll race. You stay.”

“You’re impossible.” She stood awkwardly, tipping to one side, using one hand to balance. She followed him up to the tracks and stood behind him like always. The vibrations under his feet shook the nervousness out of him, dissipated the panic, shook life into him.

On the tracks, he had no plans, no Princeton, no pregnancy. He had only the hum of the rails, the shrieking of wheels, the wind, the piercing whistle, the quickening pulse, the unimaginable elation of nothing.

Chapter 6

Thursday, September 3rd

Mason flicked the stub of his third cigarette to the dirt around the patio. He spit and cracked his knuckles. “Shannon never made it off the tracks that day.” The sun climbed higher in the sky. The early morning chill died. “She sat down.”

“Sat down?”

“I remember hearing her back a ways, shouting for me. I turned around, and she sat down. I ran after her, toward the train. It was a ways off still, but coming fast. The tracks bowed, sent me flying. I’d never run toward a train, and the bounce of the ties, I didn’t understand. They came faster. I tripped. But I got up, figured out the pattern and ran faster than I had before.

“She sat there the whole time, crying. I remember bouncing up, legs still pumping, like I was some cartoon character, legs spinning in the air and getting nowhere. I screamed at her to get off the tracks, but she just pulled her knees into her chest and said, ‘I got a plan,’ and ‘I love you, Mason.’

“She’d never really used my name much, not before that day. Didn’t call me ‘Freak.’ I tried to pull her off. I tried, but she’d tucked her arms under her knees. When Shannon set her mind to something, there was no changing her mind.

“The train was huge and loud and fast and strong. But I couldn’t budge her.”

He looked at the sun. Though he stood with me outside of Aida’s house in the early desert morning, his mind still contended with Shannon, stretched back over years, clutching at her overalls like he could pull her straight from the past onto the patio with us.

“What do you do?”

I leaned against the rail with no answer to give him.

“What could I do?” His eyes cut to mine, and he said again, “What could I do?”

There are some questions for which there are no answers. He wanted me to say something, to reassure him in some way, but I had no words. Nadine was the comforter. She’d know what to do. I had no clue.

The screen door creaked. Aida poked her head out and took a sniff of the smoke-laced air. “So you told him about Shannon?”

Mason nodded.

She looked to me, “Won’t be happy till he joins her. I tell him if he keeps up his smoking, that’ll be sooner rather than later. If those cigarettes don’t kill him, I will.”

I grinned, still uneasy from the story, but glad for Aida’s effort to break the tension. I spoke softly, hoping not to upset Mason further. “The article you want me to write—should it focus on you or on her?”

“Me?” he asked, surprise clear in his voice. “What’d I do? It was clearly her story. She’s the one who …” Here he paused. “Sacrificed herself. It was a selfless act.”

I sighed. “Not sure I can spin suicide as selfless. Besides, wasn’t she pregnant? That would make it murder in a way, right?”

All color drained from Mason’s face, as if someone had pulled the plug on his pigment.

“Real smooth, Connor.” Aida glared at me. “For being a man of words, you say some real stupid stuff sometimes.”

“It’s fine, Aida. He’s right anyway.”

“And she’s dead. If we’re trying to find the righteous in Hailey, doesn’t that mean the living ones?”

Aida shook her head. “Smooth. Come inside you two. Nadine’s feeling better and wants breakfast.”

Mason smiled, wiped his eyes with his sweatshirt, and clasped my shoulder. “See?”

He said it as if my willingness to write the articles was directly responsible for Nadine’s better health. I didn’t see the connection, but wanted to believe. Not in God, not like Mason said. I’d spent my life denying God’s existence, and wasn’t about to recant my disbelief. But some deep part of me wanted to believe that Nadine would be better, and that I could do something to heal her.

Nadine sat at the table looking frail and hungry. I sat next to her, put my hand on her knee. Seeing her up and ready to eat made me hungry, made me forget, for a moment, the horrible trip to the hospital yesterday. Seeing her like this made it hard to believe that she might only have a few weeks left.

Aida served potato pancakes on paper plates. She glopped a generous amount of light sour cream on them, dressed them with a few chopped chives, and sat down beside Mason. I grabbed my fork, but Aida pressed my hand back to the table. “Still have to pray,” she said.

Nadine wouldn’t want me to roll my eyes, so I didn’t. Instead, I set my fork down and grinned. “Sorry. Forgot.”

Mason cleared his throat, took Aida’s hand, and reached for mine. I took it reluctantly.

“Lord, we thank You for Your blessings. We ask for Your guidance and love, and for Your healing hand. Amen.”

At least he kept it short. Guilt punched me when Nadine took her first bite. I didn’t have many friends growing up. Like my mother, and like Aida, I tended to say what was on my mind with little regard for how it came across. But Nadine looked past my shortcomings. No matter how many times I said “sorry,” it got harder each time. I swallowed and squeezed her hand. “Last night, in the car.”

Nadine interrupted. “I don’t want an apology. I want a change. A real one. Not some act you put on because you think I’m going to die soon.”

She spoke of her death with such nonchalance, as if she’d simply asked me to pick up milk at the store. Her flippancy chilled me.

I took a bite, chewed slowly, and said, “I’ve already told Mason I’d write the articles, if that’s what you’re talking about.”

She patted my leg. “It’s a start.”

Mason and Aida eyed us quietly. I hated being manipulated, and the three of them acted like a team, somehow working against me, plotting to corner me into doing Mason’s work. The whole thing stank of a conversion conspiracy. Even if it were, I had few choices. I couldn’t tell my wife no. Not now, with her so fragile. No matter how uneasy it made me, I’d have to go along with it.

* * *

If she’d asked for the moon, I’d have found a cosmic lasso and roped it in like a rangy calf. I’d have served it on a platter as silver as the empyreal stone itself. But she didn’t. She’d asked me to write the articles.

The moon, though, may have been an easier request. Week-long deadlines were tough enough, but to only have one day to research, write, and polish a piece seemed a herculean feat.

After breakfast I spent the morning in the guestroom furiously tapping away on my laptop. Nadine stayed in the living room, unwilling to distract me (as if I could focus on anything other than her). I checked on her more often than she liked, but I couldn’t stop myself.

I paused long enough for a ham sandwich for lunch and a microwaveable dinner. I sat with Nadine as I ate. I resented Mason for giving me this asinine assignment, but Nadine had urged me to take it. If I resented Mason, I’d have to resent her, too. Instead, I pushed it from my mind and concentrated on the moments I had with my wife.

As long as I worked, Nadine did well. Whenever I stopped, even for as little as an hour, she grew sicker. If, as Mason suggested, this assignment came from God, He had a sick sense of humor.

I wrote and revised late into the evening. I didn’t know how long I’d been up at that point, but guessed I’d only slept a few hours over the last forty-eight. “More coffee, please,” I called to Aida.

Nadine shuffled in with my mug and slipped into bed. She covered herself with the thin sheet. “How’s it coming?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve no idea what he’s expecting, but I’m almost done. He’ll have to be satisfied with it, for better or worse.”

“What’s good in the story?”

I sighed, leaned back, and rubbed my eyes. “He wanted the story to focus on Shannon, but since he was the one telling it, I felt I had to write it from his point of view. It’s about a kid, a selfless kid, who loved the unlovable. That’s what I want to leave the reader with.”

“Sounds righteous to me.”

“Good. Hope it’s enough for Mason.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. Coming to bed?”

I wanted nothing more than to lie next to my wife and feel her in my arms. “I’ve got to finish this thing. Only be a few minutes.”

“You’ve been working all day. You need sleep, or you’re going to burn out.”

Her sublime attention to others’ well-being astounded me. Over the last seven years, I’d learned her selfless giving was not free. It took its toll on her.

Before she got sick, she spent her time volunteering for so many charity organizations, I had trouble keeping them all straight. A better husband, I realized now, would have made it his business to know his wife’s business. But I’d been selfish, and dismissed her work as another obstacle to our marriage, one more hurdle for us to jump before we could spend some time together relaxing.

The phone calls pushed me over the edge. They’d come in at all hours of the night, women in hysterics, blubbering for Nadine. She spoke to them with her musical voice, a voice like a warm bath. I’d fallen in love with it at the mall, while she played piano and sang old jazz numbers. It had the same effect on the callers. Before long, they’d settle down, content with Nadine’s simple reassurances and sublime faith.

With patience like that, she should have been a mother, but God didn’t see fit to let us have children. Instead, He gave her cancer.

I swallowed and hammered the keys on my laptop a bit more. Nadine closed her eyes and rolled over. I arched my back, stretched, sighed.

On one of our first dates, I took Nadine to Carlton’s Chops, an exclusive gourmet steak-house I couldn’t afford. I’d wanted to impress her, but the low lights and fancy tablecloths couldn’t overcome my awkward conversation and dogmatic political views. In the corner, a man played piano and crooned Frank Sinatra tunes. He didn’t have half Nadine’s talent.

“Bottom line,” I’d said over the soft music and the rattle of forks on plates, “We need to do more to help our people. Poverty is rampant; hunger is out of control. We’ve got millions on welfare trying to work their way up, but they can’t. Not the way government’s set up now.”

“You can’t wait for the government to fix our problems. We’ve got to do it for ourselves. You and me. People try to make these groups, these action committees or whatever, to feed the homeless, but how many of them work in soup kitchens? They raise money to battle hunger, but they’ve never so much as handed a slice of bread to someone who was starving.

“We can’t save everybody at once. We have to do it one at a time, on an individual level.” She took a sip of her wine and looked up at me. The greenness of her eyes stilled my heart. They gleamed coquettishly. “Live,” she continued. “And when you die, know that you have truly lived. The world should not mourn the loss of your accomplishments or legacy, but the loss of you.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

In a matter of weeks, she would die, and the world would be that much darker. Another light gone out. The loss of Nadine would devastate hundreds. She’d suffered with the world. She cried with widows, comforted the terminally ill, fed the hungry.

When I died, I imagined the world wouldn’t blink. Best case scenario, I’d be a footnote on an otherwise unremarkable news day. I’d chronicled the suffering of the world, recorded its hope, professed its faith, and felt none of it.

“Are you done yet?”

“No. I’ve got a long way to go.”

Chapter 7

Friday, September 4th

Mason paid me in cash. “I kept it in hundreds. Easier to count and spend that way. Bundles of fifty, seven-and-a-half bundles. That’s twenty-five thousand for this article and half for your next. You can count them if you like.”

I’d never seen this much cash in my life. I picked up a stack and shook my head. Holding it, I felt like a drug dealer or a cop busting a weapons deal. My breath caught in my throat. I felt displaced, like a first time flyer looking at the sea of clouds beneath the plane. This was not a sign of completion, but of the beginning of long hours of hard emotional work and separation from my wife. In that light, the stacks of money seemed smaller. I fought back a tide of nausea.

I sat at Mason’s kitchen table, the neat stack of hundreds standing out amid the disorder of the home. Half-used paper towels and dirty paper plates folded in half. The smell of rotten bananas and molding bread hovered like smog. Mason opened a couple windows; a gentle, chilly breeze set to work collecting the acrid smell and escorting it outside to the desert. Outside, clouds moved in and blanketed the Mojave sky in gray burlap.

He read over the article again, slipped another cigarette in his mouth. He set it down, rubbed his forehead and cracked his knuckles.

“Is it what you wanted?”

“Not really up to me.”

“Fine. Is it good enough for God?”

“I’m not God.”

“Mason, are you allergic to straight answers?”

He put the article down and folded his arms. “Sorry, Connor. I don’t mean to be vague, but I’m not calling the shots on this. I’m like you; I’m a reporter. I just tell you what’s been told to me.”

“How very Zen of you. Why not ask your angel, then? I want to know if I’m on the right track or not. A little direction would be helpful.”

“Direction,” he mumbled. “That’d be nice.” He leaned back in his chair, lit his cigarette, and rolled the article up. He tucked it under his arm and pointed to the couch in the front room. “Get your coat. We’re going for a drive.”

I didn’t know where we were headed, but didn’t want to bring the money. I got the sense that carrying any kind of money in a town this poor would be like carrying a sign that said, “Please rob me!” I left it on the table, grabbed my jacket, and followed him to his rusty pick-up. “Where to?”

“Hailey State Penitentiary.”

“Just visiting, of course.”

He exhaled a long blue plume of smoke. “Some of Hailey’s finest.” He said it without a trace of irony.

“Such as?”

“My brother.”

* * *

Mason’s ancient Mitsubishi pick-up navigated Highway 29 with all the grace of a drunken gorilla. Each pothole—and there were many—shook the truck until I was sure the tires would fall off. The gray vinyl seats sucked the heat from my core, and his heater didn’t work. I’d never had to roll down a window to warm up.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars would buy a decent truck.”

“It would.”

“So why not a better car? A better house? If you’ve got a quarter million dollars ready for spending, why are you still in Hailey at all?”

“Life’s not about luxuries.”

“I’m not suggesting mansions and Maseratis. Just something with a heater or AC or shock absorbers. How about a house that isn’t pre-fab? You got the land, why not build on it?”

“New rule: No talking about the money.”

“So you did rob a bank?” We hit another pothole; I was thrown off the seat and cracked my head on the roof.

“No more questions.” He spoke with finality and allowed me no time for rebuttal. “To understand the people of Hailey, you have to understand the town and its history.”

“Enlighten me.”

“This town used to be a big deal. Just after the gold rush, a man named George Hailey built a prospector’s camp and general store here. Said the mountains were made of gold. Hundreds moved in, built homes out of whatever they could find. Spent their life savings on prospecting equipment and went off gold mining in the mornings. By the time they realized the hills had nothing but cement, George Hailey had skipped town. He’d made his fortune, but left everyone else in a lurch.”

“Nice.” He didn’t sound like a brochure anymore; more like an obscure history text book.

“So John Jacobs steps up. He decides that they don’t need gold to get rich. He starts pulling up cement and mixing it with sand and water. Boom. Concrete. Right place, right time. The west was on fire, growing and expanding and building. They needed concrete, and here John Jacobs had it. He built his factory and set to work hiring the locals.

“Hailey’s seen all sorts of businesses come and go, but none of them stick like cement. The plant, the factory, is the only thing that’s survived, other than Sue’s diner, but that’s only around because there’s nowhere closer to eat.”

I folded my arms, set my jaw against the cold. Weren’t deserts supposed to be hot?

“Anyway, the people here in Hailey, they were prospectors, not businessmen. Other than Jacobs, none of them made enough to get out of town. They were stuck then, and they’re stuck now.”

I suppressed a yawn. I needed a nap, and his story didn’t do much to stimulate my interest.

“In the fifties, California put Highway 29 together. It linked LA and Las Vegas, so Hailey ended up being a pretty popular stop. For a time we had art and culture and money. But twenty years later, they built I-21, and that ended that. You’ve already heard that story.

“So the people of Hailey have a chip on their shoulders. They’re trapped here, and they know it. It might be okay if we could get some help. A fire department, a sheriff substation, something, but we’re unincorporated. Newland County to the south and Eve’s Horn to the north started fighting over Hailey about twelve years ago.”

I nodded. “Counties argue over boundaries all the time.”

“It’s different with Hailey. They argue over who’s responsible for us. We’re like that awkward kid in gym class no one wants on their team. It’s the old ‘No, you take him’ kind of attitude. Neither wants to claim us, so neither really provides for us. Police rarely come out here for anything less than murder, which happens more often than you’d think. Even then, they take their time. Fire department never makes it to a burning home until it’s ashes.”

Ahead, two metal suspension bridges spanned the sandy wash of the Mojave River. One was for Highway 29, the other for the train tracks. Mason didn’t seem concerned, but the bridge didn’t strike me as stable. I never liked bridges.

“It’s like the river,” Mason said.

I’d hoped he finished his lesson, but the lecture apparently had a few hours left.

“Back in the day, it was full, pressing up to its banks. Strong and beautiful, but as the years wore on and the people became more and more hopeless, it receded, like it was trying desperately to get out of town, like the hope of the town itself was drying up. Now it only comes back in heavy rains, and then it comes back as a rushing river, an angry force of nature.”

“I thought you said you weren’t eloquent.”

Mason continued as if I hadn’t said a thing. He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the bridges we’d just crossed. “Flooded both of these bridges a few years back.”

“Shut up. Flooded? In the desert?”

“Something about the rain pulls the river back up. We get a few inches, and the river comes back like it never vanished.” He nodded toward his window. “Every six years or so we get hit with heavy rains and snow in the mountains. The dam up to the west releases water when the mountain lakes get too full. The mountain communities, they know we’re prone to flooding down here, but they don’t care. Why should they? We’re just desert rats anyway, right?”

“So when can I move in?”

“Cut the snark for a minute. This is important.”

I didn’t like his tone, but he had a point. He’d made himself vulnerable, confided in me. I heard the same powerlessness I felt in his voice. I swallowed, tasted the sour apology forming in my mouth. “Sorry.”

“I’m not excusing our behavior, but you have to understand, we’re victims of our circumstances. Most of us mean well, but people can only be abused for so long.”

I grinned, leaned against the door. The road smoothed, and I rested my head against the window. “Sounds a lot like my mom. She liked to hook up with mean drunks. Spent most of my life calling the cops and sitting with her in the ER. When I got old enough, I started squaring off with them. I was twelve the first time.”

I shook my head, had no idea what prompted the story. But I’d swallowed my insecurities and frustration. If Mason could confide in me, then I could confide in him. Nadine trusted him. That was enough for me.

“This guy was big and ugly with arms like telephone poles. Had to be in his forties. He smacks my mom, pulls back to punch her, right? I come from across the room, grab his wrist and pull him back. He gets up real fast, but not before I get a shot in his mouth. This guy grabs my neck and lifts me straight off the ground. I can’t breathe and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die, but I don’t care. I kick him in the balls. Hard.”

Mason laughs.

“He drops me, and my mom comes flashing out of the kitchen. She’s got the butcher knife. In all her years of getting beat up, she’d never raised a hand against one of these thugs, but God help anyone who touched me, right?”

Mason cracked his knuckles and cracked his window. “She stab him?”

I shook my head. “Slashed him across his back. Dude shrieked like a cat when you step on its tail. He takes off. Never seen a man that big move that fast. She’s screaming after him the whole time. ‘Touch him again and I’ll cut your throat!’”

Mason laughed. “Quite the story.”

I chuckled. “Like you say, you can only be pushed so far.”

The truck turned right onto the only other paved road in Hailey. It wound around, snaking through the sand like a serpent, and narrowed toward the horizon, flanked by acres and acres of dirt, Joshua trees, and wild junipers.

“The Pen is straight ahead, about forty miles.”

“Why so far?”

“Think Alcatraz in the desert. Instead of drowning in an escape attempt, inmates would die of exposure before they got anywhere near the general public. A man could walk for miles and miles with only the scorpions and Mojave Greens for company.”

I nodded. “So, aside from resisting arrest, what’d your brother do?”

“Hailey special.”

“Which is?”

“What else? Murder.”

* * *

I’d never been this close to a prison before. I imagined I should be nervous, but couldn’t muster the appropriate fear. In Darfur, I stared down the Janjaweed—the very worst humanity had to offer. I could handle a few rats in a cage.

Razor wire and barbed wire topped the twelve-foot high fences running the perimeter. Tall towers rose from the grounds like a medieval castle. The sentries did not hold bows and arrows or crossbows, but state-of-the-art high-powered rifles. Under tenebrous clouds, massive men in blue and orange jumpsuits filled the prison yard. They moved toward the fence, jeering at Mason and me. I grimaced, cut my eyes to the pavement.

“Keep your head high, eyes forward. They can’t hurt you. If they tried, they’d be shot. Those guards are well paid and don’t mess around. They check their conscience at the door.”

I quickened my pace to keep step with him. “You’ve been here before.”

“When I turned eighteen, after Shannon died, I used to come down here all the time.”

“Why’d you stop?”

His answer was quick, a conditioned response. “Hard to have hope among the hopeless.”

We walked through the glass doors to a lobby-like opening. There was a long desk in front of us with bullet-proof glass to the ceiling. A man in a well pressed uniform with a shining bronze shield pinned to his chest stood at the desk behind the glass. He looked at Mason and smiled.

“Here’s a face I ain’t seen in a while. What brings you down, Mason? Life going too good at home?”

“How’s work, Frank?”

“It’s murder.” He guffawed.

Mason and I weren’t in a laughing mood.

Frank straightened in his chair. “Looking for Greg, I take it.” Then, with his eyes on me, he said, “Bring a friend today? What’s he, a lawyer?”

“Does he look like a lawyer?” A question to answer a question. How very politician of him.

Frank grinned. “Fair enough. Sign in boys. You know the routine.”

Mason and I put our names on paper, signatures and fingerprint, the time of arrival. We left the time of departure blank.

Frank pushed a button. The gray door to our left buzzed and clicked open. “One at a time, please.”

“I’ll go first.” Mason walked through the door and shut it behind him. Through the square window in the door I saw a guard sweeping Mason with a hand-held metal detector, then patting him down. The guard took Mason’s hat, coat, and belt. Lastly, Mason took off each shoe and handed them to the guard. Soon, the guard returned them to Mason, tipped his hat, and opened a door on the opposite side.

There was another buzz, another click, and I walked through. Luckily, I’d not worn a belt with my slacks. Still, I had to take off each shoe and wait until the guard had searched me to his satisfaction.

“Visitor Center’s to the right. Follow the long hallway. Hang a right at the T. Second door on your left.” He pressed a button and the far door swung open. He smiled at us. “Enjoy your visit.”

“Looking forward to it.” I met up with Mason on the opposite side. “Anything I should know before I meet your brother?”

“Try not to puke when you hear his story.”

“Doesn’t sound promising.”

He led me through the halls quickly, as if he lived here. We entered a small room with a type of wall-to-wall desk, sectioned off into five individual faux cubicles. Like the lobby, polycarbonate glass ran from desk to the ceiling, from wall to wall. Other than a guard posted on either side of the desk, we were the only ones in the room.

The door on the opposite side swung open. A guard escorted a man in a white jumpsuit; I assumed it was Mason’s brother. He was taller and older than Mason, but both men had black hair and high cheekbones. His dark eyes and flat ears had the look of family as well. Based on Mason’s description, I expected something more sinister, especially for a murderer. My mind raced with visions of bloody axes and smoking guns, or maybe someone who looked like a stunt double for The Hulk. Instead, the man had arms like noodles. The pasty fabric of his jumpsuit swallowed up his bony frame.

With cuffed feet and hands, he shuffled over to the chair across from Mason and sat awkwardly. The guard escorting him handed him the phone, which he cradled between his shoulder and ear. Mason picked up the phone on our side. “Hey, Greg. How they treating you?”

I could not hear his brother’s reply, but read his lips where I could. He said something about the food. Mason laughed, and his brother asked a question.

“Busy. I know, it’s a lame excuse.”

Something about little brother, what are you, scared?

“I’ll come more often. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

His brother’s lips moved quicker. The corners of his mouth pulled into frequent smiles, and I caught the word Aida.

“Fine. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Another question, something about best man.

Mason laughed. “You’ve got a twisted sense of humor, man.”

Mason fell quiet for a minute.

His brother nodded toward me and asked, who’s he?

“Connor Reedly. He’s a reporter.”

No interviews.

I cleared my throat.

Mason said, “It’s kind of a favor for Bernard. Won’t take long, just tell him what happened. He’ll do the rest. I promise, no one is going to see this.”

He nodded. Mason handed the phone to me and gestured toward the olive-green seat. I sat down and held the phone to my ear.

“Greg?”

“Yeah.”

“I have a few questions.”

“Hit me.”

I tried to organize the files in my brain, accessing the vague questions I’d formulated on the drive over. Interviews could be tricky. I liked to start with a few general questions, then follow up with more specific questions based on the responses. “Let’s start easy. Tell me about your family.”

Chapter 8

UNTIL PROVEN INNOCENT

Greg Becker held his sister while she shuddered and cringed, shook in his arms. She didn’t want to tell him, but he’d pushed her and pushed her until she finally confessed. She finally explained why her grades had plummeted down an academic abyss, why she’d quit the cross country team halfway through the season and why she’d skipped school for the last four days. And when she finished confessing, she’d clutched the back of his shirt and begged him not to tell.

Tell? He had a hard enough time comprehending the news. “How?” He understood the absurdity of the question and rephrased. “Who?”

She spoke between sobs. “Nathan. Don’t tell him either. Don’t tell anyone.”

He’d never heard her so afraid, never seen her tremble like this. It shook his nerves, as if her panic were contagious. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Don’t,” she said. “I’ll get through this.”

He held her tighter, tried to convey his strength to her in his embrace. His voice came out steady. It had to. He wouldn’t scare her further. But embers of wrath glowed hot in his gut. “What are you going to do?”

Sarah pulled her hair behind her ear and wiped her cheek with the sleeve of her blue sweater. She cleared her throat. “I have to keep it.” Somehow, her voice steadied when she spoke of the child, took on a strength that shamed him.

“We have to tell. I mean, you’re only fifteen. How can you raise a kid and go to school? Mom and Dad will help.”

“Let me tell them. Not now, though. When I’m ready.”

“When?”

“Soon. I just have to figure out how.”

* * *

Greg didn’t care that Nathan’s father was the mayor of Newland. He’d hurt Sarah, and he’d pay. He didn’t know how, but he’d find a way to make Nathan pay. He drove home after school. No way he could handle baseball practice with Nathan, knowing what he’d done to Sarah, what he’d likely done to other girls. How could he convince Sarah to let him go to the police? It seemed the best choice. They needed to know what Nathan was, the damage he could do. However, Sarah had sworn him to secrecy. His stomach soured thinking about it.

He cut the engine and stepped out of the car. The early spring afternoon was eerily quiet. Usually the Becker family dog Lucky barked at the sound of any car approaching, unless he was with someone. Greg moved quickly to the backyard, every muscle rigid, his heart compressing to the point of pain. Someone must have broken in and killed Lucky. He grabbed his baseball bat and stepped into the backyard with it raised over his head.

“Lucky!”

The hound barked, a bleak sound carried on a warm wind. Greg followed the mournful murmur of the family dog to the back acreage of their desert land. Here, the golden cottonwoods and creosote bushes grew in abundance. They’d been on the property long before Greg’s family purchased the land and required little to no cultivation, the way his family liked it. Independence, his father insisted, was the most valuable asset in the plant world.

Still, there was a single dead beech tree in the center. Apparently the previous owners tried hard to keep the thing alive, but it never took to the desert climate. When the Beckers first moved in, Greg’s father tried unsuccessfully to revive it. Eventually, he’d made plans to have it torn out, but it would have cost quite a bit to rent the equipment to take it down. Instead, they let it stay on the property like an ever-looming deciduous reminder of the disease of this desert.

Lucky lay by the dead beech, curled up into a lump of fur and ears, beneath Sarah’s swinging feet.

Greg bent his neck back slowly, a new fear grabbing his heart.

Sarah hung from a branch ten feet above the ground. She’d wrapped a lime green 100-foot extension cord around her neck in a slipknot and now swayed in the early spring breeze. Pastel blues and pinks diffused her skin, and her eyes were half-closed, as if she was simply tired of life.

He stood motionless for some time, staring up at her, feeling for a moment as if the slipknot was firmly fastened around his neck. He felt the rough strangulation, the tightening, the burn of the constriction, the inability to breathe. Panic pulled him up into the tree next to the choking, sputtering innocence of his sweet sister.

As suddenly as the panic seized him, all feeling passed, replaced instead by a tide of numbness and disbelief. How would his family react? How might his mother expunge the memory of her precious daughter swinging, swinging? How might his father swallow his inevitable guilt? How would little Mason understand that something, anything, could be this bad?

He couldn’t let them see her like this. He’d have to move her.

Greg picked the ladder up from the dusty ground and set it against the thick trunk. He had to stand carefully, balancing himself while he pulled Sarah’s limp body to his chest. His breath sputtered like a car on a cold morning. The cord slid roughly toward him, until he could reach it with his pocket knife. He used the serrated side to cut through the plastic lining, through the copper electrical wire, until it snapped. Sarah fell heavy into his arms. He descended one aluminum rung at a time with quavering legs. His muscles slackened, turned to noodles. He sat down and laid her head in his lap.

Her head tilted to the side. A deep, purple mark circled her throat like a choker. Deep grooves and gashes ran up and down the side of her neck. Blood marred her porcelain skin. Red stained her fingertips; she must have had second thoughts.

Hot tears stung the back of his eyes. He held her head; her hair tangled around his fingers and his chest heaved. Breath came in ragged gasps. He closed his eyes and kissed her forehead. He took twenty minutes to compose himself before carrying her inside the house as a husband would a new bride. He placed her in her bed, pulled the covers just under her chin to obscure the swollen neck and the bloody scratches and dialed 911.

After a brief description of the incident, he called Mom and Dad. He said he had some bad news and that they should get Mason and come home right away. After that, he set the phone down, knelt next to Sarah, and wept until his tears ran dry.

* * *

Thinking of Nathan was like going blind. Crimson drapes ran like blood over his vision until scarlet shaded the entire world, gradually darkening until at last, he saw nothing.

He’d told the police about Nathan when they finally arrived hours after he called. They dismissed it and insisted that the mayor’s son wouldn’t have done anything like Greg said.

They didn’t know him and didn’t want to. They said it with such disregard as if someone from Newland could never be capable of rape and assault. They’d expect that kind of behavior if Nathan lived in Hailey, but in their mind, someone from Newland would never do that.

Justice, it seemed, no longer existed in Hailey.

Greg couldn’t accept that. Justice would be served, even if Greg had to do it himself. The day after Sarah died, Greg went to school. He had a baseball game to play, a game Nathan would also play in.

He arrived early at the locker room and changed into his uniform by himself. He took his bat, walked down to the field, sat on the bench and waited.

Nathan walked up from the field with a young girl on each arm and a sack of McDonalds in his hand. The girls smiled at him, enamored with his charm and his quasi-celebrity. Greg wanted to vomit. Red colored the corners of the world.

Nathan moved a hand over one the girl’s back, then a little lower. She smiled awkwardly and stepped away. At first, Nathan looked dejected, but then anger swept over his face. He met Greg’s fierce stare. “Oh look, it’s the slut’s brother.”

In Greg’s mind, he swung the bat at Nathan’s head and heard a crack like a hollow piñata. He clenched his fists and pushed the thought from his mind. The two girls said something terse to Nathan and walked past Greg.

“My sister is dead,” Greg said. “She died last night.”

Nathan frowned. “Did she have AIDS?”

Greg took a deep breath. “You never showed her any respect, but by God you’ll respect her now. I know what you did.”

Nathan grinned, leaned in close. “She tell you everything? How she screamed my name? How she begged me for it?” Blackness shimmered in his eyes. “Not my fault she got knocked up. And not my fault she wanted to keep the stupid thing.”

Greg tightened his grip on the bat.

Nathan’s breath stank of onions. “Funny thing about pregnancies,” he whispered. “Hit a girl hard enough in the right place and the baby dies. Looks just like a miscarriage, too.”

Blindness. Heavy, benevolent darkness.

His arms moved like wind, sweeping from one side to the other. Something cracked. A muffled distant cry rang in his ears, a scream, another crack and Greg’s arms shook, reverberated.

He moved mechanically, little more than a robot carrying out instructions, swinging and shaking, swinging and shaking. The hollow cracking sound echoed with each swing.

* * *

When his vision returned, Greg stood over Nathan’s barely recognizable body. His face and neck were swollen; his arm bent underneath him, legs sprawled at awkward angles. Blood ran from his face and arms, from his mouth, and from his black, black eyes. There was no white, no color in the iris; only a viscous black, like a swimming, undulating tar. Greg couldn’t look away.

The tar began pulsing, as if his eyes were veins, and the tar, the blood of a demonic being. The pulsing captivated him, until it erupted from Nathan’s pupils, like a volcano spewing smoke. To Greg’s surprise, it did not dissipate. It hung suspended in mid-air, swirling and coagulating into a thick black face, twisted in a grim pride, a toothy grin.

It shrieked and stared at Greg. The smile drained away and the blackness collapsed to the concrete below, slowly seeping into it like water through cheesecloth. Greg took two steps back from the body. He knew Nathan was evil, but not like this.

Greg stepped back from Nathan’s broken body. Had Greg really done that? He hadn’t imagined himself capable of such savagery. He should be afraid, guilty, remorseful.

He had to put distance between himself and Nathan, had to get far away from the creeping black tar of Nathan’s soul. He needed someplace quiet, where he could be alone and think.

The Mojave pulled him inexplicably toward it. Before long, he parked his car on the side of Highway 29 about thirty miles from Newland Valley High School and about twenty miles from his home. Here, the river deviated about a mile and a half from the highway. Various train tracks ran the course between the river and highway. Tall cottonwoods with golden leaves and black branches isolated the river from the rest of the world. This was exactly what he needed: seclusion and time to think. He sat on the bank of the river, which trickled from a recent rain.

Everything happened so quickly, he’d not remembered to pray until now. With a humble heart, he bowed his head. Forgiveness, however, was not his request. Instead, he thanked God. God’s justice had been appeased, and Greg had been the instrument God used. He thanked Him for the opportunity to serve as the tool of His righteous anger. He didn’t doubt he’d served God the best way he knew how, by removing evil from the earth.

How many girls had Nathan raped? How many had he beaten? How many more would he have hurt if Greg let him live? There was no measure to the righteous anger of God, and though he didn’t remember much of it, he acted justly.

The police wouldn’t see it that way. All they would see was a Hailey kid murdering Newland’s mayor’s son. His mind flashed back to the image of Nathan bloodied and bruised, Greg’s bat lying beside him. It was only a matter of time before they found him. What then? He could drive away, try to get out of state. No, by now they’d be looking for his car, and he wasn’t about to steal a vehicle.

His father would know what to do. He always did. But he wouldn’t be able to drive home, not in his car. How long would it take him to walk twenty miles? Four hours? Five hours? He could follow the river up and cut across the wash. The trees and creosote bushes would provide good cover from anyone looking for him, either on the highway or in the air. If he hurried, he could be home just after nightfall.

His walk home consisted of ubiquitous thoughts: right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, a Dr. Seuss chorus juxtaposed against the darkness of the day. He had no direction but straight. Follow the river, think less, act more. Move. Move. Must move.

Before long, the sun plunged behind the mountains, thrusting Greg into shadow. Another few minutes and the moon ascended like a seraphic eye. Tired and hungry, he moved determinedly, his skin scratched from traipsing through a myriad of angry bushes. Sand filled his cleats, and he wished he’d at least thought to change shoes before running off. He’d had no time to think or plan. He operated on base instinct, something deep within him that shut off his conscious mind.

Greg stumbled through his front door an hour after sunset. His mother and father paced the living room, fear etched in their wrinkled faces. Mason stood in the hallway, watching. Mousy as ever, Greg thought.

Greg’s father hung up his phone. “My God, Greg.” He took his son in his arms and held him tight, a father’s hug: equal parts relief, exasperation, fear, comfort, and instruction.

He answered the question his mother asked with her eyes. “I’m fine.” He turned to his father. “Pops, it’s okay. I did what was right.”

His father looked sad. “I’m worried sick, son. You wouldn’t believe what I’m hearing. And the day after your sister.”

“I did it for her.”

His mother put a hand to her mouth. “You did it? The police came by and said …”

Greg hugged his mother. “I had to do it, for Sarah.”

“Why?” his father said. “What does he have to do with Sarah?”

Greg’s hands fisted. “She told me not to tell you, but I did what had to be done.”

Greg’s father shook his head. “I’m sorry, son.”

The front door crashed open, punching a hole in the side of the wall. Greg spun around in time to see a uniformed man tackle him. A boiling pain ruptured through his chest. He wanted to cry out, but found no air in his lungs. A fast smacking sound followed a distant voice, “On your stomach, now!”

Greg tried to roll over, but the uniformed officer still pinned him to the floor. Again, he tried to speak, but the weight of the man choked him.

“All right, get him up!”

He heard his mother’s voice. “Stop! Stop! You’re hurting him!”

“Get him outside!”

The officer stood up, grabbed Greg by the collar of his baseball uniform, and dragged him toward the door. The collar slipped up his neck to his throat, and his feet dragged along the carpet. Greg grasped at his throat, unable to breathe.

Just like Sarah.

No thought. Only instinct. He took his hands from his collar and grabbed the couch, then the coffee table, anything he could reach. If he could only stand.

More hands on him, at the shoulders. Something hard hit his arms and legs. Wooden. A stick? More than one. Two or three at a time. Then he was outside of his garage, pushed to the concrete.

He gasped.

Up.

He steadied his legs, turned to face his attackers. Three in all, each with the badge of Newland’s finest. The hefty one stepped toward him, arm raised.

Greg steeled his nerves and sent his fist rocketing at the man’s chin. It connected in a sickening crunch and sent the man wobbling back. The other two rushed him. Greg ducked, tripped one up and felt the other’s foot in his ribs. When he doubled over, something hit his back. It felt like a web, or a wire. His muscles convulsed in agonizing pain, and he collapsed. He felt a foot on his back; his arms were pulled behind him and cold metal clasped over his wrists. “You’re under arrest, Greg Becker.”

From the driveway, Greg saw the silhouette of his mother and father and Mason in the garage. Had they seen the whole thing? His father held his mother. Mason stood with slumped shoulders as if he had rushed to help, but, for fear’s sake, stopped. He stood frozen in a half-run like a sculpture of a second-place Olympian.

Chapter 9

Friday, September 4th

Nine years ago, I flew over the border of Chad in a helicopter and touched down a few miles into Northern Darfur. We landed under an unforgiving African sun. The Sudanese government wielded its power like a machete. Hate and genocide had swept the land like a sandstorm—quick and irresistible.

I didn’t have to wait long to see the darkness of men’s souls. The following morning, the Janjaweed rode into the village where I stayed. The tall men traveled on horseback and wielded intimidation like swords. Seven arrived swiftly, armed with G3 rifles. The man riding in front also carried a machete. Their ebony skin glistened with sweat. They all smiled, content to carry out their orders from the government: exterminate the Massaleit ethnicity. The villagers panicked, ran for their homes, the women for the children. A few men, brave and foolish, stood alongside me in the path of the Janjaweed.

“You are not welcome here,” they said. My translator did his best to look brave, but his quivering knees betrayed him.

The leader’s eyes were like a black liquid, and his orders were short and clipped, delivered with authority and amusement. “Kill the men and burn the village. Do what you like to the women, but save two for me.”

“What of the white one?” another asked.

“He is no doctor. Doctors do not carry cameras and notebooks. He will tell our story, and the rebels will learn.”

The rebels, a band of Sudanese, fought for freedom against a corrupt government, the same government that hired the Janjaweed to systematically destroy the tribes in Darfur, a genocide paralleled only by that in Rwanda. The calling card of this genocide was dead men, burned villages, raped women, and slaughtered children.

The villagers didn’t wait before they sprinted away. A young mother grabbed her three-month old daughter and ran as fast as her bony legs would carry her. The crack of a rifle’s hammer split the suffocating summer air. The bullet pierced the mother’s right shoulder. She slumped to the earth; with the last ounce of her miniscule strength, she used her quivering body to shield her daughter. A Janjaweed soldier closed with relentless speed. His rifle raised, his jaw opened and closed, opened and closed like a ruthless tide, the gum smacking between his lips. The mother arched her back in an act that defied the limits of human biological abilities, and interposed herself between her killer and her child. From the depths of her good lung, a few words, mixed with blood, dripped from her lips. Later, my translator told me he’d only heard a few words. “Don’t worry, love you, don’t worry.”

Another crack.

The mother crumpled. Sickness seized me.

The Janjaweed kicked her body, rolling it off of the child. “You should not have run,” he said. His eyes were a sea of undulating ink.

The sickness I’d felt in Darfur, the disease of despair, gripped me again. Greg’s story made me uneasy, and he knew it. He leaned forward. “You know what? I’d do it again.”

The room ran cold. “The blackness that seeped out of his eyes?”

Greg blinked. “I don’t know exactly. His soul maybe? A demon? Whatever it was, there was no remorse in it. It looked,” he paused. “Happy?” The word sounded more like a question. “No, satisfied.”

A uniformed guard put his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “That’s time, Greg.”

Still leaning close to the transparent divider, he ignored the guard’s comments and continued softly. “There’s judgment in your eyes. You’re not my judge. What I did was right. It was necessary.”

“Finish it up,” the guard said.

Greg never broke his steel gaze. “Look after Mason. Next few days’ll be rough for him.” He hung up the phone, stood, and followed the guard through the gray door on the opposite end of the room.

“You handled that better than I expected,” Mason said.

I stood with a shrug. “I’ve seen a lot of things. Sure, his story is chilling, but doesn’t compare to the things I’ve seen.”

In Darfur, the Janjaweed soldier raised his rifle again, took aim at the now orphaned girl. Fear froze me, kept me from moving or speaking. What if he turned the gun on me? I was paralyzed, a cowardly statue. Closing my eyes, my ears rang with the echo of a gun’s rapport, then another body crumpling.

A baby lying on the ground would not crumple.

I opened my eyes and saw the soldier in a heap. A well-armed rebel soldier stood over him.

“Are you a doctor?”

No. I wasn’t. I didn’t have to be.

I hadn’t seen the rebels ride in from the outskirts of the village. They carried water, food, and rifles. They surrounded the remaining Janjaweed, and moved them outside of the village. The daughter’s savior scooped her into his arms.

“We will deal with these men, but we will not make the villagers see. They do not need to see what happens to these men.”

“The baby?”

“I will take her.”

I’d heard stories of mothers lifting cars off of their children. I’d heard of men surviving in the desert for weeks without water. Neither impressed me more than the selfless sacrifice this mother made for her child.

I struggled for weeks to write what I’d experienced in Darfur. World News Weekly called me daily to urge me on in the process. But, until I sat down with Nadine in the food court of Cherry Creek Shopping Center, I couldn’t fathom how to approach the suffering.

She cried as I told her the story. Shortly after, she insisted I had to handle it a different way. “This isn’t an article about suffering. It’s about the perseverance of love, a selfless act made more unbelievable by the contrast of the selfishness of the villains.”

I didn’t speak of the brutality of the rebels. It was a war, and war was not pretty. War heroes didn’t seek to peacefully speak with hostiles, to talk them out of their violent ways. They used the force available to them to protect those around them.

Greg was not in a war, but he fit the description of a hero. He sacrificed his freedom to protect other girls, other families from enduring the suffering that would likely come at Nathan’s hands.

In Mason’s truck, the jail far behind us, I asked the burning question. “Is it right to take the law into your own hands?”

Mason gripped the steering wheel and sighed. “I think you’re asking the wrong question. A better question would be, ‘is it righteous to allow evil to exist?’ I think it’s necessary to remove evil. It’s the responsibility of the righteous to end evil when possible. They must defend what’s right.”

Before Darfur, I hated the death penalty. I loudly declared capital punishment as government-sanctioned murder. Two wrongs didn’t make a right. But in Darfur, I witnessed government-sanctioned murder executed with ruthless efficiency by the hands of the Janjaweed. I didn’t stop the rebel from killing the soldier.

The rebel fought against the organized government and, by his mere existence, endangered his people. As long as he was alive, the Janjaweed would hunt down and kill everyone in his race. But, if he surrendered, what guarantee was there that the Janjaweed would withdraw? The rebel had to exist, had to fight for what was right, because the alternative was unthinkable.

But did Nathan present the same evil as the Janjaweed? Was Greg as righteous as the rebel? More importantly, who decided? Who judged the righteousness of man? I thought to ask Mason, but already knew how he’d answer.

I was not eager to rush headlong into another theological debate, so I shelved the question. It didn’t concern me; I only had to write the articles and let Mason, or God, sort out the rest. Only Nadine mattered. The doctors had already commended her into the hands of death and washed theirs of guilt. I wouldn’t give up. I may not have believed in God, but I wasn’t about to gamble Nadine’s life on the point.

* * *

Aida hushed me as I walked in and motioned to the back room. “Sleeping.”

“How long?”

Aida checked her watch. “An hour. Sit.” She patted the couch next to her. A harrowing heat moved in as I drove from Mason’s to Aida’s. The birds outside busied themselves finding shade rather than singing. No breeze rustled the leaves of her well-manicured trees. Her refrigerator hummed. Her fingers scratched over the pages of a Stephen King novel. “How’d it go with Greg?”

I shrugged.

“He has that effect on people.”

“You know him?”

“The trial was all over the news. I was young then, only ten or eleven. Can’t remember much.”

“Have you talked to him?”

She nodded. “Kind of unnerving, isn’t he?”

“How am I supposed to spin this into something good?”

A broad smile split her face. “Shouldn’t be too hard. It’s right up your alley.”

I took a deep breath. How should I choose my words? “Write a few articles like mine and people assume you’re an optimist. I try to focus on the good, but it’s always in the midst of evil. We, people, we’re evil.”

“And?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“If you can find a way to isolate the hope in Darfur, you should be able to find something positive in Greg’s story.”

“Nadine helped me with that article.”

“I know.”

I sighed. “I understand the elimination of evil. Still, he killed a kid. It wasn’t like he was gunning down a murderer.”

“Nathan didn’t kill Sarah. He killed the baby, and that’s what killed Sarah. Worse than murder, if you ask me.”

I scratched my nose and leaned forward. She had a point. Perhaps I should play up the evil of Nathan to better paint Greg. I’d have to tone down Greg’s brutality, rage, and lack of remorse.

In the process of reviewing the interview in my mind, I thought of something else. I turned to Aida. “How much has Mason told you?”

“About?”

“The articles. Why I’m writing them.”

“Enough.”

“I don’t buy this whole ‘God’s going to destroy Hailey’ bit. You can’t honestly believe it either.”

Aida shrugged.

“You see? This is why the rest of the world thinks Christians are ignorant. This is kid’s stuff, something out of Sunday School. You’re an adult, a nurse, a woman of science. How can you, in good conscience, believe this?”

I wanted to feel more conviction in my views, wanted to sound more degrading and confrontational. I wanted to be angry, but my words didn’t have the edge I’d hoped for.

“You’re the one writing the articles.”

“Doesn’t mean I believe.”

“I know you, Connor. Say you don’t believe all you want. Fact is, you’re writing the articles.”

Chapter 10

Saturday, September 5th

I’d exhausted Aida’s reserves of coffee somewhere around 4 a.m., and her supply of purified water ran low. She’d kill me if I turned all her dishwashing water into coffee. I left her a note on the counter, apologizing for any inconvenience I’d caused by drinking a week’s worth of coffee in one night. I planned on sleeping until noon, though I doubted I’d be able to get much rest at all.

At least I’d finished the article. It wasn’t up to my usual standards, but my fatigue out-voted my diligence. Closing the door softly, I made my way through the dark guestroom and took off my shirt. The night air kept the room cool. I looked forward to sliding under the sheets next to Nadine. She’d been asleep for close to nine hours already.

Her white nightgown rested loosely on her thin shoulders. Her skin paled to a pallid gray, but her eyes blackened like bruises. Her innocence and pity only intensified her beauty. I pulled the sheet back and slid beside her, draped an arm over her gaunt frame.

She stirred. “What time is it?”

“Late. Go back to sleep.”

“Are you just getting to bed?”

“The article wasn’t working with me.”

Her breath grew heavier. “I’m proud of you.”

I took her hand, rested my fingers on hers, pressed them gently like piano keys.

She spread her fingers, let mine fall between them. “What you’re doing is good. These people need you.”

I set my glasses on the table. Sweat beaded on my chest and forehead. I smelled like a locker room. “Yeah?”

She rolled over to face me and put her hand on my cheek.

Her tenderness punched me. How many nights did she have left? How could I waste time writing? I couldn’t spend another second away from her. Tomorrow I’d tell Mason I quit. No amount of money could change my mind; time with Nadine couldn’t have a dollar sign strapped to it. I leaned close to her ear. “I love you.”

She smiled, her lips thin as stems. I kissed her forehead, and she rolled over.

Exhaustion pushed me to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t cooperate. Too much caffeine drove my brain like a Maserati. I sighed and timed my breathing with the soft rise-and-fall of Nadine’s chest. I counted each inhale-exhale like sheep over a fence.

In, out. In, out. In, out.

Her chest stopped.

In, I thought. Breathe in.

Nothing. My eyes snapped open, I shook her gently. She didn’t move and all at once I remembered the story of Job. I heard the words the Lord gives and takes away.

No. Not this time.

I shook her hard, but she still didn’t move. Her pallid hue softened to a pastel blue.

“Aida!” My shout rattled the door. I sat up and shook Nadine harder. “Aida!”

Fast footsteps, then the door. “What, what? Talk to me, Connor.”

“Not breathing.” I whispered a desperate prayer.

Aida scuttled around the bed. “Get off her. She’ll never breathe with your fat self suffocating her.”

“Two days,” I whispered. “Is that the best you can do?” The question was not directed toward Aida.

“Her color’s turning.” Aida climbed on the bed. “How long has she been like this?” Bending at her hips, she brought her lips to Nadine’s. She blew forcefully until Nadine’s chest rose.

“A minute, maybe more, I don’t know. She was breathing; it was in-out-in-out and then nothing.”

Aida pulled her fingers from Nadine’s neck. “No pulse.”

“Oh, God.”

Aida blew into Nadine’s mouth again. She put both hands on the center of Nadine’s chest and pushed hard, fast, counted each compression. “911, Connor.”

Such composure in her voice, such command. I grabbed my cell phone, fought to steady my hands to dial the number.

The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.

“Not her,” I whispered. “Take me, please. I’ll do anything.”

“911, what’s your emergency?”

I couldn’t breathe. “My wife. Please, I need an ambulance.”

“Give me the phone.” Aida’s voice was firm and unwavering. She blew into Nadine again and snatched the phone from my shaking hand. “Female, thirty-two years old, full arrest. I’m doing CPR, but need someone out here fast to help.” Aida held the phone to her ear with her shoulder while she pressed frantically on Nadine’s chest and recited the address. She dropped the phone immediately after.

“God, please.” It was the frantic, naked plea---.

The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.

I fell on my knees, my hand gripping Nadine’s. Through half-choked sobs I said, “Anything.”

* * *

On September 13th, 2001, I sat on the foot of Emily Bristol’s bed in Hoboken, New Jersey. She moved slowly as if she’d come straight home from her kick-boxing workouts. She put her shirts into a large suitcase, one at a time, handling each with such care you might think they were moments from vanishing. I couldn’t blame her. Two days ago, the entire nation watched the Twin Towers fall, a fifth of the Pentagon collapse. These were symbols of our freedom, our economic and military strength. Our nation hadn’t faced our fragility like this since Pearl Harbor. Emily, like the rest of us, must wonder about permanency. What could we trust to last?

The supreme chaos of New York, like the concrete mist hovering heavy in the air, would take days to settle.

It’d have been pointless to ask the hackneyed reporter questions—“How do you feel? What were you thinking when they fell?” Her answers shone in her cheerless green eyes. In the suffocating silence, she stifled her tears, as if she’d woven an intricate red tapestry in her eyes to hold them at bay.

From the corner of the room, her aunt Felicia muttered, “Pointless.” She’d said it three times in the last ten minutes. I didn’t respond. What could I say?

Finally, the anguish and awkwardness building past my comfortable resolve, I offered a few words. “I lost my mother when I was fifteen.”

Emily nodded, her way of recognizing what I’d said, but declining to comment.

Operating on my reporter’s instinct, I pressed on, hoping that talking about myself would encourage her to talk about her. “My biological father took off when I was one-and-a-half. Said he had to find himself. My mother told me the story when I was twelve. I sent him a mirror for his birthday.”

Despite the oppressive weight of sadness, Emily and Felicia laughed.

“Had a few stepdads. Mean drunks. At some point, they became different versions of the same man. They all kind of blur together. I remember stories, but not the man. Was it mean drunk 1.0 or 4.2? Didn’t matter, I guess, except that I wish it was them, the mean drunks, instead of your parents.”

Emily paused, closed her eyes for a moment. “Plenty of them in there, too. That’s what gets me.” Her voice gained some confidence and, it seemed, distracted her from the horrifying task of packing all her stuff to move to Maine with her aunt. “It wasn’t just Mom and Dad. It was thousands of people, and what did they do?”

She sat down, folded her hands in her lap. “Ahmir shined Dad’s shoes each morning. His wife worked on the twelfth floor. She was pregnant. Six months. A baby boy. What about them? What about the baby?”

She stood back up, surveyed her room. She couldn’t fit it all in one suitcase.

Felicia muttered, “Pointless.”

She scribbled something on a yellow pad of sticky notes, stuck it on her pink lamp. “I was supposed to meet Mom for dinner that night. We were going to go to this little place on the 80th floor. There’s a guy there, and he only works on Tuesdays, because the other days he works another job on another floor, but he makes the best Reuben sandwiches. Mom and I have a standing date.” She cleared her throat. “Had.”

Tears burned behind my eyes, and I blinked them back. I had a recorder on so my note-taking wouldn’t be a distraction to her.

Aunt Felicia waddled in from Emily’s bathroom holding a toothbrush and toothpaste. “Pointless. The whole thing. That’s what I keep thinking. All this senseless death. What was the point?”

“They wanted to scare us,” Emily said. “But Mom and Dad didn’t scare easy, you know? And I think, in some way, it’s kinda my job to move on now. Life doesn’t really stop no matter how much I want it to. I’m doing something good. This packing, moving to Maine, all that, that’s my job as an American, as a Christian, keep going no matter what, you know?”

I didn’t.

* * *

“Ambulance is taking too long.” Aida had worked tirelessly on Nadine for minutes, for hours, for days and weeks and years.

How had Emily been strong enough at sixteen to recognize her life wasn’t inextricably tied to her parents? How could she move on?

Aida punched Nadine hard in the chest with a sickening thump, and I collapsed to the floor. I couldn’t shut my mind up, and the voices came faster now, please, anything, the Lord gives and takes away, anything, please, the Lord gives and takes anything, I can’t, please Lord, please God, please—anything, I’ll do anything.

Nadine sputtered.

Aida said, “Come on!” Another breath, another thump, another sputter.

Then choking and gasping.

I stood so quickly my head spun, and my knees buckled. I steadied myself. Nadine was breathing, but I wasn’t.

Thank you, God, thank you.

I grabbed her terrifyingly cold hand.

This hadn’t been an accident. She’d stopped breathing the minute I decided to quit, and started when I vowed to do anything. I knew I couldn’t quit.

Not if I wanted Nadine to live.

Chapter 11

Saturday, September 5th

On the flimsy white aluminum railing that enclosed Aida’s patio, a black spider dangled by a thread, caught in the gentle breeze. Desperately swinging, legs flailing, the spider reached for something solid to latch onto, something to stabilize him. Still, swaying and swinging, two legs held onto the near invisible thread, the only connection, thin as it was, to anything solid. I understood that spider.

The sun glinted off Mason’s shaved head. In black sunglasses, a sweatshirt, jeans and flip flops, he’d dressed more for the beach than the desert. “I’m sorry.”

I didn’t want his apology, but I understood the sentiment. Emotionally exhausted, I lacked the strength to argue or to be angry. I hadn’t slept, shaved or showered in over twenty-four hours. I’d only brushed my teeth because Aida threatened to kick me out if I didn’t get rid of my coffee breath.

The morning chill had not yet burned away. Mason cracked his knuckles. “I don’t want to make this any harder than it already is. I didn’t envision it being like this.”

“Did you make the rules?”

“No.”

“Then don’t apologize.”

“You know we’re in this together, right? We’re kinda tied together, you and me.”

“We’re not tied together. We are not partners or friends or brothers or cousins or anything like it. I don’t have to like you, but we don’t have to be enemies, either.”

He frowned. “I’m guessing you’re done, then?”

“Wish I could quit. But I can’t. Can I do more than one a day? What if I interviewed everyone first, then sat down to write. Would He be okay with that?”

Mason shrugged. “I’m not Him.”

I folded my arms. “I didn’t sleep last night. A little short on patience, so stop playing games and just answer my questions, okay? If I’m going to do this, I want to do it quick. And if God’s the one who told you to hire me, then you’re my only connection to Him.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. You can talk to Him, too, you know.”

I laughed. “Think so?”

A chill swept over the patio. Mason shivered. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, arms rigid, back straight, but shoulders slumped. He bowed his head, stared at his flip flops. “I know how you feel when it comes to God.”

I made no effort to hide my agitation. “Do you know how I feel about people assuming they know how I feel?”

“Angry. Frustrated, like you’re mad at something or someone even though you don’t know if they even exist. Am I close?”

“Ballpark.”

“You want to blame Him for Nadine, but at the same time you want to call out to Him, because who else can help?”

“It’s not just Nadine,” I said. “It’s things like September 11th, Katrina, Darfur, the holocaust, Thailand’s tsunami, all that. What kind of God does that? So many good people, why destroy them like that?”

“You can’t say God did all those things. Maybe He allowed it, but He definitely didn’t cause it.”

“What’s the difference.”

Mason slipped his flip-flops off and curled his toes under his feet. “First of all, it’d imply He wanted to destroy people. I don’t think that’s the case. Second of all, it doesn’t take into account the people He saved. For every tragic death, I can show you three or four miracles of people narrowly escaping death. See what I mean?”

“Are you saying God couldn’t have stopped those things?”

“Not at all. I’m saying we’re all sinners, and because of that, we have to die. Yes, it’s tragic when good people die. Fact is, no one’s perfect, and we have to be if we want to go to Heaven.”

“See? That’s what I don’t get. How can God expect us to be perfect? You just said it; none of us is. Isn’t that unrealistic and vindictive?”

Mason sat on the steps of the porch, stretched his legs out, and leaned back slightly. He checked his watch. “It’s like when you put on some blue sunglasses, John Lennon style, you know? Everything looks blue, right? Same basic thing with God. He sent His Son to die on the cross for us, so now, when He looks at us, it’s with red lenses, through the blood of Jesus. And that’s how we’re perfect, not on our own, but because of Jesus dying on the cross.”

“Sounds too easy.”

“Is it easy to watch Nadine suffer? Imagine her hanging on a cross. Still sound easy?”

A haunting vision seized my mind: Nadine suspended above the earth on a splintery wooden cross, arms outstretched, head bowed, legs crossed. She hung limp like a broken flower. A twisted thorny crown encompassed her fragile forehead. The blonde waterfall of her hair hanging about her face mixed with crimson streams. I reached out for her, screamed her name. Her arms strained against the nails in her wrists. She called out to me, a hoarse gasp.

Anything— think of anything else. “No, I suppose not.”

“There’s a cost for salvation. Not just for us. It cost Jesus, and it cost God. Our part is relatively easy.”

I shielded my eyes from the sun and looked out over the desert where life was sparse and difficult. “Hadn’t really thought of it like that before.”

“Most don’t. And most don’t understand exactly how much it costs. Aida, she understands. Ever talk to her? About salvation I mean?”

“Haven’t talked to anyone about it other than you and Nadine.”

He leaned forward and sighed. “It’s been a long morning already. You look exhausted. Can you write?”

I nodded. “As long as it’s someone nearby.”

“Someone inside.”

* * *

Aida handed me a mug and sat across from me on the opposite couch. “You know all this caffeine’s bad for you, right?”

It was too early for Wheel of Fortune, so the television remained off. Aida didn’t get sucked into soaps. Terminally stupid characters, trite plot lines, strained credulity to painful points. The Wheel didn’t have any of these shortcomings. It had Pat Sajak, and Aida had quite the crush on him. Nadine, too. Must have been a sister thing.

Nadine slept in the other room. When we got back from the hospital early this morning, they gave her a heart monitor. If it stopped, we’d hear a very loud, very annoying alarm. I’m not sure if it rested Nadine’s nerves more, or mine.

I sipped the coffee. “Tell that to Mason.”

“You need sleep.”

“Like I said, talk to Mason.”

“Who’s he got you talking to today?”

I smiled. “Mason says your story’s pretty interesting.”

She moaned. “You gotta be kidding.”

“Would I make that up?”

She rubbed her forehead and groaned. “I’m gonna kill that man.”

“You’d fit the family.”

She shook her head. “You can be a real jerk sometimes, you know that?”

I sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m tired, my wife’s dying. I’m out of gas here, Aida.”

“Just drink your coffee and shut up; you might learn a thing or two.”

Normally, when people begin to tell a story, they lean back and look perplexed, sometimes confused, depending on the story. Their eyes dart up and to the left, as if their memories were stored in the ceiling or attic, or perhaps a slate sky or an indigo night. Aida didn’t. She leaned forward as if she were about to tell me a secret no one else had heard, perhaps a tale of intrigue and mystery, one with vital importance to the security of our nation.

“You’re gonna hear some stuff that might make you a little uncomfortable. I mean, there’s some stuff I haven’t told Nadine yet, and some stuff she hasn’t told you. You good with that?”

“Why’s everyone in this town talk like they’ve killed someone?”

“I’ve never killed anyone,” she said. “Just thought about it.”

Chapter 12

COME OUT, COME OUT

Because she could do nothing else, Aida slammed the door and kicked the tire. She should have known better than to steal a Ford, but it was old and didn’t have an alarm. Easy pickings, and beggars couldn’t be choosers. It got her out of Vegas and Henderson, but here, somewhere just miles outside the city, there was nothing—no gas stations or rest stops, no mini-malls or fast food joints. Nothing wasn’t good; her thumb would have to take her the rest of the way. She just prayed that someone would find her before the police did.

It’d take too long for the engine to cool. The sun shone like judgment, hot and unfailing. Her black ball cap soaked up her sweat like a thirsty sponge. Her brown hair, hastily cut with an old box cutter, tucked under the cap nicely, but exposed her pale neck. She’d have a wicked sunburn if she stayed out here for anything more than a few minutes, but a sunburn was the least of her concerns. She wished she’d thought to pack suntan lotion, but she didn’t have the luxury of time.

The desert dust crunched under her feet. The soft sand of the shoulder of Highway 29 hurt her ankles. For a time, she thought of throwing her suitcase into the desert and running. There was no one behind her, and, likely, no one in front of her, not for miles. She’d taken this road because so few people traveled it anymore, and cops seldom patrolled it. They’d look for her along the I-21, maybe as far down as the I-40, but probably wouldn’t spend much time searching 29. Not many people remembered the old road still existed. Aida, however, knew all of the road’s dirty secrets, and it knew hers.

Something rumbled in the distance behind her. She spun around, turned her ankle in the sand and cursed. Miles off, in the mirage of heat off hot asphalt. It shimmered on the road, a spot of light speeding toward her like a falling star. Instinct told her to dive behind the sparse junipers and Joshua trees and hope the driver wouldn’t notice her. How had they found her so quickly?

Panic sat on the back of her tongue, bitter as orange peels. The blinding star took shape. A pick-up. Nevada troopers didn’t drive pick-up trucks. She knew better than to hitchhike, especially on an abandoned highway. Far too dangerous, but the alternative meant certain death. She walked backward, eyes on the blinding windshield, and stuck her thumb up.

The truck whipped past her, kicking up dirt and dust, blasting her in a shower of sand. She wiped her muddy face, shielded her eyes from the sun. The truck slowed and pulled to the shoulder. The driver didn’t pull completely off the road. He left two tires on the highway for traction. He’d driven in the desert before, probably his whole life, judging by the state of his old beater of a pick-up.

She quickened her steps, tossed her suitcase in the back, and climbed in the passenger side. The radio played jazz and the cab smelled like pine. The sun had turned the dash into elephant skin, gray and cracked. The man behind the wheel was tall and lanky, and wore his dark hair disheveled. He needed a shave and some aftershave. His arms looked thick, but if she could handle Jason, she could handle the driver.

She’d left the gun in the suitcase. If he had one here in the cab, it could spell trouble. Still, she knew a thing or two about self-defense.

“Appreciate the lift. Sun’s killer today.”

She closed the door quickly and cracked the window.

The truck pulled slowly back onto the highway and accelerated. “Couldn’t just leave you out there.”

Aida flipped her visor down, dusted the dirt from her jeans, kicked off her shoes. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Make yourself at home. Where you headed?”

“How far you going?”

“Hailey.”

She laughed. “No kidding? Hailey?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

“Used to live there a lifetime ago.”

The driver grinned. “What’re the chances?”

When she’d run from Jason, she knew she had to run back to Hailey, something she’d never imagined she’d do. She had no other options. She’d never told Jason that she lived in Hailey. Too embarrassed. He hadn’t heard of it, and probably never would. Strangely, the town she’d felt trapped in so many years ago turned into an oasis, a shimmering shelter for hope.

“Must have done something right to get out of town.”

He looked from the road to her, then back to the road. His glances toward her lingered longer with each pass.

Aida shifted in her seat and kept her head down. She hoped he wouldn’t notice her neck. “You still trying to get out?”

The man smiled and draped his left arm out his window. “Not me. I’m what they call a lifer.”

The word punched her hard. Even if she wanted to respond, the air had been knocked out of her.

“You have family there still?”

* * *

From birth to fifteen, Aida lived with her family in the Cluster, a grouping of homes built near the cement plant. Aside from a few along 29, they were the only permanent houses in Hailey. Living there said something about a person. It spoke of a commitment to Hailey, rather than an obligatory stay. The people who lived there were “lifers,” those who saw something special in Hailey, the ones who planned to stay and try to improve the town rather than simply getting by long enough to execute an exit strategy.

The marriages in Hailey mirrored the homes which housed them. Mobile homes meant someone in the marriage would move out. Run down homes meant a marriage in disarray, held together by the thinnest of walls, decorated by peeling paint.

Aida’s family lived in the nicest home in Hailey, one of the few permanent homes with a strong foundation. They’d dressed the windows with custom lavender curtains. Her father, Nelson, primed and painted the aging stucco and weathered trim. He put in new carpet and tile. They didn’t have much money, but the little they had went to the home and to the family.

He’d set aside the second Saturday in March to replace all the bathroom fixtures. He’d asked Nadine to take the car and run into Newland to pick up some more rubber cement and Teflon tape. Eager to get out of town, Aida volunteered to go with her.

The errand took less than two hours, but when they returned, their house had been destroyed. Police cruisers and ambulances lined the roads back to the Cluster. Aida’s heart cramped. Her lungs shriveled. “What happened?”

Nadine parked the car on the side of 29. She held Aida’s hand while they walked toward the Cluster. Diseased trees lay uprooted. Blistering flames consumed dead crumpled homes like tinder. Power lines snapped like biscotti, and the lines sparked and leapt like fireworks. Cops and paramedics raced around—faceless, chattering uniforms. Helicopters circled like vultures.

“Oh God,” Nadine whispered.

Breath left Aida. Her legs wobbled, and she clung to Nadine’s hand for strength.

The devastating damage filled her mind with the imagined sounds of a shrill train whistle, squealing breaks, thunder claps, sparking metal, and houses crushed under the sheer weight and momentum of the train. “Dad?”

“Mom was home, too,” Nadine said.

Aida’s stomach knotted, her knees slacked, and she slipped backward into a puddle of mud. Nadine kneeled next to her and hugged her. Nadine’s body shook, almost convulsed. Aida wanted to throw up, wanted to cry, but couldn’t.

This wasn’t real—this was a movie, an elaborate set-up.

She wiped the rain from her face with a muddy sleeve.

“Hey,” someone said behind them. A chattering uniform. A kid about Nadine’s age. His badge identified him as Deputy Harrison. “You hurt?”

“Our parents,” Nadine said.

“What happened?” Aida could barely speak.

The officer took her hand, helped her to stand. “Come sit down,” he said. He walked them to his cruiser and opened the doors. Nadine sat in the passenger seat, Aida in the back. “How old are you?”

Nadine cleared her throat. “Eighteen. She’s fifteen.”

The deputy nodded. He knelt, one hand on his gun. “There was a car on the tracks. The rails were slick.”

Nadine looked startled. “A car?”

“Big one. Suburban. Looks like a suicide attempt gone wrong. Best we can tell, no one was in the car.”

Hot anger erupted in Aida. She blinked back tears. Someone decided to kill himself, endangeredall these people, and then chickened out? Because he didn’t want to live, he decided everyone else should die, too? She swallowed hard and eyed the deputy’s gun.

“If I ever find him,” she whispered, “I won’t chicken out.”

* * *

Aida leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. Her neck itched. Sunburned. “No family in Hailey. Sister broke out years ago.”

The driver slipped a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and exhaled out the window. “Make it sound like a prison.”

“If it walks like a con.”

He laughed, took another drag. “Smoke bothering you?”

She shook her head.

“How about your parents? They still incarcerated?”

“They,” Aida said softly, “were lifers.” She punctuated the last word with finality.

The driver understood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” He stuck his arm out the window, exhaled again. In some weird way, they drove through the desert to get to another desert. Hailey wasn’t a destination. It was a layover. That’s all it could be.

“My folks are gone, too. Heart attack got my dad, diabetes got my mom. My brother’s in Hailey still, but we don’t talk much.”

“So why do you stay?”

The truck cruised along near fifty-five.

Aida wanted to reach her leg over and push the gas down herself, but she couldn’t have him driving recklessly. She needed to fly low, avoid attention, hope no one else decided to take the old highway today.

The driver flicked ash from his cigarette. “Where else would I go?”

Aida wondered why the cab didn’t smell more like cheap cigarettes. “Anywhere.”

“See, there’s a fundamental difference in the way we see Hailey. You look at it and see something irreparable, am I right? Something you can’t fix no matter how hard you try.”

“That’s what it is.”

The driver inspected his half-smoked cigarette, as if the flavor surprised him. He spat out the window and wrinkled his lips. “I see potential. I see people struggling to make something of themselves. What could they accomplish if they really tried? How far will they go? I like that. There’s a hope in that town, desperate as it is. Tomorrow, they think, will be better. No matter what, there’s that optimism.”

Aida remembered burning trees, overturned train cars. She crossed her legs and wondered how long this drive would take. “Tomorrow will be better because it can’t be worse than today. What you call optimism comes from this idea that they’re as low as they’ve ever been, as low as they’ll ever be. I don’t see that as hope. Maybe desperation. Think about it. How many make it out of Hailey?”

“Counting you and your sister? I think two.”

“My point exactly.” She felt his eyes on her. She followed his gaze down to her left hand.

“How about your husband?”

Aida rolled her eyes and slipped her wedding band off. Why hadn’t she done that earlier? Should have been the first thing she did when she ran out. She wanted to throw the thing out the window, but she might need to sell it to get a little living money. “Not exactly a happily ever after ending.”

He frowned. “Sorry. Have a way of putting my foot in my mouth.” His eyes shifted back to the road. The radio crackled, and he clicked it off. “Won’t get any stations ‘till we’re closer to Eve’s Horn.”

Aida nodded. “I know.” Movement in the side mirror caught her attention—a car, black and white and scary all over. Red and blue lights sat on top like upside-down party cups. She choked on her tongue and slunk down in her seat.

“You all right?”

“Keep driving.”

A droning whine split the still desert air as the police car’s lights flicked on.

He took his hands from the wheel and checked his speedometer. “Fifty-five exactly. Do I have a taillight out or something?”

He slowed and pulled to the shoulder. Aida could not breathe. Train whistles rattled in the cave of her mind, echoing like bat screeches.

“Okay, you have to trust me on this. Don’t stop. Go fast, go now.”

“What? Why?”

“Please don’t stop.”

The driver stopped and the truck lurched.

Aida unlocked her door. She scanned the desert, looking for anything she could run to, anywhere she could hide. Could she get to her gun fast enough? And then what? Shoot another cop? How far would she have to run then? And what if she missed?

The driver grabbed her wrist. “Settle down. You’re acting like you killed a cop.”

Tears burned her eyes. Train whistles rattled in her head. She took a deep breath. “He was breathing when I left.”

* * *

Aida had seen meth enough times growing up in Hailey to recognize it when she found the baggie in Jason’s lockbox. Her initial disappointment waned when she realized how much he had. A kilo or more, easy; he either had a very bad habit, or he was selling.

The front door opened, and Aida stashed a bag in her pocket. She walked to the living room, her jaw set tight.

Jason dropped his badge on the end table next to his keys. “Hey babe. Good day?”

She tossed the bag next to his badge. “Nope.”

He picked it up, closed his eyes and slipped it into the pocket of his uniform. “How much did you find?”

“A few kilos.”

He sighed. “I thought about telling you, but I knew you’d give me grief.” He moved to the kitchen and opened a beer from the fridge. “Don’t freak out about it, okay? I’m not using it.”

She shook her head. “I know. That’s the problem. If I’d married an addict, that’d be one thing. But you’re selling it, aren’t you?”

He sipped the beer, drummed his fingers on the counter. “For now, okay? I’ll stop once we get on our feet. Unless you like living in a mobile home in the middle of the desert. I had my eye on a place in Vegas. Couple miles off the strip. Nice area. Good neighbors. You’ve been on me to get us into a better house since we got married, and now you want to judge me?” His voice took on a scary edge.

“I’m not judging you.” She tried to sound sympathetic instead of accusatory. Jason could be mean, especially after a few beers. And if he was using meth, he might turn violent.

He scoffed. “I’m not even in the door for a minute and you’re throwing my mistakes in my face.”

“I’m worried, Jason. If they find out, you’ll lose your badge. Then where will that leave us? I’m sorry I pushed you so far for a new house, but I’d rather have you here with me than to have a nice place in Vegas and you in prison.”

“They’re not going to find out,” he whispered. He drained the dregs of the beer and crushed the can. He breathed slowly while his face reddened. “Unless you tell.”

Aida took a step back. “I’m not going to tell.”

“Bull!” The vein over Jason’s left eyebrow throbbed and pulsed. He wasn’t angry. He passed angry seventy million miles ago. He cursed at her, hands fisted into hammers, and moved across the cluttered living room with heavy steps.

“You want to ruin me? Ruin my life?”

Aida backed up until she was pinned between him and the wall. “You’re using it, aren’t you?” Ice crusted her heart. “You’re high right now.”

“Swear to me.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his face crimson. “Drop it. Never speak of it again.”

Fear froze her chest. She thought of train derailments, of boxcars speeding down wet tracks, wheels squealing and slipping, punching into a pulsating, vibrating anxiety of fight-or-flight.

In the five years she’d known him, she’d never seen him like this. He’d turned into something other than Jason, other than her husband, other than a Nevada state trooper. He’d morphed into something evil and terrifying.

She tried to keep her voice calm and sensible, but fear and anger won her over. “You’re a cop, not a dealer.”

“Don’t test me.” Each word was accentuated with punch and punctuation. “I will end you.”

Aida couldn’t stop herself. “Who else? Mark in on this, too? The entire force?”

Her feet left the floor, and her husband’s grip clenched around her throat like the bite of a German Shepherd. His fat fingers clamped her trachea and separated her from air. His other hand pulled back in a fist.

This is how it ends, she thought.

Somewhere from beyond the grave, she heard the voice of her father. He understood how dangerous Hailey could be, and took care to prepare his daughters for the danger.

Eyes first and don’t stop.

She smashed her hands into Jason’s face. Her ferocity startled her. She thrust her thumbs into his eyes and felt them resist and then give way. Her thumbs slipped into the sockets as her husband’s tormented howl shook the walls of the small mobile home. He spewed curses, released his grip and brought both hands to his eyes.

Don’t stop. Drop them and make sure they can’t chase you. Whatever it takes. Don’t stop until you know they’re not getting up.

Jason kept his gun in the room down the hall. She’d have to fish it out of the dresser before he caught her. She needed insurance; she needed time.

Jason pulled his hands from his bloody eyes. He cursed between screams and lurched toward her.

Aida steadied herself, planted her left foot, and brought her right one straight between Jason’s legs. He screeched and dropped to his knees.

Don’t stop.

She kicked him again, this time in his face. His face crunched, and her foot stung like she’d kicked a rock. In a flash, he was up again, limping toward her, blood running faucet-like from his nose and eyes, his teeth rimmed with red.

Don’t stop.

She had no doubts now that he’d been taking meth. This kind of damage would stop any man cold, but still he staggered toward her, incensed.

Another good kick should slow him down enough for her to make it to the gun. But he’d collected himself, and Nevada had spent a lot of money to teach him how to subdue people who fought back.

Aida had no training, only cunning. She offered a silent, pleading prayer, closed her eyes, and kicked.

Jason grabbed her ankle and pulled her foot out from under her. She kicked her leg, but Jason had a solid grip. He yanked her close to him and drew back his fist.

She kicked again, this time with her left foot. His punch glanced off her knee. The force deflected her attack from his face to his throat.

He recoiled and clutched his neck, gasping raspy inhales. She kicked again and again until he fell backward. Free, she got up and raced to the bedroom. His livid cursing and heavy footfalls flashed down the hall after her. She fumbled to open the drawer, and pulled out shirt after shirt until at last she grabbed the heavy, black gun.

He stumbled through the door. His eyes locked on the gun, and he smiled. “It’s not loaded.”

He lunged.

Aida pulled the trigger.

The recoil knocked her back.

* * *

The officer walked toward the window of the pick-up.

The driver stared at Aida. “You shot him?”

“In his knee. Please, you have to go now.”

The officer knocked on the window.

The driver rolled it down. “Afternoon. Didn’t think I was speeding.”

The officer looked at Aida. “Make a habit of picking up hitchhikers, Mr. Becker?”

“Hitchhikers? This is my cousin.”

The officer knelt in the dirt, took off his 80s styled mirrored aviator’s glasses and stared in at Aida. “How’s tricks, Aiddie?”

Aida sighed. “Hi, Mark.” Of all the cops to find her, it would have to be Jason’s best friend.

“Nice haircut.”

She rolled her eyes. She wanted to run, but she had exactly zero chance of outrunning Mark.

He tilted his head awkwardly. “Looks like you got some nasty bruising around your neck there. Any idea how that happened?”

“Mouth gets me in trouble sometimes.”

The officer smiled. “Jason’s got a different story.” He paused, perhaps expecting a response from Aida, but she kept quiet, kept her eyes forward. “Looks like he got tangled up with some bad company. Know anything about it?”

She took a breath. Mark would have his belt recorder on, so anything she said would likely be used in court after her arrest. Telling the truth, of how she’d assaulted and shot a cop, didn’t seem like a wise choice, even if she only did it to protect herself. “Out to visit family. Been gone all morning.”

Mark nodded toward the driver. “Like your cousin here?”

“Yeah.”

“Your car’s parked near Henderson Mall. How’d you make it all the way out here? Wouldn’t have anything to do with that stolen Subaru down the road, would it?”

The driver spoke in a soft voice. “I picked her up. Met her at the mall. Been planning a bit of a get-together for a few weeks now.”

“I’m curious.” Mark stood up and put his hand on his holster. “What family you visiting? Parents are dead, and last I checked, Nadine was out in Colorado. Looks to me like you’re headin’ the wrong direction.”

“Extended family reunion. San Diego. Nadine’s meeting us down there.”

The driver sounded nonchalant as he answered, as if he didn’t understand the seriousness of the situation. If things went bad, if Mark decided to protect his reputation and Jason’s, the driver could be charged on aiding and abetting.

“On my mom’s side,” Aida offered.

With a nod toward the driver, Mark said, “How much does your cousin know?” His finger tapped his pistol.

Aida’s heart shriveled. This wouldn’t end well.

“About what?” The driver looked at Aida quizzically. She wished she could award him an Oscar.

Mark slipped his glasses back on, his mouth straight. He flipped something on his belt—probably turning the recorder off. “I’m going to do you a favor, Aida. You’re going to do one for me, too. You weren’t supposed to be in this. I told Jason to be more careful, so I blame him as much as I blame you. But I always had a soft spot for you, you know that? So I’m going to tell him I haven’t seen you, and you’re going to keep on driving with your cousin. You can’t come back. Not to Henderson, Vegas, or anywhere in Nevada for that matter. If you do, I can’t say you’d be safe. And you can’t talk. If you do, Jason’ll be breathing down your neck again.”

“If it were just breathing, I could take it.”

With a stern look at the driver, Mark said to Aida, “Make sure you’re meeting your family. Pretty sure you wouldn’t want to meet Mr. Becker’s.”

All at once, revelation washed over her. Becker was an infamous name in Hailey, associated with darkness and fear, loathing and hate. It seldom came up in conversation, and when it did, it became a whispered warning, a presage of evil.

Mark grinned again. “Looks like you’ve got some talking to do. Best of luck with the reunion.”

He patted the door of the pick-up and walked back to his cruiser.

Chapter 13

Saturday, September 5th

At some point after thirty-something hours without sleep, time ceases to be measured in conventional ways. Aida’s story, for example, lasted precisely three cups of mean, caffeine-filled African coffee.

“I think, in a way, Mark let me go because he knew about Greg, and assumed that violence ran in the family. Probably thought he’d end up killing me or raping me or worse. When I heard the name Becker, I was terrified. Thought he was Greg and just about jumped out of the car into Mark’s arms.”

I leaned my head back, and my eyes slipped shut. “Out of the frying pan, so to speak?”

“Didn’t turn out that way.”

She snapped her fingers, and I started awake.

She had leaned back, even crossed her legs. Her body language suggested ease. “Don’t fall asleep on me now. I’m almost done.”

Sluggish, my mind tried to put the pieces together, tried to see the pattern. All these people who seemed good had some dark secret. Mason stole his parents’ car at one time and got his teenage girlfriend pregnant, which eventually led to her suicide. His brother beat a man to death with a baseball bat. Aida shot a cop in the knee and stole a car. It begged the question: is this the best Hailey has to offer? I wanted another cup of coffee, but my sour stomach said I’d had enough. I liked my coffee strong, but the acidity ate at the lining of my stomach. I started feeling nauseous and wondered how far off an ulcer was. Then, my mind drifted back to Nadine, sleeping peacefully, presumably, in the next room.

Weary, I thought of giving in, of crawling into bed next to her and napping until the sun no longer rose. Still, if I didn’t finish these articles, it might not, at least not for those in Hailey.

“She’ll be fine, Connor.”

“Will she?”

“She pulled through this morning, didn’t she? She’s a trooper, a fighter. Runs in the family.”

“I imagine it does.”

By now the cool of the morning evaporated with the wispy clouds. The sun shone in full force, streaming through the windows and elevating the temperature to uncomfortable levels. Aida flipped on a swamp cooler near the couch.

“Mason mentioned something about salvation.”

She nodded. “Thought he might. Guess that’s the point of all this really.”

“Salvation? For me? Is that what this is?”

Aida shook her head again. “Relax, Connor. Not everything’s an elaborate government conspiracy. I was thinking more about the salvation of the town.”

“So that’s what he meant? Getting a little Jesus in Hailey?”

Aida stretched. “Take it easy. You’re over tired and getting a little hostile. I mean we have to find the good that’s already here in this town.”

My mind moved like mud. “How’s your salvation play into that?”

I set my empty mug on the coffee table, making sure to put it on a coaster.

“It goes back to when I was a kid. Mom and Dad were saved. All Christian, all the time. Next thing I know, bam. They’re gone, and I’m left with Nadine in the middle of Hailey with no real escape. I wasn’t a Christian then. I was angry at God for taking Mom and Dad. I’d made up my mind if I ever found the guy who parked his SUV on the tracks, that he’d meet the same fate as my folks. I was going to kill him. I mean really kill him.

“No one has made me madder, not even when Jason was attacking me. It’s one thing when someone’s hitting you, but when they hit your family, that’s something else. That’s how I felt. I was going to kill him. Even today, if I ever found him …” She broke off suddenly.

I thought of Nadine and God. Was God hitting Nadine? Was that why I was so mad?

“That’s my battle now. Learning to forgive. I’ve forgiven Jason. Forgave him just before he died, oddly enough.”

“Wait. Jason died?”

“Few days before you and Nadine drove into town.”

“How?”

“How else? Deal gone sour. Paper said he was ‘undercover’ but Mark told me otherwise. Mark, he got out of it a few years ago. Had to move out of state. Lives in Oregon, now. Jason never could pull himself out. Don’t think he wanted to.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I’ve made my peace with it.”

We were getting off-track. I rubbed my eyes. I wanted to finish up, grab a quick nap, and then get to writing so I could sleep for something more than an hour. “So. Salvation?”

“Right. I wasn’t a Christian when I married Jason. Nadine knew he was bad news and hounded me for years about getting Jesus in my life. Made me go to church, so I was exposed to it, but just never let it sink in. Then, when Jason hit me, choked me, I prayed, and, this was weird, I thanked God.”

She spoke of the brutality with such nonchalance she could’ve been talking about yesterday’s sports scores.

“I thanked Him for everything. My sister, the time with my parents, my friends, all that. And I heard this voice. It kept saying, ‘Don’t stop.’ Next thing you know, I’m in the bedroom, Jason’s lunging at me, I pull the trigger, my eyes half-open. I’m pretty sure I was aiming for his head. But here’s the kicker; Jason never kept the gun loaded. He laughed when he saw me holding it because he knew it wasn’t loaded.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I don’t know where the bullet came from, or how it got in the gun.”

“Jason must have left one in the chamber.”

She shook her head. “He’s a cop, and he’s careful. I don’t know how long he was dealing before I found out, but he’d learned to cover his tracks. I found out by accident. His nephews would come over sometimes, and we’d watch them. He kept the ammo separate so there’d never be an accident.”

I rubbed my temples and sighed. “If he never kept the gun loaded, why’d you run for it? Voice or no voice, seems like a risky move.”

She stood and yawned. She kept her voice low with an eye to Nadine’s room. “When I was seven, a man broke into our house, into my room. I’m talking stepped right on my pillow, big black boot all caked in mud. I freaked out. Next thing I know, my dad’s in the room and has the man by the throat. He yells at me, ‘Go, don’t stop.’ And I run out and hear him yelling to Mom, ‘Get the gun!’”

“So it was your father’s voice you heard?”

“They were his words at least, but I’m not so naive as to think it was really him. I think God used that situation to help prepare me for the one with Jason. The more I think about it, the more it seems like the hand of God. No other way things could have played out the way they did.”

I stood up, dropped my notepad on the coffee table and began pacing. “That’s when you accepted Jesus then?”

“No, that part came later.” Aida leaned against the wall, arms folded. Her face seemed smug, as if she were challenging my disbelief. “Mason helped me with that. Took me back to church.”

“At church then?”

My frustration was mounting. Why was this even important to the article? Why was her account of salvation so important it needed to be recorded? Mason didn’t make me document the salvation experiences of him or of his brother. Why Aida?

“I called Nadine up a few weeks after everything happened with Jason. I’d been getting closer to Mason that whole time, closer to God, but it didn’t seem right to me. If I was going to give my life to Christ, I had to tell Nadine. I wanted her to be the one, you know, to pray with me. She’d done so much for me. I thought it would be best.”

“I remember that call.”

“You do?”

“I remember because we were supposed to go night skiing, Nadine and me. Had our lift passes ready, car was packed, then you called.”

“You must have been furious.”

“Yeah, at first, but Nadine came out of the room after you guys talked, what, for an hour?”

“Probably.”

“She came out of the office, and her cheeks were wet and her face all flushed. I could tell she’d been crying, but she was smiling.” My head felt like it fell asleep, all pins and needles and a fast throbbing. My mouth dried, and my words came with great effort. “I asked her what was wrong, and you know what she said? ‘You wouldn’t understand.’ That’s all I got out of her.”

I sat down for a minute and crossed my arms over my stomach. The acidity of the coffee nauseated me.

“Wow. That sucks.” For a hospice nurse, Aida sure lacked sympathy. “Must’ve hurt to hear her say that.”

“What really hurt was that I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

“Bull.”

“Excuse me?” My voice rose sharply. I reminded myself Nadine slept in the next room. I brought my voice down to a controlled seethe. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Want to know why we butt heads so much? ‘Cause we’re too much alike. Stubborn as all get-out. I don’t buy that you didn’t or that you can’t understand. That’s the same line of bull I handed to Nadine and to my parents for years. I could; I just didn’t want to. Same with you. You get it. You’re way too smart to say you don’t understand. Call a spade a spade, Connor. You don’t want to believe.”

Nadine’s voice came from behind me, “Am I interrupting something?”

I shook my head, stared hard at Aida. “I’ll be in the room writing.”

Aida nodded. “I’ll bring some lunch in.”

Chapter 14

Sunday, September 6th

The sun had hardly split the window when I woke to Mason’s face hovering inches above my own. “Rise and shine.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

My eyes struggled to focus. I fumbled for my glasses. By his breath, I judged his breakfast consisted of coffee heavy on the cream and something with onions.

“Where’s Aida’s story? Can’t wait to read it.”

“On the desk.” I sat up. Nadine must have woken before me. At least she felt well enough to get up and around. “Took me most the night.”

“Nadine says you’re a perfectionist and make everything harder than it should be.”

I nodded. “In a nutshell.”

He picked up the papers I’d printed the previous night and thumbed through them. “I’m going to read this while you’re getting ready.”

I lay back down and covered my eyes with my arm. “What’s so important it can’t wait until eight or nine? I’m working on three hours of sleep here. That’s in the last three days.”

“Church starts at eight. You have to be there to meet your next subject.”

“He better be the Pope to get me up at a quarter after six.”

“Not his fault. Takes a while to drive out there, and I’m guessing you’ll need a good hour to get yourself ready. I’d say you look like death, but that might be understating things.”

He tossed me a bag of disposable razors. “Do something with these.”

“What, my stubble not holy enough for church?”

“Nothing like that. Think Nadine wants to cuddle up with a porcupine?”

“Anything you guys didn’t talk about?”

“It’s her and Aida. I just tag along for the subtle digs at you.”

“Sounds very Christian.” I sat back up and rubbed my eyes. “You want me to get ready, you’re going to have to kill that light. I’m going to need a minute for my body to get working.”

“Fair enough.” He walked out and, still fidgeting with the pages about Aida, turned off the light.

I wondered about his true motives. Was God really on the other side of this, or was this Mason’s way of digging up dirt on his neighbors? Maybe he planned to blackmail them; maybe that’s how he made his money. But how much money can you wrestle out of a third-world desert?

Still, I couldn’t deny Nadine’s improvements when I worked on the articles, and her scary declines when I decided not to. I owed it to her to humor him, even if I didn’t like him.

My body resisted my commands to move. When it finally did, it lurched around in heavy, clumsy steps. I grabbed a clean towel from the shallow linen closet and headed in to clean myself up.

***

The “church” Mason spoke of was a converted one-room schoolhouse. Early on, this building served as the school, post-office, and local church. Both the school and post-office outgrew the structure and eventually built their own. The church, however, never really grew. According to Mason, it declined in membership over the last twenty years.

Aside from a beat-up Nissan from the 80s, the gravel parking lot was empty. I asked Mason what the current membership was.

“Counting me and Aida? Two.”

I shook my head. We walked into the one-room building. Pits and cracks marred the plaster and stucco. Termites had gotten to the wooden eaves. I wondered if the place would stand long enough to make it through the service.

The stiff, wooden pews needed a good sanding. I decided not to complain. Nadine sat next to me. I slipped my arm around her, grateful she felt well enough to make the journey. I still worried about her, and resolved to keep a close eye on her through the service.

Sitting in a church again made me nervous, especially since I didn’t share the faith of the others who came here today—Aida, Mason, and Nadine. Anger still welled up in me when I thought of God, thought of Him striking my wife with cancer, devastating cities with hurricanes and nations with tsunamis.

Now, Mason wanted me to talk to a minister? As if I had any business with clergy. If my luck held, he’d not spend the entire time trying to convert me. I’d once considered faking the prayer to appease Nadine and get Mason off my back, but I couldn’t lie to Nadine.

I pulled my glasses off and rubbed the bridge of my nose. I’d be lucky to stay awake through the service. I checked my watch.

Mason smiled. “Don’t worry, Connor. Church seldom runs more than a half-hour. More of a Bible study really.”

“What, no singing?” Nadine’s voice was hushed and hoarse, but she smiled—something I’d not seen her do much since the cancer. I pulled her a little closer, to let her feel my smooth cheek on hers. The color came back to her face, but her skin remained clammy.

The door in the back of the chapel swung open. A man sauntered in wearing a crisp blue suit and a smile. He carried a black slim-line Bible under his arm, nodded to Mason and Aida, and turned to Nadine and me. Scars lined his face, swollen pink lines marring his left cheek, circling his left eye. “Welcome! Connor and Nadine, right? Mason called this morning. Good to have you here.”

He extended his hand. Nadine shook it and smiled. “Pleasure to be here.”

I followed her lead, shook his hand and smiled.

When he looked at Nadine, his smile sunk. “How are we feeling today?”

“Better today than most.” She pointed to the front of the room. “You have a nice piano.”

He laughed. “It’s a relic. All I can do to keep it in tune from week to week. I hear you play some?”

“The best you’ve heard,” Aida said.

“Do you feel up to playing a tune for us?” The minister pressed his right hand into his left shoulder.

She looked to me, and I grinned. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard you play.”

We stood. She steadied herself on my arm, and we walked to the front. I sat next to her on the bench, my arm around her waist. Her fingers ran over the keys, but she didn’t press them. She wanted to feel their texture, understand the wood from which they’d been fashioned.

“It is old.” Her voice wheezed with the effort of speaking. “85 keys. Real ivory, real ebony.”

She plunked a key. The tone reverberated in the small room, then faded quickly. She pressed another key, then the sustain pedal. The note rang. High C above middle E. “Still in tune.”

The minister moved to the piano to watch. “Just fixed it up this morning.”

Nadine’s fingers moved slowly. I didn’t recognize the tune immediately. I’d expected something jazzy, or something whimsical. She liked those songs. Instead, the sound came out sorrowful, longing apparent in each note.

“Just As I Am,” the minister said. “One of my favorites.”

Nadine smiled. “Aida told me.”

“You are something else.” His smile widened. “What a lucky man you are, Connor.”

My smile fell. I didn’t feel lucky, but decided not to say so. Nadine looked happy for the first time in days. I wouldn’t take that from her. Instead, I said, “Thanks.”

The minister began to sing, and Aida and Mason joined in. I didn’t know the words, so I hummed. It felt good to feel Nadine’s body moving, her arms brushing mine as she stretched across the keyboard, her back swaying, straightening with the rhythm, her foot tapping out the beat.

My heart lightened, and I kissed her forehead. “I love you,” I whispered.

Nadine kept playing. She played Amazing Grace next, and then asked to go back to the pew. The minister and I helped her along.

Once we sat down, the minister walked to the front. He pressed his right hand into his left shoulder again and grimaced, contorting the scarring into a macabre, branchless tree. He set his Bible on a black music stand, and, without moving his eyes from the text, sighed deeply. He’d prepared a weighty message, probably about salvation, how we all needed Jesus. Something directed at me in sentiment but not in print. I prepared myself for a very long half-hour.

Instead, he asked us to turn in our Bibles to Luke, Chapter 8. He’d not prepared a message for me, but for Nadine. Long story short, a woman touches the cloak of Jesus and is instantly healed. Then, Jesus says her faith healed her. He’d meant for the message to be inspirational, to reaffirm her faith, but it shook mine. How easy it would be to touch Jesus’ cloak. And, if it were so easy for Jesus to heal, why didn’t he heal Nadine?

He slapped his Bible closed, and I prepared myself for the inevitable altar call, the “If anyone needs Jesus, let him come forth now!” rally cry I heard in so many other churches. But Pastor Caleb skipped that. He looked to Mason and asked, “Care to close us in prayer?”

Mason nodded, stood, bowed his head and prayed.

After the service, Nadine took the time to thank Pastor Caleb and shake his hand before she asked Aida for a ride home. She’d enjoyed her time in church, but it took all her energy. Her color faded; she held tightly to my hand and put most of her weight on me as I helped her out to the car. I kissed the top of her head, held her firmly around the waist.

“I can do this interview later. I’ll come home with you and get you set up.”

She shook her head. “Aida can do that. You have a job to do.”

We stood next to Aida’s silver Plymouth Breeze. She wrapped her thin arms around me and squeezed with what was left of her strength and whispered in my ear. “My faith is strong. Don’t worry about me. Do your part, and I’ll do mine, and I promise we’ll beat this thing.”

“It was good to hear you play again.”

She kissed my lips. “It felt good.”

I wanted to pull up stakes and drive us back to Colorado, but I remembered what happened last time I’d decided to quit. Rationally, I knew the two couldn’t be related, but the timing couldn’t be denied. Maybe if she told me it was okay to quit, then I’d be off the hook, and we could go back to as normal of a life as her disease would allow.

She hugged me. “I’ll be home when you’re done. I’m a fighter. I’m not going to let this thing win.”

I reminded myself to be careful with her. I wanted to hug her with my whole being, but that might crush her ribs. Instead, I gave her enough of a squeeze to tell her I loved her, cherished her, needed her.

After they left, I returned to the church. Pastor Caleb undid his suit coat and put it over the corner of a pew. He sat behind the piano plunking out a tune I’d not heard since I was in church last. I couldn’t place the name of the song, but remembered the melody. He hummed quietly; if he answered questions as quickly as he preached, I might have a chance of finishing this interview inside of an hour.

“Quite a talent.” I nodded toward the piano.

“Nothing like your wife’s talent, but a man can’t have everything in life, can he?”

I thought of Nadine and me raising children. “No, I guess not.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if you could?”

I smelled a trap. No matter my answer, he’d find a way to bring it around to a talk of salvation.

He continued tapping out the tune and humming. We’d scarcely made eye contact since I came back in. “Mason says you’ve got a few questions for me?”

“I do.” I looked over the list of questions I’d put together on the drive over and tucked them into the pocket of my jeans. Before I got to those, I decided to use the time to get the answers to questions Mason wouldn’t give me. “How well do you know Mason?”

“I’d like to say I know him pretty well, but he can be pretty guarded. He’s a great guy, I can tell you that. One of those people who really cares about everyone else. Selfless. If I could sum him up in a word, it’d be charitable and insightful.”

“That’s two.”

“Exactly.” He tapped on a single key repeatedly, alternating speed and rhythm. Already, the note started to slip out of tune. “Mason’s not a one-word kind of guy.”

I sat on the front pew and crossed my legs. Stretching my arms across the back of the pew, I rolled my head around in circles. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you have any reason to doubt his sanity?”

He groaned, shrugged his left shoulder. “You serious?”

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention I asked, but yes. I’m serious.”

“No reason at all. Why?”

I frowned. “What has Mason told you about this interview?”

“Not much. Like I say, he’s guarded. Doesn’t give up information, and I’ve learned not to ask. He gets withdrawn, even standoffish at times. So I leave well enough alone. He called me this morning and asked me to clear my schedule so you could ask me questions. I told him I could do that.”

“That’s it?”

“He mentioned you could be pretty defensive when it comes to salvation, so he suggested not being pushy about it.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“I’m guessing you were just in church today so you could interview me afterward?”

“Guilty as charged.”

This line of questioning wouldn’t get me far. If he couldn’t give me a glimpse into Mason’s personal life, maybe I could see him from a professional standpoint. “Do you know him outside of church?”

“Met him a few years ago when he came to the last church I pastored. He and Bernie came in and talked to me after service one day, asked if I wanted to come out here to Hailey. From there, it was just a professional relationship, working out compensation and all that.”

My curiosity swelled. “Where was your last church?”

“Just down in Newland.”

I nodded. “Was that your first?”

He shook his head. “Before that, I pastored in Tennessee.”

“How’d you go from Tennessee to Hailey?”

“Long story. I’ll try to keep it short.”

Chapter 15

LEAVING TENNESSEE

At the luggage carriage in LAX’s west terminal, Caleb took Natalie’s biggest suitcase and strapped another over his good shoulder. She had her mother Tamara’s green eyes and the slope of Caleb’s nose. “You have everything? Clothes, CDs, make-up?”

Her eyelids looked bruised, purple and swollen. “Yes. Can we please go?”

She must be exhausted. Thunderstorms in Knoxville delayed them for six hours, and midnight in LA meant three a.m. in Tennessee.

They walked out of the west terminal and toward the weeklong parking lot. “Did you sleep much? On the flight, I mean.”

She shook her head, pushed her hair behind her ear. She’d done that since she was a kid, whenever she was nervous or tired. Of course, that’s when she was still a blonde. Now, her hair was as black as the Los Angeles night sky. “How long has your hair been that color?”

She shrugged.

“Seriously. What, a month? More? Give me something.”

“What’s it matter?”

“Right,” he said. “What was I thinking?” He loaded her luggage in the back of his cobalt Mazda 6.

“Let me get your coat.” He reached for her shoulders.

She shrugged his hands off. “It’s cold.”

“Car warms up quick.”

“I’m fine.”

Was that condemnation in her voice? Like he’d done something wrong, like this whole mess was his fault. But then, maybe it was. “You sound like my wife.” Natalie rolled her eyes and slumped into the passenger seat.

Caleb started the car and let it idle. Natalie closed her eyes. She might sleep the whole way. Would that be so bad? Still, he hated silence, though he’d lived with little else the last fifteen years. “You hungry? I know a great little café that’s open late.”

“I ate on the plane.”

“Peanuts aren’t a meal.”

“It’s enough.”

“You need to eat.” What was she, thirty pounds? Arms like rails, legs like a pair of scissors. Like his when he was young, just before he joined the Army.

“What’d Rebecca say?” Natalie asked. She crossed her legs, opened her eyes and looked at him. For a minute, she looked exactly as Tamara had sixteen years ago—something about the way her lips pushed together. He’d found Tamara’s sorrow subtly seductive, which is exactly what got him in this position to begin with. Now, looking at her daughter—his daughter—he wanted to gather Natalie in his arms, reassure her, reassure himself, maybe both.

“What’d she say? You did tell her, didn’t you?”

Caleb adjusted the mirror, pulled it down, and pushed it just off center so he could see her eyes.

“God, Caleb,” she said. “What are you afraid of?”

* * *

In 1993 in Mogadishu, a truck full of Somali soldiers cut Caleb off from the rest of the 10th Mountain Division. Under heavy fire, he took cover in a nearby alley. The sun burned hot in the sky. His M-16 burned hot in his hands. He knelt, aimed for anything not in fatigues. Between bursts of gunfire, something moved behind him.

The boy couldn’t have been more than ten. He squinted dark eyes. He wore a blue shirt and yellow shorts, but no shoes. He looked just like one of the orphans Caleb played with a few months ago, but this boy was different. Instead of childish innocence, war-hardened malevolence marred his face. He pulled his lips tight, and flared his nostrils.

Caleb’s eyes moved from the boy’s face to his shoulders, shoulders to arms, arms to hands.

He had a grenade, a finger in the pin.

Caleb squeezed the trigger. A sharp pop, then a soft crumple as the boy’s body slumped to the dusty street.

He was afraid when the truck cut him off. He was afraid when he hid in the alley under heavy fire. He learned of a new fear when the boy’s body dropped. What was he, eight? Nine? Hands so tiny, feet so filthy. He bled a purple pool through his blue shirt, darkening a spot in the center of his chest. What was he doing with a grenade, anyway?

Then, he realized the boy had the pin in one hand, the grenade in the other.

The boy’s rasped breath, the last remnants of life, like a confused sigh, slipped past his lips. His hand slacked. No sound but the imagined tick of a lethargic clock. Then, another pop, a distant echo.

* * *

Twenty-three years later, that same feeling sat like a cancer in Caleb’s abdomen.

Natalie sighed. “You really haven’t told her, have you?”

“Look, it’s not that easy. She’s a difficult woman sometimes. Fragile, you know. I can’t just call her up.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you.”

Hundreds of cars crowded the dark freeway. The radio reported a downed motorcycle two exits ahead. He switched the radio off. “It’s not like I haven’t wanted to. What am I supposed to say?”

“What do I care? Say something. You owe me that much.” She shifted in her seat. “Seriously, what are you afraid of?”

What was he afraid of? Of Rebecca? Of the church? His job? Or something deeper, some innate panic that festered until it boiled over like milk on a hot stove. He remembered Rebecca’s car, the telephone pole smashed like a broken toothpick. The helicopter landing in an empty field of overgrown grass in the dead of night. The note left on the kitchen table in Rebecca’s handwriting. “You don’t know her, that’s all.”

* * *

Two years after they were married, Caleb held Rebecca’s hand in the ER. Blood flowed from her at alarming rates. The room smelled like iron. Caleb felt dizzy. He readjusted the wet white rag on her forehead and wished he had one for himself.

“I don’t feel so good,” she said.

He squeezed her hand. “I know.”

“I’m bleeding.”

“I know.”

“More. A lot. Something’s wrong.” She closed her eyes, and her flushed cheeks glistened with tears. She squeezed Caleb’s hand like she was fast-roping.

Caleb looked under the sheet draped over her knees. He’d not seen that much blood since Mogadishu. He stepped into the hall. “Help! My wife’s bleeding!”

A nurse with a boxer’s nose said, “This is the ER. Everyone’s bleeding.”

He wanted to flatten her nose even more. “There’s a ton of blood. She needs help, a doctor, something.”

In the closet of a room, Rebecca cried. The nurse looked in on her. “Sweetheart, the doctor’s on his way, okay? Busy night. Just hang in there.”

Rebecca said, “Please. I’m pregnant.”

The nurse waddled out. Caleb took Rebecca’s hand. Blood soaked through the towel and ran down the foot of the exam table. The little color in her cheeks fled. Her skin looked like skim milk.

It took another hour for a tall man to saunter in. “How far along?” he asked.

Caleb said, “Six weeks.”

The doctor looked at the table and the blood and grimaced. “Doesn’t look good.”

“What do you mean?” Caleb said.

“Looks like a simple miscarriage.”

What about this, Caleb thought, looks simple?

* * *

An hour after their plane landed, Caleb and Natalie pulled into an all-night café in downtown Fontana. He’d put a call in to Rebecca to let her know he’d be getting a hotel instead of trying to make it all the way home. Natalie ordered eggs, over-easy, and bacon. Caleb ordered a Rueben sandwich.

In the booth, Caleb pressed the palm of his right hand into the left side of his chest, just beneath his shoulder. He grimaced. When he opened his eyes again, Natalie stared at him.

“So what’s with your shoulder?”

“Souvenir from Somalia.”

She broke the yoke of her egg and sopped it up with her wheat toast. “Mom said you’re some sort of war hero or something. You got a medal of honor?”

Pain seared his shoulder. When he pressed it, the pain dissipated to a dull burning rather than an intense branding iron behind his lung. At times, he felt something rattling around inside him, but the doctors assured him nothing was left of the grenade.

What did doctors know? “Your mom was fond of telling stories. It’s one thing I loved about her.”

“So no medal?”

Caleb shook his head while he finished a bite of his sandwich. He wiped the corners of his mouth and leaned back. “Not a medal of honor, but I do have a Purple Heart.”

Natalie yawned. “Like for people who get shot?”

“Or blown up with grenades, yeah.”

“Is that what happened to your face?”

The scars, she meant. Caleb was used to the question, just not to the tone it was asked in. She’d had a hard day, a hard week, a hard life. Life without a father wasn’t easy—Caleb knew that. And if he could have done something to keep Natalie from suffering his fate, he’d have done it. But his hands were tied. He couldn’t leave Rebecca—she was his responsibility. Tamara understood the situation, so Natalie should too, right?

“Yeah.” He prayed she wouldn’t ask any more, particularly who pulled the pin.

Natalie put her fork down and folded her hands in her lap. “Do I have any brothers or sisters?

* * *

After the second miscarriage, Rebecca and Caleb went to Doctor Goodwin in Knoxville to see if something was wrong. An aquarium behind the desk teemed with African Cichlids, electric yellow and blue. Must put patients at ease during Goodwin’s meticulous second read-through of medical charts. Rebecca might appreciate it. Nature girl through and through, she loved the snow, lakes, camping trips with friends.

Caleb loved the great indoors—sofas, running water, heavy comforters. He’d had more than a life’s worth of the outdoors in the Army. A fish on a plate was worth two in the tank.

Goodwin had slick hair and an Eddie Haskell grin. He steepled his index fingers and said, “Good news is, it’s probably treatable.”

“What’s treatable?” Caleb asked.

Rebecca looked pale. She took Caleb’s hand and said, “I knew it.”

“Long story short, Rebecca’s body sees the fetus as a virus, so her antibodies attack it.”

She paled even more. “I’m killing my babies?”

Caleb patted her hand. “It’s not like that at all.”

Goodwin said, “We’ll give you an injection with some of Caleb’s white blood cells. It’s fifty-fifty after that.”

“I’m killing my babies?”

* * *

The phone rang at First Baptist Bloomington during Caleb’s weekly counseling session with Tamara. He took his hand out from underneath her shirt and cleared his throat.

Tamara kissed his ear. “Don’t answer.”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “I have to.”

She kissed his lips hard.

He laughed and pushed her back gently. “You’re bad.”

“Only as bad as you.” She bit his earlobe.

He cleared his throat and pulled back from her. “First Baptist Bloomington. This is Pastor Caleb.” He quieted for a minute, then patted Tamara on her bottom. His eyes shot around the room as she got up. He buttoned his shirt. “Where? Okay. I’ll be right there.”

“What’s wrong?” Tamara adjusted her black skirt and her ivory blouse. “You’re pale.”

He grimaced with each button, favoring his right shoulder.

Tamara came over and helped him.

“It’s Rebecca. She’s been in an accident.”

“Is she okay?”

“I don’t know.”

The helicopter touched down in an empty field next to the road where the hood of Rebecca’s car wrapped around a snapped telephone pole. The blades whirred and thumped, punched him like rumbling thunder. In the cold night, he remembered the searing heat of Mogadishu, the spinning of blades, the punching of air like a heartbeat.

Caleb moved toward the car, his knees weak. Luminous clouds blanketed the silver moon.

Frank Jamison, a deacon at First Baptist and the town Sheriff, wore his taupe uniform and a golden badge. He put a hand in Caleb’s chest, and pushed him back a few feet. “You don’t want to look too close, Reverend.”

Caleb didn’t resist. He let Frank walk him backward, his feet shuffling in the soft sand. “Rebecca?”

“They’re airlifting her to Knoxville. Better trauma center. She’s pretty bad off, Reverend. Wasn’t buckled up.”

Caleb stopped walking backward and stared at Frank like a curious puppy. “How bad off?”

* * *

When Caleb and Natalie pulled into the hotel, she said, “I want a lip ring. You’re cool with that, right? Mom was cool with it before … you know.”

Somehow, Caleb doubted Tamara would have approved a lip ring, even on her death bed. But he didn’t want to bring that up now. It’d be the worst thing he could say. Instead, he said, “I know.”

He opened the door to their room and followed her in. He, undoubtedly, wasn’t cool with a lip ring. “Why mess with perfection?” He smiled.

She rolled her eyes. “What a line.”

He put their suitcases down and searched the table between the two beds for the remote.

“How about we take a week or so before we talk lip rings? Rebecca may have something to say about it.”

“She’s not my mom. Don’t make it like she is.”

Now Caleb rolled his eyes. He found the remote, but left it alone. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“What are you saying?”

“Look, this isn’t easy for me either, you know.”

“Easier for you than for me.”

She was right. Between the two, he had the easier job—swallow his pride, admit his sin, ask for forgiveness. Natalie had learned to live without her father in her life, and now she must learn to live with her father, and without her mother.

“Before you meet Rebecca, there’s something you should know.”

Natalie lay down on the other bed. She put her hands behind her head and crossed her ankles. She closed her eyes. “She’s a man?”

“What? No. Natalie—”

“I was joking, Dad.”

Caleb wanted to say something, but breath left his lungs. She’d not called him “Dad” before. Couldn’t blame her. He’d never been a dad to her, but he would do the best he could now. When he could breathe again, he said, “I know. I get it. It’s tough.”

“We’ve been through this. What’s so bad?”

Caleb rolled his sleeves up and put his elbows on his knees. His shoulder ached, and he wanted to roll over and sleep. But this was important. This was family.

“It wasn’t that we didn’t try to have kids.” He felt like he was beginning in the middle of a very long and complex story. It was like summarizing the Old Testament, but starting in Proverbs.

“We tried hard, but it didn’t happen,” Caleb said, “Five miscarriages before we gave up.”

“My God.” Natalie rolled over on her side and propped her head up.

“That changes a woman. She used to be very attentive, supportive. Simple things, you know? She’d have these elaborate meals ready for me after I got home from the church.”

He slipped his loafers off, lay back on the bed, crossed his ankles. He wiggled his toes. Cold air stabbed through his argyle socks.

“She’d surprise me at work often, a little something special for lunch wrapped up in a white box. We’d eat together and talk. Now, I can’t remember the last meal we ate together. More like roommates than spouses.”

“Sorry.” Natalie sat up and pulled her feet into her lap. “She doesn’t sound all that bad.” Natalie’s voice softened. Her accent rolled off her tongue. She sounded exactly like Tamara. “Is that why you and Mom, you know?”

“One of the reasons. And believe you me, there were days where I wanted to pack up and call a good lawyer.”

“Why didn’t you? The church?”

“No. I could probably find another job.”

“Then why?”

Caleb thought he’d rather let Natalie get her lip pierced than tell her the rest, but he owed her. He owed her a lot. He took a deep breath and felt his back pop between his shoulders. A ripple of pain waved through him.

“About a week before I heard Tamara was pregnant with you, Rebecca was in a pretty bad accident. She’d crashed into a telephone pole and didn’t bother buckling up.”

Natalie covered her mouth with her hand. She wore the same crimson polish Tamara used to wear.

“When I went home that night, I found a note on the kitchen table. I thought for sure Rebecca had found out about me and your mom, but it wasn’t that. The note said, ‘I’m sorry Caleb. For the babies. For our whole miserable existence.’”

Caleb took a deep breath. “She had more surgeries than me, but had better doctors. Only has one long scar, forehead down her nose and over to her cheek. That’s why I never left. She’s my responsibility.”

“But isn’t love more than an obligation?”

“It should be.”

* * *

They pulled into Caleb’s garage at ten the next morning. Caleb told Natalie to leave the luggage for later and follow him in. Inside, Rebecca folded laundry on the couch in the living room. She paid little attention to the muted TV. She looked up, white panties in hand. “Hi,” she said, her eyes fixed on Natalie. “How was your trip?”

“Good. Everything went well.”

Rebecca’s eyes, the color of beach sand, narrowed and accented the creases at the corners. Her scar, now just a whitish-pink line, dribbled down her forehead to her left cheek. Her other scars, pale lines like veins, circled her forearms up to her elbows.

“Who’s your friend?”

Caleb turned to Natalie. “Your room is upstairs, first door on the right.”

“Yes, sir.” She raced up the stairs.

“Come sit down.” He motioned to the couch not covered in neat piles of clothes.

“I’d rather fold.”

“Fine, okay.” He crossed his arms. He didn’t want to tell her this way. He didn’t want to tell her at all. But, since he couldn’t avoid it any longer, he reasoned it’d be better to tell her in person, to keep her from going for a drive.

A flash of indignation erupted within him. She hoarded the sorrow. With her sulking, he never had time to hurt, could never share his pain with her, or anyone other than Tamara. The miscarriages had killed something in him, too, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

The white walls of his home, in the dim light and the soft glow of the television, felt like the hospital so many years ago. He prayed for the words, the right words, to disarm the situation.

“You remember Tamara?”

Rebecca nodded.

Of course. Stupid question. He’d flown back to Tennessee to perform her funeral. “I never told you. She had a daughter. We had a daughter. This is her. This is Natalie.”

“You and Tamara?” She folded one of Caleb’s old T-shirts and put it in the pile nearest the arm of the couch. Her eyes cut to the television as if something interesting had caught her attention. She sounded disinterested, a little confused.

He nodded.

“Is she staying with us?”

“Yes. She’s my daughter, and I thought, since she has no family, she could stay with us.”

She shouldn’t take this so easily. Her eyebrows slouched toward her nose. She scrunched her eyes from time to time, quiet for a minute as she folded holey underwear and matched dingy socks.

“Say something.”

“I think I’ll make lunch,” she said.

He wouldn’t let her avoid the issue. She had to face it no matter how much it hurt. No more running. “It’s too early for lunch.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. Have you eaten?”

“We drove through in Victorville.”

“I had leftovers.” She folded three more shirts, a pair of jeans.

Caleb shook his head. Like reasoning with cardboard. She should yell or scream, maybe throw something at him. This dispassionate response irritated him more deeply than a deep dive into depression. Any reaction would be better than none.

“All right. We’ll talk about it later. I’m getting her things and setting up the guest room.”

“I’ll just stay here and fold laundry then.”

* * *

That night, after Natalie unpacked, and after the three had gone out to a very quiet dinner, Caleb lay down next to his wife. He washed three ibuprofen down with a glass of water and lemon and pulled his legs onto the bed.

“Good night.” He didn’t kiss Rebecca, as he normally did. Something told him it’d be a bad idea.

Since Caleb told Rebecca about Tamara and about Natalie, she’d said very little. Caleb and Natalie carried the conversation at dinner. Natalie would ask her a question, and Rebecca would stare off somewhere beyond the table, through a window maybe, at a life she’d once had, a life she dreamed of having again. Caleb gave her plenty of time to answer, but after a few minutes of awkward silences, he’d offer the answer on Rebecca’s behalf.

She surprised him by speaking as he rolled over. “Did you love her?”He sighed. Of course she’d choose the minutes before sleep to ask questions. Fatigue from the trip and funeral and the exhaustion of confession wearied Caleb beyond his limits. He blinked away the dark hands in the corner of his vision, one with a grenade, one with a pin.

“You talking now?”

“Did you love her?”

A lethargic clock ticked in his head. Her question took the shape of a grenade. “Tamara?”

“Of course Tamara.”

He rolled onto his back. Pain surged through his shoulder. His back ached.

“I won’t get mad or anything. I just want to know.”

He doubted that, but answered truthfully anyway, maybe to keep from hurting her, or maybe to dig at her for the lost happiness of the past fifteen years. “I loved her, yes.”

“Why?”

Caleb wanted sleep. The conversation needed to happen in the morning after he’d had his coffee. But if she wanted to talk, after fifteen years of silence, he’d let her. “I guess, bad as it sounds, she reminded me of you.”

Rebecca blinked. “Me?”

“Before we started having trouble. Before ...”

“I know.” Her finger traced her scar, from her forehead, between her eyes, down to her left cheek. “We were happy once. Do you ever miss it?”

“Like crazy.” On a whim, he took her hand in his. They’d not held hands since the fifth miscarriage. She didn’t pull away. Her hand was cold, limp. “So what happens now?”

“Whatever it takes.”

He kissed her forehead. She smelled of apple blossoms. She’d not worn perfume for years. He ran his fingers through her thick tangle of blond hair.

* * *

That night, as Caleb fell asleep, he found himself in Mogadishu again. The truck of soldiers rolled in front of him. He dove down the dusty alley, gun snug against his shoulder. He squeezed off round after round until he emptied his clip. He reloaded, heard something behind him, spun around, saw the child.

The boy didn’t smile. Blood already purpled his shirt. He held the grenade in one hand, the pin in the other. Caleb sweated under his fatigues, under his body armor snug against his chest and abdomen. He trained his gun on the dead boy. His weapon rang in a quick spurt of fire.

A twist of pain, of grief and surprise, stretched the boy’s face and tightened his skin.

Caleb’s hands shook. Dust clung to his sweaty skin.

Then, Rebecca came through a door further down the alley.

She walked slowly, backlit by the noonday sun. He recognized the soft curves of her hips, of her breasts, swollen like a nursing mother’s under her translucent blue nightgown. She knelt next to the boy, took the grenade, and swallowed it.

Her belly swelled. In a few minutes, the grenade exploded through her stomach with a muffled pop. The force punched Caleb backward, and he collapsed. A baby fell from within Rebecca, small, wrinkled, bloody. She sat down, held the child—a little girl. “We will name this baby Tennessee.”

Caleb sat up. He didn’t want to tell her the baby was dead. He put one hand on her shoulder, the other over the gaping wound in her stomach. Blood splattered his vision, ran down his face.

A trickle of red ran down her nose to her cheek. Crimson lines crawled up from her fingers to her elbows. They shone red like lava. “Her very beauty is in her sorrow,” she said. “Rejoice in her sadness, in things hoped for and never realized. She will be a reminder of our potential happiness.” Her voice buzzed, two parts radio static, one part bee.

She handed the baby to Caleb.

He took it in his arms, a bundle of slick skin and bloodied bones. It weighed no more than six pounds. Wrinkled eyes, toothless mouth agape. His heart broke. His chest burned, and then his shoulder.

* * *

When he woke up, Rebecca’s head pressed into his bad shoulder. It hurt, but he didn’t dare move her, didn’t dare push her away. She’d not done anything like this since the final miscarriage. He felt like a stranger had her hand on his chest.

Slowly, he reached for her stomach, for the part of her that gaped with blood and flesh minutes earlier in his dream.

“Don’t touch me.” She pushed his hand away, then kissed him.

“What do you mean? Rebecca ...”

“Shut up.”

He lay still as she kissed him, afraid to move, to breathe.

Her lips moved over his lips, cheeks, neck. She brought them to his ear. “I hate you.” Her voice was soft and uneven. She rolled on top of him, let her weight push into him. She wrapped her arms around him and cried.

Caleb didn’t know what to do. He kept his hands on the bed, afraid to reach for her again.

She slowed her breathing and stared at him. She leaned in, put her nose on his. Her hair fell around his face. “I really hate you.”

She kissed him with suspicion, like two teens stealing their first kiss at a wedding neither wanted to attend.

Chapter 16

Sunday, September 6th

Five miscarriages.

I’d been angry at God for Nadine’s cancer, for denying us the chance to have children. We’d tried hard to conceive, but never successfully. But the anger I felt paled to the despair Caleb and Rebecca must have endured. What kind of strength must it take to weather something like that?

Despite his failings as a husband, Caleb had a humbling strength. Here was a Christian, a strong man who’d given his life to the service of God, who exemplified faith.

I used to think Christians weak. I imagined they used their faith like a crutch, but Caleb clung to his faith, clung to his God when he should have turned his back. He had every reason to deny God. Instead, he stayed true to his calling.

I never imagined I’d admire a minister, but found myself doing so now.

He plunked out alternating notes on the piano, which refused to stay in tune.

“I thought the shock of seeing Natalie would be enough to put her over the edge, but it didn’t. She wasn’t happy about it, but she started talking to me again. I think our marriage actually got stronger after that. She not only took Natalie in, but she made her feel welcome. Took her shopping. Threw her birthday parties. Much more than I’d ever guessed or hoped for.”

He moved lower on the piano, from soprano to tenor, played the same two notes in a different octave. “Until that time, I never really believed what I was preaching. After my shoulder and my discharge from the Army, my employment options were pretty limited. The church gave me a chance for a job. That night, I realized everything I’d been preaching over the years, the ideas of faith and trust, of spiritual dependence on God and all that it brings with it, was real. Otherwise, how would Rebecca have been able to handle Natalie coming to live with us? How would she have been able to take to Natalie as if she were her own daughter? How could something good come out of my mistakes?”

I leaned back and crossed my legs. “Where is Rebecca now?” I feared the answer he’d give me, confident he’d tell me some grisly tales of murders or train derailings.

He matched my posture. “Year and a half ago, Natalie left for college. She graduated from high school a semester early. I let her get a lip ring as a reward. After that, Rebecca decided she wanted to go on a month-long mission trip to Russia. Luckily, Natalie got herself a full ride to Michigan University, so the little bit I’d saved for her college fund went to Rebecca’s trip. I couldn’t tell her no, not after everything I’d put her through. She called three weeks later and told me she wasn’t coming back. She’d found a family there in Russia with a little girl, and they wanted to hire her as a live-in nanny.”

“How long?”

“Until the little girl graduates.”

“What is that, 18 years?”

He nodded. “Nice family. Pretty well-to-do. Rebecca’s always been good with language, and she’s pretty close to fluent now. It’s a good situation for her, and I don’t really blame her for staying. What’s in Hailey for her?”

“But you still wear your ring.” He’d been playing with the gold band off and on throughout the morning.

“Till death do us part.”

“Still married then? Most couples wouldn’t bother. Sounds like you’ve come a long way since Tamara.”

“We both have. She calls me each night before she goes to bed. I make sure to keep the time open.”

I smiled. “Good for you both.”

I cleared my throat, shifted in the pew and decided I’d be more comfortable standing. Caleb hadn’t strayed from the piano bench. He’d alternated between slumped shoulders and a semi-reclining position against the piano.

He looked hard at me, rubbed his shoulder. The scars on his face bent into a frown. “I look at you, Connor, and you know what I see? Me. I see a man working hard to bring hope and not believing what he says. I’ve read your articles. They flirt with supernatural strength and fortitude, but you don’t buy into it, do you? You’re a skeptic, and you cater to those who believe what you don’t. Am I right?”

He was, but I didn’t want to admit it. I shrugged. “I hear people say their strength comes from Christ, how Jesus comforts them in times of need, but it never rings true. They say it like they’re supposed to, like they have to put on their Christian face so they can still get into Heaven.”

“Every time?”

I shook my head. “Except once, in New Jersey.” I paced and thought back to Newark. “A little girl, sixteen I think. Both parents worked in Tower Two. In one day, she lost her parents and her favorite uncle. A few months later, her older brother was deployed to Afghanistan and killed in battle. I remember thinking ‘this girl knows loss.’ She looked so sad, but had this quiet strength behind her eyes. Not anger. Not self-pity. Something else. I just can’t place it.”

The tune he played deepened again, became more intent. “I saw the same thing in Rebecca’s eyes the night I had that dream, and then every day after that. I saw it in Natalie’s eyes after her mom passed. It’s hope.”

I closed my eyes. His words leveled me with a profound and surprising sadness.

Caleb wasn’t like any other minister I had met. Most spouted on and on about God, but offered little advice of consequence because they’d suffered so little. Caleb, however, had loved and lost. He worked in a dismal town with little optimism. He had nothing to look forward to in this world, but his confidence, his joy, only seemed more real for it. Though his wife didn’t have cancer, like me, he had to stare down a life without his love.

I cleared my throat and changed the subject. “Church always been this empty?”

He shook his head. “When I took the job up here, the church had about twenty regular attenders. Got as high as forty for a while, but started falling off after that.”

“Why?”

“Different reasons. Health, schedules, divorces, prison, the usual.”

“Ever do outreaches? Barbeques or door-to-door stuff?”

“Tried them. No one comes once they see me. Last time I went door-to-door, I got sucker punched.” He pointed to his crooked nose and laughed. “But you should see the other guy.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Someone punched a pastor?”

“Not as surprising as you’d think. I’ve had to duck out of several fights. I spent time in Special Forces, you know. I can handle myself in a fight, but that’d send the wrong message.”

“I imagine it would. So the church dwindled down to Mason and Aida? What about Bernie? Mason mentioned something about him being involved in the church recently.”

“Bernie can’t come anymore. He’s dying. I stop by to see him from time to time, whenever he’s home alone. If his kids are at home, I can’t get near the place. They’ve threatened my life on a few occasions, and they’re crazy enough to try it.”

“Why such hostility?”

He shrugged, then grimaced. “Comes with the job. People don’t like to hear about Jesus. They don’t like being called out for their sin. Mostly, they’re afraid of hope.”

I scrawled notes on my pad, letters slanting to the middle of white pages. “You report these threats?”

“To whom? The police? Tried that once. Cops around here don’t have the greatest reputation. They’ve got this ‘call us when you’re dead’ attitude.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

I stood up. I’d heard enough to weave an article, and felt I had a good enough finger on Caleb’s pulse to know how to spin it. “I appreciate your time, Reverend.”

“It’s Caleb.” He stood and shook my hand. He put the other on my shoulder and stared at me with conviction. “Man to man, you need me, you call me.”

He gave me his number and I punched it in my phone, assuring him I’d call him if the need arose.

Chapter 17

Sunday, September 6th

I kissed my wife the second I got back to Aida’s. Once I did, Mason grabbed my elbow.

“Change of plans.” He grabbed his hat, snugged it over his scalp and walked to the door with me.

I pulled free of his grip. “Cool it. Give me a minute before you drag me out.”

He checked his watch. “Wish I could, but this is life or death.”

I looked at him skeptically. “So much for a nice lunch.”

Nadine smiled and squeezed my hand. “I know. Just a few more days of this and things will settle down.”

I sighed and followed Mason.

Aida called out to us. “Good to see you, boys.”

My lack of sleep frayed my emotions. I’d been ready to cry for longing of Nadine when I walked in. Now, Mason’s imperative attitude irritated me. I waved tersely to Aida, and Mason slammed the door.

Mason jogged to his pick-up. I didn’t hurry. A juvenile ploy, some passive-aggressive way to assert my will over his, to remind him he didn’t own me, didn’t control me. Still, I’d acquiesced to his demands for love of my wife. He knew I had no room to argue.

When I closed the door, Mason said, “You have another article and interview today.”

I closed my eyes and put my head against the back window. “You’re killing me.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” He turned the key, and his Mitsubishi rumbled to life. He pulled onto 29. “Bernie’s not doing good.”

“You mean Bernie’s not doing well. Good is an adjective, well is an adverb.”

He looked at me, incredulity lining his eyes. “Really? You’re correcting my grammar now?”

I sighed. “Caleb mentioned Bernie was sick.” Something heavy and metallic rattled in the back, bounced as the truck traversed the pitted road.

“This might be a tough interview for you. Bernie’s a great guy. You’ll like him. But he’s pretty bad off.”

“What are we talking about here? Leukemia? Parkinson’s? The plague?”

“AIDS.”

I felt air rush from me. “You meant life and death, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know how much longer Bernie will last. I tried calling. No one answered. Good news is his kids aren’t home. Bad news is he couldn’t answer.”

“Why aren’t they with him?” The rattling in the back made it difficult to concentrate.

Mason cracked his knuckles and flipped his visor down. “They’re not exactly the kind to care for the dying. Especially Bernie.”

“Caleb mentioned they weren’t friendly.”

“You read in stories about people making threats, trying to intimidate people. These guys couldn’t care less if you’re afraid of them. They don’t threaten, they promise. So much as blink without their consent, and they’re on the warpath. They’ve all done time. In and out of prison for stuff no one can pin on them: murder, battery, arson. They’re violent and crafty, and they’ve got long memories. Cross them today, and you’ll check over your shoulder for the next decade.”

“Please tell me they’re in prison now.”

“Most of them.” He turned off 29 onto a dirt road that looked depressingly like all the rest. How he could tell the unmarked roads apart astounded me. As far as I could see, the only differences were the width and the number of ditches and holes.

“Bernie won’t be pretty. I’m hoping he can stay up long enough to have a conversation. He’s one of the last good people this town has.”

I nodded. “You going to drop me off? Not sure I want to do this alone, especially if there’s a chance one of his kids might show up.”

He motioned with his head to the back of the pickup. I turned around and saw an aluminum baseball bat rolling back and forth. “I’ll stand guard.”

I arched an eyebrow. “With a bat? If these guys are as cold and calculating as you say, what’s a bat going to do?”

“Aida and I aren’t really into guns. And a bat can do plenty. Ask Greg.”

Mason parked the truck by a weather-beaten house. A white-rock wall surrounding the property crumbled in places. Graffiti covered the rickety wooden walls and the roof had fallen in. Empty hinges swayed where the front door should be. Mason pointed to the back wall with a grin. “Looks like someone’s a big fan of fashion.”

Red spray-paint spelled out “Satin Rules.”

“You’d think if they’re that into Satan, they’d at least figure out how to spell his name.”

“Bernie can’t live here,” I said. “This house is unlivable.”

He shook his head. “He’s further down the way, across the wash. No one’s lived here for years.” He took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and slipped it in his mouth. “Every house in Hailey has dark secrets. But this house, its secrets were never secrets. Everyone heard about it.” He lit the cigarette and rumpled his face. “Old Lady Henson lost her mind here. About fifteen years ago, she took a cast iron skillet to her husband. Hit him until his face looked like a catcher’s mitt. Then she went after her mother, who was living with them at the time. Her kids, too.”

My stomach knotted, both from the smoke and the story.

“Hard to sell a house with that kind of history, even in Hailey.”

He took the cigarette from his lips and inspected it. “I really hate these things.”

“So why’d we stop here?”

“If Bernie’s kids come home for whatever reason, things could get ugly. We’ll have a better chance of getting out before they come in. If they see my truck, they won’t rest until we’re dead, or worse, they’ll take it out on Bernie.”

“Point taken. I’ll make it quick.”

We walked through the desert, first on the soft shoulder, and then into the creosote bushes and golden sand. Mason nodded back to the old Henson house. “Shannon and I used to hang out there.”

Sand filled my loafers. It was like walking through the beach without the benefit of the surf. “Why?”

“I don’t know. We were kids. It always freaked me out, and I think Shannon liked that.” He took another drag. “We talked a lot there.” He hesitated when he said ‘talked.’ Probably a euphemism.

It took nearly twenty minutes to walk the mile and a half to Bernie’s home from the Henson house. Each step magnified the fatigue in my muscles, my neck and back, my dry eyes. I needed sleep, I needed to rest, but Mason urged me on. I told myself I did what I had to, that Nadine would be proud. That thought, more than anything Mason said, kept me going.

When we got to the house, something larger than Mason’s, but smaller than mine, Bernie didn’t look well at all. A tall man, Bernie couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds. He looked more like a shrink-wrapped skeleton than an actual human. Every knob on every bone pushed against his pallid skin. Each crevice of his skull was clearly visible. His eyes sank deep into their sockets. What little hair he had left clumped together and matted into braid-like processes. His hands shook like an addict’s.

His smile upset me most. The corners of his mouth turned up on his leathery face. I’d seen that look before at my uncle’s funeral when I was twelve. I wondered then as I wondered now: who thought open casket funerals were a good idea? And here Bernie looked like he’d just rolled out of the funeral home, smiling.

Mason took Bernie’s trembling hand in both of his. I stood by the door and nodded toward him, my best attempt at a “hello.”

Darkness draped his home. Heavy curtains covered the few windows. His eyes must be too sensitive for the light. I couldn’t shake the feeling of being in a mausoleum.

“I’m not as bad off as I look.” Bernie’s rough voice suggested a scarred esophagus. He’d probably been vomiting everything up the last few days. “Still got some work to do here.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re in much condition to work.”

Mason slung the aluminum baseball bat over his shoulder and pulled a chair near the front window.

“Mason says you’ve a few things on your mind.”

Bernie drew in a deep, rattling breath. “Death has a way of making you look back on certain things.”

I nodded and took out my notebook. I found it easier to concentrate on it rather than him. “Where do you want to start?”

Chapter 18

CONDEMNED TO LOVE

AAt twenty, Bernard secured his first job as a financial advisor. He rented a one-room apartment in Newland for a year. The following year, he’d buy land in Hailey, and the next year he’d build a small house in the desert where he could find some quiet away from the city.

He drove home from the Newland office one night in a rumpled brown suit and loosened his thick tie. He adjusted his mirror and saw her for the first time. Her eyes weren’t like the rest of her. They flashed beautiful and clean. He should talk to her, but how would that look?

She wore a skirt on a night that demanded a good pair of jeans. She’d applied her makeup with a trowel. Her blouse would make a stripper blush.

Guilt ate at his stomach for being near her, for slowing in his car and even thinking about talking to her. She shivered. When she saw him slow, she straightened and walked seductively toward him, all hip sway and subtle knee bends.

Bernard felt guilty for feeling guilty. Why shouldn’t he talk to her? Didn’t Jesus hang out with tax collectors, drunks, thieves, the diseased, the downtrodden? Still, he wasn’t Jesus, and she wasn’t either. Probably didn’t even know Him, maybe even hated Him. He rolled down the passenger side window, and she leaned in.

He kept his eyes on hers, away from the plunging neckline of her blouse.

“Hey, Cutie.” Her voice sounded like a glass of cool water.

His face flushed, and he wondered what his mother would say if she saw him talking with a woman like this. Him, her youngest, her baby, the good one, not like his dishonest, conniving brothers.

She smiled, licked her lips. “Looking for a date?”

Bernard shook his head, his face hot. “Directions.”

The woman’s lips fell to a frown. “Do I look like a gas station?”

“Not at all. But I can’t even find one of those.” He chastised himself. He shouldn’t lie to her, not after he’d gone through the trouble of following his heart and talking to her.

“You shouldn’t be driving, Tiger. You must be blind.” She pointed across the street where a soft red circle glowed above gas pumps and a convenience mart.

For the first time since he stopped, Bernard smiled, though only from embarrassment. “Can’t believe I missed that. Guess I’ll just head over then.”

“Want company?”

He looked down, embarrassment heating his cheeks. “Yes, but no. Not like you’re thinking.”

He fidgeted with the stereo, trying to find an FM station, anything to change the subject. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to talk with her. He had no intention of doing anything with her, but he couldn’t shake the feeling he should talk to her, maybe tell her about Jesus.

But how could he talk to her about Jesus when she made a living doing what she did?

He rubbed his forehead and cleared his throat. “If you want to come along and talk, that would be nice.”

What if someone saw them together? Someone from the church? They wouldn’t believe his story, that he wanted to tell her about Jesus. They’d assume, and rumors would flap their scaly wings and ride the currents of gossip from Newland to Eve’s Horn.

Bernard Wellington and the whore.

The woman laughed and smacked her gum. “I get paid to ‘talk,’ sweetie. Nothing’s free.” She said ‘talk’ as if it meant something else.

Bernard studied her face, tried to see past the inch-and-a-half of foundation to determine her age. He didn’t see any wrinkles around her eyes or lips. Maybe twenty? A bit older? Did she have kids someplace? “I’ve got money.”

She smiled. “Knew you did. Your suit don’t lie.” She pulled open the door and slid into the car with all the grace of a one-legged chimp. “You a cop?”

He shook his head.

“Say it out loud.”

“I’m not a cop.”

She flashed a coquettish grin. “That’s what I wanted to hear. I get twenty bucks to talk. Per hour. If you want to talk, that’ll cost more.”

“No talking. Just a conversation.” He shifted into drive and pulled back onto the road.

“Sure that’s all you want? I’m a pretty expensive conversationalist.” She put her hand on his knee. He pulled it away quickly.

She laughed. “Nervous? Which is it? Virgin or married?”

“What?”

“Virgin. I can tell by the way you blush. Relax, I’ll go easy on you.” She started to pull her shirt over her head, but he grabbed her wrist and gently pushed it back down.

“I just want to talk.”

She sighed. “Fine, I get it, Einstein.” She rubbed her hands together to warm them. The lights from the highway poured through the windows periodically, illuminating his new passenger, and, each time it did, he wondered what he was doing. He knew he had to talk to her, but had no idea what to say. He prayed, “Lord, give me the words.”

None came.

Instead, she spoke. “Pretty quiet for a guy who wants to chat. What’s your name, Tiger?”

He sighed, relieved. “Bernard.”

The woman smiled and checked her makeup in the visor. “Nice car, Bernard.”

“Thanks, and you can call me Bernie.”

“You a car thief, Bernie?”

He turned the radio to an FM station that played Christian music. Maybe they’d say something where he couldn’t. “Financial advisor.”

“You tell people how to spend their money?”

“Pretty much.” He turned onto Maricopa Road. He had no idea where to go, but he’d steer clear of hotels and motels by miles if possible.

“How do you spend your money?”

He raised an eyebrow. He didn’t spend money, not much. “I’m a saver.”

“You’re spending money now.”

“It’s worth it.”

She laughed. “You don’t even know.” She pulled a cigarette from her black purse.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke.”

“So would I.” She lit up.

Bernard turned on other roads, traveling in circles.

“My name is Heather.”

“Real name?”

“Honest to God.”

Finally. He had an opening. “What do you think of God?”

She checked her watch. “Your hour’s up.”

“Really, what do you think?”

“You got to pay for another hour.”

He pulled into a well-lit parking lot and handed her two twenty-dollar bills. Heather’s eyes lit up. “Right now I’m thinking there is a God.”

“What about other times?”

“In case you missed it, I’m not exactly in the greatest of spots right now.”

“You don’t like what you do?”

“Not exactly what I dreamed of being when I was a girl.”

“No, I guess not.”

She finished her cigarette and flicked the butt out the window. “Why do you ask? You the God-type?”

Bernard nodded.

“I get it. No wonder you’re so nervous. You think I’m evil, don’t you? This is about saving my soul or something? What if I don’t need saving?”

Bernard had his confidence back now, and he looked sternly at her. “I don’t think you’re evil at all, but you do need to be saved. We all do.”

She smiled and got out of the car. Before she closed the door she said, “What makes you think I’m savable?”

“Everyone’s savable.” He wanted the conversation to continue, wanted her to slide back in the car and talk some more.

“Tell you what, Bernie. Want to save me? Come find me. Maybe I’ll let you save me tomorrow night. But I don’t save cheap.” She closed the door and walked back to the street.

* * *

The next night, after he’d closed up the office, Bernard drove straight to 29 and Fifth where he met Heather the night before. She stood on the corner again, wearing a similarly scandalous outfit. He wondered how she’d spent the night after he’d dropped her off, how many other men she “talked” with.

Tonight, trepidation did not slow him. He stopped and rolled down the window. When she smiled at him, he felt boyish and embarrassed by his excitement.

A halo circled her head like a crown, a trick of the amber street light and the cool fog of the evening. Instead of diseases and habitual sins, he thought of her potential salvation and the role he might play in it.

She leaned in as she had the night before, seduction thick in her voice. “Hey, Bernie. Looking for a conversation?”

“Indeed.” He opened the door.

This continued each night after work, except on Wednesdays, when he met her after church. After a few weeks, he stopped paying for their talks. Instead, he’d buy her dinner wherever she wanted. She opened up to him, confided in him in a way no one else ever had.

She loved giraffes. For a time, she wanted to be a veterinarian, but the first time she saw blood, she passed out. She decided to be a dancer. She showed promise, and hoped to go to college on a scholarship, but never had the grades. Her mom spent what little money she made on smack and coke, injecting and snorting the money Heather’d hoped to use for an education. Eventually, Heather tried them out of curiosity. By seventeen, she’d adopted her mother’s career, and spent money the same way.

She liked the way men looked at her and how she felt when they paid to spend time with her. She didn’t care if the men loved her, only that they wanted her. Last year, she checked herself into a program to help her stay off drugs. If she could kick smack, she could get off the streets, maybe have a shot at something better.

She’d been clean for almost six months now, something she took great pride in.

Bernard smiled and congratulated her. “We should celebrate.”

“Yes we should,” she said. “But you still have to pay if you want to celebrate in the back seat.”

Bernard heard a soft brook of a voice. Heather reclined and scraped the ketchup and mustard off her burger with a French fry. What would she look like in the daytime? In his apartment? In the home he’d have built in Hailey in a few years?

Before logic could stop him, Bernard whispered. “Marry me.”

Her laughter hurt like stubbing a toe. The sting of embarrassment made him shiver. “Yeah, sure. Because I’m the marrying type.”

“I’m serious.” He turned in his seat to better face her. “We’re two hours from Vegas.”

She ate her fry and stared at him, searching his eyes with hers from beneath the inch of eye-shadow. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? Don’t you want out of this life? Don’t you want something better for yourself?”

Heather shoved her burger in Bernard’s chest, opened the door, and walked out.

* * *

Bernard couldn’t find her for two weeks. When she finally returned, she avoided his car like it was a police cruiser, turning and walking away.

He parked quickly and leapt out of the car. “Hey! Don’t walk away.”

She called back over her shoulder. “I don’t need a savior, Bernie.”

“We all need a Savior.”

“But especially me, right?”

He caught her elbow and spun her around. “I want to be with you, Heather. I want to wake up and see you next to me. I want it to be okay, you and me. I’m tired of feeling like I’m doing something wrong when I’m not.”

He couldn’t read her face.

Her lips were straight and her eyes stern. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“I might if you told me.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

His face fell. “These two weeks. Did you go back to the drugs?”

She shook her head.

“Heather, it doesn’t matter what you did. It only matters what you do. I’m not here to be a Savior. I’m not qualified to be one, because I’m no better than you, I’m no better than anyone. We’re all in the same boat, all sinners in our own way.”

Her eyes dropped to the ground.

“I can’t save you. But I can love you.”

Heather put her head in Bernie’s chest. When she spoke her hot breath heated his skin through his shirt. “You don’t know me.”

“Then tell me.”

* * *

Bernard’s twenty-seven year marriage with Heather tested the boundaries of his faith. He loved her with his whole heart, no matter how many times she shattered it. He’d learned not to count the number of other men she’d taken to bed with her. Somehow, not knowing made it easier. That way, he could not put a face to the different men who fathered his children, couldn’t envision the face of the man who gave his wife HIV.

She never told him she had the disease, but he knew. Even when she invited him into bed with her—something she’d done rarely in their marriage. But he’d gone to her anyway, unwilling, unable to turn her away. He would take whatever affection she chose to give him.

But no matter how many men she’d loved, she came back to him each night.

His mother told him to divorce her, but that’d be the same as putting her back on the street corner. At least, this way, she had a safe place to come home, a gentle man who would love her despite her choices, no matter how much it hurt him.

His children hurt him, too. Each time he considered Gloria’s long nose, Amy’s cartoonishly red hair, Corwin’s tight, curly hair, Sammy’s blanched complexion, and Ryan’s exceptional height, he knew they’d not come from him. They didn’t behave like him, either, always getting themselves into some kind of trouble.

Until the night of his wife’s death, Bernard dropped to his knees each night, his shoulders slumped, hands clasped together. He’d offer up the same prayer, that his wife would remain faithful and turn from her lovers, that his children would learn to love with Christ’s love.

At her funeral, he’d asked the burial home to display a photo of Heather near the time of their wedding, after she’d sworn off make-up, but before the purple splotches marred her face.

His children stood on the other side of the mahogany coffin. He hadn’t seen all five out of prison at the same time in well over three years. They refused to stand by him, protesting the fact that Bernard refused to bail them out each time they’d been arrested.

Reverend Caleb Harper, his face marred with scars, closed his Bible and shook Bernard’s hand. “Call if you need me.”

He walked to his car where his wife and daughter waited, and drove away. The meager crowd gathered at the graveside dispersed slowly, until only Bernard and his children remained. He wanted to stand with them, tell them that he loved them, no matter how much they hated him. But it might be dangerous, especially without witnesses. Instead, he’d wait a little longer before he drove home. Maybe now they’d be willing to talk with him. Maybe Heather’s death wouldn’t be in vain. Maybe they’d learn from it and turn from their wicked ways.

Corwin walked toward him, hands deep in the pockets of his wrinkly black slacks, elbows locked. At seventeen, Corwin had more tattoos than any of his brothers or sisters, most of which were on his neck, shoulders, and chest. The left side of his face had been inked to look like a skull, including tattoos of teeth on his lips. In a few more weeks he’d have the right side done and he’d be more skeleton than human.

Bernard shivered and hoped Corwin didn’t notice. He wanted desperately to see the face of his youngest without the reminder of death, but he buried his thoughts and focused on his son. “It’s good to see you.”

“How you doing, Pops?”

Bernard smiled, touched that Corwin cared enough to ask. “Hasn’t really hit me yet.”

Corwin smiled. “I know what you mean.” He paused, looked over his shoulder to the other kids, and turned back. “Listen, we’ve been talking.”

“About?”

“Mom’s life insurance.” He stepped a little closer and lowered his voice. “We know you had a policy on her.”

Bernard stood his ground. “This isn’t an appropriate time to discuss it.”

“She was our mom. We deserve the money. You don’t need it anyway. You’re set for life, but we gotta struggle.”

Bernard took a deep breath. “You don’t have to struggle. You know you’re welcome home anytime you want.”

“Please. You’re all about rules and religion. You can’t expect us to live like that.”

“I want what’s best for you kids.”

“Don’t play righteous with me. You want to control us. Now give us the money, Pops.”

Bernard took a deep breath. This wouldn’t end well. Of the five kids, Corwin had the most violent history, even though he was the youngest. He steeled his nerves and said, “Heather talked with me before she died. She didn’t want any of you to get the money. Said you’d waste it on drugs and booze.”

“Shut up, Bernard. Mom wouldn’t say that.”

Bernard’s patience ran out. “How would you know? You ran away when you were twelve. You’ve been locked up so long, you don’t even know who she was.”

“I’m not going to ask you again. Give us the money.” He stood skull to face with Bernard.

And all at once it made sense. Corwin was seventeen, a minor in the eyes of the law. Whatever they’d planned likely had a prison sentence attached.

Corwin pulled something from his pocket. “Last chance, Bernard.”

A switchblade. Corwin flipped it open.

“Don’t do this, Corwin.”

“Give us what we want.”

“The money is locked up tight. No one gets it unless I say. If you kill me, none of you will ever see it.”

Corwin whispered obscenities and stabbed Bernard in the stomach.

Chapter 19

Sunday, September 6th

I put my pen down. “Wait. Your son stabbed you?”

Bernard’s breathing had become more labored. “People do funny things for money. But it turned out to be a good thing. When the hospital sewed me up, they ran some simple blood tests. Found my HIV and got me on a course of treatment.”

Each breath came slowly, deliberately. The story slowed snail-style, and I put my hand up. “Take it easy, Bernard. This is clearly too much for you. Let’s finish up later.”

He tried to sit up, the muscles and tendons of his neck snapping to attention. His head wobbled. “There is no later.” His eyes slipped shut like a fatigued trucker fighting sleep.

“You need a nap.” Then again, so did I. “Mason and I can come back tonight. I’ve heard enough to get a good start.”

“I only have one day. Hailey has three.”

I closed my notepad and set my coffee down. He knew? How much did he know? “Mason, what’s he talking about?”

Mason stood peering through the window, the baseball bat slung over his shoulder like he was Ty Cobb. “It’s not my money that pays your checks.”

I stood up. Of course. It all made sense now. “The life insurance money?”

“Near the end, Heather changed. She believed in this town and wanted to see it change. You will change Hailey.”

I shook my head, feeling suddenly manipulated. “I’m sorry, Bernard, but I can’t help you. I can’t change an entire town. I don’t even believe in God.”

His eyes opened. His mouth twitched, as if he might sneeze. “You don’t have to. He believes in you. You’re doing the work of God. I saw your face, your wife. I knew you would come. This town is sick, but there’s still good here. You’ve been chosen to find the good, Connor. Chosen by God.”

I ran my hands through my hair.

Mason spoke from the window. “I know it sounds crazy, but when you’ve seen this man as much as I have, when you’ve heard him talk, you get to believing. This man has prayed people better. I once saw him fix a leak in the church’s roof simply by praying over it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He starts praying for this leak in the roof, right? Just him, me, and Rev. Harper there. For whatever reason, a bird stars building a nest there and uses an old shingle as the base of the nest. The rain muddies up the straw and leaves until it becomes a paste. Inside an hour the leak was fixed.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “We’re talking about the destruction of the town. It’s a little more than a leak in the roof.”

Mason continued. “Bernard’s in touch with God. I’ve seen it. You may not believe it, but that doesn’t mean it’s less true.”

“Connor.” Bernard whispered. “I saw your wife healed. I saw her well, walking and talking.” His voice was sandpaper. I wanted to ask how he saw this, how he knew it. I wanted to ask how he could be so sure.

Mason closed the blinds quickly and grabbed my arm. “We gotta go.”

“My kids?” Bernard asked.

Mason pulled my arm like a father guides a child, with urgency and authority. I followed him through the house out the back door. The sun shone brightly, but declined toward the horizon, and I realized how long I’d been there. “Move.” He pointed with the bat to the edge of the dry river.

I felt like I was back in Darfur, my head down rushing through the desert hoping, praying not to be seen by the Janjaweed. The urgency Mason used to usher me out the door made me queasy.

We darted from one creosote bush to the next, kept our heads down, paused for a second or two, and moved again. I’d hoped Mason saw the car early enough to get us to the river without being seen.

The crack of a gun rang behind us.

Mason yanked my arm, and I collapsed in the dirt.

“Why’s he shooting at us?”

“She. Get to the river.”

He pointed to his right. The river lay a hundred yards away. If we could make it down there, we could follow it back up to the truck in relative safety.

“Separate. Keep moving. Don’t run in a straight line.”

I moved to the right, running at strange angles, doubling back, ducking and running. The gun fired again. Again. Four shots. Three sped past me, missing me by inches.

My feet tangled. I fell face first in the dirt and rolled on instinct. I crawled to a bush, which shook as a bullet shot through.

I jumped back, tripped, and fell backward into the dry river. Mason, about fifty yards ahead, motioned to me with a wide wave of his arm. I moved, running in a hunched posture, ducking and dropping with each crack of the gun. From far off, the sound of cursing, a door slamming.

Mason leaned close to whisper. “She’s not gone. Seeing if we’ll come out. Let’s get back to the truck, quick and quiet.”

I breathed for the first time since I heard the shots screaming through the air. My heart pounded my chest hard enough to leave a bruise. We hurried to the truck, our heads inches from our knees as we ran hunched over like Quasimodo.

“What was that all about?”

“The shooting? Because we were trespassing. Because we were talking to Bernard. Because she hates me. Because we were there.”

“Who was shooting?”

“One of his daughters. There was glare on the windshield. Couldn’t tell which.”

I panted. “Look. I’m done. I’m not risking my life for this town.”

Mason nodded, his right arm wrapped around his abdomen like he was out of breath. He used the bat in his left hand like a crutch, an aluminum walking stick. We trudged on.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you going to talk me out of it?”

He shook his head. His breath came in heavy gasps. Sweat coated his forehead and his skin paled. The sun set behind us, and soft sand filled our shoes.

“Maybe you’re right. This town isn’t worth saving.”

Mason let his arm hang limp, and something wet and dark ran down his left side. Blood stained his hand, and he stumbled into the dirt.

I cursed. The truck couldn’t be much further, and now I’d have to carry or drag him the rest of the way. I knelt over him to inspect his wound.

“It’s nothing.” His chest heaved, and his eyes searched the sky.

“You’re bleeding pretty bad.”

“We’re not worth saving.” He struggled for breath. “Keys are in my pocket. Get to Aida’s. Pack up the girls and get out.”

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

Footsteps scuttled along the top of the bank. A gun cocked. A woman with a long nose held a rifle snug against the crook of her shoulder. “Hello, Mason.”

I didn’t think. I grabbed the bat. The woman pulled the trigger a split second before the bat came up and clanked the rifle out of her grasp. She turned to get the gun, but I chased her down, instinct guiding my feet, my hands. I forgot my exhaustion, the articles, everything except getting the gun away from her.

She dove for the weapon, picked it up with surprising grace and ease and turned it on me, but I swung again. Smoke exploded from the barrel of the weapon as it rocketed out of her hand and deep across the riverbed. She cursed and stood up. I had the bat raised, poised to swing for the fences.

She couldn’t be much more than twenty five. Dirt and dust covered her face. She bared her crooked teeth at me like a baboon and hissed. She lunged toward me.

I stepped to the side, brought the bat down across her arms. They snapped, and she fell forward, arms bent at impossible angles. My stomach soured. I brought the bat rushing down toward her head, but stopped myself and threw the bat down. I wouldn’t repeat Greg’s mistakes. I’d already snapped her arms. Bone stuck out of each forearm. She rolled around in the dirt like a dog scratching its back.

My fear left, my breath returned, and pity settled over me. While she screamed, rolled and cursed, I took my phone and dialed 911.

Chapter 20

Sunday, September 6th

I’d been in enough war-torn countries, enough cities ravaged by nature, to learn simple first aid. Gloria and Mason’s wounds put my training to the test. I had to get them to the hospital, but couldn’t move them. I took a few minutes to bandage the wounds, using the sleeves of my shirt to bind Gloria’s arms and Mason’s side. Then, I raced to the truck and drove it back to get them. Mason’s truck only had two seats, so I had to put Gloria in the back. It’d be a bumpy ride for her, but that couldn’t be helped.

Shortly after I pulled onto 29, Gloria woke up. She rocked back and forth, arms between her legs, back hunched up like a stuffed doll.

Mason smiled. “Just like old times. Except now you’re driving instead of me, and I’m bleeding instead of Shannon.”

I nodded.

“Am I worth it, Connor?”

I drove faster.

“What about her?” He nodded to the bed of the truck. Gloria shrieked like a B-movie actress.

The sun set up ahead and ignited the sky in crimson and orange. The light spilled in through the filthy windshield. I squinted. I hadn’t let up on the gas since we got in. The engine groaned. I doubted his truck often saw speeds above 60. I pushed it up to 80.

Mason laughed. “Nah. We’re not worth it. No one in this town is. You could roll this car and no one would blink.”

“What about Aida? Nadine?”

He grimaced. “Yeah. They’re something, aren’t they?”

“If we die, they die. And that’s not going to happen.” The reversal in roles surprised me. For the most part, I agreed with Mason, but found myself arguing the side he’d championed since I arrived in Hailey. Somehow, the bullet convinced him I’d been right all along.

Gloria turned to face the rear of the truck. Her long, wispy hair spilled around her like a silver waterfall. She slid down and started slamming the back of her head into the rear window. Mason jumped, startled, laughed, and held his side. “Crazy.”

“And you’re the picture of sanity?”

He smiled and slumped in his seat. He put his head on the window and closed his eyes. “See your point. Guess you were right all along. This whole thing is crazy. Bernard, he’s crazy, too.”

His dramatic change in perspective might be a symptom of shock. But as long as he could speak and make some sense, it meant enough blood was getting to his brain. I had to keep him talking, had to keep him thinking.

“Keeping pressure on that?”

“This old thing?” He laughed.

Keep him talking.

“What did Bernard tell you? Everything.”

He laughed again, and Gloria slammed her head into the window. We both jumped, and Mason giggled again.

“Serious, Mason. Tell me.”

He took a shallow breath. “What’s it matter?” He paused. “Know what he told me? A tornado. In the desert. That’s what he said.”

“What do you mean?”

“A tornado. Can you imagine?” He coughed and wiped at his mouth. I saw him bring his hand back streaked with blood. Not good. “Can’t believe I believed him.”

“Tell me about the tornado. When did it happen?”

“Never, man.” A breath. “Said God was going to send a tornado and wipe out the town. All of it, all of Hailey, gone in an hour he said.”

“When did he say it would happen?”

“Nine days. He said nine days.”

“How long ago was that?”

“The day before you showed up, Einstein. That’s why I said you had eight days.”

And then it made sense. “Did he really mention I’d be coming?”

“Doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he knew about Nadine being sick. Maybe he guessed.”

Another crash on the back window, then another. I wondered how Gloria hadn’t managed to knock herself out yet. Maybe that’s what she was trying to do. Might be better if she did. She didn’t bleed as much as Mason, but I’m sure the pain drove her out of her mind. Being knocked out might keep her out of shock.

Sirens and flashing lights split the early dusk. My heart nearly popped.

“Relax. You called them, remember?”

The fact didn’t comfort me. I’d broken half a dozen laws already and had no interest in going to jail. The patrol car pulled alongside the truck. With a stern face and a rigid finger, the cop pointed to the sand shoulder.

I pointed to Mason and mouthed, ‘Hospital.’”

The cop pointed again, and I shook my head in disbelief. “He want you to die or what?”

“Does it matter?”

The cop followed me to the shoulder, jumped out of his still running patrol car, and sprinted to the back of the truck. Gloria’s screams escalated an octave. Without hesitating, the cop punched Gloria square on the jaw. The screams ceased. He tossed her thin frame over his shoulder and knocked on my window. I rolled it down.

“Had to be done. She’ll be safer unconscious in the back of my car. Try to keep up.”

“Of course, Officer.”

“How fast can that thing go?”

“With or without the plutonium?” Mason laughed.

“How long has he been like that?”

“Ten minutes?”

“Let’s roll.” He tossed Gloria in the back seat, buckled her, and sped off in the cruiser. I did my best to keep up with him, but Mason’s truck topped out around 90.

“A tornado, man. Three days and we’re all F5 food.” He grinned like a punch-drunk boxer.

“Three days.” I pulled out my phone and dialed Aida.

She answered on four rings. “What’s up, Connor?”

“How’s my wife?”

“I’m great, thanks for asking.”

“No time for games, Aida. How is she?”

“She’s fine. What’s wrong?”

“Get her packed up and get down to the hospital. I’ll meet you there.”

“What’s wrong? Where’s Mason?” Concern thinned her voice. “Is that him laughing?”

“How fast can you be there?”

“Legally?”

* * *

Aida apologized as she and Nadine rushed through the doors of the ER. “Should have been here sooner. What happened?”

I grabbed Nadine and hugged her tight, unwilling to let her go. “Bernard’s daughter found us at his house. Gloria, I think. Had a rifle.”

“Oh God,” Nadine said.

“Haven’t heard much from the doctors, but he was talking all the way here. That has to be a good sign, right?”

Aida sat down and folded her hands. “She shot him?”

“In the stomach, I think.”

“Are you okay?” Nadine asked.

I nodded, kissed her forehead. “Sorry about this.”

Aida stood up and cleared her throat. Beyond her brave façade, fear and worry dampened the corners of her eyes. “Let me work some nurse magic.” She moved to the front desk.

I walked Nadine to a chair, and though I didn’t feel much like sitting, took the one next to her. I held her hand and wanted to never let go. “How are you?”

“Scared.” She’d never admitted fear before. Nadine never complained, not for bumps or bruises, scratches or cancer.

“Don’t be. You’ll be fine.”

“I know that. I’m worried about Mason. What happened out there?”

How much to tell her? I wanted to keep it simple, pointed. I told her about the interview with Bernard, the race out of the back of his house, the gunfire, the riverbed, the baseball bat. I left out the part about the tornado. No use worrying her further.

She took it all in, digesting it, thinking it through. “What’s this about?”

I’d never lied to my wife, and didn’t plan on starting now. “Bernard and Mason are convinced God’s going to destroy Hailey.”

She leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs. “How?”

A man with a bandaged arm walked by eating a triangle sandwich from a vending machine, ham by the smell of it. My stomach growled. My eyes grew heavy. I didn’t want to talk about it, but Nadine asked.

I took a breath. “A tornado.” I squeezed her hand and laughed. “Pretty nutzoid, eh?”

She shook her head. “Connor, I have to tell you something.” Her eyebrows slouched toward her nose.

Whatever she had in mind must be more than coffee talk. I took a deep breath and slouched in my chair. “What is it?”

“There’s a reason I wanted to come see Aida. I never told you because I knew you wouldn’t believe. But you need to hear it now.” She sighed. “When I found out I had cancer, I knew it wouldn’t kill me.”

My eyes locked on hers. “How?”

She looked down at our hands, fingers woven like an Easter basket. “I did a lot of praying, and I know what I heard. You’ll think I’m crazy, though.”

“After today, I’m pretty sure I’ll buy it.”

“I knew this cancer served a bigger purpose. God would use it like a tool to accomplish something miraculous. I knew I’d have to go to Aida’s. I didn’t know why, but I knew God wanted it.”

I ran my thumb over hers. “He mention anything about tornados?”

“Don’t be rude.”

“I’m not. I mean it.”

She shook her head, wisps of her hair falling about her face. “No, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. What if it’s real? What if everything Mason said to you is true. What then?”

I considered the possibility, not from belief, but because she asked. I thought of the tornado, the articles, finding five righteous people. “If everything he said is true, we should pack our bags and get out of here quick.”

She frowned. “We can’t leave. Not now”

I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it gently. “I know.”

She put her head on my shoulder. “We still have work to do.”

* * *

Mason lay on his back covered with a thin sheet and blanket. Nadine insisted Aida sit in the only chair in the room, but Aida refused, said it was more important for Nadine to sit. Like me, Aida didn’t like sitting down when nervous or agitated.

Nadine looked flushed, with clammy skin and a wavering voice. Aida’s veneer of courage and unshakeable strength remained intact, though visible cracks spoke of its fragility.

The sedation wore off slowly, and Mason blinked, trying to open his eyes. “Aida?”

She put her hand on his forehead. “Relax,” she whispered. “You’re not as bad off as you think you are.”

He coughed and smiled. “Same old Aida.”

Someone needed to fill him in on his condition, but no one spoke. I cleared my throat and started. “Good news, bad news.”

“Bad.”

I stood at the foot of his bed, hands wrist-deep in my jeans. “You lost a lot of blood, needed a transfusion. You’ll have to stay here for a few days.”

“Good?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “I’m starting to believe.”

“What do you mean?”

“Gloria’s bullet went through your abdomen and missed every major organ. Chances of that are astronomical.” My voice surprised me. No bitterness, no anger, no irritation or sarcasm.

Nadine squeezed my hand and smiled. “Someone’s watching over you.”

He nodded. “Figured as much.” He took a slow breath. “Listen, Connor. About what I said on the way to the hospital.”

I shook my head. “Forget it. I know what you meant.”

Aida cocked her head, neck slightly bent to the right, one eyebrow up. “Do we need to give you both some time?”

“Not like that.”

“I went a little crazy,” Mason said. “Wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Mason looked as pale as Nadine. She sat with her legs crossed and leaned back in the chair. Her face was thin, eyes half-closed. I wanted to scoop her up in my arms, hold her like it was our honeymoon. “You okay?”

She nodded.

Mason took a deep breath and repositioned himself in the bed. “We need to talk about the situation.”

Aida ran her hand over his head. “No code here, Mason. Connor told Nadine everything.”

“Everything?”

I nodded. “She asked. I wasn’t going to lie.” I moved from the foot of the bed to Nadine’s side. “So what am I supposed to do if you’re stuck here? Who’s going to tell me who to interview? Aida?”

“This is where it gets a little tougher. I’m not sure I know any other people I can recommend.”

“What do you mean? No other good people in Hailey?”

“There may be, but I don’t know them.”

Aida turned to me. “I know of one. Not exactly the brightest bulb in the box, but might work.”

Chapter 21

Sunday, September 6th

I climbed into bed, exhausted but not sleepy. I pulled the covers over me and rolled closer to my wife. I wanted to sleep, but didn’t want to close my eyes, didn’t want to spend another minute away from Nadine. And while I’d be sleeping next to her, my arms around her, feeling her frail warmth, once I fell into sleep, my mind might not be with her. So I resisted sleep and took time to memorize the Bergamot scent of Nadine’s hair, the feel of her under my arm, her unhurried breathing.

Every cell in my body felt heavy. No matter how much I wanted to stay awake all night, I needed sleep. Fatigue set in, and every part of me ached. My head throbbed, and my stomach knotted up. When I finally decided to sleep, I couldn’t.

I kissed Nadine’s neck, drew in her sweet scent and held it in my lungs. I counted her breaths. For every three she took, I exhaled and drew in the air as she did. I continued this pattern for ten or fifteen minutes before I finally drifted off. Breathe, one-two-three. Breathe out, in, one-two-three.

I woke up with the sun, still counting one-two-three. Nadine hadn’t stirred. She must have been as weary as me, maybe more. I swung my legs out of bed, stood, and dressed myself in the half-light of the sunrise. I guessed I’d slept a few hours. That’d have to do for now.

Aida didn’t know much about the guy she wanted me to interview today, just that he was a bona-fide hero.

She didn’t have his number or address, but knew he liked Sue’s, a tiny lime-green highway café along 29. The plant workers often hit Sue’s for a quick breakfast or lunch before their shifts. I’d have to get up early to get down there before the morning shift and hope I could ID the guy by his photo from a two decade old newspaper.

“There’s a good chance he’ll want to be left alone,” Aida said as I moved toward my car. “People in Hailey value their privacy.”

“Figured that out already.” I wore jeans today, hoping the casual look would help me fit in better. I didn’t have a plan. I got the sense the populace would rather drag me into the street and beat me than talk to me.

I got in my Impala, pulled onto 29 and prayed, something I’d not done much of in my life. I prayed I wouldn’t run into any more of Bernard’s kids. I’d have to play my cards close to my chest. Gloria was rushed into surgery, and, from what I hear from Aida, had a bunch of pins put in her arms. Once the pain meds wore off, she’d be able to give a good description of me.

For now, I’d have to hope and pray a change of clothes would help. Since we took Mason’s truck, she wouldn’t be able to identify my car, but they would likely recognize it as a different vehicle. Hailey may have flourished as a stop-through and may have had grandiose visions of surviving as a nostalgia town, but of late, according to Aida, they’re not fond of visitors.

Another cold morning. When packing, I’d not planned on mornings being this cold. Nadine told me I should expect it, but for whatever reason, I didn’t listen. I wished I had. I wore one of Mason’s old jackets to keep warm. Frost sparkled like newborn sunlight in the dirt stretching from the road. After a ten minute drive, I pulled into the tiny parking lot under a sign that said simply, “Sue’s.” I must have passed this place a half dozen times now, traveling between Aida’s and the hospital, and never noticed it. Neon lights traced the letters of Sue’s sign, but I’d never seen them lit.

Sue’s only had six tables arranged in an “L” along the front and right walls and six seats at a bar. I walked in and the men, all of whom seemed to be on the down side of two hundred pounds, looked me over. They wore jean jackets; one wore a leather jacket like Mason’s. They wore blue, faded hats, pulled down to their eyebrows. The seats protested their swiveling with soulful squeals. No one smiled.

I made eye contact with each, nodded a silent greeting and sat at the table closest to the door. From here, I could monitor the coming and going of patrons.

A young waitress with a noticeable limp struggled over to me with a face that said, “Couldn’t sit at the bar?” She dropped a laminated menu in front of me and the table wobbled. I waited for a greeting, but none came. Tired of waiting and squirming under her silence, I took the initiative.

“Morning.”

“You going to order?” She tapped a pencil on a small notepad.

“What’s good?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I think I need a minute. Can I get a coffee for now?”

Rolling her eyes, the young waitress slipped the pencil behind her ear and hobbled back to the counter. I thought to ask about the limp, but figured it might be rude. I also wondered why a woman who hardly looked like she’d graduated high school would be working here. I half expected, maybe from the movies I’d seen with small desert highway cafés, the waitress would be over forty with absurdly red hair spun into a beehive, someone named Flo who smacked gum all morning.

Instead, she tottered over with a mug and a pitcher of creamer. I glimpsed her nametag as she dropped the coffee on the table: Veronica.

“Like the comic?” I smiled.

“Huh?”

“Veronica. Like Betty and Veronica?”

Nothing.

“Archie and the gang?”

Nothing.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

She sighed. “Know what you want yet?”

I didn’t, but didn’t want to say as much. “Kielbasa and eggs sound good.” They didn’t. They sounded greasy and too heavy for this early in the morning.

“Hope you got medical.” She tottered back to the counter. “Carl! Pig in a tube and wreck the eggs!”

I pulled out my notebook and jotted down some loose thoughts, sketches even.

Veronica called from the counter. “You a cop or something?”

I set my pen down, leaned back in my chair, and shook my head. “No. Why?”

She nodded to the men at the bar. “Don’t get a lot of love for cops in here.”

“Any particular reason?” I took great pains to remember to smile, to look as unthreatening as possible.

“A whole lot of ‘em.”

“All right.” I took a deep breath and decided to trust God. “What about reporters?”

I heard a fork clank and the man on the far left squeaked around. He stood up and looked irritated. “Whatcha reportin’, son?” He asked in a voice stiff as ceramic. He cracked his neck and walked closer to my table.

Remaining polite became perceptibly more difficult. Massive amounts of caffeine and the lack of consistent, uninterrupted sleep made me irritable and agitated. I didn’t have a problem being polite to Veronica because she was young. This gentleman, however, aggravated me. Still, I swallowed my emotion and answered simply. “Kind of a retrospective, where-are-they-now piece on the towns along 29. Nostalgia-driven prose. You know how it is.”

“That so?”

I couldn’t decide if he was having a bad hair day or a bad hair generation. I hadn’t seen a mullet that bad since the seventies. Cordiality strained my nerves. “Yes.”

“And what if we don’t want a piece done about us?”

He leaned in, hoping to intimidate me; I wouldn’t allow it. “I’m not doing the piece on you, sir. It’s on the town.”

He leaned his impressive weight on the wobbly table and brought his face so close to mine I could smell his Marlboros. The long back of his hair fell over one shoulder. Concentration proved difficult when faced with such an awful haircut. “And if we don’t like the idea?”

“I’m not trying to make trouble. But you sound like a man with secrets.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Secrets is just that.”

I felt more like fight than flight. I wanted to say something to antagonize him, to dig like a spade in soil, but I understood how counterproductive and unwise a choice it would be. I prayed again, this time for peace, for a cool head and the right words.

“Sounds like your secrets are pretty heavy. Ever think about how you’d feel if you told someone?” I spoke quietly, hoping the other men at the bar wouldn’t hear us.

He sat at the table and shouted to Veronica without breaking eye contact with me. “Bring me my coffee, sweetheart.”

A short, bitter laugh. “Get it yourself, Tyler.”

“You want a tip?”

“One minute.” I stood up, took his coffee from his place and brought it back to him. He looked at me quizzically, and I thought of Aida’s look in the hospital last night. Clearly Tyler wasn’t used to people doing kind things for him. This might be an advantage.

Realizing his surprise, he pulled his jaw up and set it tight again. He pulled his lips thin. “Secrets is secrets. That’s how they have to stay. Otherwise they ain’t secrets anymore.”

I thought about making a remark, a “Thank you, Plato,” or “What fortune cookie did you find that in?” I wanted to call him Confucius, but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “If you let those secrets sit too long, bury them in the shadows, they start to fester and poison you. They make you sick, like eating raw chicken. Know what I mean?”

“But if you tell them,” he countered with his wit as sharp as an overcooked noodle, “then it won’t be a secret anymore.”

I rubbed my temples. His logic was as bright as his fashion sense. My anger subsided, and my irritation resurfaced. “Why’s it so important? What are you afraid of?”

His teeth grit. “I ain’t afraid of nothing.”

The men at the bar watched us, listening. Veronica sat on the counter. The lower part of her left leg had an awkward bend, like it’d been broken and never set.

I leaned forward and kept my voice low. “If you don’t want me to do this piece, you can call my editor.”

I slipped him a business card, hoping he wouldn’t call my bluff. He flicked it back at me. “How ‘bout I make sure you never write it? How about I break something real important?” His blue eyes glanced down at my hands. He excelled as a bully, but I’d had more than my share of run-ins with overly-big and overly-dumb bullies. It took more than threats to rattle me.

He flicked the card back so quickly—could he even read? “Why don’t you read what I have so far? You’ll see I’m not in the business of airing people’s dirty laundry.”

He cursed at me. “I won’t read anything you’ve written. Get this, little man, we don’t like outsiders. You take your pen and your paper and get out of here before you end up hurt.”

I crossed my legs. “I got kielbasa coming. Let me pay for your breakfast, and we can call it even?”

He laughed. “Like I need your charity.”

“Breakfast and your lunch?”

“You gonna buy my lunch?”

“If you let me interview you. I’ll make you a bet. I’ll ask a few simple questions, and I’ll get to your secret before you can finish your lunch. If I can do that, you leave me alone. I won’t put anything in the piece about you either way. If I can get to your secret, you buy my lunch.”

He leaned back, and I could see his jaw slack. He rumpled his face in thought. “I take an early lunch. Ten-thirty. Meet me here.”

I thought of Nadine. I’d hoped to be done early, but this may lead somewhere. Nadine would be safe. God would see to that. “Ten-thirty.”

Tyler stood up, stretched and cracked his back, then his neck. The pops came fast and loud and Veronica groaned. “Gross.” She set my kielbasa and eggs on the table. I thanked her, and she winked at me.

Another man walked in with a crooked nose, broken like a boxer’s, and a scar across the bridge. He’d aged quite a bit, but the nose gave him away. Tyler made his way back to the counter and Nick, the man with the broken nose, the hero of the train-derailment, took the last open seat. No idea how to open a conversation with him, I decided to consider my options over my kielbasa.

In fifteen minutes, three of the five other men had paid their bills and left quietly. I’d finished my breakfast and was nursing the sludge Veronica insisted on calling coffee. It’d been quiet after my conversation with Tyler. Spotty flatware clinked on dirty plates. Coffee perked, though Veronica never changed the filter. The bar stools squeaked under the weight of the men of the cement plant.

Aida insisted Nick was some sort of hero, and the article confirmed it. Still, I had an uneasy feeling about him. I looked at him and saw Greg Becker all over again. Other reporters talk about their “instincts” or “nose for news,” but, for me, it was something deeper, something in the hollow of my stomach, something dark and tangible, like a bitter pill. Side effects may include paranoia and nausea. Then again, maybe the unease originated from the greasy kielbasa.

I took another sip of sludge and moved to sit next to him. He looked at me sideways, mumbled something about eating breakfast in peace. He was drinking, of all things, hot herbal tea. I pointed to it. “Not a coffee guy?”

“They don’t serve coffee here.”

“Good point.”

Veronica glared at us as she wiped down the counter with a dingy rag that smelled of bleach. I pulled the newspaper article from the inside pocket of Mason’s jacket, showed it to him, and said, “Twelve people. Pretty impressive.”

He looked at it for a minute, then at me, then back to his breakfast. Eggs sunny-side up, pancakes, bacon and sausage. “Long time ago.”

I agreed. “Connor Reedly, reporter for World News Weekly.” I extended my hand.

He ignored it. “Hooray for you.”

I’d expected it to go about this well. “I’m doing a piece for an upcoming issue, a kind of retrospective ‘Where Are They Now’ thing for the nostalgia towns along 29. I’d like to do a small bit on you. You are, after all, a pretty big part of this town’s history.”

He smiled.

Flattery may end up being the key to securing an interview. “What do you say?”

His smile evaporated. “I say no.”

I nodded. “Okay. May I ask why not?”

He looked to Veronica. “Can you get rid of this guy, Ronnie?”

“I’m not doing your dirty work. And don’t call me Ronnie.”

“It’s just a tiny thing, a little interview. People want to know. This was pretty big news back in the day.”

He set his fork down and bounced his leg, shaking the counter. The flatware jumped up and down. He stopped suddenly and spoke quietly. “Know what kills heroes?”

I shrugged. “Kryptonite?”

“Don’t be smart, Buddy. Apathy, that’s what kills ‘em.”

I tried not to look surprised that he knew what apathy was.

“Remember when Superman died all those years ago?”

“Not much of a comic book guy.”

“Too good for them, right? Anyway, DC killed him off a few years back. Know why they did it?” He didn’t wait for me to guess. “Apathy. No one cared about him anymore. No one was buying the comics. So they killed him off. They had no plans to really keep him dead, and everyone knew it, but for a while, even if it was just a few months, people were buying his comics again. People cared.”

I knew where he was going, but wanted to play more to his self-interest. “So what’s this have to do with you?”

“No one’s buying my comic anymore.”

I leaned on the counter casually. “Don’t you want people to read about you again? I mean, you don’t have to die for people to care about you.”

“Ever see Spider-Man? The 2002 version, with Toby Maguire?”

Aida didn’t mention this guy was the king of comics. “No. I was in Darfur when it came out.”

“Darfur? Where’s that? Asia? Sounds Asian.”

“Never mind. What about Spider-Man?”

He took a bite of syrup-soaked pancake and wiped the corner of his mouth. “Green Goblin says something to Spider-Man. He says people will eventually turn against Spider-Man because the only thing people like more than a hero is to see a hero fall, to die trying.”

I sipped my sludge. “A little morbid, don’t you think?”

“Don’t mean it ain’t true.”

“You’re afraid people are more interested in your failings than in your success?”

“I’m saying people won’t read about my success. Not again. Town got a little sick of me for a while. Didn’t like all the media types rolling in and out of town. Blamed me for it, like there wasn’t an accident, or maybe like it was my fault or something.”

“Was it?”

“No.” His response was fast and flat, rehearsed. “I’m not doing an interview.” His frustration mounted. His face was flushed, his voice terse.

I was getting somewhere. If I could keep him talking, he might let something slip, or he might knock me out. I opted for a safer approach and handed him a card with my cell number on it.

“I’ll be around for a few days, taking in the sights, doing a few other interviews and the like. Call me if you change your mind?”

“Take your card.”

I waited for a minute to see if he’d look at me or my card. He didn’t. He’d finished most of his breakfast, and I figured he’d be leaving soon anyway. I thought about following him, but decided it wasn’t necessary. If I needed to find him, it wouldn’t be too difficult. In the meantime, I could get back to Aida’s and see what she knew about Tyler and maybe spend a few minutes with my wife before coming back to meet him for the interview.

* * *

Nadine was stretched out on the couch drinking some hot tea. Aida scrambled some eggs and buttered toast in the kitchen. I tossed Mason’s jacket on the back of a chair, moved quickly to my wife and kissed her forehead. She smiled, then arched her neck so I could kiss her lips. “How you feeling today?”

She pulled her feet up, indicating an invitation for me to sit and rub her feet. “Today’s a good day.”

I pressed my thumbs into the balls of her feet, and she closed her eyes. Aida called from the kitchen, “How was breakfast? Greasy?”

“Just how I like it.”

Nadine spoke quietly. “Did Nick come in?”

“Sure did. Doesn’t want to talk, though. Pretty set against it.”

Aida brought a plate of toast and an egg to Nadine. “Not surprised. Doesn’t talk to anyone at work or anywhere else.”

Nadine looked surprised. “Doesn’t sound like a hero, does it?”

“He started going on about Superman and Spider-Man. I couldn’t follow him. Something about people wanting to see a hero fail. Mean anything to either of you?”

Aida shook her head, and Nadine shrugged.

I sighed. “Aida, you know a Tyler?”

“Older guy, sixty-something, really unfortunate haircut, about so tall?” She put a hand about a foot over her head.

“That’s the one.”

“He’s not the one you want to worry about. A couple of years ago, his wife mysteriously disappeared.”

“You think he did something to her?”

“He’s got a lot of property behind his house, a pretty expansive desert backyard with a lot of sand that bucks right up to the wash. If he wanted to hide a body, he could do it.”

I arched my eyebrows and moved my hands to Nadine’s ankles. She’d sunk lower in the couch and, for a minute, it was like being back home with her. “He killed his wife, and you don’t think he’s worth worrying about?”

“In Hailey, it’s the quiet ones you worry about. Like Bernard’s kids.”

“Or Nick.”

“Exactly.”

“But he won’t talk to me, so I guess I don’t have to worry about that.”

Nadine took a bite of toast and sighed.

“What?”

“You’re not going to find five righteous people by meeting them in Sue’s. Nick’s one of your best bets. Don’t give up on him yet.”

“All right. Any ideas to get him to open up? You guys know him better than I do.”

Aida nodded “I know a way. I didn’t want to do it, but it looks like I might have to.”

I rubbed Nadine’s toes and asked, “And that is?”

“Take me with you.”

I ran my hands over Nadine’s ankles, rubbing near the bone. “No dice. Who’s going to watch out for Nadine?”

“She’s a big girl.”

Nadine closed her eyes. “It’s the best way.”

“What makes you think he’ll talk to me if you’re there?”

“Our parents died in that derailment.” Nadine paused. “He knows us, saw us while he was pulling people out of the train. He came to our parents’ funeral and apologized for not saving them. I told him it wasn’t his fault. They were in their house, not on the train, he did all he could, blah blah blah. For whatever reason, he kept saying he was sorry. I’m guessing he felt pretty bad about how we’d be on our own after the accident. I think he felt responsible for it. If I go, he’ll talk.”

I rubbed my knuckles into Nadine’s heels. “All right. How do we find him?”

“He’ll be back at Sue’s for lunch, I’m sure. He’s predictable.”

“That’ll work out well. I’m interviewing Tyler at ten-thirty.”

“We’ll make a day of it.”

* * *

Sue’s was empty, except for Veronica, who sat on the counter again, chewing gum and chattering with the short order cook, a small doughy young man, a little older than the waitress. She was smiling, something I didn’t see much of this morning. Their conversation cut short when she saw me walk in with Aida.

She rolled her eyes and went back to talking to the cook.

Aida pointed to a back table. I sat down, and Aida went behind the counter, searched a tray of glasses, found two clean ones, and filled them with Diet Coke from a fountain. She came back and sat with me. “Easier if you do it yourself. Veronica doesn’t get around so good. She’s fine for counter work, but she hates the tables.”

“Could have let me know that this morning.”

“You sat at a table?”

I pointed to the one nearest the door.

She grinned. “Didn’t make many friends, did you?”

“I didn’t know.” I leaned closer and hoped Veronica still ignored us. “Her leg?”

“Train.” Aida spoke a little louder than I expected.

Embarrassed, I chastised her. “Not so loud.”

“Veronica doesn’t care. She’ll tell you herself. Matter of fact, that’s not too bad of an idea. Thought of interviewing her?”

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs. The sun poured through the window. “I can’t interview everyone, Aida. I’m hardly hanging on here. I need to rest.”

“No rest for the weary. Drink your soda. The caffeine will help.”

“Trying to make me an addict? It’ll take years to decaf myself after this.”

“If there is an after. That’s step one.” She crossed her arms. “After I help you get these interviews, I’ll drop you off at the house to let you write up the stories. I’ll go to the hospital and spend the rest of the day there. Someone needs to be with Mason.”

Ten-thirty came and went. No Tyler, no Nick. When it got to eleven, Aida checked her watch like a student watching the clock. I wished we’d taken two cars so she could take off. She longed to be with Mason.

At eleven-thirty, Veronica asked if we’d be there all day.

Aida didn’t flinch. “If it comes to it.”

“They’re not coming.” Aida grabbed her keys. “Have another Diet. I’ll be back before you’re done.”

“Fantastic, more caffeine.”

She pulled her keys from her purse. “In the meantime, why not make chit chat with Veronica?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine waiting.”

She rolled her eyes. “Veronica, Connor has some questions about your leg.”

“Aida.”

“What kind of questions?”

Veronica hopped down from the counter. She almost looked happy to talk about it. Aida slipped out the door, and Veronica sat across from me. She took a long sip of Aida’s soda and folded her arms. “You want to know why I limp?”

My throat clamped.

She smiled, clearly proud to have made me uncomfortable. My surprise elevated her to a place of power, and she liked being in the driver’s seat. She turned in the chair slightly, stuck her leg into the walkway between the table and the counter, and pulled up the left pant leg of her jeans. As I’d guessed this morning, she wore a prosthetic leg, a dark brown, almost leathery plastic shaped, roughly, like a woman’s leg. It didn’t quite fit her right, and the straps irritated the skin above her knee. As prosthetics go, this one was far from state-of-the-art.

She knocked on it and spoke between hollow echoes. “Train don’t care much if you’re on the track or not. Keeps going and doesn’t ask questions.”

I swallowed hard, still too embarrassed and shocked at her candor to say much.

“It doesn’t embarrass me.” She said this as if I hadn’t noticed her unwavering confidence. “I’m going to tell my grandkids someday. I’ll tell them all about the day their grandma got her leg chopped off by a train.”

I spoke when surprise stepped out of the way of my voice. “I’m sure they’ll love it. Is there a moral to the story?” If I played my cards right, I might be able to spin her story. And if Aida delivered Tyler and Nick as I guessed she would, that’d give me three interviews today. If I could crank out each article and put them in a positive light, that might give me time to take a day off. I could use a day to sit with Nadine, put my feet up, and maybe sleep for something more than a couple of hours.

My practical side, however, reminded me these people might not qualify as “righteous,” a vague term I still had trouble grasping fully. What made one righteous? Who was the judge? Mason? God? If so, how did they define righteousness? It’s a question I’d asked since I heard Greg’s story, and one I feared I wouldn’t know, not until the end, not until it was too late.

Could I interview more than ten? Take out a sort of righteousness insurance policy. Was this a scavenger hunt? Just pick ten and hope? Or was this a race to collect as many examples as possible and then hope?

Veronica slurped the last of Aida’s Diet Coke and shouted to the kitchen. “Carl! Get me another Diet.”

The cook laughed. “Last thing you need is another Diet, Veronica. What are you, six pounds?”

“Just shut up and do it.” She turned back to me, “You want to hear the story or not?”

I did.

Chapter 22

WHAT WE’RE LEFT WITH

It couldn’t be true, of course, but truth was never sufficient to prevent the spread of a rumor of such magnitude. At some point, it grew beyond rumor into the vast ambiguity between legend and myth. The runners kept the story alive, preached it like religion. Like all living, breathing things, the story grew, mutated, like a frog to a prince, a caterpillar to a butterfly, until the metamorphosis scarcely resembled the original.

A boy who could outrun trains.

He’d climb up on the tracks and run. No fear. Veronica liked to say that when he ran, his feet would lift off the ties and the rails, and he’d run in space like a cartoon character; legs spinning in shadowy circles, never touching the ground, but still running, leaning forward into the pressing wind, his face stretching like melted plastic. She saw it when she first heard the story, from her friend Tiffany when she was seven. Tiffany heard it from her father right before he drove off of Bojangles Bridge and left her paraplegic mother to support her alone.

Veronica knew the story was impossible, but she wanted to believe it, from the ripples of her red hair to the tips of her toes, snug in her track cleats. The summer she was seven, she made regular trips to the tracks outside her home in The Cluster. She’d stand fifteen feet away as the train punched past, invisible hands pushing her back, the overpowering rattling pressing her shoulders down. As she grew older, eight, nine, ten, she’d stand closer, twelve feet, ten feet, nine feet, four feet, then two.

In high school she worked up the nerve to step on the tracks. She wore the cleats Coach Sherman gave her on her first day of track. The sides cut into the top of her feet, just below the bones on her ankles. She’d have to work them in.

Something magical happened when she stepped over the rail and touched the tracks.

In her mind, something lifted her up. Her legs circled at her hips fast, then faster. The wind pressed her face back with firm hands. None of this actually happened, it couldn’t, but she felt it nonetheless, an otherworldly connection to the Train Racer.

Veronica ran track because God had given her a gift, and because it was the only thing she could do. It was in her, but it longed to be out. Somewhere inside her, past her heart and her stomach, deep in the hollow of her gut, a fanciful fairy-tale dream of her and the Train Racer danced. If she could find him, she’d take him by the hand and they’d run, on the tracks, from the front of one train to the back of the next. They’d run so fast they’d lift off the tracks and sprint through cirrus clouds, run through rain and never get wet.

Tiffany ran track because her mother couldn’t. Unlike Veronica, Tiffany was well grounded. All her life, bad luck caught her by the ankles and held her down. She ran to get past the luck that left her mother in a wheelchair, past the luck that pushed her father to drive off Bojangles Bridge into the racing river, past the luck that flattened the tire on her bike in the dark of the Mojave midnight, past the luck that grabbed her with wraithlike hands, undressed her, and left her bruised and beaten beneath the tracks of the trains Veronica so longed to race. Tiffany didn’t run for recreation. She ran out of a sense of self-preservation.

Veronica ran to capture the past; Tiffany ran to escape it.

Veronica slipped a cigarette in her mouth and sat on the side of her bed. She cracked the window and exhaled slowly outside. “I got another one.”

Tiffany lay back on Veronica’s bed. “No thanks.”

Veronica arched an eyebrow. “What’s wrong.”

“Shouldn’t be smoking is all.”

“You’ve been weird all night.” Veronica blew silvery smoke into the black of night.

“Your mom’s going to catch you. She’ll smell it on your clothes.”

Veronica shook her head. “If she were going to catch me, she’d have done it by now. She probably knows anyway, just doesn’t want to say anything. Not like I try to be sneaky about taking them from her purse or anything.”

Tiffany stood up and walked to the corner of the room. “Can’t you put it out? It stinks.”

“No way. I’m not putting it out just ‘cause you’re getting weird. What’s gotten into you anyway?”

Tiffany straightened. “Put it out or I’ll tell your mom.”

“Tiffany.”

“I’m serious, Veronica.”

Veronica rolled her eyes. “Worse than my mother.” She stabbed the cigarette outside the windowsill. “The Train Racer smoked.”

Tiffany waved her hand in front of her face and rumpled her nose. “You don’t know that.”

“I know it. I heard it. I’ve been researching it anyway. I found some old articles about it. He and his girlfriend used to hang out, smoke, and then race. But then one day she got hit.”

“It stinks in here,” Tiffany said. “Let’s go in the living room.”

Veronica shut the window, lay back on her bed and put her hands behind her head. “You’re really acting weird. Like counselor weird. You’ve never minded the smell before.”

“I’m just saying it stinks.” Tiffany’s shoulders slumped, and she looked sad. “Can we just go in the living room?”

“Come lie down. I want to talk. You’re freaking me out.”

Tiffany sat on the bed next to Veronica. She kicked her shoes off and lay back next to her.

“It’s something about before school started, isn’t it? I mean, you know.”

Tiffany nodded, spreading her thick black hair across the faded pink comforter.

“Are you okay? I mean, the doctors said that you’d be okay and all. Is something wrong?”

Tiffany closed her eyes and swallowed. “I think I’m pregnant.”

* * *

Tiffany asked to spend the night, and Veronica’s mother went to bed. Veronica stole her mother’s car keys and drove Tiffany down to the ER in Newland. They came back early in the morning and sneaked quietly back through her window, crawled into the too-small bed, and tried to get a few hours of sleep before waking up early for school the next morning.

The doctor called Veronica’s cell phone the next morning. She handed the phone to Tiffany, who listened, hung up, and covered her face in her hands. She shook and shook as she cried in Veronica’s arms.

Tiffany’s stomach swelled, and week by week, she panicked a little more. She came to Sue’s every day after school and had a malt on the house. They kept the plan simple: tell no one until they had to. And then, inevitably, the questions: Would she keep it? Would she give it up for adoption? Could you even get an abortion this late in a pregnancy? What about a coat-hanger? Veronica prepared her for the worst. Tiffany had her answers all rolled into one: Emily.

She would keep Emily and raise her as her own. She would make up a story about the father being a soldier in Iraq, a genuine war-hero.

She sipped her strawberry malt and asked Veronica, “What in the world am I thinking?”

“Knowing you? Probably food.” She pulled a pencil from behind her ear and put it to the little pad of paper she carried in her red apron pocket. “Don’t I look cute like this? Don’t my legs look good in this skirt?”

In the kitchen, Carl degreased the grill.

“I’m serious, Ronnie.”

“So am I. You don’t think I look good?” She spun around by the table.

Tiffany giggled. “How’m I going to raise a kid? My mom’s a paraplegic, and I’m just a teenager. There’s not enough money from disability to put food on our plates as it is. I can’t get a job, not while I’m pregnant. And then after, I can’t leave the baby with Mom.”

Veronica sat across from Tiffany and crossed her legs. She leaned back and crossed her arms, looking intently into Tiffany’s brown eyes. “You want to run?”

“Yeah I want to run. I mean, what am I thinking? Maybe I should …”

“You can’t. Trust me. I know you, Tiff. You’ll never be able to live with yourself. Emily needs you. And you’re not alone.” She leaned forward and took Tiffany’s hands. “I’m here, and my mom’s here. You know we can help you. My mom can watch Emily, and you can come work here at Sue’s with me.”

Tiffany motioned to the empty diner with broad sweeps of her arms. “Yeah. Business is booming. You could kill someone in here and no one would know about it till morning. After the plant shuts down, this place clears out faster than quicksand.”

“We’ll find a place in Newland. I’ll have my driver’s license by then. We can both get jobs there. We’ll just work a few hours after school each day. That should be enough.”

“Your mom doesn’t even know I’m pregnant.”

“She’ll understand. My mom’s cool. She gets it. She totally knows I smoke and she’s good with it. I swear she loves you more than she loves me sometimes. You’re the good one.”

“Please.”

“Seriously. Know what she says? She says, ‘How come you’re not more like Tiff’?”

“She doesn’t.”

“She does. Like all the time.”

“And what do you say?”

“Why can’t you be more like Tiffany’s mom?”

Tiffany laughed and hit Veronica’s shoulder. “You’re bad, Ronnie.”

“We’ll get through this. You and me and Emily. It won’t be much longer anyway.”

“Three more months.”

“Still seems weird. Weird but cool.”

“Yeah.” She leaned back. “Cool.”

* * *

About an hour after Tiffany left, and about five minutes before Veronica and Carl started to close down, Mr. Walker strutted in. He plopped down at the back table, his back to the door. She almost didn’t recognize her chemistry teacher with his black baseball cap pulled down low to his eyes. His brown coat was much heavier than the dying summer warranted. Must be why he sweat so much.

She ambled over to his table. “What can I getcha, Mr. Walker?”

Surprised, he looked up. “Veronica?”

“Yeah. Been working here for a few weeks now.”

He nodded. “That’s right. I heard that.” He paused; his face flushed. “I should probably tell you. I’m meeting someone here.”

Veronica tapped her pencil on her pad of paper. “I’m guessing it’s not your wife?”

“It’s not that easy. I mean, I love her, but things have been tough lately. Anyway, she knows I’m thinking about leaving.”

Hot anger burned behind her eyes, and she hoped it didn’t bleed through. What was it with men that made them run? She remembered her father’s late nights and how he finally didn’t come home, and that was just last year. She thought of Tiffany’s dad, taking the only family car and driving off Bojangles Bridge when the water was high.

“It’s your life.” She wondered if he heard her voice cracking.

He smiled, and she hated him for it. “Thanks, Veronica. It means a lot.”

Desperate for another subject, she asked, “What can we fix for you?”

“Double bacon burger, extra mayo, onion rings, a chocolate malt, and a Diet Coke.”

“Good you’re getting Diet. That will cancel out all the other calories.”

“I’m sharing it.”

Then, Melissa Crenshaw walked in. Veronica recognized her immediately, though she hadn’t seen her since the beginning of summer that year, when Melissa graduated from Newland Valley High School. They’d run track together. Melissa was a senior and Veronica a sophomore.

When Melissa sat down with Mr. Walker, Veronica wanted to punch her.

“Are you working here now, Veronica?”

Veronica looked down at her neon pink uniform and milk white apron. “Nope, just a big fan.”

Melissa smiled. “You’re not still mad about when I said you were pregnant, are you?”

Veronica did her best to swallow her seething fury. “You almost got me kicked off the team.”

“You were getting kind of big, and I was worried about you. I thought you might need help with the baby or something. I didn’t mean anything by it. And besides, Coach would never kick you off the team.” She smiled again, amused by the conversation. She knew it dug at Veronica.

Veronica’s mind swirled with curses. “Can I get you something to drink?” She thought how satisfying it would be to slip a laxative in her Coke. That would serve her right. Her and Mr. Walker, a man twice her age.

“I’ll have a Diet Coke.”

“Probably a good choice.”

Melissa giggled like a junior higher. She took Mr. Walker’s hand. “Veronica’s such a kidder. A real Ellen DeGeneres.”

Mr. Walker wore a love-stupid smile. “A real kidder.”

Veronica returned to the kitchen quickly and spent the next twenty minutes sitting on the back counter window to the kitchen. She’d make small talk with Carl and try not to watch them eat. She thought about spilling hot coffee on them, but the pots had been off for hours. Maybe she could just spill a soda down Melissa’s plunging neckline and on her oh-so-short skirt. But that’d be juvenile.

“Let it go.” Carl packed up the hamburger buns. “It was a long time ago and you’re still steaming.”

“I’m not.”

He wiped his hands on his apron and stared at her. “You’re steaming, babe.”

“And with good reason.”

“You’re better than them, Veronica. They suck. They’re perfect for each other. The lowest of the low.”

She bounced her leg on the counter. “He’s got a wife and two kids. Says he loves them all the time. It’s all he talks about. How cute his kids are, what they did the day before, whatever. It sucks. Right now, his wife is at home, starting dinner for her and the boys, tired from working all day, and now she’s going to have to find child care, and she’s going to be stressed out and won’t be able to pay her bills, and that’s going to be her life, Carl, the whole rest of her life.”

“Was that all one sentence?”

“Shut up.”

“I get it, but what can you do? Really?”

Mr. Walker got up from the table as Melissa finished her soda. He handed Veronica his credit card and smiled. “Really, thanks. It means a lot.”

* * *

Carl picked up his keys from a basket on the corner of his desk. “Sure your mom’s cool with you staying here while I’m gone?”

Veronica smiled. “Mom doesn’t care. She trusts me. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to be gone for weeks or anything. You’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Just seems weird leaving you here alone and all.” He slipped his keys in the pocket of his jeans and scratched his ear.

“It’s fine. I have to get this research done for my paper.” She sat at the desk and started his web browser. “It sucks not having Internet at home.”

“I guess. I got to be down at class in forty minutes. I better get rolling. Be back in a few hours. Help yourself to anything in the fridge.”

“I always do.”

He opened the door to a dark, cloudy night. He zipped his navy blue windbreaker.

“Hey. It’s been cool the last few weeks, having you at Sue’s. It’s been cool talking with you and such.”

Veronica smiled. “What’re you trying to say, Carl Catcher?”

He grinned. “Just that it’s been cool.”

“Likewise. Now get to class, college boy, or you’ll be late.”

He closed the door and said, “What if I didn’t go to class? What if I just stayed here, you and me, and we watched some TV or something?”

And though the idea sounded particularly nice to her, Veronica swallowed. “You’d fail your class. Remember, you’re paying for your education now. Skipping classes is not good business.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I always am.”

“True that. True that.” He opened the door again and turned to leave.

“Carl, if you want, you can pick me up an apple pie from McDonalds on the way home.”

He smiled. “Yeah, that’d be romantic, wouldn’t it?” He closed the door.

She locked the door quickly, jumped back to the computer, and typed in BabyMart.com. She told herself she was doing something good, and felt a little like Robin Hood as she scrolled through different cribs and changing tables on the Internet. Finally, Tiffany wouldn’t have to worry anymore. Veronica would get everything Tiffany needed to raise Emily right: diapers, wipes, pacifiers, clothes, bibs, everything. She’d have to make up a story, something about winning a contest, but Tiffany would believe her. She’d have to trust.

And was it really stealing? She took from someone evil to give something good to someone who deserved it. Tiffany needed these things more than Mr. Walker needed a low balance on his credit card. And the beauty of it, the sheer genius, is that he couldn’t say anything. Even if he did figure it out, would he really turn her in? Of course he wouldn’t. Not when she knew about him and Melissa, a relationship that likely began while she was still a student in his Chemistry class. Even if it didn’t, she could say it did. The accusation alone would be enough to ruin his teaching career, and then what would he do?

They had this coming. Melissa with her slanderous rumors, her coy attempts to have Veronica thrown off the track team; Mr. Walker leaving his wife and kids for a girl half his age.

She clicked “add to cart” and punched in Mr. Walker’s credit card number again.

* * *

The next day, after Tiffany left, Veronica sat on the back counter closest to the window to the kitchen. She crossed her legs, turned at her hips, and leaned through the window. “I need a favor.”

Carl scrubbed the flat grill with steel wool. Water hissed and steamed. “Name it, babe.”

“I need you on Saturday.” She slipped a stick of cinnamon gum in her mouth and chewed.

He turned away from the grill and grinned. “You got a meet?”

“Nope.”

“Going to make me guess?”

“Yup.”

“We playing twenty questions?” He tossed the steel wool into a bucket and turned the grill off.

“I’ll give you ten.”

“I’ll take three: You want to make out with me, you want to rob a bank, you want me to kill someone.”

She smiled. “You think you know me so well. No, maybe, and no.”

He laughed and pulled off his hairnet. “You kidding me?”

“I’m kidding. But I need your pick up. We’re going to do some shopping for Tiffany.”

Carl scratched his arm and shook his head. “Saturday’s a busy day. No way Sue will give me the day off.”

She leaned back and put her feet up on the dining counter. “She’ll have to if you’re sick.”

“And I’m guessing you’re going to be taking the day off too? Sue will have to close down. She’ll lose, like, a couple hundred dollars. Money she pays us with. She’ll be pissed.”

“She going to fire us? She going to find two other honest employees in this town?”

“Why Saturday? Why not tonight?”

“We need all day.”

“What are you planning on getting?” Carl took a piece of Veronica’s gum.

“A crib, a bassinet, baby monitors, the works.”

He laughed. “You hit the lottery?”

“Credit card.”

“You’re not eighteen. How’d you get a card?”

She smiled. “Not mine.”

* * *

Veronica woke when Tiffany shook her shoulder. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Tiffany hunched over and grabbed her stomach. She stood in a puddle on the hardwood floor. “I think we need to go now.” Veronica tried to keep her cool. “Right.” She rolled out of bed and raced to wake her mother. “Tiffany’s water broke!” She punched in Carl’s number on the phone in the living room.

Still under the thick haze of sleep, her mother said, “What?”

“Carl’s picking up Tiffany’s mom. You have to drive us to the hospital.”

“Don’t panic.” Her mother sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “We have time. These things take a lot of time. I remember when you were born—”

“Not now, mom. Just get dressed.”

Minutes later, Veronica grabbed Tiffany’s bag, put a jacket on Tiffany, and warmed up the car while her mother hastily got herself ready.

The Subaru choked and rumbled. Veronica asked Tiffany. “Excited?”

“Terrified.”

Veronica took her hand “You can do this, Tiff. You’re strong.”

“Don’t feel strong.” She looked at her knees.

“But you are. You don’t have to feel strong to be strong.”

Veronica’s mom slipped into the driver’s seat and tossed a plastic bag on the floorboard of the passenger side. “Snacks. Hungry, sweetheart?”

“I’m good,” Veronica said.

“The other sweetheart.”

Tiffany smiled. “No thanks.” She grimaced and held her swollen stomach.

Winter came with ferocity and an angry chill. The blue-black of morning pressed in on them, and their breath erupted in tiny spurts of misty clouds. Veronica wrapped Tiffany in extra blankets, including one spread over the plastic faux-leather seats.

Veronica shivered. “Now I’m nervous.”

“No need.” Her mother put a hand on Tiffany’s knee. “We’re going to do this thing. Together. They say it takes a village to raise a—”

Tiffany screamed.

“Okay. I’ll drive faster.”

Tiffany rocked back and forth, running her hands over her stomach, her lips shaping the word “please” over and again.

Veronica rubbed Tiffany’s back and neck and whispered reassurances. Somehow, Veronica expected some sort of precipitation. Didn’t it always rain or snow on dark nights like this, when the teen girl is rushing down the blackened highway at unsafe speeds? But no rain came. No snow, not even clouds. Just a canopy of silver stars sprinkled like salt on an indigo sky.

Veronica’s throat tightened in a slow, internal strangulation, as if some sort of allergy choked her from the inside. She waited for this night, prepared for it, even looked forward to it. But it never seemed real. Even when she and Carl spent an entire Saturday assembling the crib and the bassinet and the changing table and opening baby monitors and pacifiers and organizing clothes based on size and style.

They were ready for Emily, but a pervasive fear set above her stomach and under her neck, like a scream that couldn’t surface or be swallowed.

Now, with Tiffany breathing quickly, rhythmically, squeezing her eyes shut tight, the sweat on her brow, Veronica’s stomach turned; a nervousness rose in her like a bad burger threatening to return. “You’ll be okay. You’ll be fine.” She hoped Tiffany believed her.

She thought again of the Train Racer. What did they say about him? He was arrested for stealing a car, but for a good reason. His girlfriend was dying, wasn’t she? Hadn’t he stolen his parents’ car to save his girlfriend? Was he as nervous as Veronica? Did he shake in fear?

No. He couldn’t because he raced trains and won. Faster than a locomotive, nothing could scare him. He must have held his head high. He would’ve been calm and collected. He would have soothed his girlfriend, and she would have believed she’d be fine. He’d have made her believe. Veronica steeled her voice. “Deep breaths, Tiff. Deep breaths.”

* * *

Winded and sore, Tiffany made it through labor fine. She lay in the bed panting, her arms and legs slicked with sweat. Her brown hair rumpled in a tangled mess on the pillow. Her face stayed red for an hour after the baby came wheezing into the world.

After Veronica cut the cord, the nurse took the baby to a small station at the side where she cleaned Emily and took vital signs. Veronica didn’t like the way the nurse whispered to the other nurses, and then to the doctor. She didn’t like the look on the doctor’s face when he heard what the nurse had to say.

“Yeah, absolutely,” he said to the nurse. Then, to Tiffany, “We’re going to take the baby down to the NICU. She’s wheezing a bit. Might be fluid in her lungs, but it’s probably nothing. We want to be sure.”

Tiffany cried in heavy sobs, shook uncontrollably.

The doctor put a hand on her shoulder. “She’s going to be okay.”

Tiffany shook her head. “It’s not that.”

Veronica stood next to her and held her hand. “Then what?”

“I don’t know.”

Later, the doctor told Veronica and her mother it was perfectly normal to cry after labor. The strain on the body and the dramatic shift in hormones could send anyone slipping into incredible mood swings. It would subside in a few hours. Until then, she’d be on edge.

Veronica relayed the message to Carl, her mother, and Tiffany’s mom. They nodded and followed her confidence. Tiffany was strong. She’d pull through fine. And if Emily was anything like Tiffany, she’d pull through, too.

But weeks later, Tiffany hadn’t shaken her tremors or her tears. She rarely smiled, handed Emily off to Veronica or Veronica’s mother for entire days. They didn’t mind watching Emily, an angel of a baby, but wondered about Tiffany. They worried about post-partum.

Tiffany refused to talk about it. Often, she refused to talk at all.

Weeks later, when Tiffany strolled into Sue’s, Veronica determined to give Tiffany a piece of her mind, but her righteous irritation was interrupted by Tiffany’s tears. Instead of lecturing, she asked “What’s wrong?”

Tiffany sat on a stool and cried. Carl peeked in from the window. Sue’s was empty, as it usually was five minutes from closing. “I couldn’t take it, just couldn’t take it anymore.”

Panic choked Veronica. “Tiffany, sweetheart, I need you to tell me what happened. What did you do?”

“They weren’t my eyes. They weren’t anyone’s eyes. She didn’t have eyes, Veronica.”

“Tiff.”

“It wasn’t my baby. I don’t know whose it was, but it wasn’t mine.”

“Tiff, sweetheart, where’s Emily?”

Carl turned off the grill and wiped his hands. He came through the swinging door and stood behind the counter with Veronica.

Tiffany managed to speak between sobs. “She’s sleeping on the tracks.”

Veronica leapt over the counter fast, left foot then right, fast, faster, because in the distance a train whistled, and she could tell it was close, and it was fast.

Fast, faster. Left then right.

The train racer could fly. He ran so fast his feet left the earth. If he wanted to, he could break the sound barrier. Veronica could hear it, somewhere far away, up in the afternoon sky, a pop, a ripple of thunder.

Right then left and her feet left the earth. The tracks were in front of her, and she lunged, jumped with both arms out because the train was there, and Emily screamed and her head was on the rail, and then it was off, it was in Veronica’s arms, and Veronica twisted in the air and landed on her back, Emily safe in her arms, and Veronica’s left leg just at the knee, on the track.

So fast.

She heard the crack, the pop, the breaking of the sound barrier.

She’d raced the train, and she’d won, and she almost didn’t notice the pain, the weight, the stabbing, but the cold took her, and the train rushed by, and something warm and wet slid up her leg, her left leg, which wasn’t there anymore, but under the charging train.

Chapter 23

Monday, September 7th

“You okay? You’re going all pale.”

I leaned back in my chair, put my hand behind my neck.

“You want water? Never mind. Water here sucks. How about another Diet?” She leaned forward. “I thought you were some big bad reporter. Why so worried now? I told you, Emily was fine.”

I shook my head. “On the tracks? I’ve seen unspeakable things. Wars and terrorist attacks and the worst Mother Nature can muster. But a baby on the tracks?”

Irritation colored Veronica’s voice. “She’s fine. Don’t believe me? Want to see her? She’s at home with Mom right now.”

I did want to see her, but I shook my head. I didn’t realize Mason’s train-racing story had become an urban legend, but it made sense for a town like this. There’s little to do other than run.

It seemed Hailey was a town of runners. Mason ran from his future. Greg and Aida ran from the law. Caleb’s wife ran from him. Bernard ran from the truth. I said, “So what about Tiffany?”

Carl had another Diet Coke in his hand and set it on the table. “I turned her in, but nothing came of it. Cops don’t care. You could cap someone right in front of a cop, and they wouldn’t blink, just so long as you don’t get blood on their uniform. See, they’d have to explain that and file a report, and they hate paperwork. Anyway, they drive out, talk with Tiffany, and tell her to see a doctor. You want something to eat?”

I thanked him, but declined. “Still digesting my kielbasa.”

“Veronica warned you.” He pulled up an extra chair and sat beside Veronica. He put his arm around her, his meaty, red hand on her shoulder, and she sank into him.

“How long ago did it happen?”

Veronica shrugged and looked over at Carl. “Emily’s about six months now, so about five months back.”

Carl nodded. “We didn’t mark the date on the calendar.”

“I guess not.” I paused, formulating my next question. I wanted to ask about the credit card and Mr. Walker, wanted to know what happened to him, or to Veronica for stealing the number, but I couldn’t get my mind off poor Emily. Thinking of her on the tracks chilled me to the core of my soul. So helpless, she trusted her mother to care for her.

“Is Tiffany still watching her?”

Veronica shook her head. “Tiff finally went to a doctor. They put her on some pills, and she seems better. But she’s not watching Emily anymore. Mom and me watch her mostly. Tiff comes over sometimes, but she’s never alone with her. Never hurts to be careful. Anyway, I think she likes this arrangement. She’s in a finishing school and wants to go to college.”

I crossed my legs under the wobbly table. “What about you? Have big plans for the future?”

“I want to finish high school first. I had some colleges interested in me before I went one-legged on them. Kind of killed my plans for a track scholarship.” She knocked on her leg. “I missed so much school this year because of this thing, I’ll be lucky to pass my classes and not have summer school. After that, one more year and I’m done. I can figure college out next year.”

Carl’s eyes moved from mine to the window behind me. He stood up quickly and walked back to the kitchen. “Customer, babe.”

Veronica sighed and stood up. “You again?”

Nick shuffled in. He’d rolled his long flannel sleeves to his elbows. “I ain’t staying.” He turned to me. “Come on.”

“Where’re we going?”

“You want to talk or not?”

“I do, just curious.”

“Call it a field trip.”

I didn’t trust him, but I had a job to do. If God wanted me to do this, He’d keep me safe. My faith caught me off guard. I’d never believed in God, yet I trusted Him now. Nadine would be proud of me. “Let me pay for my Cokes.”

Veronica shook her head. “Get out of here, Connor.”

I smiled. “What would Sue say?”

“Why would Sue know?”

“Gotcha.”

I grabbed my coat, though the day had warmed, and followed Nick outside. He pointed to an early eighties Corolla. “Get in.”

His short clipped sentences and hurried gait made his agitation clear. His shaking left hand made me nervous. He pushed it into his pocket, opened his door, and slid in. I waited for him to unlock the passenger door, said a quick prayer, and hunched into the small frame of the car. Nick was bigger than me, but I’d learned early on that size has little outcome on a fight. If it came to it, I could hold my own, unless he’d brought a knife or a gun to the fight. I’d come to expect things like that from Hailey. Angry people with no sense of justice or fairness—a potentially lethal mix.

I asked him again as he started the engine, “Where we headed?”

“I wanna show you something.” He pulled the clunking car onto 29. I hoped it would make it wherever he had in mind. Then again, maybe I’d be better off if it just broke down. “Ever been to the Cluster?”

“Driven past it is all.”

“Not the same.” His car smelled of half-smoked cigarettes and old pine air freshener. Instead of a car radio, he had a gaping hole with wires running up and down. I thought to say, “nice car,” but figured he’d see through the faux politeness. It’d be tough to say with a poker face.

“Tyler wants to meet you at Sue’s tomorrow, same time. He’s got the day off, but he’s a creature of habit.”

“And you?”

“We’re talking now. I thought you got that.”

“Of course.” I tried to see through the streaks of bug guts on his windshield. “Just wondering what changed your mind.”

“Aida came by the plant and had a chat with me.”

“Thought as much.”

He turned off 29 onto Gespar Road, which winds at sharp angles and crosses under the train tracks and pours into the Cluster. The people of Hailey admired these homes, envied them despite the battering they’d taken over the years. Many would never pass code. Roofs had fallen in on some, while others were missing walls. More windows were broken than whole, patched together with plastic lining and duct-tape. The lawns were little more than patchy brown mounds surrounded by dirt and weeds.

Two sets of tracks split apart just south of the Cluster and ran on either side before meeting back up about twelve miles north on 29. The cement plant sat just north of the Cluster like a concrete castle. Its smoke stacks stretched high into the air, and plumes of oyster-colored smoke ascended like a burnt offering. He parked the car on the shoulder, and we looked over the Cluster.

“I don’t live here. Most everyone else does.”

His voice had lost its edge. Instead of sounding agitated and irritable, he sounded contemplative.

“So I hear.”

After a few minutes, I pulled out my notebook.

He got the hint, and said, “Doc says I’m dying quick, so I figured I might as well tell ya everything. Been living with it long enough, anyway. Ain’t got much to lose, right?”

“I’m sorry to hear that. About the doctor.”

He shrugged. “It happens, right? Every hero has to fall sometime.”

Chapter 24

A HERO’S FALL

Nick walked out into the desert just outside the Cluster to clear his head. In the distance, a train whistle sounded and sounded again.

Rain dampened the desert. It came in spluttering sprinkles, then in drenching sheets. The storm had come in the morning, fast and unexpected. It hit hard, then waned to wispy fog, then returned in precipitous force.

Couldn’t even trust the weather anymore. Couldn’t trust nothing.

He’d trusted his job, but now some Virginia company moved in to buy up the plant just to downsize it, maybe close it completely. If the sale went through, he’d be out of a job.

The train whistle shrilled, shattering the sheets of rain.

He’d trusted his wife until he walked in on her this morning. Another man held her half-naked body in his arms. His face was too thin for his big beard. They didn’t look at him when he came in; they simply went on kissing and fondling and asked him to close the door on his way out.

What had his mother-in-law called him? A man of no consequence.

What did she know? Wasn’t no one nicer than Nick in all of Hailey, and that meant something. And he had the best collection of comics west of Nevada.

The train whistled in the wind, screamed through the rain. Nick pulled his hat lower, checked the tracks over his shoulder. Slick with rain. Train was running too fast. Must be braking.

The books held value; they were worth plenty of money, no matter how much his wife or mother-in-law called him childish. They didn’t understand. Comics could be big business, a way to escape misery and mediocrity. Hailey had plenty of each.

The train howled; its brakes squealed on the slick tracks. The wheels rattled like drowned lungs.

How long until he lost everything in his life? His house? Job? Wife? A week? Two? He’d keep his comics and lose the rest. What he wanted more than anything was to open a small comic shop in Eve’s Horn. He had enough back issues to get himself started, but what did he know of business? And where would he get start-up money?

An explosion lifted him from his feet. Heat shattered the chill air, turned rain to steam. He sat up fast. A ball of fire raced down the tracks. The train arched its back like a frightened cat. Metal wheels spun; the rear of the train lifted in the air like a scorpion ready to sting. It slipped sideways, came in fast and rushed toward the Cluster.

Iron and steel groaned as the train folded in on itself like link sausages. It careened through brittle homes; wood splintered; roofs collapsed; people shrieked over the racket—parents, children, wails lifting like invisible elevators.

So many screams.

This wasn’t the normal freight train.

It was Saturday, wasn’t it? Not Friday, like he originally thought. That meant this was a passenger train. The cars, long rectangles of steel and glass, twisted and flipped and pushed through the homes of the Cluster.

How many people were home this Saturday? How many sat in their living rooms watching the news, never expecting to become the feature story?

Nick didn’t hesitate. He ran toward the train, toward the burning ball of fire, toward the tormented searing screams.

Sand passed under his feet like a treadmill. He grabbed a nearby rock and, like Spider-Man, climbed on a toppled passenger car. He smashed a window with the rock, and thrust his hand into the void. A hand grasped his wrist, and he pulled. The man in the train car latched onto the outside of the train and pulled himself up. Blood ran from his scalp and hands. Blood stains spattered his jeans and white shirt.

In a weird way, Nick hoped the man would be bloodier. He’d imagined himself pulling bloodied, broken passengers out by the dozen. Instead, the man he’d rescued looked more like a hero than Nick. Strong, big build, square jaw, as if he’d walked off the set of a Hollywood movie, playing the part of the mild-mannered alter-ego.

“Thanks,” the man said. “I tried to get out, but the door’s on the down side. Couldn’t quite get up to the window.”

“Can you help?”

The man nodded.

“Good, you help the people here, I’ll go to the next car.”

“There’s a woman inside this car. She’s old, pretty banged up.”

Nick told the man to wait at the window, then lowered himself into the car. Carnage spilled out on the scale of a blockbuster film. People lay strewn about, limbs at awkward angles, blood smears on walls and seats.

Not as bad as it looks.

Nick didn’t believe himself.

The man called out from above. “She’s near the back!”

Nick moved quickly. Most of the passengers were disoriented and dizzy; some sat down with their faces in their hands, others grabbed at him and pleaded for help. One woman, cradling a child, screamed. “Save my baby! Please save my baby!”

The elderly lady bled from her forehead. Her dull, terrorless eyes roamed the train car. Must be shock. He’d need to get her out quick, but she could wait. The child had to be saved. He took the screaming baby and raced back to the window. “Baby coming up! Mom’s next.”

He moved quickly, covering his face with his shirt to cut down on the acrid smoke and the sharp twinge of blood. His lungs burned as he helped the mother climb out. His arms ached as he worked with other passengers to hoist the old woman through the window.

Once the passengers had been completely evacuated, Nick climbed back through the window. He cut his arms on the broken glass and wondered how many others had done the same. He sucked in lungfuls of smoke-laced air before leaping over to the next car.

Nick still had the rock he’d used on the previous car. “We break the windows first. The passengers can help each other once they have an escape route.”

Even after police and fire arrived, Nick dove into the train cars to help organize escape plans. He ignored his fatigue, the burning of his lungs and arms, legs and back, and pressed on as any hero would, until a young fireman pulled him aside.

“You gotta rest,” the fireman said. “Too much smoke. You’re going to need to go the hospital, man.”

“I can’t leave now.”

“You’ve done enough here. We have things under control.”

“I’m fine.”

“Smoke can mess you up pretty good. I’m asking nicely. Get to the hospital. If you don’t go now, I’ll take you myself.”

Nick nodded. When the fireman turned his back, Nick ran the opposite way to another passenger car where the firemen were not so familiar with him. He stood by them, coughing, hacking, and pulling people from the wreckage like fish from a lake until he blinked three times and collapsed.

* * *

Nick woke up in an empty hospital room with a clear mask over his face. People filled the hallway with cameras and microphones. Had his wife come, too? Had she come to see him and praise his heroism?

In his black sleep, he dreamed rapid-fire that she’d come back to him, that she’d gotten rid of the bearded bum and loved him again, the way she did in high school, the way she did when they married at eighteen, the way she did on their honeymoon in Vegas, the way she did before things got bad, before she started drinking and spending his money on booze, the way she did before he checked her into rehab.

He pulled the mask from his face and called for the nurse.

Was that his voice? Thick with smoke, coming out in a pinched whisper through a swollen throat?

The nurse, an attractive young woman in teal scrubs, came in and shut the door behind her. “How’re you feeling?”

He pointed to the dozen strangers milling around, cameras around their necks, notebooks in hand. “What gives?”

She smiled. “Reporters, mainly, and some of the people you helped rescue. They came to say thanks.”

“Where’s my wife?”

The nurse’s face fell. “No family has checked in to see you. Want me to get rid of the reporters? Or call your wife? Maybe she doesn’t know yet.”

He rubbed his eyes, ran a hand over his neck. “She knows.”

The nurse put her hand on his shoulder. “Doctor Slate said you should be fine with a few day’s rest. He didn’t see the harm in letting the reporters stay a bit to get an interview, provided you feel up to it.”

Nick rumpled his brow. His head hurt. “Don’t even know why I’m here.”

“You swallowed a lot of smoke. You were there for some time, and without a mask. It’s like you suffocated a little bit. Not enough oxygen. They got a mask on you right after you collapsed. No brain damage, but your lungs took a beating.”

“My lungs?”

“Doctor Slate wants to do an MRI to see if there’s any scarring on the lungs. How are you breathing?”

“Through my nose.”

The nurse laughed a full, hearty laugh, and Nick fell in love with her smile. “I mean are you breathing okay?”

“Fine, I think. Throat’s a little sore.”

“That’s normal. Want me to get rid of them?”

Nick shook his head. “It’s okay. Can I rest a bit more, maybe watch some television before you send them in? And can you send them in one at a time?”

“I’m a nurse, sweetheart, not a receptionist.”

Nick smiled and his throat ached. “Please?”

She winked. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He needed time to think through everything that happened the day before, to anticipate questions that would come up: Why was he there?

He went for a walk on his break to clear his head.

In the rain?

Of course in the rain. The desert doesn’t get nearly enough rain, and he wanted to appreciate it. He’d only be out for a few minutes.

Did he know anything about the blue Suburban parked on the tracks?

One of his co-workers, a fellow with a big beard and a thin face, drove one.

Did he really believe it was a suicide-attempt gone wrong, that whoever was driving the car chickened out and ran off?

Way things were going in Hailey, suicides were pretty common.

He gave each answer to the waves of reporters who came in from as far away as San Francisco, Las Vegas, San Diego, and Los Angeles. He’d expected the AP, maybe the LA Times, but San Diego and San Francisco?

His heroism grew even more when Doctor Slate found scarring in his lungs. Nick would have to stay a week for observation. He considered it a well-earned vacation. He tried not to think about his deductible. Instead, he concentrated on enjoying the days of leisure, the bad hospital food, the sacks of get well cards that came in from all over the state, from Nevada and some from Arizona. He tried not to think about why his wife never sent him a card, why she never came to visit, or why his family, for that matter, never came by either. He’d never felt so loved and so alone at the same time.

* * *

Nick wondered how long his fifteen minutes of fame would last, but he didn’t worry long. When he got out of the hospital, he found his house completely emptied. His wife’s heart was blacker than he’d imagined. His brother left him a note stuck to the front door. He’d helped her move in with Beard Face.

Two weeks later, his phone stopped ringing. Reporters no longer asked for interviews. He enjoyed his few trips to LA to appear on news broadcasts. His fame earned him no respect in Hailey. If anything, it did the opposite. Few people talked to him at the plant. He ate lunch alone, and eventually decided to take his meals at Sue’s. It was pricey, but at least he didn’t feel alone, shunned.

He found solace in comics. There, heroes were appreciated. When Spider-Man swooped in and saved the day, someone said, “Thank you.”

Maybe he needed a mask.

Days continued like this, week-in-week-out, month after month and on into years. Before long, it was like the whole thing never happened.

And each sunrise, Nick woke with a question on his mind: What would have happened if he hadn’t chickened out?

Eventually, years later, Doctor Slate called. “The X-rays and MRI don’t look good, Nick. I wish I had better news.”

Nick, happy for a phone call regardless of the message it brought, fell against his kitchen wall and slid down until he was half-sitting, half-squatting. He held the phone tight against his ear with one hand and clutched his shirt in the other. He rocked slowly, quietly for a few minutes until Doctor Slate asked, “Nick?”

Nick said, “Thank you.”

* * *

Twenty-three years ago, on a rainy November day, Nick came home from breakfast before going to the plant. He’d left his lunch and wanted to kiss his wife one last time. When he came in, the bearded man was already kissing his half-dressed wife. She grinned when the man’s tongue slid into her ear. The man ignored him, but his wife eventually asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” without embarrassment, or fear, or remorse for her flagrant infidelity.

The man rolled his eyes and worked his hands over Nick’s wife.

Nick wanted to cry, wanted to hit the man with something heavy, or to choke him and watch him struggle to breathe, but none of the situations had a happy ending. Really, what he wanted was to be the man holding his wife, running his hands over her body, kissing her neck. How long had it been since she’d let him touch her like that? A year? More? Had she been cheating on him this whole time?

“How long?” he asked. “That’s all I want to know.”

“How long what?”

Nick stopped thinking. He walked to the kitchen a few feet away in the small mobile home. He picked up his lunch pail and wished it were heavier. Then, on his way out, he swung it as hard as he could at the bearded man’s head. There was a crunch-thud and the man’s knees buckled. The man fell hard into the rickety coffee table which splintered under his weight. His wife stared at him, her mouth a wide “Oh.”

“I’ll be home late,” he said. “Going to have a few drinks after work.” He slammed the door behind him. He got in his Corolla and drove to the plant calmly. He worked the morning in silence, and no one noticed. He punched out for his lunch, but decided he wouldn’t eat today. He wanted to get out, to think clearly.

He walked out into the rain, thinking it would be nice to go for one last drive. He found a car, a big car, a Suburban, smashed the window, hot-wired it, and drove off to the nearest railroad crossing, where he parked. He could have taken his car, but couldn’t stand the thought of wrecking it.

He left his belt buckled. It might look like an accident, like he didn’t plan on getting hit by a freight train. It would be fast and stylish, a death people would talk about for years to come.

Later, he heard the whistle and had second thoughts. He tried to start the car again, but it wouldn’t turn over. He thought to look under the hood, but it would take too long. He hit the steering wheel, jumped out of the car, and started walking back to the plant.

Chapter 25

Monday, September 7th

Nick lit a cigarette and hung it between his lips. “Doesn’t much matter anymore. I’ll be dead in a month. Maybe less. I’ll finally have what I want.”

I rolled down the window, hoping the fresh air would ease my sour stomach. “All those people.”

“Sad, isn’t it? Not your typical hero story.” He exhaled a line of silver smoke.

I tried the handle on the door, but it didn’t open. “How do I get out?”

“Outside handle.”

I used the outside handle and stepped out of the car. I paced back and forth, pressed my fingers into my temples to relieve the pressure building in my brain.

Nick got out and rested his arms on the hood of the car. “You all right?”

I shook my head. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

He shrugged.

“Connor Reedly. Nadine, Aida’s sister, is my wife. You killed her parents.”

He coughed and spit in the dirt. Slipping the cigarette back in his lips, he said, “You must hate me.”

His voice, like his wife’s before him, lacked fear and remorse. He’d resigned himself to his guilt, and nothing I could do would make him feel worse about himself.

“You probably want to kill me then.”

He ducked into his car, reached in the glove box, and pulled out a revolver. He checked to see that it was fully loaded and then set it on the top of the car. He motioned to the gun, waving a hand over it like he’d just done some magic trick. Then, he spread his arms out to the Cluster and the desert.

“Everyone’s at work. No one’s around. You can just do it real quick, slip the gun in my hand, and it will look like suicide. No one has to know.”

“What?” My nausea had morphed into a sick fear and disbelief. My knees felt weak.

“Do it for Nadine and Aida. A lot of people died unnecessarily.”

I rubbed my temples harder. He wanted a way out of his guilt and misery, but couldn’t muster up the courage to kill himself. That’s why he’d brought me out here. He wanted me to do it for him.

I thought about it for a minute. I weighed my options, and actually considered picking up the gun, but when I thought of Nadine, I knew I couldn’t do it. My anger subsided, and I pitied him instead.

“You’re too scared.”

“You can bring justice to all those people.” He slid the gun to my side of the car.

In my mind, I picked up the gun. Heavy and cold, the grip worn and rough. I leveled it at his chest, squeezed the trigger. The sharp report would push my arm back and jar my elbow. The crack would echo over the Cluster.

I had to get away from him, had to move away from the gun before I picked it up, instead of imagining it. I grabbed my phone and dialed Aida.

His voice rose. “Don’t be a chicken. Put the phone down and pick up the gun.”

“I’m not a killer.”

“Yes you are. Pick up the gun.”

Aida’s phone rang.

“Pick it up!”

“Hello?” Aida asked.

“I need a ride.”

Nick grabbed the gun off the car and pointed it at my head. “Hang it up, now.”

My chest froze. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak.

“Still at Sue’s?” Aida asked.

I put my hand up in the air and said, “All right. I’ll hang up.” I slipped the phone back in my pocket. Steeling my will, I asked, “Why the big rush? You said yourself you have less than a month. Why make me do this?”

He cocked the hammer. “Maybe I don’t want to wait a month when now’s just as good a time.” He coughed again and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “You have any idea what cancer does to you?”

I nodded and tried to keep my cool, but my fear had become anger. “My wife has cancer all through her. It’s eating her alive, and I have to watch. But you get a little lung cancer and think you can take the easy way out while my wife suffers? You’re a coward.”

“Never said I wasn’t.” The anger in his voice dissipated, replaced by a gentle sorrow. “I’m okay being a coward. I’ve been afraid every day of my life. Afraid of getting beat up, afraid of being picked on, afraid of never being loved, afraid of losing what love I had. Every day is a new fear for me. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow, or the next day or month worth of pain. Dying I can take. Withering away I can’t.”

I called his bluff. “Then do it yourself.”

“Maybe I will.” He put the gun to his temple, the hammer still cocked.

Confident he lacked the courage to follow through with his threat, I decided to push the envelope. “Go on, then.”

He squeezed his eyes tight. In a quivering voice he asked, “What happens to people that kill themselves?”

“You’re afraid.”

“What happens? Do they go to Hell? I’m going to Hell whether or not I kill myself, aren’t I? After so many people died because of me. I’m on a train heading straight to Hell.” His finger shook over the trigger.

I put my hands in my pockets. “You’re asking the wrong guy. I don’t know how all that works, but I know people who do.”

“Who?”

I spoke calmly and firmly. “Give me the gun, and we’ll drive down to see a friend of mine.”

“Who?”

My phone rang. I wanted to answer it, but didn’t want to do anything suddenly or without his permission, nothing to upset him further. Whatever anger coursed through me earlier melted away. Fear moved in on its heels. If I let him kill himself, Nadine would never forgive me. “Aida’s calling.”

“Don’t tell her about me.”

I answered the phone.

“What gives?”

“Never mind about the ride, Aida. Nick and I were just having a little talk.”

“So you’re talking with Nick? How’s that going?”

“Swimmingly. We’re going to run down and see Caleb. Know how to get there?”

“You’re kidding. Caleb Harper? The good Reverend himself? I guess things are going well.” She laughed and gave me quick directions. I never moved my eyes off Nick.

“You ready, Nick? I think you’ll like what Caleb has to say.”

He took the gun from his head. He stared at it, and un-cocked it. “Never been to see no preacher man.”

“You know Caleb?”

Nick slid the gun back in the glove compartment. “If he’s got a beard, I may kill him.”

* * *

Directions to Caleb’s house included spotty phrases like “take the third dirt road on the right,” and “hang a left at the two-headed Joshua Tree.” All the roads, all the flora and fauna looked the same to me. How anyone differentiated between creosote bushes or Joshua Trees baffled me.

Nick knew his way around well enough to fill in the gaps in Aida’s spotty directions. Potholes and washboards marred every road we took. Roads split in half, then came back together. At some point, they ceased to be roads and became trails. If Nick wanted to kill me here, my body would rot and decompose long before anyone found it.

I put the thought out of my mind and continued to give directions as best I could. I said things like, “turn left,” and “okay, I’m lost now.”

Nick followed most of my directions and pressed on even when I wasn’t sure how to instruct him. He said little, only the occasional, “Really think I’m a coward?” or, “Think I’m going to Hell?”

My responses never wavered. “Not for me to decide.”

As we neared the dry riverbed, the golden cottonwoods stretched higher. They had no leaves, and I wondered if they ever did. The plants in this area looked angry and diseased. Through the maze of the dying foliage and winding dirt road, we finally found Caleb’s mobile home.

“You’re not going to tell Aida, are you? Caleb won’t tell her, will he?”

“I won’t tell, and I doubt Caleb will.”

He nodded. “You coming in?”

“If you’d like.”

“Might be nice.”

My heart had steadied. The long drive settled my nerves. Strangely, I found myself more nervous about talking to Caleb again than I did sitting here with Nick.

I put my hand on his shoulder, “This is going to help. You’ll be glad you did this.”

Even more amazing, I believed what I said. If any man needed God, it was Nick.

I needed Him, too. I couldn’t ignore it anymore. That hollow feeling in me—that hole I dumped all my anger and resentment and guilt and fear into, the one I tried to fill with accomplishments and accolades and praise—gnawed at me with the voice of God.

He flipped his sunshade up, “Sorry about all that back there at the Cluster.”

I smiled. “Scared me half to death.”

“That was kinda my point.”

“Well, you did a fine job of it.”

He took the keys from the ignition and pushed them in his pocket, but didn’t move out of the car. He put his head back on the headrest and sighed. He took a cigarette from a box in the center console, inspected it, then put it back.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t hate you. Aida and Nadine won’t hate you either.”

He closed his eyes. “How can you be sure of that?”

“I know them. You’ll get it when you talk to Caleb.”

* * *

Caleb smiled broadly when he answered the door. “Good to see you again, Connor.” He embraced me.

I wasn’t a hugger, never had been. I fought the urge to stiffen in his arms and hugged him back.

Caleb released me and turned to Nick, extended his hand. “Good to see you, Nick.”

“Rev.”

“Call me Caleb.” He motioned us inside. “I got coffee, lemonade, and water, but I can’t recommend them. Got a few sodas in the fridge. They’re the safest bet.”

I stepped inside and immediately recognized the absence of a woman in his life. His home looked like Mason’s, both in floor plan, décor, and filth. Judging by the stench of rotten bananas and cat urine, I’d postulate Aida didn’t come by to clean this place up once a week.

I tried not to gag on the smell. “I’ll take a soda.”

As if reading my mind, he grabbed a can of Mountain Breeze aerosol freshener and sprayed the living room. He opened up a window on either side of the house. The crispness and chill of the September air carried a dampness that pulled the stale odor out.

“Nick?” Caleb asked.

“Nothing, thanks.”

We tossed some of the laundry on one side of the couch to create enough room for both of us. Nick looked at me, cocked his head and arched his eyebrows, as if to say, “Is this guy for real?”

“You and Nick know each other?” The refrigerator closed, and Caleb appeared a moment later, two colas in hand.

He handed me one. “You could say that.”

Nick crossed his legs and said, “I popped him one when he came knocking on my door a few months back.”

Caleb pointed to his nose again and smiled. “No worse for wear. What brings you two here?”

Good thing Caleb practiced Jesus’ teaching of “turn the other cheek.” As a soldier in the Army’s Special Forces, Caleb could have ended Nick’s life on the spot. Did Nick know that? Had he punched Caleb on purpose, hoping to push the pastor to homicide?

Nick crossed his arms. He didn’t know how to begin the conversation, so I helped him out.

“Nick and I got to talking today, and had some questions about the afterlife.”

Caleb sat in a green recliner and put his feet up. “Must have been an exciting conversation. Anything specific you want to know?”

Nick turned his head and coughed. A rough, spasmodic fit took him, shook roughly. His lungs rattled with fluid. It sounded like the cough of a drowning man. When he settled down and regained control, he cleared his throat.

“Say there’s this guy, one of those guys who wanted to do some good things, but he ended up doing something pretty bad. What happens to him when he dies?”

“You mean his spirit? You want to know if he goes to Heaven or Hell?” Caleb bounced a foot on the footrest.

Nick wiped his mouth with an old stained handkerchief. “Sure.”

“What people do in their lives doesn’t determine their eternal destination. The question is, have they accepted Christ as their Savior?”

“Let’s say they haven’t.”

Nick asked the question, but I wanted to know the answer. Nadine had accepted Christ as her Savior, but to this point, I hadn’t. If Nick had shot me today, what would have happened to me?

Caleb sighed and leaned forward. He adopted the posture of a doctor delivering a fatal prognosis to a patient. “Sadly, I wouldn’t have any good news for a man in that position.”

“Hell?” I said.

“That’s what Scripture says.”

The answer punched my stomach. I’d spent my life counting on getting to Heaven on the strength of my articles, the hope they brought to my readers. I’d done good, avoided doing anything bad. I’d never killed anyone, didn’t lie much. I saved Mason’s life, and even Gloria’s. That had to earn a trip to Heaven, but, according to Caleb, it wouldn’t.

Caleb unfolded his hands and held them out to us. “It doesn’t have to be like that. If they accepted Christ before they died, they’d be on their way to Heaven. No more pain or suffering. No more hunger or thirst. Instead of a filthy mobile home, they’d have the keys to a mansion.” He smiled. “I may not have a great house here, but when I get to Heaven, I’m going to have an expansive manor. And it will always be clean.”

I hoped he wouldn’t wait until he died before he cleaned this place up.

Nick coughed and wiped at his nose. “Say they do that, but then say they do something pretty horrible after. Say they do the whole Jesus thing, but then, maybe get angry and kill someone. They still get to Heaven?”

Caleb leaned back and folded his hands. “You’re asking some pretty tough questions. Books have been written about these kinds of questions.”

“What do they say?”

“Depends on which one you’re reading, and which one you believe. Here’s how I look at it. When Christ died on the cross, which sins did He die for?”

Nick looked at me, and I shrugged. “I’ve got no clue.”

“Got me,” Nick said.

Caleb smiled. “All of them, right? He died for all of our sins. Yours, mine, Connor’s.”

“Easy, Rev.” I smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

“All right, so maybe Connor doesn’t have as many as me, but he still has a few, I’m sure.”

I nodded, and Nick relaxed a little. His shoulders seemed less slumped, and he uncrossed his arms. “Okay, so He died for all of them.”

“So if He died for all of them, there’s nothing we can do that hasn’t already been paid for. You follow?”

I nodded, but Nick furrowed his brow in confusion.

“God,” Caleb continued, “is above time. So when Jesus died on the cross, even though it was nearly two thousand years ago, His sacrifice paid for everybody’s sins, past, present, future. Get it?”

“Think so.”

“By that line of thought, the man who accepts Christ, the one who genuinely wants to change his life, the one who really wants to do what’s best for God, for Jesus, for everyone else, the one who truly cares less about himself than about other people, if he ends up doing something unspeakably bad, technically, that sin is still paid for.”

Nick leaned forward. “What about someone who’s done something really bad and then accepts Christ?”

Caleb smiled. “We’d have to ask if that person is genuine in their call for help, in their acceptance of Christ. But if it’s real, it doesn’t matter what they did before, it’s paid for.”

“Charlie Manson. Not too bad?”

“Not even Hitler.”

Nick chewed on this answer for a bit, and I sipped my soda, contemplating whether this talk was more beneficial for Nick or for me. I wanted my wife to get better. My apathy toward the town waned, and I truly wanted to do my part to save it. People, good people, might depend on me.

Caleb, Veronica, Mason, Aida, and now Nick.

They weren’t perfect, and neither was I, but they didn’t deserve to be wiped out. And if God truly loved men like Manson and Hitler, why not the people of Hailey?

I sipped my soda. “Are you exaggerating now, Caleb? Trying to prove a point?”

He shook his head. “I’m not saying Manson and Hitler are in Heaven. I doubt they are. Still, if they’d called out to God, to Christ, they might be. See, God’s love is infinite. We humans can’t comprehend the depth of His love, no matter how hard we try. But His love for us isn’t dependent on our understanding.”

“It sounds too easy,” Nick said. “You’re telling me if they just accepted Jesus, they could get into Heaven?”

“It’s not really about Heaven at this point, is it? Yours is a question of what people deserve. You think people have to pay for their sins, am I right?”

“It makes sense.”

I leaned forward, adopting their posture. The three of us huddled together like campers exchanging ghost stories around a campfire.

“People do pay for their sins, in this life. There are always consequences for our actions. But in the spiritual realm, Christ did all the work for us. It may be easy for us, but you have to understand, it was the hardest thing Christ ever did.”

I remembered the conversation I had with Mason, when I insisted salvation sounded too easy. I thought again of Nadine hanging on the cross and cringed.

Caleb stared at us intently, expectantly. “You boys do much praying?”

Nick shook his head like a child being reprimanded by his parents.

I nodded. “Lately? Yeah.”

Caleb paused before he asked his next question. “Have you said the prayer.”

I shook my head, then buried my face in my hands. Sobs rushed through me, shook me. Tears wet the corners of my eyes. I couldn’t figure out why such a simple question had affected me so poignantly.

I’d finally heard the voice of God. I’d thought He’d be angry, maybe disappointed in my stubbornness. Instead, He spoke with patience and hope, a loving father to a prodigal son, welcoming me home with open arms.

Nick’s sobs echoed mine.

Why had it taken me this long? Sorrow reached in and gripped my heart, not because I felt evil, but because I’d wasted my life, my marriage with Nadine. Selfishness robbed me of whatever joy I could have had. I’d wasted so many years on myself, trying to find contentment and joy and love. And all that time, it was right in front of me. How many times had Nadine told me that? How many times had I ignored her?

Caleb spoke softly through our sobbing. “We can’t change our past, gentlemen. We can’t undo what we’ve done. But we can change our future. We can change ourselves.”

I nodded and wiped my tears from my face. I sat up straight and slowed my breathing to regain control. Nick did the same. “I want to change,” he said.

And then, almost without realizing it was my voice, I said, “Me too.”

Chapter 26

Monday, September 7th

Nadine lay quietly on the couch when I came back to Aida’s. Eyes closed, she slept peacefully. I had a box of spaghetti from Sue’s to deliver, but it could wait. Sleep was more important for her now.

Aida smiled as I shut the door quietly behind me. “You’ve been gone most of the day. I take it things went well?”

“You want spaghetti? Brought enough for the two of you.”

She shook her head. “What happened today?”

“How’s Mason?”

“You can ask your questions after you answer mine. How did things go? What happened?”

I pushed the leftovers in the over-crowded fridge. “It went well, yes.”

“How well was well?”

“Two stories well.” I sat near Aida and put my hands behind my head, pulled my elbows around my ears and closed my eyes.

“You were gone an awful long time for two stories.”

“We grabbed dinner after the interviews.”

“Who’s ‘we’?”

We kept our voices low so as not to disturb Nadine, but she smiled. Her eyes may be closed, but she was probably awake and paying close attention.

I sighed. “I’ll start from the top.” I told her what transpired throughout the day, the interviews with Veronica and Nick. Veronica’s story would be easy to spin in a positive light. I left out the part of Nick parking on the tracks. I’d tell them eventually, but had no interest in upsetting them.

I told them about the visit to Caleb’s and the dinner with Nick, myself, and Caleb. Veronica waited on us. The service and food were noticeably better. I’d actually enjoyed the dinner, something I’d never guessed I’d say.

“You’re making friends,” Nadine whispered, still smiling.

“I guess I am.”

For the first time, on my drive back to Aida’s, I saw the beauty of the desert. It no longer looked diseased. The sun set and poured liquid gold over the entire landscape. Smog never touched the clear sky; I could almost count the stars.

The desert’s beauty stemmed from its hope. It might be a challenging place to live, but people and animals and plants did it each day. Despite the adversity, the desert offered an opportunity to rise up. They might not have money, but the people of Hailey triumphed over circumstances every day.

However, the desert’s beauty came with tragedy, a tragedy stemming from the same optimism offered by the desert. Yes, the people could rise up, yes they could make something of themselves, yes they could make a difference, but so few chose to. Rather than put in the effort to rectify bad marriages, to forgive neighbors, or to forgive family, most of them chose the easier path: remove the source of the trouble by whatever means necessary.

At first, I assumed the tragedy of the desert was its people’s inability to overcome. Now I understood it was the lack of decisions to persevere, to better themselves.

A correctable problem.

Mason theorized the depravity of the town was a symptom of a larger spiritual problem. After interviewing so many of its citizens, I started believing him. But, in one afternoon, a profound change happened in me and in Nick. If men like us could change, who couldn’t? None were beyond the grace of God.

When I got to the part about the conversation Nick, Caleb, and I had, Nadine’s eyes snapped open. Her mouth opened slightly, and I could see the corners of her eyes glistening. “Connor.”

I still felt nervous. It seemed awkward, with Aida and Nadine both staring at me. I felt childish and uncomfortable, so I stood up. “How’s Mason?”

She shrugged. “I told him if he was nervous about the wedding, he could have talked to me.”

I laughed, wandered to the window and looked out at the sun as it set behind the mountains. The sky ignited; the mountains blackened to charcoal. “Really.”

“He lost a lot of blood. They’re keeping him for a few days. Want to make sure the transfusion went all right. Other than that, they expect a full recovery.”

“That’s good news, right?”

“Shouldn’t have gotten shot in the first place,” she muttered.

“The wedding.” Nadine spoke softly.

I nodded. “So it’s delayed a few more days.”

Aida looked hard at me. “Do we have a few more days?”

I sighed. “You know it’s not up to me, right?”

“I was asking,” she said. “It’s not an accusation. I really want to know. Do we have a few more days?”

I sat down. Not exactly dinner party conversation. “You tell me. All I do is collect the stories and write them down. You guys have picked out everyone for me to interview so far. You know them as well as I do.” I paused, searched for the right way to verbalize the central question that plagued me since I left Caleb’s. “Who decides who is righteous? Is it us?”

Nadine said, “You know as well as we do.”

I nodded. “God. Help me follow this logic: If God decides who is and isn’t righteous, and if He truly knows all, then why am I writing articles to try to save the town? Why is the town even in danger? Caleb said that there was no sin so great God couldn’t forgive it.”

“Makes sense.” Aida turned on the couch to face me better.

“Does it matter what these people have done? Can’t God forgive them?”

Nadine spoke without changing her position. “He can, but they have to want it. They have to ask.”

“Exactly,” Aida said.

I wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “It doesn’t follow for Him to destroy the town. Why not spare them, give them an opportunity to cry out for forgiveness?”

Aida didn’t hesitate. “They haven’t. I’ve lived here a long time. I know these people. They’ve had the opportunity and have consistently rejected it. They don’t want to be forgiven. It’d mess with their cycle of self-loathing.”

I quieted for a minute, upset with my next thought. “If I can do it, they can do it. I’m proof people can change. Why not be patient with Hailey as He was patient with me?”

Aida and Nadine looked at each other expectantly, as if the other had the answer they lacked.

Finally, Nadine spoke. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to hear about your transformation today, but it wasn’t a one-time thing. It’s been something you’ve been wrestling with for a while. You fought against it so hard, probably because you knew it was true, and you knew it meant that you’d have to accept you were imperfect, vulnerable, and worst of all, subservient to God. You’re too strong willed to be made to rely on someone outside yourself. I’m not sure we can say the same for Hailey.”

“We’ve all seen them resist the things of God. People don’t like God here. How are they different from me? Are they? Did God want to destroy me too?”

“Of course not,” Aida said.

“I’m not angry. I’m trying to figure this out.”

“We all are, Connor.” Nadine sat up slowly, and my breath caught. “I know enough to know I don’t know everything. But when God tells us something, we need to do it. And by all accounts, this task, this mission of yours, is from God. He picked you for a reason. It might have been to bring you to God, or it could be something greater. I can’t answer all your questions. We can only do what God asks, and then trust Him.”

“I’m not great with trust.”

“All in good time,” Nadine said. “You’re getting better.”

“Thanks.” I stood up. “Guess I have some articles to write.”

* * *

Despite my fatigue and exhaustion, the articles came easy, nearly wrote themselves. I wrote with the window open, letting the zephyr refresh the cramped, stale room. In a few hours, I had solid first drafts of both articles. I wouldn’t call them publishable, but they had strong bones, enough to build musculature and skin on in a second draft. Ordinarily, I’d take another pass at them, but was satisfied with what I had. I wouldn’t be turning these articles in to an editor, so I had no reason to sweat final polish now. I needed rest, sleep. But before I slipped into bed, I decided to call Mason.

I’d not gotten an opportunity to see him that day, and wanted to set up the final interviews. I hoped the time at the hospital afforded him an opportunity to think of more leads. With only three left, the end seemed close. If I played my cards right, I’d be able to finish a little early, which would give me time to do a once over of each article, double check facts, maybe confer with Mason, Aida, and Nadine, or better yet, Caleb, to see where we stood.

From the seven articles I’d done, I could find three clear cut examples of righteousness: Mason, Bernard, and Veronica. Both Mason and Veronica had saved someone’s life. In a way, Bernard saved his wife’s life. No telling what would have happened to her if she continued working the streets. There had to be someone else—a teacher, a fireman, a cop, a doctor, someone I could spin as righteous.

What reason did God have for having me write the articles? Nadine would be much better. She had the sense of God, said she heard His will. Not in verbal words, but feelings she gets, a sort of spiritual sixth sense—something I’d never had and doubted I ever would.

In church, she would sing and pray, head bowed, hands stretched roofward, palms up as if offering an invisible sword to a king. She had an attitude of worship, of awe and wonder for God. Had she been born with it, or did she learn it? Would I, someday, adopt the same posture, the same reverence of fear and wonder?

I got up from the desk and stretched; I popped my neck, my back and my knuckles.

Aida shouted from the living room. “You and Mason are both going to get arthritis!”

I walked to the living room and smiled. “Old wives tale. No evidence to back it up. I researched it.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re so smart, maybe you should be the nurse.”

“No chance. The hours are terrible.”

Nadine smiled. “You done for the night?”

Aida stared me down, “Good. Go to bed. You look like death.”

“Thanks, Aida, but I thought I might call Mason before I turn in. May I have the hospital’s number?”

“On the fridge.”

Nadine reclined on the couch, feet up on the armrest. “After you call Mason, can you sit up with me and Aida a few minutes?”

I smiled. “Of course.” She looked so much healthier, so much stronger. Her color returned to normal, and the fact she wanted to stay up gave me hope. Every cell in my body longed for sleep, but I’d not deny my wife.

I grabbed the phone from the kitchen and the number off the fridge and headed back to the guest room. I sat on the corner of the desk, punched in the number, then pressed “0” for the hospital operator. A few minutes later, she connected me to Mason.

He answered and sounded disoriented. “Hello?”

“It’s Connor. How you feeling?”

He groaned.

“That good?”

He spoke with a clawed voice. “Ask Aida what it is they’re giving me down here. Then make sure you never take it.”
“Not working?”

“Dulls most of the pain, but makes me crazy sick. They give me red pills to help with the pain, then blue pills to keep me from throwing up. Catches me in this purple-pilled, stomach-fire, acid-breathing pain. My mouth tastes like I’ve been sucking on aluminum cans.”

My lack of sleep seemed less significant. “Sounds miserable.”

“If you get the chance, you should never try it.”

“Aida says they expect a full recovery?”

“So says the doc.”

“That’s good news at least. I was going to stop by today, but had a few interviews.”

He swallowed hard and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re the one person I don’t want to see. You’ve got a job to do.”

I stood up and paced. “So you don’t want the town to be destroyed after all?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight when I said that.”

“I know, just double checking.” I paced the perimeter of the room, past the peninsula of the bed and desk. “I wanted to talk shop for a bit. You up for it?”

“Go ahead.”

“I put together two articles today. Veronica Spencer and Nick Ulin. Know them?”

“Veronica and Nick. Of course. Should have remembered them. How’d that go?”

“Surprisingly well. So I’ve got three articles left. I’m doing one with a guy named Tyler tomorrow.”

“Tyler Morrison?”

“I think that’s what Aida said.”

“Have fun with that.” His voice indicated that he expected the opposite.

“I’m sure I will. Anyway, that leaves me two more articles to write. I was wondering if you had time to think about possible leads.”

“Ugh. Thought you might ask that.”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“I met a guy here today, lying next to me as we speak. He moved to Hailey years ago. Not many people moving in these days. Anyway, you can give him a shot. But I’m stumped as to the other.”

I sighed. “No one else? No firemen, cops, teachers, doctors? Nothing?”

I heard beeping in the background; a nurse suggested Mason get off the phone and rest. He assured her he would as soon as we’d finished speaking.

“Let’s see,” he said. “Firemen in Hailey are generally arsonists. The two cops living in Hailey are both crooked. Four teachers live in Hailey, as far as I know. They’re all,” he paused, “unethical. Can’t think of a single doctor living in town. They’ve got too much money to live out there.” He paused again. “No, wait, there is one. Doctor Slate. Ran a free clinic off some government grants and subsidies for a bit. He might be a good candidate.”

“Great. The guy next to you, how long’s he going to be there?”

“Quite a while, by the looks of him. A very long while.”

* * *

I got up early again, dressed quickly and quietly, and headed down to Sue’s. Tyler would meet me there at six, according to Aida. I wondered how anyone could consistently get up before the sun. It couldn’t be healthy.

I slipped on my jacket and shivered while the car warmed up. For old time’s sake, I flipped through the radio station in hopes of finding a good news station. Nothing. I shut the radio off, rubbed my hands together to get the feeling back in my fingers and pulled onto 29.

Yesterday, there’d been half a dozen workers taking breakfast with the sunrise. Today, only two cars took spaces in Sue’s parking lot, and only one patron sat at the bar. I didn’t recognize him from yesterday. He nursed a coffee and smiled. Behind him, Ronnie didn’t look happy.

The man set his coffee down. “You must be the reporter?”

Ronnie shook her head, her face grim.

This man wasn’t a fan. “Just passing through. Thought I’d grab some coffee. Hear good things about this place in the travel mags.”

Could he hear my heart rattling in my chest? I sat on the stool on the opposite side of the counter and hoped Veronica would forgive me for making her hobble back and forth. “I take it you’re a local?” I asked.

Even sitting, I could tell the man had at least four inches and fifty pounds on me. He could have been a linebacker. Still smiling, he said, “What gave me away?”

I pointed to his blue windbreaker. “Logo on your jacket matches the logo on the cement plant down the way.”

He put his coffee down, and his smile disappeared. “Cement plant’s to the north, which means you must’ve passed it coming south. Where you coming from, and where you headed to?” His pleasant pretense disappeared.

“Coming from Vegas. Visiting family in San Diego.”

I tried to keep my answers quick and vague. I hoped Aida wouldn’t mind me borrowing her cover story.

“Settle down, Ryan. He’s not the one you’re looking for,” Veronica said.

Ryan? Where had I heard that name? Bernard’s eldest son. Bad news. As the eldest, he must have set the precedent of evil for his younger brothers and sisters to follow.

I didn’t like lying to one of Bernard’s kids, but Veronica started me down the road, so I’d have to follow through with it. Besides, I couldn’t think of any other way out. If I wanted him to believe I wasn’t Connor, I’d have to show him I wasn’t afraid.

“You’re looking for a reporter?”

He nodded. He had a sickly green tattoo of a teardrop on his cheek and a shamrock on his wrist with the number twelve. I recognized them immediately—prison tattoos. He’d killed someone and belonged to the Aryan Brotherhood. “Yup.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

Veronica handed me a cup of coffee and I drank it, doing my best to look unafraid and ignorant.

“He hurt my sister, and now I’m going to hurt him.”

I sipped my coffee, curled my lip. “Got anything fresher, sweetheart?”

“Please,” Veronica said. “Be happy it’s coffee at all.”

I turned back to Ryan. “So, what, was this like a relationship gone bad or something?”

If I wanted to sound like I didn’t know what he meant, like I didn’t know he intended to maim or kill me, I’d need to poke while continuing the guise of ignorance. It didn’t make sense, but if I could prod him enough, he might just buy my story. He’d expect the reporter to tuck tail and run. By doing the opposite, I might convince him I wasn’t the man he wanted. I’d have to balance my brashness. Too much might make him want to kill me regardless. “He cheat on her, was that it?”

“Listen here. My sister’s in a hospital with two broken arms, double compound fractures on ‘em both. She near bled to death on the way to the hospital as I hear it. And it was this reporter who did it. He’s supposed to be coming in here this morning, and I’ll be here waiting for him.”

I swallowed some more coffee and grimaced. “What kind of a reporter beats a woman like that? I can’t even imagine a situation like that.”

“He was trespassing with a friend of his. Another guy I’m going to kill. He’s in the hospital now, too, so I figure I’ll wait until he’s all better before I come after him.”

“Why’s that?”

“I want to make it last.”

Despite my chilling fear, I smiled.

“Something funny?”

“No offense, but you sound like a bad movie script.”

I’d gone too far, pushed too much, but couldn’t back down now. I played a bold, unafraid, abrasive character, one who’d fit right in here in Hailey. On some level I wondered if I could out-bully the bully. It worked in many situations, but might not when faced with a man this cold.

Ryan swiveled in his seat to better face me. “Two options, big mouth. You shut your face or I kill you where you sit. None of this is your business anyhow.”

I put my hands up in the air. “You win. I’ll shut up.” I swallowed the last bit of my coffee, dropped a couple bucks on the counter, and got up. “I’ll let you eat in peace. Good luck with the reporter.”

Ryan stood up. “I don’t trust you. You look an awful lot like Gloria says.”

I shrugged. “I get that a lot, but I swear, I’m not Matthew Perry.”

In a single swift motion, he yanked a switchblade from his back pocket. He flicked it open with a jerk of his wrist and had it at my throat before I could blink. His fist had the front of my shirt and he pushed me backward until I was lying on the bar.

“Truth time. Tell me who you are, for real, and maybe you die quick. Lie to me again, and I’ll gut you like a fish and make you watch.”

I’d expected a gun, not a knife. On my way in, I’d seen a slight bulge in the back of his shirt. I’d guessed the lump to be a firearm tucked into the waist of his jeans, but Ryan’s words proved him to be the kind of guy who liked to watch people struggle and plead for their lives before he killed them.

“Put it down, Ryan.” Fear shook Veronica’s voice. “I’ll call the cops, I swear.”

“Call ‘em. Time they get here, won’t be nothing but three bleeding bodies.”

The fear I felt in Africa gripped me again, seized my heart and strangled my blood flow. What would Nadine do without me? “Easy. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

He pressed the knife harder against my neck. My pulse pressed against the blade with each fear-driven pump of my heart. A flick of his wrist and he’d sever my jugular. Men like him don’t miss.

How much would I bleed? Would it cover the floor? What would it feel like, the cold steel slicing skin, the searing heat of lacerated skin, the hot blood rushing out?

Ryan had the look of a Janjaweed in his eye, a vacant stare deprived of all empathy, as if some invisible entity reached into his soul and extracted whatever humanity and conscience he’d had as a child.

Greg saw this look when he confronted Nathan.

What blackness lived within Ryan? “Are you the reporter or aren’t you?”

A straight, honest answer would earn a knife in my neck, as would a hesitant answer. I prayed for the answer, for the words to speak. I took a breath. “Did Gloria tell you everything?”

He lowered his eyebrows, but not the knife.

I asked again. “Everything?”

“What’s there to tell? Man busted her up with a baseball bat.”

“She shot a man. My friend. Did she say why she shot him? Did she tell you who drove her to the hospital?”

The pressure of the knife lessened on my neck. He pulled me up by the shirt. “Talk, Reporter Man.”

“Your father is ill. He wanted to tell me a few things before he passed on. I showed up with my friend. We knew Gloria wouldn’t like it, so when she showed up, we ran out the back. She shot at us. We ducked into the wash, but not before she hit my friend. Next thing I know, she’s standing over me with the gun. I panicked. I grabbed the bat, the only thing around, and protected us.

“I could have left her. She’d have bled out and died on the spot if I did. But I didn’t. I put her in the truck and rushed down to the hospital. Trust me, I never intended to hurt her. I only wanted to protect myself and my friend.”

I spoke slowly and confidently, though fear tickled my esophagus.

“What business do you and Mason have with Bernard?” He moved the knife closer to my throat, pressed the tip just under my chin. “Life insurance business?”

I kept my eyes locked on his. “Church business.”

He cursed the church and Mason. “Give me a reason not to kill you.”

I wondered if I should tell the truth. I had a wife who was dying, who needed me to care for her. If he killed me, the whole town would be destroyed by the very breath of God. Somehow, I figured that’d get the knife-point in my larynx faster than anything. I remembered how furious I became when faced with the name of God before I finally accepted Him. Would he be hostile like me?

He wanted the truth, and I felt obligated to give it. And strangely, I trusted God to save me. My fear trickled away.

“If you kill me, this whole town will be destroyed. You, your brothers and sisters, everyone.”

He grinned. “Oh that’s good.”

“Want to know how it’s going to end?”

“Tell me, Reporter Man.”

“A tornado. The very breath of God will sweep through here and clear this place of all the evil in it.”

“So maybe I kill you, get up to the mountains and watch. Sounds like quite a show.”

“You wanted the truth.”

Behind him, the wind swirled outside. The few trees near Sue’s bent with the strain. Dirt spiraled into a dust tornado. And that’s when the front door crashed in.

Dust and twigs and tumbleweeds swirled in. The door crashed into a table. The crash ricocheted off the walls like an echo in a cavern. I leaned back when Ryan turned his head.

The dust came in thick golden smoke and swirled at the entryway. Ryan pulled the knife back and covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow.

Carl didn’t hesitate. He rushed out from the kitchen with a cast-iron skillet and smashed Ryan in the side of the head. The thud hit me like a train. The man fell in a heap.

Carl looked at me. “I could’ve hit him harder.”

“I believe it.” I picked up the switchblade and handed it to him, then slipped the gun from his waist. I’d guessed right. He had a Glock 9 mm loaded and ready to go.

“Glad he started with the knife,” Carl said.

“Me, too. He’s going to be mad when he gets up.”

He took the gun and knife and locked them in a drawer. “I can handle him now.”

I agreed. If Ryan had a linebacker’s build, Carl was the offensive lineman. His neck would shame the trunk of most trees.

Veronica snatched up the phone and dialed 911. “Doubt the cops will do anything, but it’s worth a shot.”

Carl nodded toward Ryan. “It was pretty touch and go there for a minute. Didn’t want to do anything to get you cut up.”

“I appreciate it.” The wind eased slightly and the door fell shut. “That wind was convenient.”

Veronica hung up the phone. “Said they’d be here in an hour. You must be charmed or something.” Her color returned. She rested both elbows on the counter, her face in her hands.

“Something.”

She asked, “You mean all that stuff about the breath of God?”

I jerked my thumb toward the front door. “Doesn’t sound crazy anymore, does it?”

“Should I pack up Emily?”

I wanted to say yes, wanted to tell her to pack up the child and get out of Hailey while she could, but didn’t want to panic her. Beyond that, I wondered if her being gone would mean one fewer righteous person in Hailey.

“Hold tight. You may want to have some things ready to go real quick. I have a lot of work to do, but we’re not at the panic stage yet.” In a softer voice, I said, “I don’t know how to say thank you.”

Veronica put a hand up. “Just make sure we don’t have to rush out of town. Believe it or not, some of us kind of like where we are.”

I nodded. “Can do. One last thing: it’d probably be best if you guys didn’t go around mentioning this. The last thing this town needs is widespread panic.”

Ryan moaned, put an arm over his head and rolled over.

Carl said, “Better get going.”

The wind died down, and I raced out to my car. Even if Tyler showed up, the possibility of an interview with him at Sue’s was out. I’d have to talk to him elsewhere, if at all.

* * *

I didn’t consider which way to go. I wanted to get out of Sue’s as fast as I could. I turned right onto 29 and prayed. I hadn’t prayed much in my life, and though I’d done a good amount over the last few days, I still had to rely on what I heard of Nadine’s prayers to guide me. From what I gathered between her and Caleb, God was approachable. He’d already heard and answered one prayer that day, and humbled me in the process.

I didn’t know what to say. I felt insane saying anything at all, but ungrateful to stay silent. “Lord Jesus,” I said. “Wow.”

The rest of my prayer, my gratitude, my thanksgiving, my humility, all rolled into the one word. I said “Wow,” again, and it carried my insecurities, my fears and doubts, my anguish over Nadine’s condition, my disbelief about the situation now facing me. I didn’t know if He could understand all that from one word, but I had a feeling He did.

I wanted to flip a U-turn and rush back to Aida’s, to hold Nadine in my arms and kiss her cheeks. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her, how much it killed me being away from her when she was like this. But her health improved each time I wrote an article, and I had to trust God’s control, an act I found easier after the well-timed dust devil that kicked in Sue’s door.

Before I knew it, I’d traveled all the way into Newland Hospital. I decided to pop in on Mason, to check on him, and, if I couldn’t interview Tyler, why not the other guy Mason told me about? I could talk with him and then, maybe on my way back, if time permitted, stop by the free clinic in Hailey to talk with Doctor Slate.

I can’t say the plan had been well thought out, but it accomplished my primary goal: keeping my distance from Bernard’s kids. As I thought about it, I made a chilling realization.

If they knew I was working with Mason, how long until they made the connection between Mason and Aida? And, if they did, how long would it be until they came to Aida’s looking for Mason or me? Had they already been to Mason’s?

At the next light, one street away from the hospital, I turned the car around. I flipped open my cell and dialed Aida. “It’s me. Get some stuff packed together real fast and get you and Nadine out of there. Call me when you’re out of the house.”

“What’s wrong? Do you know something we don’t?”

“Please, Aida. Trust me on this. I want you and Nadine out of there now. I don’t care where you go. Pack light. Take only what you absolutely need. That includes my laptop.”

“Already got it.”

Nadine screamed.

Something terrifyingly loud crashed through the phone into my ear. I pulled the receiver away and winced.

“Aida!” I shouted. “What’s going on?” I heard footsteps, more crackling, then gunshots. I hung up, punched the accelerator, and dialed 911.

An operator asked the nature of my emergency. The wind picked up again, and I had to hold the steering wheel at a near forty-five degree angle to keep it on the road. “I heard gunshots at my sister-in-law’s house. She’s there with my wife.”

“I’ll connect you to the police.” The phone clicked, and a few minutes later another voice answered. “Police, what’s your emergency?”

I skipped to the nitty-gritty. “Shots fired at 3232 Westchester in Hailey. My wife and her sister are in the house.”

“Okay. I’ll have a car drive by and check it out.”

“When?”

“No cars in the area. Hailey’s a ways off. Maybe thirty minutes.”

“They might be dead in thirty minutes.”

“Not much I can do about that.”

Disgusted, I hung up. Judging by everyone else’s stories, I’d be lucky if they showed at all.

Again, I prayed. “Please, God. Please.”

* * *

Five minutes away from Aida’s house, I called her again. I had driven nearly ninety miles an hour for ten minutes.

Aida finally answered. “We’re in the car.”

“What in the world was going on out there?”

“Where are you?”

“On 29, five minutes out.”

“Don’t go by the house. We’re going into Newland. Meet us at the hospital.”

I checked over my shoulder. No cars. I slowed and cranked the wheel, turning the car around far too quickly. I tipped onto two wheels, held my breath and exhaled when the car crashed back on all four tires. “I just flipped around. You should be passing me soon. I’m going to follow you.”

“Thanks, but not necessary. We’re out of trouble for now.”

“Tell me what happened.” The sun rose high, glared blinding lights through my window. I flipped my visor down.

“Fire.” I thought of Aida’s story. She’d had the same tone I’d imagined she’d used when confronting her ex-husband about the drugs. Aida didn’t like resorting to violence, but she could hold her own if it came to it.

“Who was shooting?”

She hung up.

Racing down the freeway, I called her back. “If you won’t talk to me, at least let me speak to Nadine.”

“She doesn’t feel much like talking now.” She hung up again.

I threw my phone on the passenger seat and hit the steering wheel. I clenched my jaw and sped up.

The wind howled outside, pushing the car hard to the left. The car slid on the pavement, like driving on Colorado ice. Dust devils lined the desert like a hundred tiny tornados. Frustration and anger screeched in my mind, made my brain ache with a million imagined voices, and through them all, one cutting whisper.

It sliced through the other voices, severing them from their breath, until only the gentle whisper remained, like a breeze in my brain while the wind raged outside the car.

Peace, it said.

A suggestion? A command? A gift.

I slowed the car and prayed, in earnest, for peace. I’d never heard the voice of God, but the whispered word couldn’t be mistaken.

Anger and exhaustion returned. I was sick of fear and fury, of cancer and disease, of lies and running, of walking on eggshells and wondering why all this happened to me. Where was God in this?

I made myself sick with want for answers, tasted bile rising from the turbulence of my stomach.

Peace. Trust. I am on My throne.

I’d never been good with trust. I pressed the gas pedal and exhaled slowly. Clouds gathered overhead. Drops of rain peppered my windshield. In the distance, just over the mountains far to the west, a rainbow split the sky.

I keep My promises. I promise peace. Trust in Me.

Trust. A simple request, but one I wasn’t sure I could fulfill. I gripped the wheel, hit the windshield wipers, and whispered, “Help me trust You.”

* * *

I beat Aida and Nadine to the hospital by minutes. Once I spotted Aida’s car, I ran to where she parked.

Aida slipped out of the car quickly. “Help me with Nadine,”

Nadine reclined in her seat, eyes clenched like fists, tears tracing her cheeks.

I rushed to her. “What help? Why does she need help?”

“The fire. She’s not burned badly, but it took me a bit to get her out of the house. The smoke aggravated her lungs.”

Nadine’s skin paled to a wispy, wraithlike white. “Nadine, honey, can you walk?”

She shook her head.

Aida and I helped Nadine struggle out of the car. While Aida steadied her, I picked her up at her knees and under her shoulders. She weighed so little, I could have been carrying a sleeping child to her room. She wrapped her arms around my neck, and Aida shut and locked the car door behind us. I hurried to the ER, walking as quickly as I could without jarring my wife. Aida ran ahead and talked with the nurse.

I set Nadine down gently in a plastic chair with flimsy aluminum legs. She had nowhere to recline or rest her feet. She clutched her stomach, hunched over. I sat next to her and gently rubbed her back. Her muscles were knotted and tense. She trembled under my hand.

Furious, I went back to praying, not because I felt particularly righteous or close to God, but because I didn’t.

Trust Me. I will bring you peace.

Sooner would be better than later.

Patience.

Never been good with that, either.

Caleb insisted God would hear me when I called out, that He wanted me to seek Him. I did so now. I cried out to Him, gave Him my worry and fear and pain and anger. I told him I wanted to pack Nadine up and drive back to Colorado immediately, that I was angry God had called me here in the first place. I asked Him why he’d let this happen to Nadine, to me, to Mason and Aida. If He wanted the town destroyed, He could do it. Just leave us out of it.

And what of Caleb? Veronica and Carl? Emily? Bernard?

Then don’t destroy the town. Leave it alone and let us get on with our lives.

Trust Me.

I shook my head, more confused now than ever. By my reasoning, Mason and Aida, Caleb and Veronica, Bernard and Emily, they were righteous. If for no other reason, God should spare Hailey for the sake of Emily. So maybe I’d done my job. Maybe I’d found the righteous people of Hailey.

If I had, why then did we suffer for it? Shouldn’t Nadine be healed? Instead, we sat in Newland Hospital again. I’d spent more time here than I had at Aida’s.

At the counter, Aida filled out paperwork. She slumped her shoulders. Her purse slipped from her shoulder down to her elbow. She tilted her head to one side like a curious dog and rolled her neck around slowly.

I whispered to my wife. “Aida’s on the case. We’ll get some help real soon.”

She shook under my hand.

I wanted to put my arm around her, but worried the simple weight of my arm would be too much for her, might crush her.

Aida sat next to Nadine. Leaning in close, she whispered, “I pulled a few strings. You’ll be in within a few minutes.”

Nadine wiped tears from her face and crossed her arms across her stomach again.

She kissed Nadine’s forehead. I’d not seen Aida make such a gentle, loving gesture. “Whenever the doctor has a minute, we’ll get right in.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Aida rolled her eyes. “I told you already. There was a fire.”

“And gunshots?”

“Me. Thought I saw them outside. My shotgun’s loaded with birdshot. Not enough to kill, but enough to wish it would.”

“Them who?”

“Whoever set my house on fire.”

Arson. Made sense. When Aida mentioned fire, I never suspected faulty wiring or gas leaks. “Did you get a good look at them?”

“They burned and turned. House went up quick. I’m guessing they dumped gasoline around the house.”

I shook my head. “You called the fire department?”

“I left them my number. They’ll get there when they feel like it. I’m not expecting anything to make it. I’ve made my peace with it. Wasn’t anything in that house I was particularly attached to anyway.”

“Where will you stay?”

“Mason’s.”

I shook my head. “Not a good idea. What if they got to his house, too?”

Aida grimaced. “You have a suspect?”

“Any of Bernard’s kids. One showed up at Sue’s this morning and waited for me.”

I moved my finger across my throat to show Aida Ryan’s intentions. With Nadine still huddled over, I knew she wouldn’t see. I didn’t want to further upset her.

Aida nodded. “I should be surprised or disappointed, but you get to a point where you kinda accept facts. This is Hailey, you know? It’s how it’s always been.”

Nadine shuddered and whimpered softly. She never complained, never moaned or groaned. For her to do so now, she must be in agony. My helplessness, my inability to help her, tore my heart apart. I knelt before her, hugged her. She clutched my shoulders, my shirt, and buried her face in my neck. She pressed her cheek against mine. I wondered which were her tears, and which were mine.

* * *

The weakness scared her the most, she said. When they called her name, the nurse came out with a black wheelchair. Nadine stared at it, tried to be brave, to show dignity through adversity, courage through fear.

I walked beside her, and she held my hand for a few minutes before resting it on the arm of the chair.

“Too heavy,” she said. I nodded and cleared my throat.

Aida said, if I had everything under control, she wanted to see Mason. I said I did, and she kissed Nadine’s cheek and disappeared down a hall. A good sign. If Nadine were as bad off as I thought, Aida would never leave her.

I stood beside her as nurses drew vial after vial of blood, measured her weight, heart rate, blood pressure. They recorded each number with meticulous care in Nadine’s chart.

Sometime between the x-rays and the MRI, Nadine took my hand.

“Connor, I want you to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“If it comes to it, I want you to finish the articles.”

“I was planning on it.”

She put her hand on mine. “With or without me.”

I sighed. “Nadine, stop.”

“Connor, we need to talk about this.”

I slunk down in my seat. “No, we don’t.”

Nadine squeezed my hand. “I don’t want to talk about it either, but we need to.”

I wanted to ask the nurse for some Toradol for my nausea. “Can we not talk about it, please?”

She let go of my hand. “I want you to finish up. With or without me.”

Dizziness dimmed my vision as I stood, and I nearly fell over.

“You okay?” Her simple question, forced through a raw voice, encompassed the whole of Nadine. Even with cancer raging, even with smoke-scorched lungs, she worried about me. I wished, I prayed, I might be as selfless as her.

“I need some air.” I kissed her, promised to return in a few minutes.

“Sit down.”

I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Please, Nadine. I can’t.”

“You have to deal with it, Connor. No more running or pretending.” The tone of her voice, raspy and pointed, sounded more like Aida. She said it with an exquisite motherliness. “I’m not going to live forever, and you have to face that at some point.”

“I know.”

“Then act like it.”

“You’re not going to die right now. Not today or tomorrow. Not for weeks or months or years.”

“You don’t know that,” she countered.

“Do you believe God spoke to Mason? Our first day here, when I met Mason, he told me if I didn’t write the articles, you’d die. If I did them, he said, you’d be healed.”

I sat next to her, checked the door to make sure no one was coming in. Nadine stared at me. “Of course I thought he was crazy, until Aida called to say she’d taken you to the hospital.

“Later, after writing one or two articles, I decided to quit, to spend the days with you. That’s when you stopped breathing.”

It took me a while to recount the events. My throat seized up, and I had to pause until I could breathe. My shoulder grew damp under Nadine’s cheek. I rested my cheek on the top of her head and spoke with more conviction.

“This room, this hospital, these tests; they’re setbacks. That’s it. It’s a bump in a road, a pothole. We’ll get through this.”

“Connor.”

“You’re going to be fine. You have to be fine, because I’m going to finish these articles, and we’re going to save Hailey. We’re going to save Mason and Aida. And I’m going to save you.”

“Only God can save me.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“But that’s not what you said. I’m in God’s hands. Live or die, it’s by His words, Connor, not yours.”

I cleared my throat and wiped my eyes. “Then why’d He pick me? Why’s He putting this responsibility on me?”

“Maybe you’re not the one doing the saving. Maybe you’re the one being saved.”

* * *

They finally put Nadine in a one-bed room with a window. The vertical blinds were stuck open. Outside, the wind rampaged through the hospital courtyard, bending saplings at forty-five degree angles. She asked for the television to be put on Food Network. Had to be a good sign.

I knew she felt better when she said, “Gives me something to imagine when they bring me dinner.”

Aida came in and told me she’d talked to the doctor. According to the X-rays and MRIs, the cancer hadn’t spread much. In fact, it might have regressed, which the doctor found puzzling. The smoke and heat aggravated the cancer in her lungs. They wanted to keep her for a couple days for observation.

When I hung my head and looked at my feet, Aida said, “Probably for the best anyway.”

“Guess here’s just as good as anywhere else.” I looked her in the eye. “She’ll be safe here?”

“Safer here than anywhere,” Aida said. “I’ll split time between Mason and Nadine; an hour here, an hour there, until you’re back from all your interviews. You can write your articles here, with Nadine. If either of them feels up to a walk, we’ll cruise down to the cafeteria. Not exactly a five-star hotel, but it’ll work for the next few days.”

“I’m guessing they don’t have bunk beds hidden in the janitor’s closet. Where will we sleep?”

“Put a couple chairs together and you’ll feel right at home.”

I ran a hand over Nadine’s shoulder. “Why do I doubt that?”

“Because I’m full of it. You won’t be right at home, but you can catch an hour or two.”

“More strings?”

She nodded. “Hospitals are marionettes. Just got to know what strings to pull.”

“I’ve never been so glad to have a nurse for a sister-in-law.”

“You need to go see Mason. Since you’re not going anywhere for a while, he thought you might interview his roommate.”

If Aida hadn’t brought back such positive news about Nadine’s condition, I’d never have considered leaving her then. But I only had a few interviews to finish, and if I could get them out of the way, I could spend the rest of my time here writing, next to Nadine. We’d be safe here. Nadine could rest while I interviewed Mason’s roommate. And, for once, it’d be nice not to have to worry about psychopathic killers or tornados swooping like owls on mice. “You’ll stay with her?”

“Get out of here.” She kissed my cheek. “You’re doing good work. I’ll take care of Nadine.”

Surprised by her affectionate gesture, I smiled. I’d never imagined Aida capable of such tenderness. I thanked her, kissed Nadine’s forehead, and walked to Mason’s room.

Six hallways and an elevator later, I found Mason propped up in bed with his eyes closed. I knocked gently and stuck my head into the room. “You up?”

Mason mumbled, “Come in.” He didn’t open his eyes.

I walked in past the man in the neck brace and the half-purple face. His left eye had swollen shut. A baby blue blanket covered most of his body, though his casted left leg and casted right arm stuck out. His chest rose slowly—the breathing of the slumbering.

I walked to the pink seats next to the window closest to Mason’s bed and sat down. “How’s it going?”

Outside, the wind howled at the window. “Well as can be expected.” He still hadn’t opened his eyes. “Sounds like we don’t have much time left.”

In a strange way, I envied Mason and his roommate. They might be beaten and shot, but at least they slept. How long had it been since I’d had a full night’s sleep? I’d stopped counting the hours of rest I’d had in the past few days. It depressed me. I’d be willing to trade a broken arm for a few more hours of sleep. Instead, I put the thought from my mind.

“How much longer till they spring you?”

“Couple days. Doc wants to make sure I’m healing up right.”

“Did Aida tell you?”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Thank God they got out okay.”

“I did. I thanked Aida while I was at it.”

“She says Nadine’s better than she thought. Smoke and excitement drained all her energy and upset her lungs.”

I leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared at the floor. “Something like that.”

“Couple days for her, too?”

“So Aida says.”

Mason opened his eyes and checked the television. I hadn’t noticed when I walked in; he’d tuned it to a baseball game. I’d never gotten into sports, but, by virtue of being a man, I’d taken part in enough conversations to recognize the teams. Any other man would call this an exciting game. Three-four, the Padres trailed the Giants. Bottom of the eighth, the Padres had two more chances to pull ahead.

I pointed to the screen. “Didn’t know you were a sports fan.”

“I watch, but I wouldn’t say I’m a fan. Except for football—I love football. But on a Tuesday afternoon, there’s no hope for an NFL game. So I take what’s on.”

“No sound?”

“Alex isn’t supposed to watch sports. Gets him too worked up. Once he dozed off, I flipped it to the game. Thought I’d catch a few minutes before he woke up.”

“So he’s a fan, then? Padres, I assume.”

“Fan isn’t the word I’d use. More of a junkie.”

I turned my chair to better face the television. I had no real interest in the outcome of the game, but I found sports made conversations easier at times. It broke the tension and gave us something other than the disheartening facts to focus on.

“That’s why he’s in here to begin with.”

“He plays sports? What’s he play, hockey?”

“Not an athlete.”

“He’s pretty beat up. He talk Yankees in Boston?”

“Worse. Put a few dollars down with a bookie. Made some unwise picks.”

I curled a lip. “Couldn’t cover the cost?”

“Not financially. The bookie was nice enough to forgive the debt after he watched his associate ‘talk business’ with Alex.”

“How benevolent. He’s the one you want me to interview?”

The batter swung hard and tipped it foul.

“This guy,” Mason said. “They call him a hero because he’s hitting .300, but he gets greedy. He wants his homers. He’s not patient, not a team player.” As if he needed to provide me with proof, he said, “Watch. Next pitch will be a breaking ball. He likes those. They look like fast balls, but they come in slower and break at the end. Pitcher’s got a mean sink.

“The guy will swing away again, he’ll be early, and if he’s lucky, tip it away. He’ll probably come over the top of the ball and one-hop it back to the pitcher. Easy out.”

As he finished his prediction, the pitch came in; the batter swung, and the ball bounced near the batter’s feet and ricocheted back to the pitcher. He threw it to first for the last out of the inning.

I crossed my arms. “Impressive, Nostradamus. I hope you don’t misuse your powers of prophecy.”

He closed his eyes again as another commercial came on. “No powers, just logic.”

In the quiet room, Alex’s breathing became heavier. Mason clicked the remote and the channel flipped.

Alex’ voice was hoarse. “Was that the game?”

“Flipping stations is all,” Mason said.

I brought my voice low. “We only have a couple more days, and I need to write three more articles. I want to make sure that the people I’m talking to are going to fit the bill. Some of these stories are going to be tough to spin into something good. You think Alex is good enough?”

Mason didn’t hesitate. “I’m sure.”

“What’d he do that was so good?”

From the other side of the room, I heard Alex’s raspy voice. “Why not ask me?”

Apparently, the bookie hadn’t harmed his hearing. “Didn’t realize you were listening.”

“You’re Connor, I’m guessing.”

I stood up to better see Alex. “That’s me.”

He wheezed, as his chest rose raggedly. Broken ribs, likely. “Mason’s said you’re doing a human-interest piece on Hailey?”

I nodded. “In a way, yeah.”

Alex smiled. Apparently, the bookie had done some dental work as well. “Real cool. We don’t get a lot of positive press.”

I pulled my chair to his bed and sat down. “That’s why I want to do it. Most people haven’t heard of Hailey, and when they do, the news is never good. I figure, why not show the good parts?”

Alex opened his right eye. The other had swollen shut. “I’m Alex.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Put your feet up, man. This may take a while.”

Chapter 27

ALL IN

Alex Paspaloff spread his arms out wide. “All ours, baby,” he said.

His wife Shelia frowned at the dilapidated mobile home in the center of the desert.

The sun rose over the distant mountains and painted the desert sands orange and yellow. “You disappointed?”

Her frown twisted into a grimace. “No. It’s just not what I had in mind.”

“So you’re disappointed.” He grabbed her hands. “It’s not bad on the inside. There’s a fresh coat of paint and a new carpet. It’s all done up in white and yellow. I swear the whole thing is like living inside a daisy.”

He gently pulled her up the rickety stairs to the astroturfed patio. It creaked in protest. The rail on the wooden steps leaned to either side and only came straight as they walked up them.

“I can fix this,” Alex said. “Won’t take me but a weekend. I’ll have some friends down from Vegas. We’ll have pizza and beer and next thing you know, we’ll have a stable, steady patio.”

She sighed. “Your ‘friends’ are why we’re here in the first place.”

“I’ll make new friends, then. We can extend the patio around the house. It’ll make it seem bigger.”

“Alex, we don’t have enough money for the pizza, much less the patio.”

He smiled. “Sure we do. I rolled it into the loan. We’ve got some fix-it-up cash.” He stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist. “I know it’s not much, but it’s the best we can do right now.”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s going to be fine. We’ll get my loans paid off. With my new raise, we can be out of debt in a year and a half.”

She pushed his arms off her and faced him. “If we don’t get into any more debt.”

Alex folded his arms. “I haven’t played a game of poker since I married you. Haven’t placed a bet with a bookie in a year. When are you going to trust me again?”

She touched his cheek. She spoke with penetrating logic, with convicting, unpunishing love. “You’ve already lost us one house. I want to make sure we’re going to be here for a while.”

He spread his arms out and made himself into a human cross, back arched against the sunset.

“The glory of the desert is that there’s nothing around, not for miles. No way for me to get into trouble. No bookies in Hailey, no loan sharks. No trouble at all.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek. “Like living inside a daisy?”

“You’ll feel just like a bee.”

* * *

Alex held Daisy close to him at Shelia’s funeral. He wondered if, at nine years old, she was too young to attend an open casket funeral, especially one for her mother. But, she handled the situation with surprising aplomb and became an example of strength and courage for him to follow. In this way more than any other, she reminded him of Shelia. Both his wife and his daughter had a capacity to love beyond fault, to forgive.

Shelia’s heart attack surprised him. She was far too young for something like that to happen; too young to die, too beautiful, too good. She worked out, ate right, got plenty of sleep. But, the doctors said, none of that can overcome genetics. Like it or not, she was born with a weak heart.

Alex thought it was just the opposite. It was Shelia who had the strong heart and him the weak.

Doctors should have seen it coming, the coroner had said. They should have put her on medication years ago.

Daisy squeezed his hand. “We’ll be okay, Daddy.”

* * *

Seven months after Shelia died, Daisy woke Alex in the middle of the night. Tears wet her cheeks and her hands shook.

“My head hurts.” Her voice was a ragged whisper.

He scrambled out of bed, pulled on whatever clothes he could find in the dark, and scooped her into the car. It was nearly three in the morning before she was seen by a doctor in Newland Community Hospital.

“Sounds like we got a migraine,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.” He studied Daisy’s chart more than her. “We’ll get her a shot of Toradol and have some blood work done.”

Alex put his arm around Daisy as they sat on the exam bed. She put her head on his chest and clung to his shirt.

* * *

Months later, Alex left Daisy with a nurse outside Doctor Biswald’s consultation room. He walked in and shut the door behind him, knowing the news would be bad. If the news were good, he would have invited Daisy in with Alex instead of asking her to wait outside.

Alex sat uneasily in the chair across the desk from Biswald. His foot bounced like he’d put Flubber on the toe of his shoe.

Biswald’s voice was somewhere between Denzel Washington and James Earl Jones. He wore a gray beard cut close to his chin. Pictures of his children rested under the glass top of his cherrywood desk.

“I’ve been looking over Daisy’s chart here and talking with her a lot lately.” He paused, as if he expected Alex to say something. “Unfortunately, the chemo’s not doing much for her. It’s making her weaker, but that’s about it.”

Alex folded his hands, squeezed his fingers together until he thought they’d snap.

Doctor Biswald put his hand over his mouth as if in deep thought. His eyes twitched. “I spoke with a friend of mine from college. He’s one of the leading authorities in biotech research. He and his team have devised an experimental treatment for leukemia, specifically in children like Daisy. It involves nanotechnology.”

Alex’s voice shuddered, and his body followed suit. He leaned forward in his seat. “Anything, if it will help Daisy.”

“Problem is, it’s expensive and experimental. Insurance won’t cover these types of procedures.”

Alex shook his head. “I don’t have money. None. I’m still paying for Shelia’s funeral.”

“There is an astronomical cost here, Alex, but it’s not impossible. My friend says his foundation can pay for most of it, and with a grant from the hospital, we can get you real close.”

“I hope you’re talking a hundred dollars, because that’s about what I have.”

Biswald sighed. “Do you have family you can borrow money from? A bank maybe?”

“No family, and my credit’s shot. No bank will touch me. My home’s in foreclosure.” Alex trailed off. Tears heated the backs of his eyes, but chilled his cheeks. “I have nothing, Doctor. Nothing.”

“We can get it down to five thousand,” Biswald said. “What about this month’s paycheck, and then maybe you can do a cash advance to live on?”

Alex crumpled and cried without shame. “They fired me. I have a check for two thousand and that’s it. That’s all. Can I do payments or something?”

“Ordinarily I’d say yes, but if you’re unemployed now, that’ll be a little trickier.”

“Please, Doctor. Who else do I turn to? Who else do I ask for help? My wife is dead. I have no job. My friends are all as broke as me.”

“I’m sorry, Alex. Isn’t there something you can do to raise the money?”

“If I had the time, sure. But how can I make enough money in time?”

“Do you have a skill of some sort? You’re good with computers; how can you turn that into cash? Are you good with anything else?”

* * *

Alex stopped in to see Daisy before he left. He wondered if this would be the last time he’d see her alive. In such a deep slumber, she already looked dead. Her arms were as thin as the IV needle in the crook of her elbow. Purple shadowed her eyelids. Daisy was thin as a stem, pallid as a petal.

His heart fisted, and he fought to keep his nausea down.

People said she looked more like Alex than her mother and, until she turned ten, he believed them. Now, she was the very photo of Shelia. She may have been her ghost.

He kissed her forehead while the sun set behind him in the window. He hated hospitals, hated the smell of antiseptic and the soft padded footfalls of the nurse. He wanted desperately to scoop her up and rush her out the door, to take her home and let her live out her final days with Dad in the comfort of their home, but that would kill her faster than anything else. As long as there was a chance, he had to take it. He knelt beside her, took her hand and squeezed it. He spoke softly, through tears.

“Daddy has to go now, just for a little while.”

The thought of leaving her there in the hospital with no one next to her nauseated him, but he had to take the chance. Quickly, he left her a note, a daisy, and the newest edition of her Seventeen magazine. “I love you, Daisy. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” Then, for the first time in months, he walked out of the hospital.

* * *

Back in Vegas, he tried to forget the image of his dying daughter and focus on the task at hand. He let the neon lights of the strip illuminate him, warm him like a surrogate sun. He drove the roads from memory, as if he’d never left. He turned off the strip, drove north a few miles, and parked outside a rectangle of a building, little more than a box with stucco. The lighted sign read Cards @ Ginos. Here was his best shot at curing his daughter.

He got out of his clunker into the warm summer evening, pocketed his keys, and walked inside the smoke filled casino, to the table in the back room. The man in the red hat was in his seat. He thought to tell him so, until he remembered he’d left it twelve years ago at his new wife’s behest. To the left of Red Hat was a young man with a large pile of small chips. He looked 21, perhaps celebrating his birthday. Across from him was an elderly gentleman in a camelhair jacket. Alex guessed him to be on the down side of his seventies. The table offered the diverse crowd a large pot, and an open seat. He sat between Red Hat and Camelhair, sliding his final paycheck to the dealer.

“We don’t cash checks here.” The dealer only looked a few years older than his daughter, and she didn’t smile.

Small Chips laughed. “Rookie.”

A fog of blue smoke emanated from the cigar hanging between Red Hat’s teeth. Gino’s had hardly changed; scotch in unwashed glasses, green felt stained a forest hue from glasses left too long, and dealers in red, black, and white uniforms. But policy, it seemed, had changed.

He sighed, felt his spirit slipping. A five hour marathon car drive in a too-old Chevy, two stops at grimy gas stations for soda and bathroom breaks, a flat tire and an overheated radiator had come to this: they no longer cashed checks.

“Cash it,” a man said. He stood behind the dealer, wore a black vest and slick gel. “Alex is good for it.”

Alex smiled. “Gino. You let your hair get gray?”

“You let yours fall out.” He slid Alex a small stack of chips. “Been too long. Where’ve you been? Still with that waitress friend of yours?”

Alex shook his head, swallowed hard. “Not for a year.”

“Too bad. You looked good together. How long you in town?”

Alex counted his chips and wished for more. He normally started with twice this much. He’d have to play smart and aggressive, especially since Red Hat, Camelhair, and Small Chips all seemed to have nearly three times what Alex had. He was a bleeding fish in a pool of sharks. “Just long enough to win a little.”

In three hours, Alex played a week’s worth of poker. Small Chips, who often seemed more interested in the dealer than in winning, found his large pile waning. Red Hat and Alex split a number of hands. Camelhair never spoke, and grew accustomed to losing. He’d taken a hand or two, but only when everyone else folded.

“I’m in.” Red Hat tossed five fifty dollar chips in the middle of the table. His face flushed; a nervous sign. Bluffing. He slid his chips when he had a hand, and tossed them when he didn’t.

Camelhair held his cards loosely. His stringy gray hair covered the sides and back of his head; a hoary hippy crown. The charcoal lenses of his sunglasses covered his eyes, though the dim light of the room made them highly impractical. He matched the bet and nodded.

Small Chips did likewise. “Count me in, gentlemen. Y’all should just fold now and save yourselves the trouble.”

His brashness was like a rash, but he was foolhardy, and prone to losing large. He was the kind of guy who’d forfeit the pair to fill the straight and try to bluff his way out of his mistake.

Alex swirled a tawny liquid in the stained glass in front of him and returned it to the felt covered table. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He wiped it with the back of his sleeve. The bet was to him. Two pair, Jacks over eights. Not the best hand, but good enough to win. He called.

Red Hat spread his cards face up on the table. “Pair of aces.”

Camelhair flipped his cards. He also had two pair, eights over fives. Close, but not enough to take the pot.

Small Chips threw his cards on the table: pair of jacks.

Alex collected the pot.

Small Chips shuffled his chips, a trick Alex guessed he’d picked up from watching poker tournaments. His style of play seemed to beg for more practice and less study. Hope bloomed in his heart. Suddenly, five thousand dollars seemed possible, so long as these three stayed at the table.

The dealer shuffled the cards and dealt a new hand. Alex checked his cards. A queen and a three wasn’t much of a hand, but it was impossible to win if he didn’t stay in. Hold’em was a long game with four betting rounds, plenty of opportunity for the pot to grow. He took a chip from his stack and threw it in the middle. “Twenty-five,” he said. A good opening bet. Not too much, not too little.

Red Hat scratched his thick lumberjack beard. He pulled his crimson sweat-stained hat down on his forehead, hiding his eyes. He held his cards one behind the other close to his chest with one calloused hand. The other slid a blue-and-white chip to the pot. A good hand, Alex thought. Maybe an ace? Maybe a pair?

Camelhair nodded. He wore the collar of his jacket flipped up. Salty stubble covered his jowls. He curved his cards in his hands, a nervous habit. He’d lit a Cuban cigar and rested it in a yellow ashtray beside him. Slowly, he pushed a stack of ten fifty-dollar chips toward the middle of the table. He didn’t look up from his cards, nor did he speak.

“That’s five hundred dollars, old man,” Red Hat said. “You can’t be serious.”

Camelhair shrugged.

A bluff. He’d been betting low all night. A bet so far out of the ordinary play style had to be a bluff. Or had he simply been setting the table up all night long?

Small Chips leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Trying to buy the pot?” He tossed his chips into the middle of the table. “Not tonight.”

The bet was back to Alex. He couldn’t risk that much money with a queen and a three. He had a daughter to think of. But with Small Chips staying in, the pot might grow exponentially. It would help if he could just see a few more cards, but he’d have to buy them, and the sticker price was four hundred and seventy-five dollars. Alex consulted his cards, and, if he didn’t know better, would have sworn that the queen winked at him. “All right. You got me.” He matched his bet and swallowed hard. “Call.”

Red Hat grimaced. He drummed his fingers on the thinning felt. “Sorry guys. I wanna play, but not at those stakes.” He exchanged his cards for a short glass of Irish whiskey.

Camelhair sat silently, head angled down toward the card or the pot, Alex couldn’t tell which. His drink, ordered and paid for by Small Chips, sat mere inches from his hands, still full.

“It’s to you,” Alex reminded him.

Camelhair nodded.

“All right gentlemen.” The dealer flipped three cards into the flop. “Good luck.” Ace of clubs, queen of diamonds, and three of clubs. Unbelievable. Two pair. An excellent hand.

Bet low, keep them guessing, string them along and keep them betting. “Fifty.”

Camelhair scratched his nose. His shaky hand slid a stack of five fifties into the pot. Alex swallowed hard.

“Unreal,” Red Hat whispered. “That’s over seven hundred dollars in two rounds. You’ve snapped.”

With a queen and an ace on the table, the old man could be trying to fill a straight. Chances of him filling a straight were slim. He must have a pair. Aces? That’d be enough to get him betting.

Yes, he must have a pair. But Alex had two.

“I call.” Disappointment colored Small Chips’ voice. Must be trying to fill a five card hand. A flush? Two clubs showed; he must have two more.

Anxiety smoldered inside Alex. What if he lost? He should fold, but he’d already invested five hundred dollars. He couldn’t drop out now; it’d be a complete waste. “Call,” he said.

“Here’s the turn.” The dealer flipped the next card: Queen of spades.

Alex buried a smile under his poker face. A full house was a tremendous hand. It even beat a flush. There were only two better hands: A straight flush and four of a kind. The only pair on the table was the queens; no one could have four of a kind. And there was no way to fill any kind of a straight with the cards showing.

Alex must be in the clear. Time to see how much faith Camelhair had in his hole cards. He slid three hundred and fifty dollars into the pot.

Camelhair deliberated, then matched the bet, his trembling hands still cradling his cards.

“You guys are insane,” Small Chips said as he matched the bet quickly.

The dealer flipped the final card: the ace of hearts.

Two aces? Could Camelhair have two more? No. Red Hat sounded disappointed when he folded, like he’d been cheated out of a good hand. He must have had an ace. And if he did, that meant Alex would win. “It’ll cost you another three hundred and fifty to stay in.”

The aged man held tightly to his cards.

Alex had him.

Camelhair’s quivering fist pushed another five hundred dollars in.

Alex blinked twice.

Small Chips folded with a grunt.

Alex stared at the old man. He’d come too far to fold. He closed his eyes and thought of Daisy, then checked his chips. It would cost him everything to stay in the game. He felt as if he had swallowed Rhode Island. His stomach churned acid and he wanted to throw up. He said, “Forgive me, Daisy,” and slid his chips in.

Camelhair furrowed his brow, his lips pulling thin in a frown and spoke his first word of the evening. “Call.” His voice sounded like he’d been gargling razor blades.

Alex showed his cards. “Full house. Queens over threes.”

Camelhair smiled nervously, exposing yellow teeth, then turned his cards face down on the table. “You win,” he whispered in a thick Russian accent as he rose from his chair. He extended his hand. “Quite a game that was. You play an excellent hand.”

Alex matched his stature and gripped Camelhair’s hand firmly. His poker face dissolved into a broad smile.

He’d won.

Daisy would be okay.

Camelhair gathered his few remaining chips, shoved them in the pocket of his ridiculous jacket, nodded to Red Hat and Small Chips, and made his way out of the back poker room.

“Amazing hand,” Red Hat said. “Glad I folded when I did.”

“Thanks,” Alex pulled in the pot and organized the mound of chips in neat, orderly rows by color and size. Then, out of divine curiosity, he collected Camelhair’s cards to slide to the dealer: two aces.

Four of a kind.

Alex lost.

Chapter 28

Tuesday, September 8th

I leaned back in the chair and put my hands behind my head. Either he’d left something out of his story, or I’d missed something vital in my fog of exhaustion. “You lost?”

Alex stared at the ceiling. “I would have, if the old man had stuck around.”

“So what’s a casino do in a situation like that?”

Alex coughed; he grimaced and his face soured. “Blood don’t taste too good, especially on top of hospital food.” He spit in a pink basin beside his bed. “They counted it as Camelhair folding, so I took the pot.”

“He had to know he had the better hand.”

Alex agreed. “Wouldn’t be playing at Gino’s if he didn’t.”

Mason spoke from his bed. “Sounds like a miracle to me.”

Alex’s lips parted in a grim smile. “Some people, the pros, they’ll lose on purpose to claim it as a tax write off.”

I furrowed my brow. “So he loses a few thousand to save a few hundred?”

“I’m not sure how all that works, but it does. Happened all the time when I lived in Vegas.”

I scratched my neck and yawned. “Well, at any rate, the story has a happy ending. At least you got the surgery for Daisy, right?”

Alex frowned. “She got the surgery.”

“She okay?”

Alex coughed and spat again. “She’s fine. Up with her grandmother back in Vegas.”

I nodded, folding my arms across my chest. “Why’s that?”

He struggled to move a bit and groaned with the effort. “Winning got to me. Fell back into old habits, talked to the wrong people.”

“So you got roughed up?”

Pain thickened his voice. “Daisy’s safer in Vegas, away from me.” I couldn’t imagine the sorrow he’d felt over the last few months. To save his daughter’s life and lose her because of a gambling addiction; my heart cramped thinking about it. I stood up and stretched. “Listen, Alex. You can get some help and beat this gambling thing.”

“Thanks, Connor. Do me a favor? Don’t mention where I am in your story?”

I smiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

That evening, I finally found a welcome respite from the bedlam of the last few days. After typing up Alex’s story, Nadine and I watched mindless television. It felt good. Aside from the nurses traipsing in and out with IV medications, pills, and bad food, it almost felt like a night at home again. I made a quick trip to the vending machine and bought a couple candy bars and a bag of popcorn. I’d never imagined I could sleep so soundly, especially on a huddle of armless chairs.

When I woke, Nadine’s color had returned, and she smiled.

“Looks like you slept better than I did.”

The sun rose and poured through the window like pink lemonade. I’d used my coat as a blanket. I stood up, slipped my jacket on, and stretched. Pain arced through my back. My neck stiffened, like I had whiplash.

I couldn’t have been happier. “You’re up early.”

She nodded. “Nurses woke me up. I’m surprised they didn’t disturb you.”

“I could have slept through a hurricane.”

She smiled. “I’m glad. You needed that.”

I kissed her. “I don’t deserve you.” I ran my hand from her shoulder down her arm, over the crook of her elbow and just short of her hand where the IV needle was taped. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d move on. You’re a survivor. You’re a fighter.”

I shook my head. “I wish I had your confidence.”

Aida walked in with two coffees. She handed me one and said, “Morning.”

“How’d you sleep?” The bags under her eyes answered my question before I even asked it.

“Not nearly as well as you, apparently.”

I took the coffee and thanked her. It was hot with enough cream and sugar to qualify it as a dessert. I didn’t complain. The sweetness in the morning was a nice change.

“Toothpaste in the bathroom, toothbrushes in the gift shop. You can use Nadine’s shower. She won’t mind, and I know I won’t.”

“I appreciate your subtlety.”

“I aim to please.” She sat down and crossed her legs, leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “I need a nap.”

“Before you do that,” I said, “can we talk shop?”

She didn’t open her eyes. “Shoot.”

“I’ve got a couple more interviews to do. Since Tyler didn’t work out the way we hoped, I wanted to know if you could think of anyone else I might talk to. What do you think of Doctor Slate? Mason mentioned he opened a free clinic in Hailey.”

She shrugged. “Funny. Dr. Slate’s in prison.”

“Are you kidding? What for?”

“Free clinics are expensive, so he found a way to make a little extra money: selling prescriptions.”

Nadine’s eyes widened. “Selling drugs?”

“All over the papers.” Aida tucked her knees into her chest and rested her head on the back of the chair. She looked about as interested in the conversation as a child listening to a presidential debate. “Media’s been calling him Doctor Druggie. Cute, eh?”

Something struck me as odd. “Mason’s a reader. He’d know something like that. Why suggest him?”

Aida opened her eyes and tilted her head toward me. “I’m marrying him, but I can’t read his mind.”

I stood up. “Guess I’ll go talk to him then.”

“Don’t forget your toothbrush.”

Taking Aida’s advice, I showered off quickly, brushed my teeth, and put on my same clothes from the day before. I didn’t like the arrangement, but had few options. If I had the time, I’d drive down to Target and buy a couple changes of clothes for myself and Aida.

I walked through the hospital hallways, refused to look in other patients’ rooms. I’d slept better than I had in days, but fatigue still wore me to extremes. My emotions ran high, and I doubted I could handle seeing the overwhelming suffering of those in the oncology wing. I ignored it because I could think of no better strategy.

When I got into the elevator, I finally breathed. I went up two floors, exited the elevator, hung a right, and went down three doors. I knocked, and this time Alex answered. “Come on in.”

“How we feeling today?”

“Can’t speak for you, but I feel like crap.”

I grinned. “Sorry. Stupid question. Mason, how ‘bout you?”

“Sore as a horse, but hanging in there.” The television played an old Chuck Norris movie.

I sat down between the beds. “Oh, come on now. Norris wouldn’t complain.”

“Norris wouldn’t have been shot. He would’ve snatched the bullet with his teeth and crushed it on his forehead like a beer can.”

Alex chimed in. “I’ve seen him do it.”

As much as I enjoyed the banter, the sense of relative safety, I wanted to get to business. The sooner I’d done the interviews, the sooner I could get back to Nadine.

“Mason, you wanted me to interview Doctor Slate.”

“Sure did.”

“You know he’s in prison?”

“Sure do.”

“Doctor Druggie?” Alex said. “Man, wish he were on my case.” He laughed and coughed and spat in the pink basin.

Mason squirmed in the bed. “Everyone’s screwed up at some point. Doesn’t mean they haven’t done some good along the way.”

“You think his good outweighs his bad?”

“I’m not sure God puts them on a scale. If He did, we’d all be in trouble.” He muted the television.

I crossed my legs and turned in the chair to better face him. “Are you saying the bad things we’ve done don’t matter to God?”

He shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

Alex looked at us. “Now I’m confused.”

Mason turned the television off. “It’s like this. Everyone does bad things, but they can do good things too. I think the point of this whole thing is to find the good in the bad. Yeah, there’s a lot of evil stuff out there, but we have to dig through it until we find something positive.”

Alex blinked. “What are you, Buddhist?”

“Christian, actually.”

“Oh. One of them,” Alex said. He drew in a ragged breath and grimaced. “What about me? Am I a bad person?”

Mason cracked his knuckles and rolled gently toward Alex. “You’re asking the wrong guy. I don’t get to decide.”

“Who does?”

I knew where Mason was headed; I’d heard this line of thought before. Still, I wanted to see how Alex might react to it. I cleared my throat and answered for Mason. “God decides.”

Alex’s breathing heavied. I saw his chest rising and falling slowly. “How do you know what God decides?”

Unlike most of the other patients, Mason was no longer tethered to an IV tube. He had more freedom to position himself in the bed, but moved gingerly. Nurses slipped in and gave Mason paper cups full of pills. They checked his blood and his wound, but left him alone otherwise. My guess: they wanted to ready him for discharge.

He put a hand on his bandage and said, “That’s where Jesus comes in.”

“Now you sound like a preacher.”

“Yeah, maybe I do,” he said. “But I’m not making it up. Just telling you how it is.”

After a pause, eyes fixed on the ceiling, Alex said, “I’ve heard the whole Jesus thing before.”

Mason didn’t flinch. “We don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. Wanted to make sure I answered your question.”

I leaned in close to Mason. “Doesn’t that make this whole assignment rather pointless?”

“How so?”

“Finding five righteous. If the only requirement to be righteous is accepting Christ’s sacrifice, then I’ve been asking the wrong questions.” I kept my voice low, hoping Alex wouldn’t overhear us.

“What kind of questions have you been asking?”

“Biographical kinds. Just about their lives, who they are, their greatest accomplishments, things like that.”

Mason matched my whisper. “Those are all works-based questions, Connor.”

“You wanted articles. It’s tough to write an article on the answer to a yes-or-no question.”

He sighed. “So you don’t know anything about the spiritual sides of these people?”

“I know one, but that’s it. The rest, I can tell you about their hearts, their motivation, all that, but not whether or not they’re Christians.”

Mason arched his eyebrows. “If that was the only thing God needed, I imagine He could have just asked me or Caleb to do it. With a phone, we’d have been done inside an hour. Could have talked to a lot more than ten people too.”

“So you think we’re on the right track?”

“I don’t know. We can only do what we’re asked. God will have to figure out the rest.”

“Feels like we’re gambling with a lot of lives. What if we’re wrong?”

“Like I say, we can only do what we’re asked. We’re doing that. The rest is hope and prayer.”

I stood back up and stretched again. “So you think Slate’s our best chance?”

“He’s all I can think of for now.”

I would have preferred a more confident answer, but none came. “Hailey State Pen?”

“Remember how to get there?”

“I can manage. Think he’ll talk to me?”

“We can hope. You can swing by my house on your way. Check it out, make sure it’s okay?”

I nodded as I walked toward the hall. “I may do that.”

* * *

Angry, tenebrous clouds congregated near the horizon and marched over the sky like a determined army. Within minutes, rain surged from them. The golden sand browned to mud in minutes. The various potholes and uneven nature of the road made for numerous puddles of uncertain depth. The rapidity and sheer force of the rain surprised me. The change of weather, though unsettling, strangely comforted me, stilled my concerns. I thought of the rainbow I saw on the way to the hospital, thought of God’s promises.

I turned onto Mason’s road and navigated among the creosote bushes and under the golden cottonwoods. The rain accumulated on the sparse leaves and came down in fat, determined drops.

At some point, the drops froze and became hail. They fell heavy on my roof, pinged off my windshield. The Mojave riverbed swelled with water. How had so much water come in such a short time? Mason once said something about water acting like a magnet and pulling up the underground river in times of heavy rains or when the mountains to the south opened their dams to regulate water levels for the communities built around the lakes. Tornadoes no longer seemed far-fetched.

Mason’s gate stood open, as it had the day I arrived. I parked near his blackened patio. I sighed and dialed the hospital, asked for Mason’s room. When he answered, I said, “I could use some good news right about now.”

“Doctor likes the way I’m healing up. Says I can pack up and go home today.”

“What about Nadine? Heard anything about her?”

“Tests all came back. They look better than expected. She’s got good color, and they said she can go home tomorrow morning.”

“We’re going to want to wait on that. Right now, there’s no home to go to.”

“I figured we could stay at my place.”

I sighed. I hated giving bad news. “You don’t have a place. Not anymore.”

“Are you kidding me right now?”

“Nothing left but blackened sticks and charred patio.”

He whispered something, but I didn’t catch it. He repeated himself.

“Call Caleb. Tell him to meet us here at the hospital quick. If they came after me and Aida, they’ll go after him, too.”

“Gotcha.” I hung up, flipped the car around, and drove out the same way I came in. I dialed Caleb’s number and held the phone to my ear with my shoulder. “Caleb? This is Connor. You okay?”

“Fine, why?”

“Mason wants to see you at the hospital.” I tried not to sound panicked.

“Everything okay?”

I laid it out for him. “Bernard’s kids are on a mayhem spree. Ryan tried to kill me in Sue’s yesterday morning, and then someone burned Aida’s and Mason’s houses.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Pack up whatever’s not replaceable,” I said. “Just to be sure.”

“What about you?”

“I’m on my way to the prison. I have two more articles to do. Once that’s done, we’ll figure out what to do after that.”

“Got it.”

* * *

Guards patrolled the prison yard from the top of their towers, though they had no prisoners to supervise in the hail. I rushed inside, coat over my head to deflect the angry hailstones.

Frank, the man behind the glass, looked hard at me. “Mason’s friend, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Back to see Greg?”

“Thought I might talk to Doctor Slate.”

He smirked. “You got a prescription to fill?”

“Just a few questions.” I wondered what those questions would be. I hadn’t thought of a story to tell the good doctor either. I’d have to make it up as I went along and hope he wanted to talk.

Frank buzzed me in. “You remember the routine?”

“Very well.”

I walked through the door, brushed the stray hail from my coat and clothes. The guard patted me down before I took off both shoes for him to inspect. Once he was convinced I wasn’t a threat, the guard ushered me along. I hurried down the hall to the visitor center, where another guard nodded to me. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. Take a seat. Far left is fine.”

“Thanks.” I sat down. Minutes later a tall, balding man walked in the other side. He looked like an old-time basketball player, thin but athletic. His light blue eyes contrasted starkly with his bronzed skin. Unlike Greg, Doctor Slate wore an orange jumpsuit. He’d rolled up his sleeves. When he saw me, he wrinkled his brow and picked up the phone. “Do I know you?”

“Connor Reedly.”

He pushed his lips together. “Of World News Weekly?”

“One and the same.”

He smiled. “I’d not expected such distinguished company, especially this far out in Hailey? What brings you here?”

Awkwardly flattered, I allowed myself a smile. “A lot of things, really.”

He leaned forward. “I don’t expect most people to understand me. But you, I bet you’d get me.”

I adopted a similar posture and leaned toward the glass. “One reason why I’m out here. Everyone talks about the bad things in Hailey, but no one mentions the good. You’ve never had a chance to give your side of the story.”

“And you want to tell it?” His voice sounded like papers sliding over a desk.

“I do. And people want to hear it.”

Another smile. “Excellent. Must be my lucky day. How do we begin?”

Luck had nothing to do with it. God’s hand was in this conversation. I leaned back and tapped my pen to my notebook. “Take it from the top.”

Chapter 29

GOOD MEDICINE

By the time Malcolm Slate saw Nichole, she’d grown dangerously thin. Anxious, her father brought her in and listed her symptoms: rapid weight loss, excessive exhaustion. She’d go to bed at eight and sleep until eleven. Teachers complained about her sleeping through classes. This morning, he found these strange purple spots on her skin.

Doctor Slate ran the tests to confirm his suspicion, but he knew what the blood tests would say. He asked her father to step outside into the hallway for a few minutes so he could speak to Nichole alone. As he closed the door, he tried to quell the unease rising in him. He’d had to ask these questions of adults before, but never a thirteen-year-old girl.

He took a breath. “Nichole, I’m going to ask you some questions, and it’s very important that you answer them honestly. That’s why I asked your dad to wait outside. I don’t want you to be embarrassed or afraid, but for me to treat you, I need to know a few things. Do you understand?”

Nichole fixed her eyes on the floor. “Okay.”

He leaned up against a counter and readied his pen over her chart. “Have you ever taken drugs?”

She shook her head.

“I need you to answer me verbally, please. Out loud. Okay?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Have you ever taken drugs?”

“No.”

He scratched his eyebrow. “Really? No pot? Heroine? Meth? X?”

Her head lolled forward as if she might fall asleep on the exam table. “Drugs are for losers.”

Slate kept his voice quiet. “What I think you have, you can only get two ways, and that’s from IV drugs and sex.”

She folded her hands in her lap.

“Was it drugs?”

“No.”

He folded his arms. “So if it’s not drugs, someone else is involved. Someone else has the same thing you do.”

Nichole’s age made him grapple to find the right words. How did one deliver such news to a child?

Her shoulders hunched forward, and she took slow, deep breaths. “Are you going to tell my parents?”

Thirteen years old.

“I have to, Nichole.”

He wanted to reach out to her, to scoop her up in his arms and tell her everything would be fine. Slate had a daughter about the same age as her, but he hadn’t seen her in years. His wife had packed her up and driven away. He’d called everyone he could think of to find them, but she’d vanished, and taken his daughter with her.

She’d be about Nichole’s age now. His mind transposed his daughter’s face onto Nichole’s frail body, and it terrified him.

“You don’t have to tell. We can make something up. Tell them it’s something else.”

“That’d be a lie, and it’d be dangerous.” He paused, and squatted down to eye-level. “If you don’t get help, you may die. And it won’t be easy.”

She shrugged.

“Either way, I’m going to tell him. You have a chance to help someone else. Maybe a lot of someones.”

She shrugged again and lay back on the exam table.

* * *

Nichole’s father, a beast of a man with arms as hairy as his head, took a seat across Dr. Slate’s desk. Slate extended his hand. “Thanks for coming in.”

Nichole sat beside her father. He didn’t shake Malcolm’s hand. “Tell me what’s wrong with my daughter.”

Right to business. Sure. “I wish I had good news for you. Your daughter tested positive for HIV. Her blood work shows her CD4 count at 183. We classify anything under 200 as AIDS.”

Her father put his meaty hands up. “Hold on. You’re saying she has AIDS? AIDS is for hookers and homos and addicts.”

Dr. Slate didn’t flinch. “I wish I was wrong, but I’m not.”

The father gritted his teeth. “One call to my lawyer and I can have your license, pal.”

Malcolm turned Nichole’s chart around. He gestured to the CD4 count. “The tests and the symptoms back it up. You should be thinking about where she got it.”

Nichole squirmed in her chair, put her face in her hands. “Please don’t tell him.”

Malcolm’s heart broke. He pushed the image of his daughter from his mind and turned to her father. “She’s assured me she hasn’t taken drugs, which leaves intercourse.”

Nichole’s father stood up, put his hands behind his head, and paced the back of the office.

Doctor Slate closed the chart. He slid a pad of paper and a pen to Nichole. “We need to know who she got it from. I need a list of names, ages, dates, anything. Be as specific as possible.”

The father’s anger melted into disbelief, and finally to grief. “My little girl,” he said.

* * *

Days later, Nichole delivered her list of six names to Malcolm Slate. She’d scrawled a note on the bottom.

Can’t remember the others

He pushed himself back from his desk, leaned back and crossed his legs. Thirteen years old. He could prescribe her drugs and, so long as her father could afford the co-pay for prescriptions on their insurance, she might be able to have a decent, almost normal life. With luck, she might live to see twenty. But he’d seen too many families in this situation bankrupt themselves buying medication. In some cases, the sick asked to be taken off the meds. They couldn’t bear the stress on their family, even if it cost them their lives.

If he’d seen her a month ago, a year ago, whenever she’d contracted HIV, he might have been able to do more. The list of names might have been kept down to two, or ideally, one. Now, figuring two partners per name, and then two more for their two, the list would grow exponentially.

He ran his hand over his cherrywood desk. Thomas Kincaid paintings decorated the wall. He’d paid thousands of dollars for each, assuming the serene images would help soothe rough consultations with anxious patients. They never did.

The window of his sixth floor office looked over the verdant canyon behind the hospital. A stream trickled through the bottom, and the sun glinted off the clear water.

How much money had he made at this hospital? How intimidating would it be for a thirteen-year-old girl to come in and ask for a simple blood test? Nichole lived in the squalid town of Hailey. Her father had very little money. He worked hard for his meager paycheck while Slate collected six figures a year. How difficult would it be for the socio-economically strapped denizens of Hailey to walk into the heart of opulence? How much humility would it require? How many refused medical attention out of spite? He couldn’t blame them.

Nichole and others like her needed a free clinic where personnel asked few questions and ensured confidentiality. Something like that cost a lot of money.

* * *

The last time he saw his daughter, she was eight years old and playing soccer. He’d driven her to the Saturday afternoon game in his silver BMW, her bag of equipment in the trunk. He packed waters and apples for the team.

She couldn’t have been cuter in her blue shorts and jersey with the big white “8” in the middle. Her smile lacked both upper lateral incisors, but could still warm him on a cold Newland evening. The sheer, trusting joy broke his heart. She didn’t know about the trouble he’d had with her mother, and he wouldn’t tell her. He couldn’t shatter her joy, her trust. He only hoped his wife wouldn’t follow through on her threat to leave him.

After three hot hours in the sun, he drove his daughter and her friend home. They ran upstairs the minute they arrived, and Malcolm found his wife in the kitchen. She sat at the table drinking a rum and coke. “Not even noon yet. Little early for that, don’t you think?”

“Don’t you dare lecture me, Malcolm Slate. You have no room to talk.”

He sat down across the table from her. “I’ve already apologized for that. I made a mistake and I wish I could take it back. She’s transferred to a hospital in Eve’s Horn. I won’t see her again. You know that.”

“A mistake you made six times.”

He put his hands up. “Can we do this quietly, please? I understand you’re still mad at me. I don’t blame you. I deserve your anger. But let’s not ruin our daughter’s life because I made a mistake.”

“Oh please.” She swallowed the last of the drink and left the table. “I’m going to my sister’s.”

“You’re not driving there.”

“I’ll walk, you self-righteous hypocrite.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes, but walked her to the door. “I’ll be here when you get back, okay? We can talk more about counseling, okay?”

“I don’t need counseling.”

“But I do, and I want you to know I’ll do whatever it takes to make up for my mistake and keep this family together.”

“Should have thought about that before you got friendly with your nurse.” She slammed the door behind her.

When he came home from the hospital the next day, his wife and daughter were gone. She’d not left a note.

He called her sister, but she insisted his wife hadn’t mentioned anything about leaving. He called her mother, her father. No one knew where she’d gone.

He held his breath as he went into his daughter’s room. Her posters hung on the wall, but her dresser and closet were bare.

Feeling the wind flee him, he dropped to his knees by his daughter’s bed, still unmade, the pink comforter kicked down, the sheets untucked, and cried on the hard wood floor. That night, he slept in his bed with her comforter and pillow.

* * *

Could his daughter turn into Nichole? Under what little drunken supervision she got from her mother, the chances were good. And if she did, there would be places she could go in Vegas. She’d be smart enough, educated enough, to find the help she’d need. It’s something Nichole might never have.

No one would open a clinic in Hailey, not on their own. He’d have to convince his friends and family to help raise funds, maybe work the clinic part-time. He tried, but each phone call ended in disappointment.

Slate listened to their list of excuses: They’re crooked, it’s dangerous, they’re degenerates; they’re strung out on meth and whatever else they can get their hands on. He didn’t agree, but he understood their perception. One particularly unkind colleague referred to the populous of Hailey as “carriers,” as if they were animals.

Still, he refused to be dissuaded. The people of Hailey needed a clinic. For once, he’d be on the front lines of medicine. He’d do community outreaches on drugs and addiction and rehabilitation options, on contagious diseases and preventative medicine. But he needed money.

He gave up on friends, family, and possible partnerships with colleagues and devoted his time to local, state, and national grants. His good credit afforded him a sizeable loan to cover the rest of the start-up costs. In the year and a half it took to open the clinic, Slate had no more than four hours of sleep each night. He didn’t mind. He had a purpose, a calling even, and nothing would stop him. Nothing but money.

* * *

“You look distracted.” Adam scratched his arm. His red nose, flat and round, sat in the middle of his face like a cupcake.

Slate pressed a stethoscope to Adam’s bare back. “Breathe in for me.”

Even with the loan and the grants and the money he put in from his own savings, Slate found himself short on operating costs each month. Free clinics didn’t operate for profits, and often lost money. Hailey was financially devastated; it proved to be more of an economic drain than Slate anticipated. He worked long into the nights searching for more grants, but could never find enough. Worse, his inability to stay current on technology or to hire new doctors disqualified him from many of the continuing grants.

“Lungs sound a bit better. I’d still like to see you explore those tobacco-quitting options we talked about last time.” He set Adam’s chart on a stack of bills.

Adam sat on the brown padded exam table. The paper wrinkled and crinkled under his shifting weight. He scratched his cheek, then behind his ear. His eyes shot around the room as if he’d never been there, as if he were a detective hunting for clues.

Slate asked, “What seems to be the trouble today?”

“Just the back again.”

“You’ve been resting?”

“Yeah. Need some more meds is all.”

He checked Adam’s chart. “You just got some, what, a week ago?”

Adam frowned. “I kinda lost that bottle.”

“You lost it?”

His fidgeting became more agitated. “Can I get some Percocet?”

Slate had prescribed Percocet before he realized Adam had issues with other drugs. By that time, he worried it was too late. He spoke firmly. “What you’re asking me to do is illegal.”

“It’s not like that, Slate. You know me.”

“That’s the problem.” He closed Adam’s chart.

Adam jumped up, grabbed his yellow shirt and winced as he put it on. “I’m dying here, man. Can’t you do something?”

Slate shook his head. “It’s not worth my license.”

Adam rushed in front of the door leading back to the lobby. “I have money.”

Slate arched an eyebrow. “What are you getting at?”

“I’m saying you give me some papers, and I give you some. It’s a trade really. We both win. I never say anything, you never say anything. No one ever knows.”

Slate said nothing for a time. He picked up the stack of bills and slipped them into his pocket. “How many papers are you suggesting?”

* * *

It’d been months since he’d let Adam pay for his prescription. In that time, he’d seen more patients than normal. Paying patients.

Each time guilt ran up his throat, he thought of Nichole, who died weeks before the clinic opened. He swallowed his guilt and let it fester in his stomach as his pen scrawled another prescription.

He’d helped the elderly, the poor, the young, frightened teens since the clinic opened, and thanks to his paying patients, he could help more. The clinic didn’t have to close. The thought should comfort him. Instead, his conscience and guilt swarmed him like so many bees.

Inside the office, he paid bills and thanked God that creditors didn’t ask where his money came from.

He yawned as he walked into Exam Room One. He didn’t recognize the young patient who waited for him. The man couldn’t be more than twenty-two. Well-built, healthy. He wore a white shirt and jeans with holes in both knees.

“Morning,” he said. He looked over the patient’s chart. “Xavier, is it? French?”

“Only in name.” The man smiled with yellow teeth. His unkempt hair shone black under the lights. He spun his wedding ring on his finger. Yellow stained his fingers, a trait of chain smokers.

“What can I help you with today?”

The man leaned forward and whispered, “Couple of friends said I could score some Percs here.”

Slate raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like you need new friends. Percocet is a powerful pain medication. It’s not Advil.”

“I have money. If it helps, I need it for my neck. I was in an accident a year ago and my neck’s been messed up ever since.”

“Mind if I look?”

Xavier shook his head.

Slate did a cursory inspection of the neck. No major damage. No bruising or breaks. Alignment looked fine. “Necks can be tricky. Who’s your normal doctor?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Who did you see after your accident?”

“Don’t remember. It was a year ago. Just someone in the hospital. He wrote me a prescription for Percocet and I’ve been taking it ever since. But now he won’t fill it anymore. It’s not like I’m an addict or anything.”

Slate sighed. He read over the chart again. “Considered chiropractic? Acupuncture? They might help.”

Xavier leaned back. “Chiropractors suck, and I don’t do needles.”

The story matched the chart, but something didn’t feel right. “What did you say you did for a living?”

“The quarry. Gotta have a good neck and back for that kind of work.” He pulled his wedding ring off, then slipped it back on. He didn’t make strong eye contact. Was he lying?

“Ever been in law enforcement?” Slate asked.

The man shook his head.

Slate leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “How bad do you need it?”

“About two hundred dollars bad.”

Slate closed his eyes and sighed. “Percocet can be addictive. Make sure to take it exactly as directed. If you OD, it could kill you. If you take it too long, it can hurt your liver. If I write this, you have to promise me you’ll not take too much and you’ll start to wean yourself off of it. It’s pretty strong and you really should be off it now. Try supplementing with some basic ibuprofen or aspirin.”

Xavier smiled. “Thanks, man. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

Slate turned around, pulled a prescription pad from a locked cabinet, and scrawled the appropriate dosage. When he signed his name, Xavier yanked Slate’s arm behind him. Something cold and hard clicked around his wrist. He tried to pull away, but Xavier yanked his arm up. Pain shot through his elbow and shoulder and he fell forward face-first into the cabinets suspended from the ceiling. Another click and both his hands were fastened behind his back. “What in the world?”

Xavier spoke in a firm voice. “You have the right to remain silent.”

Chapter 30

Wednesday, September 9th

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it,” Slate said. “Funny thing is, since they arrested me, I’ve been sleeping a lot easier.”

Made sense. He no longer had to worry about guilt. “Every cloud, I suppose.”

He smiled. “I knew you’d understand.”

My heart hurt for him. Had anyone given as much of themselves to Hailey as Doctor Slate? He’d thrown himself into the town; he did a thankless job and risked his own well-being for those in the town.

I lowered my voice and leaned forward. “Here’s what I don’t get. Seems like the cops don’t care if the people out there live or die. Why would they care about you writing illegal prescriptions?”

“I wondered that myself.” He licked his lips. “I’m not proud of it, but I remember thinking at one point that the cops didn’t care what happened out in Hailey, so it was safe for me to do what I was doing. But mostly, it helped me keep the doors open. That’s all I wanted. I can’t tell you how many teenagers came in to get regular checks, who picked up pamphlets on protecting themselves, who were able to get treatments without question. I saved lives, Mr. Reedly.” He paused. “Maybe that was the issue. They didn’t like me saving the lives of the people of Hailey.”

“Ever write prescriptions for people living in Newland or Eve’s Horn?”

He switched the phone to his other ear. He’d done this numerous times throughout the interview, and I wondered if he had a bad neck.

“None I recall. They wouldn’t make the drive out to Hailey for medical treatment, even if they wanted a prescription. There are more than enough doctors in those cities to give them what they want. They wouldn’t have to come to me.”

I checked my watch. The morning had moved to afternoon. I wondered about Nadine and Mason. I wanted to call them, to check on them, but didn’t want to leave if I could get more information from Slate.

“Want to talk about anything else?” He sounded hopeful.

“Can’t think of anything off the top of my head.”

“You came all this way just to talk to me?”

I shifted in my seat. “Not just you, exactly. I’ve been collecting articles on different people in Hailey.”

“Sounds like an odd assignment. Who thought of it?”

I paused, ran through different answers to his question, and settled on the most honest and most vague.

“My wife had something to do with it. Nadine grew up in Hailey. She’d seen some bad press about it and wanted people to know it wasn’t all bad.”

“Must be a good woman.”

“The best.”

“Who else are you interviewing? Anyone I know? I might be able to make a suggestion.”

I smiled. “A suggestion would be fantastic.”

“Just a second.” He looked to the guard. Like with Greg, I tried my best to read his lips.

More time? Thanks. “Did you speak with Veronica Milburn or Nick Ulin?”

“Got ‘em. Also got Mason Becker, Aida Mitchell, Greg Becker …”

“Greg Becker?” Surprise shot the words.

“I heard his story. It’s a little tougher to spin that one, admittedly.”

He nodded and switched the phone to his other ear. He crossed his legs. “Still hard to believe he and Mason came from the same family. I can’t imagine Mason hurting anyone, but Greg, he did a number on that other kid.”

“The kid was no shining role model.”

“Maybe not, but he never killed anyone.”

I decided not to pursue the conversation further. I didn’t want to violate Greg’s confidence and had no desire to spend any additional time defending the killing of a seventeen-year-old kid, no matter how bad he was. Instead, I continued the list, “Caleb Harper, Bernard Wellington, Alex Paspaloff, and you make nine.”

“Never heard of the others, except for me of course.”

“Interesting people.”

“What about Adam Vivaldi?”

“Same Adam in your story?”

“That’s him.”

“Hadn’t heard his name mentioned. Is he good for an interview?”

He licked his lips again. “Great story, that Adam. Gets a little sad at the end, but it sure starts off with a bang.”

“That a fact?”

“Let me get you his number. Tell him I told you to call. He’d probably be more than willing to talk.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

* * *

The hail worsened as I turned back onto 29. The temperature dropped like a breaking fever. I turned the heater up, warmed my hands by the vents. The weather would be more appropriate in Colorado in September, but not in the California desert.

I called Adam, who sounded surprisingly pleased to hear from me. “Any friend of Slate’s,” he’d said. “Stop by anytime.”

“How’s now work for you? I’m on my way.”

“Place is a mess, but don’t let that stop you.”

“I never do.” I wanted these articles done. After this I could stay with Nadine full-time and plan our next steps, which might just be packing up and getting out of town.

I called Mason, and he assured me all was well at the hospital. Everyone safe and healing. Caleb made it to the hospital okay, but Mason asked me to drive past his place on my way to Adam’s, just to make sure.

Thankfully, his home still stood. I drove the perimeter slowly, peered in the windows. Had it not been hailing, I’d have gotten out to take a closer look, but my cursory inspection satisfied me that all was well. No signs of forced entry, no doors had been kicked in, no windows smashed, all lights off, as Caleb left them.

The dirt roads transformed from bad to near impassible. I wished I’d brought the Trail Blazer, but figured the luxury sedan would be more comfortable for the long drive from Colorado. I drove slowly, and made it past the rivulets of water and frozen puddles back to the highway. Adam said he wasn’t far off 29, and I shouldn’t have much trouble getting there. It’d be pretty easy to find. He’d marked the road with an orange cone wrapped in reflective tape on a tall wooden post. Even with the gray skies and Egyptian hail, I found the marker easily enough. He’d bought a small mobile home on a plot of land about a quarter mile down the road. I parked in the back.

Adam opened the back door. “Connor?”

“That’s me.” I stepped out of my car into the mud.

“Come on inside.”

The hail ricocheted off the aluminum siding of his mobile home. I raced inside and wiped my feet on a mat just inside the door. Adam smiled. The few teeth he had left were blackening. The house smelt of cheap cigarettes and alcohol. “Excuse the mess.”

“I always do.” Aside from the smell, his house was no worse than Caleb’s or Mason’s. I nodded in approval.

He didn’t have much space, but he’d spent time trying to make the home cozy. Paintings of cityscapes decorated the walls. Architecture magazines covered the coffee table. He’d constructed several famous buildings from LEGOs: the Empire State Building, Eiffel Tower, World Trade Centers. “Doctor Slate says you have an interesting story.”

“Slate’s a good guy.”

“I’ve heard good things about him.”

He motioned me to the living room and asked me to sit. His couch felt like milk crates wrapped in burlap. “Let me get you something. Beer?”

“I’m good, thanks. Still have to drive today.”

His cackle would shame any midnight witch. He disappeared into the kitchen. Two aluminum cans cracked open. When he returned, he held a beer in each hand.

I put my hands up. “Thanks, but I really don’t need one.”

“I know. These are for me.” He took a long swallow of the first and set the second on a table near him. “All right. You probably want to hear about the back.”

“I hear it’s quite the story.”

“Hold on to your socks, man. This is going to fry your brain.”

Chapter 31

HEROES DIE FIRST

Like everyone else, Adam Vivaldi lay low on the beige carpet of the lobby of Pacific Bank of the West in Los Angeles, California, his arms stretched above his head, face turned to the front door. The dead security guard lay in front of the lobby, blood trickling from his head. The woman beside him cried, and Adam thought about doing the same.

He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing. In his mind, he recounted the layout of the bank. He rehashed what he knew of load-bearing walls, fire-breakers, current city building codes. Knowledge might give him an advantage, an element of surprise, but his mind couldn’t rationalize the information into anything useful.

Four tellers lay on the ground to his right. Minutes ago, they’d sat at their stations making change, cashing checks, making small talk. Then the gunman walked in and shot the guard in the head. Before the surprise and shock registered, the gunman grabbed the manager from her desk near the lobby. He cocked the gun and commanded the tellers to put their hands on their heads and move away from their stations. He’d have no alarms tripped.

“Stop crying.” The gunman spoke sweetly, like a father soothing a child. He stroked her hair, brought his masked face to her ear, and whispered something.

The manager took two staggered breaths and wiped her tears from her cheeks. “Ursula,” she said.

“That’s a good girl.” He put his arm around her. If not for the forty-five pressed to her forehead, Adam would have thought them lovers. The gunman walked her back to the vault and implored her to open it. The serenity of his voice and the malevolence of his violent behavior created an uneasy disparity. Adam’s stomach knotted. He didn’t doubt for a second that the gunman would squeeze the trigger. He’d killed once, he’d kill again.

Ursula struggled to keep her voice unwavering. “I don’t have the keys.”

“Please?” The gunman rolled the bottom of his ski mask up enough to smile, to show his perfect, white teeth. Two had been filed to points. “For me? I promise I won’t hurt anyone if you do. I’ll be a good boy.”

The strength in her voice vanished. “I really don’t have keys. I’d open it if I could.”

He stroked her curly red hair again. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. Just relax. Be a good girl and stay here, okay?” He held the gun toward her, still smiling, and walked back to the lobby. He pulled a woman up gently from the floor by an elbow.

The woman whimpered.

“Easy now, darling,” the gunman said. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Nancy,” she whispered. Her legs shook, as if she’d just run a marathon.

The gunman put the forty-five to her head, traced her ear with the tip of the barrel. “Such beautiful skin, Nancy. Won’t you walk with me?” He escorted her by the elbow to the vault. In any other situation, they could’ve been on a date, walking along the pier, sharing a spindle of cotton candy.

“Ursula, honey. I need you to open the vault, okay?” He pressed the gun harder into Nancy’s ear. The woman flinched, and her breath caught.

Ursula said, “Please. Please, I don’t have the keys. The keys—”

The gun exploded. Adam covered his ears, tried not to vomit.

The gunman stepped over Nancy’s body. “Shall I go get another friend?”

Ursula wept. “I can’t. I would open it if I could. I can’t. Please.”

The gunman returned to the lobby and pulled a short man up by the shoulder. He pushed the gun under the man’s throat. “Easy now. We’re just going to talk to our friend Ursula. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

“I have kids,” the short man said. “Two, a boy and a girl. They’re twelve—twins.”

“Perfect,” the gunman said. “What are their names?”

The man steadied his breathing. “Hannah and Howard.” His face reddened. Short and stocky, he in no way intimidated the gunman.

The gunman selected him for the pathos, to appeal to Ursula’s heart, not her fear. “And your name, daddy?”

“Jim.”

“That’s a fine name, Jim. You can call me Frank.”

“You don’t look like a Frank.”

The gunman pushed Jim’s face savagely into the wall.

Jim cried out, covered his face with his hands. Blood poured down through his fingers. Had to be a broken nose.

Adam squirmed. Should he run? How far would he make it? The gunman had put something on the door when he first came in. Explosives? Must be. Could he rush the gunman? Overpower him somehow? Wrestle the gun away?

No. The gunman moved too slowly, methodically. This wasn’t a rash robbery. He’d planned it out, probably for months. He’d have contingency plans. More than likely, he had additional guns, maybe explosives, under his coat. His voice contained no fear or anger at all; his filed teeth meant he was likely unstable, the scary kind of violent who felt nothing when murdering.

What kind of bank policy dictated the manager on duty not have keys? Corporate policy to protect money, no matter the cost in lives. Adam shook his head.

Sirens split the still air in the bank. Hope rose on feathered wings, but Adam swallowed it down. The arrival of the police could complicate things, could push the gunman over the edge. Three cruisers parked near the front doors. Six cops poured out, weapons trained on the door. More would be around back.

A phone rang.

The gunman walked back to the lobby with Jim’s elbow firm in his grip. He waved the gun to Adam. “What’s your name?”

Adam pointed to his chest in disbelief. “Me? Adam.” His heart escalated up his esophagus.

“That’s a great name, Adam. Do me a favor, please, and answer the phone?”

Adam stood slowly. He had a chance. He’d have to walk right past the gunman to get to the phone. If he moved quickly …

The gunman would shoot Jim. Too risky.

The phone rang again. Adam picked it up. “Hello?”

A woman’s voice. Calm. Too calm. “Who is this, please?”

“My name is Adam.”

“Adam, we can see you. This is the police. My name is Lucy. I’m a negotiator with the LAPD. We’d like to get you guys out of there as quickly and safely as possible. Will the gunman talk to me?”

“Hold on.” Adam cleared his throat and looked to the gunman. “They’d like to speak to you.”

He shook his head, his filed teeth gleaming in the florescent light. “Please tell them I’m busy. Take a message if you must.”

Adam nodded. “He says he’s busy.”

“I heard him. Will he let you speak to me?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s find out. We see the security guard on the floor. Has he killed anyone else?”

“A teller.” Adam’s throat clamped shut.

The gunman shook his head, pointed the gun back at Jim’s temple. “Don’t tell them anything else.” His voice firmed. No “please” this time.

“Yes, sir.”

“Take a message.”

Lucy spoke immediately. “Does he have demands?”

Adam relayed the message. This would be so much easier if he’d talk to her, but Adam guessed he didn’t want to use a hand to hold the phone. It’d make him more vulnerable. He’d kept his back near walls the entire time he’d been in the bank. Less to watch, that way. A lone robber had to worry about his back.

“I’d like a fully fueled helicopter, please. I’m very busy and have several appointments to make today, so I need it in an hour.”

Lucy broke in. “An hour? He’s kidding right?”

“Please inform them that I will kill one person if the chopper is not here in an hour, and another person every ten minutes after until the chopper arrives. Once the chopper touches down in the parking lot, the pilot must get out. The police must leave the area.”

Adam relayed the message slowly.

“We need more than an hour. Tell him that. Ask for two.”

The gunman leveled the weapon to Adam’s head. “Hang up, now, Adam.”

He did.

The gunman gently nudged Jim back to the lobby, and motioned Adam to do the same. “Everybody please stand up. I’d like you all to walk to the front windows. Make sure to wave at the police. They’ll be happy to know that you’re okay.”

Bull. He wanted the cops to see the hostages. It’d make it harder for them to rush in if they knew who they were endangering. The gunman wielded fear like a weapon. His easy demeanor chilled Adam.

Adam walked with the group to the front window. They took slow, cautious steps, a mob of zombies.

Outside, the sunlight shone through silver smog. A gentle breeze tousled flags and leaves. The window was warm with sun; it was a Disneyland day. He should be outside his home, sitting on his porch reading. He should be on the golf course. He should be meeting his girlfriend Lisa for lunch rather than being trapped in a bank on his break. He knew better than to take a quick trip to the bank on the first of the month because it’d be crowded. In retrospect, this must have been part of the gunman’s plan. More people, more hostages.

“Now wave,” the gunman said.

To his right, the six patrons waved like soulless marionettes. To his left, the five remaining employees did the same. Only Ursula, the manager, remained behind the counter with the gunman.

“Good. That’s fine. Now please, everyone sit beneath the counter here and face the window.”

The eleven complied quickly, and the gunman kept the forty-five leveled at their chests. Adam’s legs weakened. He hoped he wouldn’t stumble or trip. He plodded forward until he, like the rest, collapsed onto the carpet and backed up to the counter.

The gunman opened his leather jacket and pulled a square white block of putty from within. Moving with rehearsed grace, he taped it to the front doors next to an identical block he’d taped on his entrance. “In case anyone wants to visit.” He turned to Ursula. “Take me to the back door, dear Ursula?”

He guided the terrified manager behind the vault and vanished for a minute.

Adam sat next to Jim. He wanted to say something, but had no idea what to say. Any advice or words of comfort were baseless optimism. Still, he felt compelled. “You’ll see them again.”

The man pulled his knees to his chest, cried. “I can’t lose them.”

Adam whispered, “We’re going to get through this, just you watch.”

“Thanks.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Look at me, sobbing like a baby.”

“Don’t blame you. Anyone would do the same if they’d lived through what you just did.”

The man nodded. “Thanks. What about you? Any family?”

Adam shook his head and said, “No kids. Mom and Dad are in Florida. Sister passed last year.”

A teller whispered harshly. “Quiet. I hear them coming.”

Adam crossed his legs in front of him and folded his hands in his lap. The gunman came around the corner. He held Ursula by the elbow. She grimaced. He pulled his mask off and let his blond hair fall around his face. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen. It looks like we’ll be here for a while, so I have to make some rules. You understand.

“So we’re all clear, here are the rules: Do what I say when I say. Have a question, raise your hand. Talk without asking and I’ll blow your hand off. Move without permission and I’ll blow your knee caps off.” He looked at Adam. “And most importantly, heroes die first.”

Adam cut his eyes to the floor. Still, his mind planned, schemed. If the gunman thought Adam was a hero, he’d watch him more carefully. It might take his attention away from Jim, who had a family who needed him.

The gunman pushed Ursula into a chair and checked his watch. “Fifty more minutes. Let’s cover up these windows. The sun is so bright. Do you have anything to cover the windows, Ursula dear?”

Her voice came out in a whisper. “Nothing. I don’t think there’s anything.”

The gunman pressed his forty-five into the back of her neck. “Let’s think a little harder.”

Adam raised his hand.

“Adam, wasn’t it? You have a question?”

Adam gestured to the ceiling. “The signs. These banners could do it.”

He pressed the gun harder against Ursula’s neck. Though his voice carried the same tone, the man no longer smiled, no longer flashed his filed teeth. “Excellent idea, Adam. You are quite the hero. Why not have Jim help?”

Adam stood up and helped Jim to his feet. “I’ll need a chair to reach them.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. You’re good at thinking. Figure out a way to do it without chairs.”

Adam sighed. “I could jump and get them, but they might tear. If you want all of the windows covered, we’ll need them intact.”

The gunman looked at Ursula. “You have tape?”

She nodded.

“Okay Adam, let me see you jump.”

The hostages’ sobbing softened. Adam stood on one side and Jim on the other. They counted to three, jumped, and ripped the sign from the ceiling. Adam didn’t have to jump high, but Jim did. The sign advertising a low mortgage rate came down easily and in one piece.

Adam looked at the gunman. “I’ll need some scissors.”

The gunman looked at Ursula.

“I have some in my office.”

“Be a dear and get them for me?” He moved the gun from her neck to Adam’s chest. She stood, moved to the back of the bank. She returned with a pair of black-handled office scissors.

Adam thanked her, cut the sign in the appropriate size, slipped the scissors in his back pocket, and moved to the window. “Tape?”

The gunman pulled a roll of duct tape from his jacket, the same he’d used to secure the blocks of putty on the front door. He grabbed Ursula’s shoulder and sat her roughly in the chair. The gun went back to her neck. He must be losing patience.

The phone rang again. The gunman motioned Adam to answer it with a flick of his head. “Take a message.”

Adam picked up the phone.

Lucy spoke calmly. “Chopper will take an hour and a half. Ask for more time.”

Adam relayed the message.

The gunman scanned the crowd. “I understand. Unfortunately, I’ll have to kill Jim if it’s not here in exactly forty-seven minutes.”

Jim closed his eyes and dropped to his knees. “Please, God. Not me. My kids need me.”

The gunman nodded. “Yes, they do. But don’t worry. I’m sure the LAPD will tell them all about how they couldn’t get the chopper here in time.”

Adam steeled his voice and relayed the message to Lucy.

She cursed. “We need more time.”

“Why?” Adam asked.

“To get you out, of course.”

“Don’t be stupid. This guy’s already killed two people. If you really want us out of here, you’ll get a helicopter here quick.”

“Listen, Adam. You don’t know how these things work.”

“I know how he works,” Adam whispered.

“That will be quite enough, Adam,” the gunman said.

Adam hung up and shook his head. Last thing they needed was the LAPD to play hero. He sat next to Jim, crossed his legs.

Jim held his head in his hands like a man with a migraine. For three minutes he repeated, “My kids, my kids,” and “I’m going to die, and then what will they do?”

After fifteen minutes, the gunman told Ursula, “Music.” She started the radio. No one spoke. No one moved.

Another twenty-five minutes passed without a chopper. Jim sobbed, and the gunman paced, clearly irritated. “Seven minutes!” He shouted as if the cops beyond the doors and window could hear him.

Five minutes later, Jim blubbered. Tears and snot streaked his face. His eyes swelled, as if he’d been punched.“Please not me, please not me.”

Two minutes later the gunman shouted “On your feet, Jim!” His eyes widened. He stuffed the dead security guard’s gun in the waist of his pants and pulled his blond hair back. He leveled the forty-five at Jim. “On your feet.”

Jim didn’t move. He rocked and sobbed, rocked and sobbed.

Adam’s breath caught in his neck, swelled to an apple, nearly choked him to death.

The gunman rushed over, grabbed Jim with his free hand, and threw him to the other side of the room. His voice lost all gentleness. Instead, anger steeled it. He shouted commands, rather than offering them as suggestions. “To the door! I want everyone to see this—they need to know they killed you! Adam, get the signs down.”

Jim dropped to the floor and curled into a ball like a sleeping cat. Sweat soaked his shirt. Hostages wailed and covered their eyes.

The gunman yanked Jim up with a quick, strong tug, and stuck the muzzle of the forty-five in his ear. He marched Jim to the door.

“God please, please,” Jim said.

Adam moved to the front door as ordered, but never planned to take down the signs. That’d get Jim’s head on the floor faster than anything. Instead, without thinking, without feeling fear or nausea, he pulled the scissors from his pocket and hoped his half-formed plan would work. If he could grab the gun with his right hand and sink the scissors into the gunman’s lower back, where it was soft and painful, he might be able to get the gun away from him for good.

He’d have to get the guard’s gun away from him too, but the distraction would give the others time to help him. Together, they could overwhelm one man. It took the courage of one to inspire, to rally others, to chase fear from their hearts and replace it with hope.

Armed with hope, armed with a furious fervor for resistance, the fight would be fair.

Things didn’t go as he hoped.

Adam pulled the scissors from his pocket while he grabbed the gun. He hadn’t planned on the gunman being so strong.

The gunman pulled back fast, hard, and pulled the trigger. Jim dropped.

Adam rammed the scissors into the gunman’s back and heard a scream like a train braking on wet tracks.

“Help me!” Adam shouted.

The gunman twisted, and Adam lost his grip. The barrel of the forty-five came at him and he ducked and spun.

A crack like a bat, like a clap of thunder.

The gunman’s fist sank into Adam’s back. But it wasn’t his fist.

Adam fell to his knees, looked down at the blood spurting from his stomach, and passed out.

* * *

Adam opened his eyes to a white world. Slowly, the blizzard brightness dimmed. He blinked twice, tried to speak, but nothing came out. He couldn’t feel much, not his legs, not his arms, not his fingers or toes.

He took a breath, filled his lungs with air, and a stabbing scissor-like pain raced up his spine. He tried to scream, but it dribbled from his lips like a muffled whimper.

His senses evened out and told him where he was: the machines surrounding him, the consistent beeping, the nurses shuffling on padded shoes told him “hospital.” He checked for a television, but found none. What kind of hospital didn’t have a television in every room?

A dim figure stood up. He was short and bald. “Thank God!”

Adam remembered the voice, but couldn’t place it, like a casual acquaintance from high school. He didn’t recognize the man. His mind moved slowly, a train building up steam, but not quite racing down the tracks. “I …”

“Take it easy. It’s me, Jim. From the bank.”

Adam didn’t understand.

“You saved my life.”

Agony accompanied each breath. He wished he could fall back asleep, slip into blissful darkness where pain couldn’t reach him. “I ...”

Jim smiled. “Nurse said you’d have trouble speaking, and that you probably wouldn’t remember much. You bled a lot. They had to put you in a coma to help you rest, give your body time to heal. Been like that a couple weeks now. But the rest is good news.”

Adam closed his eyes, focused on his fingers. Move.

Jim put a hand on his shoulder. “Doctor said you looked good this morning, so they pulled you out a couple hours ago. He says the bullet missed your spine by an inch. It punched through pretty cleanly, but did a lot of damage on its way out. I guess they sewed you up pretty good, though.” Jim paused as if waiting for a response.

Adam didn’t oblige.

“Anyway, a few more surgeries should fix you up, maybe good as new. Well, after the physical therapy at least.”

Adam blinked.

“You don’t remember it, do you? The bank robbery couple weeks ago? You saved my life. Stabbed the guy with some scissors right in the small of his back. Caught him in the kidney and got a vein or artery or something because he bled and bled. But he got me too.”

Jim bent at his hips and pointed to a bandage atop his bald head. “You pulled his gun out of my ear and he shot me. Just nicked me, though. I’ll have a good scar, a good story, but that’s about it.” He paused and laughed. “I passed out. Thought I was dead, but when I came to, there were paramedics and police and everything. They got in pretty quick and slowed your bleeding long enough to get you here.”

Adam needed a nap. Pain stabbed up and down his spine, then, like malevolent static-electricity, through each of his limbs, first the arms, then the legs.

“Don’t hear too good out of this ear now, but that’s okay ‘cause I still got my kids. I’m still alive. Because of you, Adam. You’re a genuine hero. Genuine.”

Adam smiled. His face burned.

“Hope you don’t mind, but I went through your cell phone. I called your folks in Florida; they hopped a flight out here. They’re sitting out in the waiting room with your girlfriend now. They were nice enough to let me back for a few minutes. Just got lucky you woke up on my watch.” He laughed nervously. “I’m sure you want to see them more than you want to see my ugly mug. I’ll call them in, but before I go, is there anything I can do for you? You have bills to pay I can help with?”

Adam’s mind moved now. He gathered his strength to speak. “Something for the pain?”

Chapter 32

Wednesday, September 9th

I rubbed my nose. The cigarette smoke and sour stench of an unwashed kitchen burned my eyes. “That’s when it started?”

He nodded and laughed. “Still hurts, too. Can’t hardly stand, can’t hardly sit. Moved to Percocet when Vicodin wouldn’t cut the pain. Worked for a while, but I had to start mixing. Meth, coke, whatever.” He got quiet for a minute. “Got pretty expensive, and living on disability in LA, you don’t make much. Moved up here to Hailey where my disability would go further.”

I crossed my legs and tapped my pen on my notebook. “Sounds like quite the sacrifice you made.”

“I don’t have family. No wife or kids. Jim’s a good man. He’s a good dad. Me, what am I?”

“You’re a hero.”

He had a wet, throaty laugh. “Some hero I turned out to be. I’ll be dead before I’m forty.”

I tried to bury the surprise on my face. I’d figured him to be in his mid-forties. I wanted to say something comforting, assure him he’d have a long and happy life, but I could make no promises. “Considered rehab?”

“Tried it all. Doc Slate helped me kick most of the bad stuff, but still can’t kick Perc.”

Not so subtly, I checked my watch, flipped my notebook shut, and stood up. “I wish you all the best, Adam. Appreciate your time.”

He stood up and walked me to the back door. “Thanks. And good luck with your articles.”

I shook his hand, and he smiled. I ducked my head as I ran to my car, the hail bouncing off my neck and shoulders. Adam’s road had deteriorated into a muddy creek. My tires slushed through until I came to 29. I hurried back to the hospital.

Caleb stood beside Nadine’s bed, hands behind his back, holding a Bible. When he saw me, he smiled. “Good to see you again.”

He met me at the door to the room and gave me a hug. I turned my face from his scarred cheek, returned his embrace, awkward as it was. “Likewise.”

He smiled, returned to Nadine’s side and put his hand on the head of her bed. “Good news.”

She hadn’t smiled so broadly since before the cancer hit. “I can go home.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Really?”

“Soon. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

“Home home?” Colorado seemed a world and an era away. I missed it; I wanted more than anything to pack her up and drive back right away.

“Yes.” A mouse laugh, small and adorable. “You’re done with the interviews, right? You can write up the last two tonight, and we can leave tomorrow morning.”

I rubbed my forehead and sat down. “Colorado?”

“Colorado.”

“Have you told Aida or Mason?”

“No.”

“We need to tell them,” I said. “If we leave, Hailey may be finished.”

Her smile vanished. “That bad?”

“I’m a horrible judge of character, but I can’t shake the feeling that we need to stay.”

Caleb set his Bible on the side table. “If it’s okay, may I read the articles?”

“Of course.”

“And I’d love to have you both, and Mason and Aida as well, over to my house tomorrow. We can have brunch and discuss the articles? I’ll clean up. Promise.”

I looked at Nadine, who shrugged.

I nodded. “Okay. I’m game.”

* * *

The skies traded hail for snow. We watched the thick, doughy flakes accumulate on the frozen mud outside. Caleb put together a pot of coffee and some hot herbal tea for Nadine. He sweetened it with honey and handed her a flowered mug. She sipped it, eyes closed, and smiled. “Been a while since I could drink tea.” I kissed her head and put my arm around her. It felt good to see her sitting up again.

We waited for Mason to finish the final article. He read with his hand over his mouth, as if he mouthed the words to a secret. He scratched his chin, tossed the article on the coffee table. He stood up and walked to the window. “Snow in September. That some sort of sign?”

“Signs are more your thing,” I said.

Mason shook his head. “This was Bernard’s idea. I wish he was here to help us with this, give us some insight.”

I perked up. “Can you call him?”

Caleb frowned. “Bernard’s passed away.”

“He’s dead? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Aida set her coffee down on a coaster. “Day after Gloria shot Mason. We didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“Nadine, did you know about this?”

She shook her head and put her hand on my knee. “First I’ve heard of it. But it can’t be good for us.”

“Not at all,” Mason said. “You figure the easy ones: Aida, Veronica, Bernard. Pretty safe to say they’re righteous, but one of them is dead, and that leaves three.”

Caleb rubbed his bad shoulder and asked Mason, “What about you? You saved Shannon’s life.”

Mason reached for a box of cigarettes he kept in his sweatshirt. His hand held it, though he didn’t take it out. “I should have pulled her from the tracks, but I didn’t. I was frozen.”

“Panic doesn’t make you unrighteous,” Aida said. “That’s just being a kid.”

I scratched my head. “We could say most of them are good, with the possible exception of Greg and Nick. Even then, we could argue either side. It really comes back to the basic question: who decides?”

Aida asked Caleb. “What’s your take?”

Caleb stared out the window at the snow crusting the perimeter of the window. “I’m with Connor. They can go either way from a human standpoint, but this isn’t a human standpoint. This is God we’re talking about. His only measure of righteousness is the acceptance of Christ’s sacrifice on the cross.”

The windows rattled, and the snow swirled. The walls shook in the wind.

“That can’t be good,” Aida said. “We have to decide, and we have to do it soon if we want to have a chance of getting out of here alive.”

“No.” Everyone looked at me. “If we take off, Hailey’s done. I don’t know how I know it, but I do.”

“But there’s no guarantee that staying here will save the town,” Aida stood next to Mason and put her arm in his.

“You’re right. I’m not sure if staying here will save Hailey. But I know leaving will destroy it.”

Mason looked at me. “How do you figure?”

“It’s a feeling. I know it in my gut. Here’s what I’m thinking: If God can change me, He can change anyone. Who are we to judge someone’s righteousness and spirituality? I never bothered asking these people if they knew Jesus. At first I didn’t think it mattered. Then, I didn’t ask because of what Caleb said happened to people who pushed Jesus. And with Bernard’s kids coming after us, I chickened out.

“But I’m done being afraid. I’m done running. I say we stay. We make a stand. We show God our faith in Him, in His ability to change Hailey for the better.”

Nadine hugged me. “What about Colorado? I thought you wanted to go home?”

I kissed her forehead. “I’ll miss our house, but home is where you are.”

She smiled and kissed my lips.

Aida glared at us. “How long are you talking about, Connor? I love Jesus, but it doesn’t mean I want to be on the wrong end of a tornado.”

Mason cracked his knuckles.

Caleb turned his attention from the window to me. When had I become the expert on what God wanted?

“I say we stay. For now. For good. I say we change Hailey. There are good people here who may or may not be righteous, but they all can be. What they need is someone to tell them, someone to make them listen. And maybe that’s where we come in.”

Outside, the wind howled and shrieked like a wounded animal.

END

Epilogue

HAILEY’S HEROES

World News Weekly—Connor Reedly

October 08—Hailey, CA

Mason Becker walks down the aisle with his new wife, Aida Mitchell. He walks tall, back straight, smile splitting his face. You’d never know he’d been shot a month ago.

The journey down the aisle takes no more than thirty steps. They exit the back of the rustic chapel and enter the desert beneath a piercing white sun. Reverend Caleb Harper plunks out hymns on a piano that holds its tune with a limp grip. Outside, a small reception has been prepared by the staff of Sue’s Diner, a nostalgic eatery off Route 29.

Mason takes a seat on a weathered bench in the unseasonably warm weather. He smiles before he embarks on a story about Hailey in the twenties, a habit he’s developed of late. The patrons gather around him, interested in the history of the town they call home.

“It’s a Sunday night. The whole town’s gathered here in this chapel for evening service. Standing room only. Things are normal. They’re singing, they’re praying, and then someone stands up in the back and shouts ‘Fire!’ The whole place explodes in chaos. They rush out the back and down to the general store.”

Here, he points to a blackened building about a hundred yards to the south. Its charred lumber sticks out of the ground like gangrenous fingers. “So the pastor takes charge. He’s also the fire captain, so it makes sense. He has them grab buckets by the well and make a human chain from the river to the store. They work together while smoke darkens the moon. It’s almost pitch-black, but they keep dumping. Bail and dump, bail and dump. Pail after pail. This goes on for an hour, when someone finally shouts, ‘Hey! We need a new store anyway. Let the deviled thing burn. We’ll build a new one.’ So they put their buckets down. They take hands, surround the burning store, and sing hymns together. The pastor finished off the evening when the last of the embers winked out.”

Outside the chapel, Mason points out landmarks like a tour guide: a pile of rubble that was once the well, the dry wash that was once the river, the pile of blackened sticks that was once the general store.

This is Mason’s first marriage, but his second love. This is Aida’s second marriage, but her first love. They hold each other and smile, her in her ivory dress, him in his pressed tux. The image is something you’d see in a picture frame in a store, a black-and-white photo of happiness, of hope. Their joy, their contentedness, is a stark contrast to the sparse creosote bushes, diseased Joshua trees, and miles and miles of beige sand. Golden cottonwoods spring up near the wash. There’s an underappreciated beauty here, one the citizens take for granted more often than not, and one travelers seldom stop long enough to see.

The desert doesn’t make a strong first impression. A month ago, my wife and I drove into Hailey to visit her sister, Aida. A Denver native, I immediately noticed the lack of urban development. Where were the McDonalds? The shopping malls? The Target? A forty minute drive separated Hailey from the nearest town. Sparse buildings stood in disrepair, a good breeze away from collapsing like their fallen peers.

But the town has a history, an image that burned long and hot and, like an overused bulb, dimmed, flickered, and expired.

Originally, the town sprang up along the Mojave River south of mountains that, in 1898, George Hailey insisted were filled with gold. Confident prospectors sold their homes and moved in by the wagon-load. Hailey had lied. There was no gold, and only George Hailey found a fortune. He fled the town two years later, running from an angry, poverty-stricken mob with a noose. Years later, California and Nevada constructed Route 29, a major artery connecting Southern California to Las Vegas. The road breathed new life into a dying town. Investors built hotels, gas stations, general stores, homes, and hope.

In the sixties, the Mojave dried up and retreated underground. Construction completed the I-21, routing traffic away from the bustling town. Like the Mojave, the hope of the town also evaporated and retreated underground.

When you spend time here, you learn the spirit of the original prospectors is alive and well. While poverty presses in and stoops the shoulders of Sue’s patrons, one has only to talk to the denizens to realize Hailey is a town of reluctant, humble heroes. They are the goodness in an otherwise spiritually arid town. But, like the river, their hope and potential run strong beneath the surface. And when opposition rains, optimism surfaces to awe-inspiring results.

“Eve’s Horn and Newland,” Mason says of the cities bookending Hailey, “argue over who’s responsible for [the citizens of Hailey]. We’re like the awkward kid in PE, the one no one wants on their team. He’s not even the last one picked. No one picks him at all. They argue over who has to have him on their team. It’s the old ‘No, you take him’ kind of attitude. Neither wants to claim us, so neither provides for us. Police rarely come out here for anything less than murder.”

Reverend Harper, a scarred war veteran, agrees. “I’ve called them a few times, to report threats made against me and my family, my wife and daughter. Essentially, the sentiment I get from them is, ‘Call us when you’re dead.’”

But who is threatening him and why? “Most of the people here are guarded. They’re scared. They’re stuck in this town and can’t get out. Most of them drop out of school to help support their families. Without an education, they can’t get past the cement plant for employment. It’s a never ending cycle. They’re tired of getting their hopes up and tired of thinking they can have a better way of life, and they lash out against anyone offering them any sort of hope.”

Even among the jaded and the recluses, among the violent criminals who’ve learned they can take what they want, among those who feel hopeless, there are shining examples of those who rise, Phoenix-like, from the dust of the desert and stretch out large, benevolent wings. They don’t like to talk about it much, but, if the situation is right, they will. And when they speak, we get a more accurate picture of Hailey—one in which the hope of the people bubbles to the surface, trickles into a stream, and, with the right conditions, will run above ground again.

Veronica, the one-legged waitress at Sue’s Diner, stands in the door of the chapel and holds the hand of Carl the cook. They smile as they watch Mason and Aida, and one wonders if they’ve a similar idea in mind.

“Marriage?” She guffaws. “I’d like to finish high school first. Maybe then we can talk.”

Carl, the cook built like an offensive lineman, grins.

“Besides,” she says, “I’m just a kid. Marriage takes a lot of responsibility. What do I know about responsibility?”

She’s being kind. At seventeen she already knows more about responsibility than most adults. Between balancing a job and her senior studies at Newland Valley High School, she also helps her mother raise Emily, Veronica’s best friend Tiffany’s infant daughter.

Tiffany, then a junior at Newland Valley High School, came into Sue’s diner one afternoon complaining about Emily’s eyes. Veronica knew immediately something was terribly wrong. “She kept talking about her eyes. Like they weren’t her eyes, or that she didn’t have eyes. I can’t remember exactly, but she just kept rambling. So I asked her where Emily was. ‘On the tracks,’ she said.”

It took less than a second for Veronica to leap over the counter of Sue’s and speed to the tracks. She ran over uneven ground, raced a charging train rumbling down the tracks toward Emily. The shrill whistle of the train and the squeal of its brakes drowned out the cries of the infant. Veronica lunged for the child and caught her up in her arms just before the train crushed her leg and severed it just under the knee.

She held Emily, barely conscious. Once the train cleared, Carl scooped her and Emily up. He drove them to the hospital at breakneck speed. Because the train had cleanly severed the limb, and because Carl got her to the ER fast, they were able to stem the flow of blood and sew her up. A few surgeries and a plastic leg later, Veronica put her apron on and hobbled back to work.

When asked if she’s a hero, she shakes her head. “I just love Emily,” she says.

Veronica’s not the only one to save someone from a train. Nick Ulin leans against the weathered wall of the chapel with his arms folded. A cigarette dangles from the precipice of his lips and the corners of his mouth turn up at a lazy forty-five degree angle. Twenty-three years ago, Nick jumped into a derailed passenger train. He pulled nearly a dozen people out of the flaming cars. He worked until he collapsed and woke up in a hospital.

“I ain’t a hero,” he says. “Just done what anybody woulda done.”

But, when I mention the similarities between him and, oh, say Spider-Man, his boyish grin turns to a full-fledged smile. “Ain’t nothing like him,” he says.

Not all of Hailey’s heroes could make it to Mason and Aida’s wedding. Last month, Bernard Wellington passed away after a battle with AIDS, a disease he contracted from his wife. Though dead, his legacy of heroic work lives on. I agreed to write this article at Bernard’s behest. He wanted the public to see goodness is in this town despite its apparent hopelessness. As a thank-you, his money paid for my wife’s medical bills.

She stands next to me now, in the sunshine, and looks stronger than she has in months. As doctors looked unsuccessfully for signs of the cancer that ravaged her only months ago, and as they found nothing, they whispered a word heard more often around Hailey these days: “Miracle.”

The miracle began with Bernard’s belief in the town. It began with his willingness to put his checkbook on the line for a people two cities had already written off. His money paid for the doctors to provide care for my wife, to help her on her road to recovery. And while they didn’t cure the cancer, they prevented its spread and helped Nadine remain relatively comfortable as God worked His miracle within her.

His miracles didn’t end with my wife’s supernatural healing. He worked a miracle in my life and awakened a faith I’d not realized I had.

“Bernard wouldn’t have been surprised,” Mason says. “Faith and miracles. That’s what the man was about.”

Faith and miracles, yes. What else?

“Vision.”

Vision is right. If this were a movie, the camera would pan back from the wedding scene until, just behind the ramshackle chapel, the audience would see the foundation for a new building—the new church, roughly twice the size of the original chapel. Further back, they’d see the skeleton of a drug rehab center, a paramount need in the community. Still further and they’d see the expansion of the free clinic formerly run by Doctor Slate, now under the careful guidance and control of Doctor Romero and Aida (who has gone back to school to get her medical license).

Even Nick got his wish. In a few more months, he’ll be the manager of Hailey’s first and only Comic and Card shop, appropriately named Hailey’s Heroes.

It may be Bernard’s money making this happen, but the new construction speaks of a commitment to Hailey. It speaks of hope, a hope that springs from the hearts of Hailey’s heroes.