He was at the end of one thing and the beginning of another. Tomorrow you will head south. He wondered if a warrant from Pennsylvania would transfer to Michigan, or if there was a warrant yet, and he could feel himself getting depressed. Best not to think about it, he decided.

In a small clearing they both unrolled their sleeping bags. There was music coming from the trailer park and people laughing. Isaac was extremely tired but he did not want to fall asleep.

"Well, good night," said the Baron.

"Night to you."

He tried to zip his sleeping bag up but something was wrong with the zipper, it had come apart and it was too dark to fix. Better this way anyway, he thought. Keep my boots on. He pulled the sleeping bag around him like a comforter and found a position where his hand could stay close to his knife as he slept. Then he thought about the dew settling overnight and got up again in the dark and crawled partway under a fallen tree. He took the knife out of the sheath.

After a few hours he woke up, he could still see the Baron sleeping twenty feet away, he hadn't moved. You should get up and get going now, he thought, but he was too tired, he couldn't move his legs. He woke up again later, heard leaves rustling, looked for a long time in the darkness before deciding it was just an animal. The Baron was still right where he'd gone to sleep.

He knew he ought to get up but he couldn't. It seemed like he could sleep forever.

7. Lee

She made lunch for her father, risotto with a starter of insalata caprese, insalata caprese, French bread she'd bought at the Keystone Bakery in Monessen. She rarely got time to cook at home, as Simon preferred to eat out. Which was fine. Another reason to enjoy coming back. Afterward they sat at the dining- room table quietly drinking coffee, Henry reading his paper while she sat there, chin in hand, staring out over the long sloping lawn, the low brick walls around the property. The walls were ornamental, an unbelievable indulgence now, enough brick to build another large house. Like everything else, they were crumbling. French bread she'd bought at the Keystone Bakery in Monessen. She rarely got time to cook at home, as Simon preferred to eat out. Which was fine. Another reason to enjoy coming back. Afterward they sat at the dining- room table quietly drinking coffee, Henry reading his paper while she sat there, chin in hand, staring out over the long sloping lawn, the low brick walls around the property. The walls were ornamental, an unbelievable indulgence now, enough brick to build another large house. Like everything else, they were crumbling.

Her father was making his way through the Post- Gazette, Post- Gazette, the sun was coming strongly into the window, she let her mind wander, decided to cancel the interviews with the nurses that afternoon. She wondered if maybe Poe had made everything up, the reasons being obvious. That would be the easy thing to believe. But she was sure that Poe was telling the truth. She wasn't sure how, but she knew. the sun was coming strongly into the window, she let her mind wander, decided to cancel the interviews with the nurses that afternoon. She wondered if maybe Poe had made everything up, the reasons being obvious. That would be the easy thing to believe. But she was sure that Poe was telling the truth. She wasn't sure how, but she knew.

Poe's picture had been on the front page of the Valley Independent, Valley Independent, under the headline under the headline FOOTBALL STAR CHARGED IN KILLING. FOOTBALL STAR CHARGED IN KILLING. She'd hidden the paper before her father had a chance to see it. It hadn't mattered. Last night, the chief of police had come around looking for Isaac. A thin, balding, pleasant- looking man, obviously thoughtful. She had liked him right away and wanted to hear what he thought but he only wanted to speak to her father. She realized it was out of respect, but still. She was able to get the gist of it-Poe was being charged with the killing of the man in the factory Isaac was most likely a witness but, at this point, not a suspect. She'd hidden the paper before her father had a chance to see it. It hadn't mattered. Last night, the chief of police had come around looking for Isaac. A thin, balding, pleasant- looking man, obviously thoughtful. She had liked him right away and wanted to hear what he thought but he only wanted to speak to her father. She realized it was out of respect, but still. She was able to get the gist of it-Poe was being charged with the killing of the man in the factory Isaac was most likely a witness but, at this point, not a suspect.

This morning, her father had looked haggard. He was sliding. In fact he'd gotten worse since she'd gotten here. How long? She counted: Sat.u.r.day through today, Thursday. Six days. It felt much longer than that. Her father hadn't shaved in two days now and his white hair was tangled and flat on his scalp, his shoulders dusted with dandruff. The look of a heavy drinker-cheeks and nose mottled with burst capillaries-though he barely touched the stuff. Watery eyes. His clock running down.

They ate in the dining room, the old walnut furniture, an antique china cabinet and credenza, the waterstained wallpaper around the windows. A large room with a tall ceiling and a gla.s.s chandelier. It occurred to her that maybe her father had bought this house because of her mother, because he'd wanted to impress her. It was difficult to know.

They still hadn't talked about the visit from the police officer. There was something extraordinary about their desire to avoid conflict. But it would have to be discussed. She got up and decided to do the dishes.

"You finished?" she said to him.

"I got a couple years yet."

She smiled but couldn't bring herself to laugh. She took his plate to the kitchen and ran the water until it was steaming hot, found the rubber gloves and began to scrub the dishes. When she was done she wiped down the stove and countertop, though they weren't dirty; she'd cleaned them that morning as well. At the apartment in New Haven of course they had a dishwasher, they also had a maid service once a week, she'd protested against that at first but Simon had looked at her like she was crazy. Normal people had maid service.

A feeling of loneliness came over her, this place wasn't home and neither was the other, she stood with the hot water running over her hands and then she thought: you don't deserve to feel sorry for yourself. You have to go in and talk to him.

Instead she looked for something else to clean. She would sweep the back porch. It was one in the afternoon and the deer had come out to graze in the yard among the old apple trees. The porch was filthy and she saw the stain on the couch where she'd slept with Poe. She swept. It was pleasant, sunny and green with the deer and the trees and distant hills but that was all there was, all this place had to offer. She didn't understand why her mother had come here. She didn't understand why her mother had married Henry English.

Of course she herself was making compromises but it wasn't the same as her mother. Married rich and early. When she thought of it that way it was like being punched in the stomach. She didn't want to go to law school, either, she was probably more the art school type, more the comp lit type, but she'd never let herself run with those crowds, it was out of the question given the family situation. It would have been equally nice to join the Peace Corps and just see where she landed, let the wind take her instead of having such a trajectory. Like Siddhartha- the stone falling through water. In a few years she'd have a law degree, an insurance policy-even if things went bad with Simon, her father and Isaac would be taken care of. She had a good plan and a good backup. Nothing was perfect but she went to bed happy.

Given that, how she'd arranged her life, it was baffling what had happened to her mother. Somehow she'd decided that Henry English was her best option. You are a b.i.t.c.h for thinking that, she decided, you are a terrible person. But the fact remained. It had been much harder for her, Lee thought. Thirty- one, unmarried, no family in the country. Henry English sits down next to her in a dive bar, a stable, predictable, honest man. A man who is proud of her, who would never leave her, who knows she's more than he deserves. Then everything in the Valley falls apart and he loses his job and there goes the stability and on top of it there are two kids. He's out of work for two years and then lives in Indiana for three years, sending money back until his accident.

Then you get into college and things begin to change. Her moods get deeper-higher highs and lower lows. Sunday after graduation, everyone goes to church and that afternoon she disappears. Two months later you leave for New Haven.

Before her father, she knew, her mother had been engaged to another man, a student in the music department at CMU, but he'd broken off the engagement at the last minute. Long before that, her mother had split from her family in Mexico, she'd come from money but been too proud to return to it, and by the time she died she hadn't spoken to them in twenty- five years. Lee wondered about this side of her family occasionally, but her interest was only theoretical. Meeting them would not unlock any secrets that she needed unlocked. She suspected it would only depress her.

In the end it was impossible to know. Her mother must have felt some sense of desperation, or loneliness, or time creeping in on her, if she had married Henry English. A beautiful woman with a master's degree in music composition. But she was also thirty- one, living in a country that was not her own, no family to speak of, little support structure, and here was a man who would never leave her, a man with a good job, a man who wanted to take care of her. Knowing how her position might be worse if she married a wealthy man. Or maybe Mary English, nee Maria Salinas, had the same notions as Lee's Marxist friends at Yale- solidarity, n.o.ble workers, an impending revolution. She had wanted to marry a worker, a final rejection of her family. There were certainly people like that in the Valley, Mr. Painter, the history teacher at Buell High who'd written Lee's letter of recommendation, he told Lee he'd moved to the Valley to bring socialism to the mills, he'd been a steelworker for ten years, lost his job and become a teacher. Graduated from Cornell and became a steelworker. There were lots of us, There were lots of us, he'd told her. he'd told her. Reds working right alongside the good old boys. Reds working right alongside the good old boys. But there had never been any revolution, not anything close, a hundred and fifty thousand people lost their jobs but they had all gone quietly. It was obvious there were people responsible, there were living breathing men who'd made those decisions to put the entire Valley out of work, they had vacation homes in Aspen, they sent their kids to Yale, their portfolios went up when the mills shut down. But, aside from a few ministers who'd famously snuck into a white- glove church and thrown skunk oil on the wealthy pastor, no one lifted a hand in protest. There was something particularly American about it-blaming yourself for bad luck-that resistance to seeing your life as affected by social forces, a tendency to attribute larger problems to individual behavior. The ugly reverse of the American Dream. In France, she thought, they would have shut down the country. They would have stopped the mills from closing. But of course you couldn't say that in public, especially not to her father. But there had never been any revolution, not anything close, a hundred and fifty thousand people lost their jobs but they had all gone quietly. It was obvious there were people responsible, there were living breathing men who'd made those decisions to put the entire Valley out of work, they had vacation homes in Aspen, they sent their kids to Yale, their portfolios went up when the mills shut down. But, aside from a few ministers who'd famously snuck into a white- glove church and thrown skunk oil on the wealthy pastor, no one lifted a hand in protest. There was something particularly American about it-blaming yourself for bad luck-that resistance to seeing your life as affected by social forces, a tendency to attribute larger problems to individual behavior. The ugly reverse of the American Dream. In France, she thought, they would have shut down the country. They would have stopped the mills from closing. But of course you couldn't say that in public, especially not to her father.

The porch was swept. There was no point in putting it off further. Lee went back into the house, through the kitchen, and into the dining room, where her father was still sitting.

"Dad?" she said.

"That's me." He looked up reluctantly. He knew what was coming.

"What did the police chief talk to you about?"

"Isaac's friend Billy," he said. "They locked him up for killing someone."

He went back to his paper and she could tell he was uncomfortable. She wondered how much he knew. It seemed much warmer in the room all of a sudden.

"I don't think he did it."

"I guess that's possible, but it's not worth speculating over. They'll get it figured out in court."

"Maybe what I'm getting at is I'm pretty sure he didn't do it."

"Maybe your view of him is skewed."

It was quiet for a few seconds; she felt her face get hot. Her father wanted to drop the conversation and she did also but she forced herself to keep talking: "He told me that Isaac is the one who killed that guy."

"Lee," he said, without missing a beat, "Billy Poe nearly killed someone last year, beat the guy's head in with a baseball bat, and the only reason he didn't get locked up for that is that Bud Harris, the police officer who came by yesterday, is friends with Billy's mother. Friends, Friends, if you know what I mean. Which is something that now they're all going to have to deal with, now that he's done this other thing." if you know what I mean. Which is something that now they're all going to have to deal with, now that he's done this other thing."

"I know all that," she said. But she hadn't known it-that was not exactly how she'd heard the story.

"I didn't mean to snap at you. What Bud Harris told me is that he thinks Isaac was there, but that it's better if Isaac stays out of it. He doesn't think Isaac should get involved unless it's absolutely necessary, which is fine with me."

"If there's a trial, you can be sure Isaac will get involved."

"I know that. I've been up all night thinking about who I know who's a lawyer around here."

"It doesn't bother you that Isaac saw those things?"

"I feel guilty about it, if that's what you mean."

"That wasn't what I was getting at." She didn't know, though. Maybe it was. She went and stood next to him and he reached up to squeeze her hand.

"I already told Simon. He said we can use the family checkbook."

"We'll be fine on our own," he said. He squeezed her hand again. "That was smart, though. That was good thinking."

She was struck by the absurdity of what was happening: you've both just admitted you've been hiding something from each other, that the police chief thinks Isaac witnessed a murder, that Poe thinks that Isaac was involved in the murder, but you're going to keep on acting like everything's normal.

"What else should we be doing?"

He shrugged. "It sounds like you already took care of it. In any case, I think it's pretty safe not to trust what Billy Poe tells you." He looked up briefly from the newspaper. "Goes without saying that you're married now."

She could feel her face flushing even more and she looked around the room, she knew if she said anything else she would start crying. Henry rattled the paper and cleared his throat and made a show of being interested in something.

"Your friend Hillary Clinton is making more speeches."

She nodded. Let him change the subject. She looked out the window and then she felt him take her hand again.

"You're a good kid," he said.

"I'm not sure."

"I mean it. You're a good kid and I'm proud as h.e.l.l of you."

She nodded and cleared her throat again and smiled at him and he smiled back sympathetically.

"I think I need some air."

"Alright."

Outside, she sat against the brick wall that wrapped down around the lawn, field, whatever it was, down toward the ravine, out over the empty woods and hills, the long high ridge in the distance. The old man knew about her and Poe, it wasn't that surprising. He forgave her-she was surprised by that, of course she was. But maybe those were the things her mother had seen in him.

She wondered what he really thought about Simon, and her new life, and the fact that she never came home. He was not a simple man, he only acted that way when it was convenient. He wanted peace with her at all costs. Only he was wrong about Poe. She thought about that. She thought about Simon's accident, the feeling had begun to nag her-what if he hadn't been trapped in the car? What if he could have walked away, left that girl pinned there?

That was the thing about Simon and all the others, so pleasant on the surface, always knowing what to say, but underneath there was something else, they were not the kind to sacrifice themselves-they'd all been taught they had too much to lose. No more verdicts, she told herself. But there was John Bolton, caught in Manhattan with all that cocaine-charges dropped-and later you find out there was another man with Bolton when he was arrested, but everyone knows better than to ask what happened to him. Meanwhile Poe goes to jail for something he didn't do. For your brother.

She wondered where Isaac was now. California, Poe had said. It didn't make any sense. She could hire a private investigator or something to follow him, he would have left a trail, airline tickets, bus tickets, something-four thousand dollars is what her father said he'd taken-that would be more than enough to pay for his trip and leave plenty of seed money to settle down, Isaac was happy to live on macaroni and cheese. How had he reached this level of desperation? But she knew it was simple. Not hard to understand at all. You simply chose not to. Always knew his life wouldn't be easy, he didn't know how to relate to people. No ability to conduct small talk, thinks he should speak his mind honestly at all times, expects others should do the same. Nothing he ever said was tied up in what are they going to think of me? what are they going to think of me? It made her both admire him more than anyone else she knew and feel enormously sad for him. To her, that seemed like the smallest part of human communication. It made her both admire him more than anyone else she knew and feel enormously sad for him. To her, that seemed like the smallest part of human communication.

Maybe all people with minds like Isaac's were the same. She knew he would make a much larger contribution than she ever would-he cared only about things much bigger than his own life. Ideas, truths, the reasons things were. As if he himself, his own existence, was somehow incidental. At Yale, her friends had accepted him immediately-there Isaac was a personality type everyone was familiar with. But not here.

And now he'd killed that man. She squeezed her forehead. She knew he'd done it. He'd gone back in there to rescue his friend, he hadn't hesitated. There couldn't be anyone less suited for a task like that, but that had not stopped him, he'd done the only thing he could do, if those men had been strong enough to overpower Poe, the risk to Isaac would have been enormous, he would have been scared. And of course he'd gone back in there anyway. It was the right thing to do and he'd done it.

And you? She felt weak and she let herself ease farther into the tall gra.s.s, the sun and wind would cut through her, wear her to nothing, she would sink into the earth. I'm not supposed to feel guilty, she thought. I'm supposed to be proud of myself. But even thinking that brought on an incredible isolation, a suspicion she'd always had that she didn't belong anywhere, she was going to outlive everyone she knew. She was going to be alone, the same as her mother. Her mother who had tried to reinvent herself and it had killed her. Lee tried again to figure the probabilities that she herself was free from blame. There was Dad's accident and Mom dying and now this, there was no logic, there was only the most important piece of evidence: you're the only one still in one piece.

She would have to find him. She couldn't wait anymore. Hire the lawyer, a private investigator, this is not going to take care of itself. She stood up and brushed the gra.s.s off her, looking out over the trees and rolling fields, the ravine where she and Isaac had played, lain on their backs on the warm rocks and looked up at the narrow corridor of sky above them, Isaac watching for birds, he loved birds and hawks, he loved knowing the names of things, she was content just to watch, most memories she had of being happy in childhood involved only her and Isaac; the rest of the time she was just waiting to get older.

Lawyer and a private investigator. She would have to tell Simon the entire story, his parents would have to know as well. Easy to make a case for Isaac-1560 on his SATs, something they'll understand. But she did not want to have to say that. They would decide to help Isaac because he was her brother. They either would or they wouldn't, and she would know. Alright, she thought, it's better to know. You've got plenty of credit cards, with or without them you'll figure something out. Start by calling Simon and asking him to figure out the lawyer. He'll be happy to have a mission.

8. Harris

After work he cleaned up and took a quick shower and called the dog in. Fur came back slowly and reluctantly, knowing what it meant. He came over to Harris and leaned against his leg.

"Sorry buddy" said Harris. "Company calling."

He thought about leaving Fur out to run, but the coyotes were getting bigger, they'd nearly doubled in size in the last twenty years, and there were more of them. Plenty of the neighbors took potshots at them and Harris had a .22-250 that would reach four hundred yards, but he would not shoot a coyote. They were n.o.ble animals, is why. They had a will-they made other animals take them into consideration. Mountain lions, wolves, it was all the same. You could not kill an animal like that unless you were very sure of your motives.

"Your pick, meathead. Stay in or fend for yourself."

But of course he would not really give his dog that choice. Maybe that was contradictory. Still. He nudged Fur gently inside, away from the door, and closed it.

Ten minutes later he was on a paved road, heading toward Grace's house, and not exactly sure why he was doing it. As he'd gotten dressed he'd looked at himself in the mirror and thought the next time you get undressed it will be with her the next time you get undressed it will be with her but now, headed toward her house, he was not sure. Amazing coincidence, calling you right when her son gets pinched. He shook his head. It was fine. He presumed those things about people, forgave the ones he liked in advance. Grace was forgiven. Her son, though, doing wrong ever since he was old enough. Harris had done all that was possible. He had talked Glen Patacki and Cecil Small into a lenient plea agreement. He had talked Cecil Small into a slap on the wrist and then Billy had gone out and murdered someone. but now, headed toward her house, he was not sure. Amazing coincidence, calling you right when her son gets pinched. He shook his head. It was fine. He presumed those things about people, forgave the ones he liked in advance. Grace was forgiven. Her son, though, doing wrong ever since he was old enough. Harris had done all that was possible. He had talked Glen Patacki and Cecil Small into a lenient plea agreement. He had talked Cecil Small into a slap on the wrist and then Billy had gone out and murdered someone.

It was protection, she expected him to work magic but it was too late now, the wheels were turning and Billy was caught. He felt himself getting angry, he nearly stabbed the brake pedal and wheeled the truck around, it was a fine life he'd made for himself, a levelness he worked hard at, he could feel it being upset. He made himself keep driving and the anger pa.s.sed quickly. Most everything you feel pa.s.ses quickly. What the h.e.l.l, he told the steering wheel. I'm bored.

Then there was the Virgil question. He felt his anger coming on again, anger and hurt, but it was no mark of shame, it was just the way things went. Virgil Poe couldn't keep a job, was as mean and dumb as they made them, a born liar. Still Grace had chased after him nearly twenty years. Twice Harris had helped the game warden arrest Virgil's father, it ran in the family. And the incident with the stolen copper. Everyone understood Virgil. Except Grace. But look whose son you've been protecting. Yes, he thought, he's got you beat. Why didn't you lock him up? Once he'd run Virgil in the computer, two outstanding warrants, all it would have taken was a phone call. But that was not the kind of person Bud Harris was.

Pa.s.sing through the town, past the old police station and the new one, he'd seen the Fall, the shuttering of the mills, and the Great Migration that followed. Migration to nowhere-thousands of people moved to Texas, tens of thousands, probably, hoping for jobs on oil rigs, but there weren't many of those jobs to be had. So those people had ended up worse off than they started, broke and jobless in a place they didn't know anyone. The rest had just disappeared. And you would never know it. He'd watched guys go from making thirty dollars an hour to four-fifteen, a big steelworker bagging his groceries, stone- faced, there was no easy way for anyone to deal with it. He'd moved out here to have an easy life, be a small- town cop instead of cracking heads in Philadelphia, but the job had changed quickly once the mills went under-it was head-cracking time all over again. It wasn't naturally in him but he'd learned, made it a science, learned to watch a man's face as he did it. It had been a mistake to spare Virgil. He had done that out of pride.

It felt different with Grace this time, he didn't know why, it really seemed the hillbilly was no longer in the picture. The spare tire comes out. The spare tire is you. He was not sure about any of it. There were people who were meant to die alone, maybe he was one of them. You're getting a little ahead of yourself, he thought.

He turned up the clay road that led to her trailer. There was still time to turn around-it would be a clear cold night, he had a humidor full of cigars, a nice bottle of scotch, the dog would be happy to see him. The deck chairs were set up, he could sit out tonight, he'd splurged at Christmas and replaced his old sleeping bag with a pricey down model made by a company in Colorado, all winter he had sat out looking over the mountains at night, no matter how cold it got, he'd sat out after ice storms, nothing moving for miles, total silence except the ice cracking in the cold, the warmth in the sleeping bag. A feeling of being the only one on earth. One of these days he needed to buy a telescope. Next Christmas, maybe.

Ahead of him the road ended in a dirt bank and he pulled in next to Grace's trailer. She was already on the porch waiting for him and he handed her the bottle of wine he'd brought and kissed her lightly on the lips, she was made up, a faint perfume smell.

As he followed her inside he felt as if he was looking at himself from a height, the different parts of him coming out, competing with each other, he decided he would watch and see which one ended up on top- Even Keel or h.o.r.n.y old cop. It was warm and he could smell fresh fish cooking, sauteed garlic, bread. Instead of commenting on it, he said: "I don't know anything more about Billy." He wasn't sure why he said it. Self- preservation. Even Keel.

She frowned. "I thought we didn't have to talk about that."

"Well, I'm sure it's on your mind."

"It is, but..." She smiled at him, forgiving. "Gla.s.s of wine?"

In the kitchen he watched her move around, took a piece of Italian bread she'd heated up, b.u.t.tered it. The outside was crisp and the inside soft and he sat there chewing and happy, feeling himself relax. Then Even Keel started in again: "I went to visit Isaac English last night, just in case the DA somehow figures out he was with Billy. He's gone, though."

She looked at him and c.o.c.ked her head a little. She wasn't sure what to say, she looked like she really didn't want to talk about it.

"He took off Sunday morning and his family hasn't heard from him since."

"Bud," she said. "Please?"

"Alright. I'm sorry."

"Eat some more bread."

He took another piece and felt guilty, playing games with her, he thought, a game for you but it's not for her. Another part of him said no, she's the one playing games, but he ignored it. He stared at her rear end when she turned around to look for the corkscrew, it was shapely, she'd put on weight but she carried it well, her freckles and delicate skin and gray- blond hair, she looked younger than she was, he decided.

"I can't find the opener," she said. "Do you want some bourbon?"

He nodded and sat down at the small table and she poured them each two fingers. Doomed. Even Keel takes a torpedo.

"Let's sip at this," he said.

She put it down in a gulp. "You turning into some kind of p.u.s.s.y, Bud Harris?"

"She's sa.s.sy for not even being drunk yet."

"She is." But then she sat looking at the empty gla.s.s and he knew he'd ruined it. Six minutes. About par, he thought.