"Aw, Jeez. I just can't believe that. Wow. He didn't seem like that kind of a guy to me." The sympathy in her voice touched a nerve, and Harlan felt his anger start to build.

"Yeah? Well, last last I checked, dick-smokin' hookers don't get picked for jury duty. Maybe you could be like a character witness or something."

She pulled up her towel and spoke with what Harlan figured was her attempt to change the tone. "I guess you just never know about people, huh? He sure fooled me."

"I guess you don't." His attention was drawn away from her and back to the screen. "He don't look all that smug now, does he? Ask me, he looks scared shitless."

She slid up close, smelling of soap, and began to work him with her hands. Harlan went on, "Yeah. He's a son of a bitch, all right. Former sheriff Henry Lipinski of Florence County, Wisconsin. He and few of his associates locked my ass up for life. At least that's how they had it figured."

"Wow. Prison, huh? That explains a lot." There was admiration in her voice. She teased him with her tongue. "It don't seem to have hurt you any."

"I did seventeen years in their bullshit joint and I coulda done another seventeen. They ain't gonna take nothin' out of me I don't wanna give 'em." He gestured to the television. "But this jerk-off? He's going to the joint as a cop and a kiddie-porn dealer. They're gonna have fun with him. I give 'im a year tops."

She looked at the screen, her expression and tone of voice betraying her sympathy for the arrested man. "I don't know. Times I was with him, he seemed like a real gentleman."

"He ain't gonna be nobody's gentleman now. Give 'im a couple months, and I wager he'll be downright giddy to suck a cock just to avoid the alternative."

She scrunched her face at the crude image, then looked up from her kneeling position with doubt in her eyes. "How come you know so much?"

"'Cause I set his ass up. That prick is going down because of me." He glared. "Sorry if that's gonna fuck up your weekly earning capability."

She slowed her work, and Harlan, already regretting his own loose tongue, knew she was considering the exchange. A john who spoke so loose was trouble, especially one careless enough to boast about his misdeeds. She looked at him, and he gave her a hard stare.

"You've got a pryin' nature considerin' your line of work." He pushed down hard on the back of her head. "Just shut up and get at it. I gotta get on the road."

Her hands shook with nervousness, and he knew she sensed danger closing in. She backed off and her voice cracked with fear.

"You can have whatever you want. I won't charge you. It's okay. I don't even know your name."

Harlan said nothing, knowing he had already run his mouth plenty. He'd fucked up and he knew it. No question what had to be done, but no reason to interrupt the girl's work. She practically read his thoughts, and tears welled in her eyes before she finished him off with her mouth.

He lay back for a moment, spent, eyes shut. He felt her slide from the bed and knew she was trying for her clothes. She didn't get three feet before he grabbed her by the hair and threw her onto the bed. Her skull banged sharply on the wooden headboard. Before she could scream, Harlan brought a pillow down hard over her face. A ruthlessness overtook him and the menace in his voice surprised him.

"So he's a little gentleman friend of yours, huh? What are the odds of that? I pick up a streetwalkin' whore who'd stoop so low as to fuck that fat piece of shit."

Her screams were stifled, but it took his full weight to keep her on the bed. For a small gal she demonstrated a good bit of scrap. She flailed at the air for a moment as if to get her bearings, then balled up her fist and delivered a blow flush on his chin.

Harlan laughed, unhurt but impressed by her effort. He put his full weight on the hand holding the pillow and reached for his backpack with the other. She must have heard the rip of the holster's Velcro, and that brought on a whole new reaction. Her muffled screams grew more intense, and Harlan felt the violence of her kicks that were strong enough to elevate her entire body off the bed. He held firm.

Harlan kept up the smothering weight and then added a tight circle of pressure just about where he figured the bridge of her nose would be. She stopped thrashing and raised her arms. Her muffled screams turned to desperate sobs. Harlan picked up on her attempts to beg but couldn't take a chance on anything more merciful than a quick end. When he pulled the trigger, Harlan figured at worst she heard the muffled crack, but more than likely she didn't feel a thing.

SEVEN.

It took several seconds for the tension to ease from his arms, and his breath was labored. After a moment's pause, Harlan pulled back the pillow and looked at the dead woman's shattered face. The bullet had caved in her forehead around a star-shaped hole big enough to stick his finger in, and he resisted a perverse desire to do just that. The body convulsed more than he thought it would, but he told himself the whore was dead. No one could live through an injury as traumatic as that. Sure enough, her legs and arms went still and her wide-open eyes were fast going dull.

The rashness of his action concerned him. This was an unplanned kill brought on by the woman's comments about Lipinski and, to a lesser degree, her overall irritating disposition. He gazed up at the mirrored ceiling and spoke to himself in a placid tone. "Keep this shit up and you'll be locked up by the end of the week."

Giving no thought to panic, Harlan sat on the bed next to the dead prostitute and planned his exit. The gun had been effectively silenced, muffled by the pillow. He took a fistful of hair and lifted her head. The exit wound in the back of her skull meant the bullet was likely buried somewhere deep in the mattress. It'd take some effort and luck to find it. "Fuck all that diggin' around."

She had picked the hotel and was probably a regular. No one would come looking for the room for a few more hours. He hadn't been seen at check-in. The car in the parking lot was stolen from the next town over but clean of prints. He dug through her purse and smiled. Not only did he recover his own money but three hundred on top of it.

"No surprise there, sister. You were a talent." He gave her a hard swat on her bare ass and stood.

Harlan spent ten minutes wiping down anything he might have touched, all the while carrying on a one-way conversation with the silent girl in bed, explaining how it was he'd come to be so ill-tempered. He stuck the bottle of Wild Turkey into his backpack and dropped the drinking glass onto the hard floor, shattering it into thousands of unprintable shards. He stopped to consider the body and thought for a moment, hands on his hips.

"Bottle of whiskey is one thing, but I sure can't be takin' you along with me."

An idea came to him, and he carried the nude, lifeless prostitute to the bathroom. She dripped blood heavily along the way, but Harlan was cautious where he stepped. Small, she slid into the damp tub with room to spare. Harlan took hold by the scruff of her neck and pulled down on the jaw, opening her mouth to its full extension. The head lolled back and forth, making him lose his grip.

"Hold still, bitch." His voice was low and lightly laced with affection.

Harlan turned the tap on full force, shooting water down her throat. Membrane and tissue bubbled out past her lips and cheeks; some pieces got caught in her open eyes and long hair. Harlan canted the head back and forth to clear away the more sizable chunks. Much of the water followed a path to the large exit wound, where it ran out red, then rose, and finally clear. For the mirth value he shot some water through the bullet hole before returning to her mouth and counting off another thirty seconds. He was amused to discover that he actually filled her. Her stomach bloated out and water gushed from the gaping mouth like a sheared-open fire hydrant.

"That oughta rid ya of anything I left swimmin' around." He looked the corpse up and down. "Glad I didn't go pokin' around the rest of ya unsheathed. That'd been a mite more difficult situation to deal with."

He dropped her head against the porcelain bottom of the tub, where it landed with a strange tonk. She lay there, still warm and, from the neck down at least, not at all hard on the eyes.

Harlan let the water run for another minute, using the showerhead to spray her down thoroughly. When he figured she was washed clean of him, he closed the drain and cranked the water to scalding hot. While the tub filled, he sat on the closed toilet and breezed through the copy of Hustler he'd brought along to help set the mood. Once she floated an inch off the bottom, he turned off the spigot. The hole in her forehead bubbled and her long hair turned a darker auburn and looped about her in the water. Her mouth, erotic earlier in the day, hung slack jawed, the still-tender tongue sticking out like a fat red worm. Her wide-open eyes stared at him from under the steaming water as if to ask what in the world had become of her.

"Ya look like a frickin' retard." He spoke as if to admonish. "If you're a whore again in your next life, keep to your work and don't talk so damn much."

Harlan went to the door, looked out the peephole, and saw no one. He walked out and pulled the door shut behind him. The stolen car he'd arrived in still sat in the lot, clean of prints, and that's where it'll stay, he thought. Harlan figured this was as good a time as any to get reacquainted with walking.

Five minutes later he strolled into the Greyhound station. He pulled the dead girl's hard-earned cash from his pocket and slapped down $42 for a one-way ticket. He checked the electronic board that listed departure and arrival times and saw that his trip would take a little over four hours. He'd get there and grab a room. Order in. Lay low. Alone, he told himself, now aware that his trip to Chippewa Falls had involved a foolish indiscretion. Years of planning nearly wasted for an afternoon hummer from a local hooker.

Harlan boarded the bus and found an empty seat toward the back. By the time the Greyhound reached cruising speed, his eyes were closed. The past several days had been intense, and he welcomed the opportunity to drift. His mind wandered back to the endless forest of his boyhood, to years of lean but purposeful living followed by law trouble, arrest, and finally prison. His thought of his father, dead for nearly a decade.

Pa.

Jedidiah Lee had been a cantankerous sixty-year-old recluse the day a half-breed Chippewa temptress barely of legal age wandered into his shack in the deepest woods of Florence County. Near ruined but well trained by all the substantial forms of reservation abuse, the girl sought only safety and shelter in exchange for an enthusiastic brand of companionship she willingly demonstrated within moments of their initial meeting. Jedidiah always referred fondly to those early romps and said though the couple rarely spoke, their nightly coupling left both spent but agreeable to one more day of their shared but separate existence.

The first indication of her pregnancy marked the end of their relationship, and two weeks after giving birth she was gone, leaving father and newborn son behind. Jedidiah claimed he never harbored a shred of ill will against Harlan's mother; far from it. He was thankful to her for the establishment of his legacy. From his first day of parenthood, Jedidiah devoted his life to his only child.

Harlan stared out the window at the passing signposts, barns, and cornfields, and thought about how he came to live the outlaw life. His father had always boasted that the Lee gene for emotional indifference and legal irreverence had been passed on to his son. Jedidiah and Harlan were as much notorious partners in crime as they were father and son. With Harlan's youth and Jedidiah's guile, they turned the hundred-and-sixty-acre family homestead into the most sophisticated and profitable marijuana grow east of the Mississippi. The Lees were just hitting their stride when it all came to a sudden end.

A rival dope dealer found dead. Arrested, jailed and with a sham of a trial looming, Harlan pled guilty. He got twenty-five to life. Game over.

The old man grew feeble while the state kept Harlan penned up like dairy stock. At the last visit Jedidiah managed to make, they spoke of years past, of old scores and outlaw associates.

As he left, the old man had struggled to speak.

"I'm gonna die soon, boy, and you still ain't free. I can't be here to help ya, but there will come a time that the Lee name must be avenged. It falls to you, son. It falls to you."

Harlan pushed back farther in the worn seat and shook his head with a vigor intended to clear away his pointless reminiscing. His next act of retribution was going to bring a particularly strong sense of satisfaction.

The speaker above his head crackled, and Harlan realized he had dozed off. He looked out and saw the town had barely changed, as though it were stuck in time. The driver's voice came clearly over the loudspeaker. "Good afternoon, Greyhound passengers. Now announcing arrival at Greyhound stop eleven twenty-one. If this is your destination, prepare to disembark. Welcome to Newberg."

EIGHT.

Ben stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, rubbing at his crow's feet, which were becoming more pronounced by the day, especially first thing in the morning. He ran a hand over his rough chin and figured he'd shave at the department. Less noise. He squeezed toothpaste onto his finger and rubbed it over his teeth, then pulled a brush through his thick, close-cropped hair. He blew out hard, looking at the half-dozen more gray hairs that seemed to have sprung up overnight at his temples. The early-morning light was enough for him to dress by. Gym bag in hand, he was heading for the door when Alex stirred and said, "Do you really need to go in this early?"

Ben stopped, angry with himself that he hadn't gotten up an hour earlier, when he could have slipped out unnoticed.

"I want to hit the gym before work. I'll give you a call later this morning."

Alex was in no mood to play nice. She rolled over in bed, turning her back to her husband. "No, you won't, but if you're going to be late for dinner, at least let me know. Jake and I will just go ahead and eat."

Ben stood in the doorway and looked at his wife. He'd known her for his entire life. They grew up together, were high school sweethearts. Hell, they practically ran away together. The return to Newberg had been hard on both of them, and he didn't deny he'd become a real prick to live with. He set the gym bag on the floor and gave a thought to crawling back into bed. Maybe form up next to her, eliminate every bit of at least the physical distance between them. She'd be a little put off, but he knew she'd take some comfort from the gesture. The best he could bring himself to do was sit at the foot of the bed, making sure not to get too close.

"What are you saying, Alex? You don't think I'm at work? Where else am I going to go? Hit the Newberg hot spots? Drink a few beers with all my buddies from the PD?"

She seized the moment as if she'd been lying in wait, her voice laced with sarcasm. "Oh, poor Ben. Are the other boys being mean to you?"

Ben narrowed his eyes and stared, ready to tell Alex where to stick her smart-ass comments, but she didn't give him the chance.

"Ben, do you hear yourself? You sound like a damn child."

She threw the covers back, got out of bed, and headed for the closet. She pulled on a Santa Clara sweatshirt, punching her arms through the sleeves, then yanking it down over her head and flat belly. Her blue eyes shone clear, and Ben had no doubt he'd been set up. Alex had been awake for a while, itching for a fight. She lobbed the first salvo like a stun grenade.

"You're not a child, Ben, and I shouldn't have to act like your mother. I'm just saying I'd appreciate some common courtesy. If you don't want to come home for dinner with your family, fine. Just let me know. We'll make do on our own."

Ben started to respond, but she cut him off. Salvo number two. "And by the way, this pity trip bullshit has got to end. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and deal with reality. We're here, Ben. Get used to it."

Right to the gut, both times. Alex never had gone for the soft-sell approach, but that didn't mean Ben couldn't hit back.

"So, what then? I'll be a bumpkin cop while you play wet nurse to your dad?"

Ben saw her shoulders tighten and knew he had struck a nerve.

"He's not getting any better, Alex, and we can't keep paying for that country club he's living in. How much longer do you think Newberg PD is going to keep me around? Believe me, every day Jorgensen looks for a new reason to dump my ass. Hell, even if he can't find some way to fire me, between him and McKenzie and the rest of that crew, they'll make me miserable enough I'll have to quit. Shit, it's already started. If this is it-if Newberg is all we got-you might want to think about figuring out how to be the breadwinner. That should be interesting."

It was full-on now. Ben watched as Alex closed the distance, stepping from the shadows into the early-morning light. Like Ben, she had just turned thirty-five, but physically, the woman could still stop a clock. A collegiate volleyball player, she had managed to keep a trim, athletic figure. Her tan wasn't as deep as when they lived in California but enough that her skin had a healthy outdoor tone. Ben had always taken pride in her beauty. Even now, he wanted to pull her to the bed, but her next line reminded him they were in the middle of a fight.

"Hey, pal, if it weren't for my dad, we'd be on the streets, thanks to you and that hot-ass temper of yours." Alex stopped abruptly, knowing she had gone too far. "Ben, I didn't mean ... look, let's just calm down. I don't want to fight-"

He was heading for the door, any lingering affection gone. Anger filled his voice when he said, "You're right, Alex. All this is on me. Your dad is the hero here. Hell, why did we ever go to California to begin with? Maybe I should've followed in your daddy's footsteps all along. I coulda spent my whole career being his boy, huh? What was I thinking?"

That had been the plan, as far as Lars Norgaard was concerned. He'd intended Ben to marry his daughter in a proper, traditional Newberg wedding, not some ten-minute gig in a Las Vegas chapel. At some later date Lars would have handed Ben the keys to the kingdom. Alex and Ben had had different plans, but in the end, all these years later, here they were. The only problem was, there hadn't been any kingdom to hand off.

"Ben, please. Don't leave angry." Alex took two steps closer. "I'm sorry. I was out of line, but Ben, we never talk. All of this, my dad, work, everything ... We've got to talk. Stay home for a while, maybe take the day off. It doesn't have to be like this."

"Doesn't have to be like what? Honest? I think we could use a dose of honesty." He picked up his bag, opened the door, and lowered his voice to a normal level. "And as long as we're being honest, you should know. I put a call into an old commander of mine. He left Oakland a few years back to be an assistant chief in Fresno. He thinks enough time has gone by that he can get me a job as a midlevel patrol officer. If he can come through, we're outta here. You're welcome to join us."

"Us?"

"Jake will come with me. You know he'd pick home over this place any day."

"Ben, how can you even think like that?" Finally, her voice broke. "My dad needs me. I can't leave him. We belong here. This is home now."

"It's your call, Alex." Ben tried to sound resolute but failed and found himself regretting that he had even brought it up. "Anyway, nothing's happened yet. I just thought you should know."

"Know what?" The voice came from the hallway, and both Alex and Ben turned to see Jake standing in the doorway. Jake was wearing his typical sleepwear: sweatpants and a worn-out Oakland A's T-shirt. Ben could never look at that shirt without thinking he bought if for Jake at a ball game a week before all hell broke loose. "What about California? Are we moving back home?"

Ben looked at his wife and saw she was still reeling from his low-blow comment. Now his son was standing in front of him, and Ben could see by the look on the boy's face that he was wide awake and expecting an answer to his questions.

"Mom and I are just talking, Jake," Ben said to his son. "Go back to bed. It's really early."

"I'm not stupid, Dad," Jake said, and Ben picked up on the usual disrespect in his tone. "You weren't talking, you were fighting, but whatever. I just want to know if we're moving back home?" Jake's gaze flicked back and forth between his mom and dad. "Cuz if we are, it's great with me. Let's go."

Ben heard an audible sigh from his wife before she spoke. "Jake, this is our home now. Dad works here and Grandpa needs us."

Jake took a step closer to his parents. "Yeah, but-"

Ben cut him off. "We're not fighting and we're not going anywhere. Now go back to bed."

Not going anywhere. Ain't that the damn truth, Ben thought.

Jake spun around and headed back to his room. He was physically big for his age, but it seemed to Ben that in the last year emotionally the boy had regressed. "Nobody ever asks me what I want. I didn't even want to come here in the first place."

Ben waited for the inevitable slam of the door and he was not disappointed. He stared down the hallway at where his son had disappeared. Jake still resented the move, and Ben knew the boy blamed him. Ben also knew he was right.

Alex took a step forward and touched Ben on the arm. Her expression had softened, and a wave of affection washed over him. If he reached out now, right now, it might really matter. It would matter to Alex. To Jake. It could put them on the path to recovery. Just a touch, a phone call to work that said, "I'm not coming in today." Ben knew that was all it would take.

Alex looked directly into his eyes, and her voice broke. "I love you, Ben. I don't want it to be like this. We can be happy here. We need to pull together."

Ben considered her words, holding her gaze all the while, then stepped around her.

He walked out without another word to his wife, even though his heart was filled with so much love, pain, and sorrow that he could only wonder how it was that he survived such extremes.

NINE.