"Greased lightning."

"That was us. Good times."

Crane nodded, and Brady was on his feet with the pistol snatched up off his lap, the muzzle blast knocking Crane back a step. He stood blinking, his hearing mostly gone, his head filled with a high-pitched shrieking. He turned and saw the hole where the bullet had struck the wall, and when he turned back he could see the spiral of rifling in the bore, the barrel level with his face. "You have the right to remain silent," he said.

Brady swung the pistol just inches to the side and it bucked again in his hand, the concussion again like a blow. He could smell the burning gunpowder and thought blood might be running from his ears, his skull and shoulders now vibrating.

"Anything you say can and will-"

Brady fired once more, just over the top of Crane's head, his hand trembling. "Can't you just fucking do this?" He was pleading. "Pretend I'm on fire." His voice cracked. "Pretend I'm screaming so loud you can feel it in your teeth."

Crane slapped him in the temple with his service revolver and Brady's head snapped to the side but he didn't go down. He just smiled like that's what he'd needed all along, the blood sheeting the side of his head, as smooth and bright as new paint.

Crane leaned forward, lifting the pistol from Brady's hand, and cuffed him. He didn't struggle being led from the barn and folded into the backseat of the cruiser. He just bled.

Thirty-three.

GRIFF CAME OUT in stocking feet, cotton pajama bottoms and a T-shirt a size too large, found where she'd left her boots on the porch, and sat on the top step to pull them on, watching the moon rise. When it cleared the horizon she started across the workyard staring into the sky, understanding she wouldn't see the stars this clear and sharp for some time. Her arms prickled and she drew them back through the armholes, hugging herself inside the shirt. in stocking feet, cotton pajama bottoms and a T-shirt a size too large, found where she'd left her boots on the porch, and sat on the top step to pull them on, watching the moon rise. When it cleared the horizon she started across the workyard staring into the sky, understanding she wouldn't see the stars this clear and sharp for some time. Her arms prickled and she drew them back through the armholes, hugging herself inside the shirt.

When she ducked between the corral rails Royal nickered softly, his voice deeper than the others, a dozen of them milling around or standing in their sleep. She could just distinguish where he stood by the water trough, the night settled darker on his body, and when she got closer the outline of his head came clear in the moonlight, his ears pricked. The gate stood open. They'd come in from the pastureland to drink, perhaps finding some comfort in the shadows of the barn. A horse snorted, the stamp of a hoof reverberating in the ground. Another coughed.

She circled his neck with her arms, water dripping from his muzzle back into the trough, rippling the moon's reflection. He nickered again, and this time it tickled her cheek.

He followed her to the barn. They all came, thinking of grain, but she latched the door behind her and stepped out through the tackshed holding a bridle against her side. They edged away, cautious as deer, and she wondered if it was the leather they smelled or if something had changed in her posture, revealing she wasn't just another animal sharing the night but a woman wanting something from them. Only Royal did not care. He stepped to her and lowered his head.

She looped the reins around his neck, offering the bit and slipping the headstall over his ears. She buckled the throatlatch, turning to grip a handful of the dark mane at his withers, and swung onto his back. He stood straighter, the night changed for both of them.

The others moved away, coyly at first, then out through the gate at a run with her and Royal among them, the rhythm of their hooves striking the earth in a tremendous, continuous roar, the bunch of them moving at once together and apart, much as clouds shift. They swept down and across the creek, the surface breaking up in thin sheets that fell back into her chest and face, making her gasp. Once through the cottonwood and into the pasture, they separated and slowed, only she and Royal maintaining the pace.

He crossed the irrigation ditch that bordered the sage in a single jump and worked upward along the fall line, warming between her legs. She lay against his neck, a breast on either side of his neck, his body straining beneath her, lunging, and at the crest of the ridge she reined him in. They turned, looking back at the moonstruck valley below them, its long shadows falling westward. There was no wind, only the sound of their breathing. They seemed to be floating, as we float in our dreams.

She stood in the hallway outside his room, listening to the ticking of the old windup clock he preferred. "Are you asleep?" she whispered.

"I thought I was." There was the rustling of bed linen. "I'm not sure I can always tell the difference anymore."

She skirted the foot of the bed and stretched out on top of the covers beside him, the ticking even louder now.

"You used to come in here all the time when you were little. I forgot how much I liked it."

She found his hand. "Me too." His grip had gotten stronger.

"You smell horsey."

"I was saying my good-byes," she said. "I decided to go to Chicago. For the clay residency."

"I was hoping you would. I would've been disappointed if you didn't."

The wind gusted and a series of pinecones fell against the roof, rolling into the gutter.

"They've got every kind of kiln you can think of," she said, "and a gallery, and Marin said Paul can almost walk to school and I can take the 'L' down to Oak Park."

Another gust of wind and more pinecones on the roof.

"I never said so, but I didn't think Africa or Billings, neither one, would work for him." He cleared his throat and pushed up higher against his pillows. "We're going to manage here just fine. I don't want you to worry."

"I'm going to."

"Then try to limit yourself," he said. "Maybe just an hour in the mornings."

She turned onto her side. "You don't think Marin bribed them, do you? To accept me for the whole year?"

"She just sent the pictures she took."

"You're sure?"

"Marin wouldn't do something like that." And then, as though it had just occurred to him: "You aren't taking them along, are you?"

"No. I made them for you."

"I've gotten fond of that little snake-faced girl," he said. "The others too."

She slipped up against him, her head on his shoulder. "I'll miss you."

"I know you will." He stroked her hair. "Why wouldn't you?"

Thirty-four.

HE HAD A BREAKFAST of cereal and skim milk. A breeze was coming through the window, and he sat listening to the notepaper snapping against the cabinet door. She always taped it up to the left of the sink, a printed-out reminder that she loved him, every day since they'd come back from the hospital. He thought he'd have a look at it later. of cereal and skim milk. A breeze was coming through the window, and he sat listening to the notepaper snapping against the cabinet door. She always taped it up to the left of the sink, a printed-out reminder that she loved him, every day since they'd come back from the hospital. He thought he'd have a look at it later.

When he returned the milk carton to the refrigerator, he slid the meals she'd stacked up in casserole dishes to the side. Two plain, saltless lunches and dinners. Nothing fried. No sauces. He'd gotten used to them, but she was gone for the day and he'd made other arrangements.

She believed in reincarnation, and they'd agreed to come back as brother and sister again. He told her that if he got to pick, he sure wanted another run at it.

He drank two cups of coffee from the thermos she'd left on the counter, rinsed the dishes and positioned himself in the center of the kitchen. He swung his arms around him, cocking his hips left and right, and everything seemed to be working better than it had for some time. He felt an uncommon clarity and didn't hurt anywhere, so decided not to take his pills. He wanted to see what would happen.

He dressed, sat down by the new phone she'd bought and called McEban, running a finger over the little strip of duct tape she'd stuck on the console next to a button that would dial her cell phone in case he had an emergency. He'd promised her he would, but that was a lie. He wasn't about to ruin her one night away.

Then, when he'd made his plans with McEban, he called Curtis Hanson. "I'm ready," he said, and hung up.

He picked up his cane, put on his hat and started down the drive. It was a fine, late-summer day. The sun warm, a light breeze. He could hear the grasses rustling alongside the road and whistled a few bars of his favorite birdsong, and a meadowlark sang back.

When he reached the turnout at the mailboxes he could hear the Cummins diesel idling, throaty and even, and Curtis helped him up into the cab.

"I didn't make you wait too long, did I?" he asked.

"No. I just got here myself."

They eased down through the borrow ditch and out across the pasture in four-wheel-drive, listening to the sage scraping against the undercarriage. They could smell it.

He dug the folded bills out of his pocket and held them up between them. "I need to give you something for gas."

"I'm your neighbor, for Christ's sake."

He put the money away. He could feel the warm press of sunlight moving across his chest as Curtis turned them in a slow arc, then backed around.

"That level stretch there?" Curtis asked. "Just south of Mitchell?"

He nodded. "It's where I pictured it."

Curtis dragged a shovel off the truckbed, and Einar stood leaning into the fender, listening to him hacking away at the prairie grass. Then the squeal of the gin poles pivoting back, Curtis locking them in place.

Einar started back along the side, above him the cable groaning in its pulley, the electric winch whining. He laid his hand open against the steel edging of the flatbed and felt the truck squatting against the torque.

"You might want to take a step back," Curtis said.

"Am I in your way?"

"You're standing where you needn't be if this cable snaps."

He worked around to Curtis. "It'd be a funny way to die, wouldn't it," he said, "squashed by a gravestone?"

"It'd damn sure make a good story if a man could tell it right. Here, reach out to me." Curtis guided his hand onto the winch lever. "Just ease her off a little when I say something."

He stood waiting.

"Just a tad now." Curtis grunted, shouldering the marble into the slot he'd dug, and then the chassis rose up off the leafsprings. "That's got it," he said.

He joined Curtis at the back of the truck. "Have you pulled the tarp off?"

"I just did."

He knelt in front of the black marble, fingering the lettering and whispering: Alice Conners Clark, born March 2, 1927, died April 14, 2007, beloved & remembered Alice Conners Clark, born March 2, 1927, died April 14, 2007, beloved & remembered. He sat back on his heels. "Thank you," he said.

"You ready for your dinner now?"

"I've been thinking about it."

Curtis got him settled in the shade on the old weathered chair, and sat with him, leaning back against the cottonwood, and they ate their corned-beef sandwiches and pickles, sipping cans of cold beer.

"Miss Clark there"-Curtis was talking with his mouth full and coughed-"I don't believe I ever met her."

"You never did. She was a friend of my sister's."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said. "I was afraid she was somebody I'd forgot." He carried their trash up to the cab. "You want me to run down and fetch Marin?"

"She's up to Billings, her and Marlene Silas. For the aviation show."

"How's she know Marlene?"

"They met at that yoga class for seniors at the rec center." He pushed up out of the chair. "I guess they started talking and found out they're both off their rockers for airplanes."

"So this here's like a surprise?"

"That's it, exactly."

Curtis dropped him off at the house in the early afternoon and he napped for an hour, then woke thinking he'd heard Sammy wanting out. He was already standing in the hallway before he remembered Marin had taken the dog with her. He held his breath, listening harder, but whatever made the noise had now stopped.

He sat in the living room listening to a scratched 1955 recording of Her Majesty's Regimental Band and Massed Pipers. It was a favorite of his and Mitch's that they used to play on winter evenings when the wind howled under the eaves and the house groaned like a floundering ship. They'd turn the music up loud, sipping bourbon, smoking cigarettes and joking that bagpipes were the only way to fight back against the weight of the long, cold nights. There wasn't a drop of Scots blood in either one of them.

In the late afternoon he wandered into Griff's room eating the piece of chocolate cake Curtis had left, his free hand cupped under his chin to catch the crumbs. He licked his fingers clean and felt around in her closet, finding a hooded sweatshirt that smelled of her perspiration, of clay and horses, of the lightly scented perfume she wore. He sat on the corner of her bed holding the thing to his face, inhaling. He expected this would make him feel maudlin, but he didn't. He felt simply loved, as though she were still there, whispering something comforting, saying something funny.

He put the sweatshirt back and sat out on the porch thinking he was experiencing a kind of breakthrough in his health, then pressed that speculation away, to the very edge of his mind, keeping it pushed up tightly there until it fell away altogether. He couldn't see wasting whatever time he might have left on nonsense.

In the early evening when McEban and Kenneth arrived, he explained which horse he favored, and they stood together at the pickup, his hand on Kenneth's shoulder, both of them relaxed and warm in the last shafts of sunlight.

He couldn't make out much more than the glare of sunset over the darker rise of an uneven landscape, now and then a flash of paling color, but it was enough to mark the end of a good day. When he looked down, the boy was merely a smallish shadow. "You're going to be just fine," he told him.

They were listening to McEban in the corral, the horses circling. The boy didn't respond.

"I'm saying you've turned out first-rate so far." He squeezed the boy's shoulder. "It ought to carry you through."

"Yes, sir."

They heard McEban come through the gate, the latch click, the hoofstrikes in the workyard.

"I just felt like I needed to tell you something," he said. "Like I actually knew something."

"Did you know a duck's quack won't echo?"

"I guess I hadn't thought about it."

"It's something Rodney told me."

"Well, thank you. That's a good thing to know."

McEban tied the leadrope to the bumper and they got in with Kenneth between them, then swung around and idled up the track behind the barn. The songbirds had grown louder, agitated by the coming rain.