'They killed Nathan, Professor.'

At half past seven, Book and Nadine rode over to Nathan Jones's house on Austin Street north of the railroad tracks. It was a neat frame house with a black 44 Ford pickup truck parked out front. The large young man with curly blond hair who had stood next to the wife at the funeral met them at the door. His name was Jimmy John Dale. He and Nathan had been best friends since childhood. He smelled like a brewery.

'Why do you say that, Ms. Jones?'

'Brenda. Because they said he was speeding, but Nathan never drives fast.'

Only five days after her husband's death, she still spoke of him in the present tense.

'He was a boy scout?'

'Eagle.'

She was due in three weeks; it was a boy. She sat uncomfortably in an armchair. Book and Nadine sat on the couch; Jimmy John paced the wood floor with a beer in his hand and a frown on his face, as if he had something on his mind and that something had irritated him. A wedding portrait of Nathan and Brenda hung on one wall of the small living room. She wore a white wedding dress, he a black tuxedo.

'Wow,' Nadine said. 'He's James Dean's identical twin.'

'That's what everyone says,' Brenda said.

Several other photos of Brenda and Nathan showed them walking a beach, lying on a picnic blanket, and dancing at a party. They were an odd couple, physically. Brenda was a cute girl with a round face who would struggle with the baby weight after giving birth, the same as Book's sister was now struggling. Nathan Jones looked like a male model in one of those glossy fashion magazines; his features were sharp, his eyes dark, and his body lean. He seemed almost too perfect to be a real man, just as he had seemed too introverted to be a lawyer; next to him, Ms. Roberts seemed like a talk show host. He made an A in Con Law; he often drew in a small sketchbook he carried.

'Check out his crazy photos,' Jimmy John said.

On another wall were framed black-and-white photos, all of the stark West Texas landscape. One showed cowboys on horseback herding cattle across the dusty plains, but in the foreground as if observing the scene was a perfectly clothed Barbie doll, its vivid color a sharp contrast to the black-and-white scene. Another was of the open land and a low mountain range in the distance with a tall red rose stuck in the dirt in the foreground. A third showed a drilling rig standing tall above the land, roughnecks working on the deck, and in the foreground pink lacy lingerie. Nadine stood and examined each photo as if she were an art critic.

'I know,' Brenda said. 'They're weird. I didn't get them either. But Nathan loves to take those photos. It's his pa.s.sion.'

'He had an eye for the landscape,' Book said. 'Did he ever try to sell his photos?'

'No. It's just a hobby. He's happy being a lawyer. Was. Which was good, because he works ... worked a lot of late nights.'

'What else did he do? When he wasn't working?'

'Nothing. He works at the firm and spends the rest of his time with me. And Jimmy John.'

'What did you and he do?'

She shrugged. 'Normal stuff. Sundays after church, we'll pack a lunch and drive the desert looking for landscape for him to shoot. We'll put out a blanket, and he'll take hundreds of pictures from different angles. He's got some great photos from up in the Davis Mountains.'

'Did he hang out with anyone else?'

'He doesn't have a lot of friends in Marfa.'

'But he grew up here.'

'He wasn't a cowboy,' Jimmy John said.

'Any siblings?'

'He's an only child,' Brenda said.

'So how'd you two meet?'

'We all grew up together, here in Marfa. Nathan and I, we've been sweethearts since grade school. After high school, we went to Tech together. I got a degree in education, he majored in English. I came home, been teaching kindergarten in the public school seven years now. Nathan went to UT for law school. You were his hero, Professor. He talked about you a lot. We always watched you on TV.'

'You really got a black belt in kung fu?' Jimmy John said.

'Taekwondo.'

'When he got his law degree,' Brenda said, 'he came home, we got married, and he hired on with the Dunn firm. That was right when they opened the office here.'

Book addressed Jimmy John. He had a red face and a thick body. His jeans dragged the ground in the fashion of cowboys. Given his obvious state of inebriation and irritation, Book decided not to pepper him with questions but to just let him talk-and he seemed anxious to talk.

'So, Jimmy John, what's your story?'

Jimmy John took a swig of his beer then swiped a sleeve across his mouth.

'My story?' He snorted as if amused by the question. 'My story is, Brenda and Nathan went off to college, I stayed here. I only got a high school education, so I was low man on the totem pole for jobs around here, right below the Mexicans 'cause they'll live twenty to a trailer so they can send money back home to Mexico. You know they send thirty billion dollars back home every year? But they ain't taking money from American workers. Yeah, right. So I worked the cattle, dug holes and laid asphalt for the city, whatever work there was. Then this place becomes some kind of hot spot for art and all of a sudden every G.o.dd.a.m.n h.o.m.os.e.xual in New York City is moving to Marfa, artists with more money than sense, paying too much for homes, driving up the prices, now locals like me, we can't afford nothing but trailers on the Mexican side of town. Biggest employers in town were the tomato farm and Border Patrol. I applied, but they want agents who can speak Spanish.'

'You could learn.'

'We shouldn't have to speak Spanish to work in America, Professor, especially not for our own government. But we speak English on the rigs.'

'Who do you work for?'

'Billy Bob Barnett. He don't hire wets.'

'You like the work?'

'I like to work. Never had a regular job till fracking came to town. Give people like me a chance.'

'For what?'

'A life.'

The economy had left the Jimmy Johns of America behind. Manufacturing jobs had gone offsh.o.r.e to Mexico and Asia, and the oil and gas business had gone to the Middle East. Twenty-three million Americans were unemployed; most felt betrayed by their country. Bitter. Angry. Most had no hope for a steady job. Ever. Until fracking came along. But it came with a price. Jimmy John pulled out a white handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose. Blood stained the white cloth.

'He gets nosebleeds,' Brenda said. 'And headaches. From working the rigs.'

Jimmy John shrugged. 'Lot of chemicals and gases coming up the well hole.'

'You have a doctor check you out?'

'No doctor in Marfa.'

He dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out a small container and swallowed two pills then chased them with the beer.

'He takes Advil like he's eating candy,' Brenda said. 'Nathan begged him to go to Alpine, see a doctor there.'

Jimmy John waved off her concerns with his beer can. 'Ain't like I'm gonna quit my job.'

'You married?' Book asked.

That question amused Jimmy John even more.

'Me? h.e.l.l, ain't no white girls in town.'

Book turned back to Brenda Jones. 'Did you know that Nathan had written a letter to me?'

'He said he was going to.'

'Did you know why?'

'He said something wasn't right. With the water. Said Billy Bob was cutting corners. Nathan was scared to death of him.'

'His own client?'

'Billy Bob bullied him. He bullied everyone.'

'Aw,' Jimmy John said, 'he's all bark and no bite. Oil men are rough around the edges, is all.'

Book pulled out Nathan's letter and handed it to Brenda. She read it then gave it to Jimmy John.

'He asked for your help, Professor,' Brenda said.

'How do I help him now?'

'Find the truth.'

Jimmy John handed the letter back to Book and said, 'Well, Billy Bob's the only fracker in Marfa.'

'And Nathan's only client,' Brenda said. 'If you work for the Dunn firm in Marfa, you work for Billy Bob Barnett. Nathan worried about it, having only one client. If Billy Bob got mad at him, he'd be out of a job.'

'But he still wrote this letter to me.'

'Professor,' Jimmy John said, 'them environmentalists been claiming that bulls.h.i.t about groundwater contamination since we fracked the first well out here. Now they got the artists joining in, gives 'em something to do, I guess. They're liberals who hate the oil and gas industry. They want us all to ride bicycles like they do. I've worked those rigs for five years, and I can tell you, there's no contamination. I see the pressure readings on the casing. We've never had a leak.'

'Then why did Nathan say in his letter he had proof of contamination?'

'I don't know. He asked me, I told him we go by the book. He never told me he had any proof.'

Book turned back to Brenda. 'Did he show you any proof?'

'No. Nothing.'

'Did he tell you that he had shown the proof to his senior partner?'

She shook her head.

'Do you know him?'

She nodded. 'Tom Dunn. I met him once before the funeral. He gave me the creeps. He's the type who talks to a woman's b.r.e.a.s.t.s instead of her face.'

'If Nathan had proof and went public with it, the government would've shut down the frack wells.'

'Maybe,' Jimmy John said. 'Maybe not. This is Texas, Professor.'

'I told him to keep quiet about it,' Brenda said.

'Why?'

'Because if he went public, he'd either be out of a job or dead. He sent you that letter, and now he's dead. That seem like a coincidence to you, Professor?' She fought back tears. 'They killed him. Billy Bob's men.'

'Why?'

'Money.' She pointed at the floor. 'That gas down there is worth billions.'

Jimmy John put his free hand on Brenda's shoulder.

'It was an accident. Billy Bob, he's already rich.'

'People like him, they never have enough money.'

She could no longer fight the tears.

'They followed me home.'

Jimmy John shook his head. 'Nathan had her so scared she was seeing ghosts. Look, Professor, I loved Nathan like a brother. I miss him every minute. But it was just an accident. He was driving back from Midland late, and he fell asleep at the wheel.'

'That's what he said,' Brenda said.

'Who?' Book said.

'The sheriff.'

When they said their goodbyes, Brenda Jones gave Book a hug and whispered, 'Professor, you were his hero. Be his hero now. Give him justice. Find his truth. It wasn't an accident.'

He and Nadine walked outside and climbed on the Harley, but Book did not start the engine. Instead, he stared at the stars above them. He had pursued truth and justice-or as close thereto as the law allows-on enough occasions now to know that justice was more crushed car art than an act certain-in the eye of the beholder rather than an eye for an eye-and truth was found in one's heart rather than one's head. Maybe Justice Kennedy was correct: perhaps we are each ent.i.tled to define our own existence, our own meaning, our own truth. So he would not search for the truth, but for Nathan's truth. He owed him that much.

'What did we learn today, Ms. Honeywell?'

'I don't like riding six hours on a Harley.'

'About Nathan Jones's death.'

'A, official cause of death was accidental.'