Fireflies floated around us, flickering in the dark. One landed on Alexis' nose and she flipped out, jumped off the truck and smacked her own face. The d.a.m.n thing landed on her shoulder and she kept freaking out until I plucked it off and held her steady while she caught her breath.

"I hate bugs," she told me in a low, soft voice. She was red as a beet.

I already knew, but it didn't matter. We both busted out laughing as the fireflies swirled around us, and then it was time to go home.

Alexis Now I keep myself steady as I rise from the car and smooth my skirt, grab the attache and follow Tom inside. The restaurant is called Bill's and it's close to the river, actually overlooking the gorge. It was an old inn a long time ago when it was first built. Now it's a restaurant, probably the most expensive one in town.

Inside, the place is all old world. There's a big bar by the waiting area, a huge mahogany monstrosity that must weigh several tons, backed up by ornate panels and mirrors and a stock of expensive liquor, the bottles lined up likes soldiers along the shelves. There's no one behind the bar today; it's illegal to serve liquor in Paradise Falls on Sunday.

Overhead, ceiling fans churn the chilly air. The main dining room is completely empty, most of their chairs up on the tables. A lone woman runs a vacuum cleaner between them, singing softly to herself. She either doesn't notice us or knows better than to show it.

Behind the main dining room is a dance floor and a second bar. Through another set of doors is a smaller dining room, and through that is the deck out back. The hot air hits me in a wave as we step outside. The breeze does a little, the fans overhead do a little more, but hot is hot. The falls run in a steamy cascade to the north and to the south the new bridge looms, towers standing as giant sentinels over the town.

Sitting at one of the deck tables, three men are clearly waiting for us. There's a fourth chair, but I have to pull up my own from one of the other tables. I sit close to Tom, because I don't want to sit close to the others.

At the far end, the head of the table really, there's a man in a pinstripe suit. He's somewhere between thirty and fifty, well built and dark, with lanky black hair and rough, stubbly cheeks. He doesn't seem to sweat.

To his right is a thinner man, older, gray hair in a light linen suit, and he is sweating. Perspiration has soaked his collar and tie and he dabs at his face with a napkin before tossing it on the table in annoyance. He looks more through me than at me, focusing on Tom as he settles into his seat.

The last man is bald, squat, and in shirtsleeves with a loose tie, his sport coat tossed over the back of his chair. At first, I think he's wearing thick leather suspenders, but then I spot the gun. Tucked into a holster under his left arm is a little pistol, silvery with a black grip. I rip my eyes away from it and focus them on nothing as he leans back and leers at me. I can feel his gaze on my legs.

"Gentlemen," Tom says.

A waitress comes out from the restaurant. She gives the sweaty skinny man a beer, pinstripe suit a martini, I think, and the big man with the gun a gla.s.s of water. Tom orders a beer for himself and orders me a Shirley Temple, a sickly sweet c.o.c.ktail with no alcohol in it. I don't get to pick what I want.

He hands me a menu.

None of them say anything. When the waitress comes back with ours, she looks at me expectantly.

It's too d.a.m.n hot to eat a real meal out here. Soup is out of the question and I couldn't stomach anything warm. I order a club sandwich, and Tom orders meat loaf. Still, the four men do not speak.

I sit there and sip my drink and try not to be too obvious in watching them. The guy with the gun scares me. There's something off about him, the weird mechanical way he moves, and he keeps looking at me. If he was only leering, I'd almost be relieved. He's sizing me up somehow, judging my value. Like I'm something he could sell.

Finally, the food arrives. A second waitress joins in and they carry out plates of appetizers along with the main course. I'm tempted to try the calamari rings but they look hot, spicy, not just hot in temperature from the fryer.

Only when the plates of food have been set before them and Tom starts to cut off a bite of meatloaf does the man in the pinstripe suit speak.

"You've met with the new supplier?"

"Yes," Tom says. "He's most agreeable."

"Any word on alternate means of transport?" the thin man asks.

Tom starts to answer, but the heavy one cuts him off. I pick up a hint of an accent. Russian, maybe.

"Before we discuss business, who's this lovely one?"

He looks right at me.

Tom laughs. "This is my daughter, gentlemen. She can be trusted. She'll be working closely with me after I take office."

The heavy man nods, but frowns.

"Well?" the thin man says.

Tom eats a bite of meatloaf and dabs at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "I spoke with Eli this morning. Our new partners can move some of the product themselves. So far I've found no alternative to the Leviathans. They want their usual cut."

Pinstripe Suit saws into his steak. "Why should we deal with them after the last debacle?"

"The leadership has all been shuffled around after the recent unpleasantness. I think the new, ah, administration will be more amenable to our methods. I've spoken to them about some of their sidelines. They won't be running a brothel in the county again."

I flinch when I hear the word brothel.

Back when the school burned down and all the weirdness happened, something odd happened over in Port Carol, a one-stoplight town a few miles away from Paradise Falls. There was a bar there, an illegal strip club that attracted a lot of truckers.

Supposedly there was a shootout, gang stuff, and the place was shut down.

I put my sandwich down before any of them notice my hands are shaking. This is some kind of criminal thing. These guys are criminals. I'm sitting in a secret criminal meeting and they're talking about illegal things. Oh G.o.d. Oh G.o.d. They saw my face. They keep looking at me.

"How goes the campaign?"

Tom laughs and takes a drink, then spears a chunk of meatloaf into his mashed potatoes. "I'm running unopposed. I'd say it's going well enough."

"Once you're in place," the thin man says, "We need to ramp up operations quickly. We're losing money tip-toeing around."

Tom nods. "Once I'm in office and I 'clean up' the police department, the state should get its nose out of our town. I take it my wonderful friends will speak to some officials on my behalf and ease the process."

"Of course," the man in the pinstripe suit says, nodding.

"I think this'll be a very productive relationship for all of us, gentlemen. I'm going to meet with Eli again this evening and review his facilities. From what I'm told, the plain folk are amazing to work with."

The big bald man snorts. "Amish drug-"

"Careful," the man in the pinstripe suit says. "The walls have ears."

No one is looking at me but somehow I feel the attention of the entire meeting seems to fall on me. The thin man looks at me.

"I still don't see why you felt the need to bring her," he says.

Tom shrugs. "It's time she got involved in the family business. I'll be putting her in charge of some of the logistics soon."

"How do we know she can be trusted?"

Tom looks at me. "I trust her. Things were b.u.mpy when she was younger but you know teenagers. She's a perfectly dutiful daughter, now."

The thin man gives me an appraising look. It feels like he's stripping my clothes off.

"I'll be taking my leave," the man in the pinstripe suit says.

The others nod, as if that's a signal. Half the food is left uneaten. The big man watches me the whole time he slips into his coat and adjusts it to hide the bulge from his gun. They all walk out together, back into the restaurant. I slip my chair a few inches further from Tom now that I have more room.

He grabs my arm. His fingers press into my flesh.

"Don't be alarmed, sweetie. They're suspicious by nature."

"Tom," I say softly."They were talking about-"

His voice is cold. "We both know what they were talking about."

He lets go of my arm, leaving soft marks in my skin that fade out slowly. I gulp down the rest of my Shirley Temple. Tom snaps his fingers and the waitress brings me another one.

"Bring her some ginger ice cream."

The waitress nods.

"It's a specialty here," Tom says. He's quiet until she's out of earshot and then says, "Do I take it you don't approve of this?"

"I.... I don't... I..."

"I didn't think you'd understand, sweetie. It's difficult to get your head around. I came to an understanding, though, when Katzenberg came to me about doing some work for him, and made it clear that I had a choice between accepting his offer and finding many vital avenues of business closed to me."

"What understanding?"

"The world is full of good men and bad men. Good men think they can stop the bad men, but they can't. There are always more. One bad man goes away and another steps up to take his spot in the whole thing, and it just goes on and on and on, round and round and round. So good men can fight a pointless fight, or give the bad men what they want."

"Are you a good man?"

"What do you think, honey?"

I shiver. "Of course you are."

"I am. When I work with the bad men, I keep them under control. That's why the baldheaded man was looking at you, dear. He's a procurer, in addition to moving narcotics. A fleshmonger. Do you know what that means?"

The question must be rhetorical. He answers before I even open my mouth.

"He sells girls. Girls younger than you. Runaways, mostly. Sometimes they abduct girls who won't be missed. They take them places, and train them. Virgins sell for the most money, they get moved overseas. Less valuable ones end up in places like the one out in Port Carol, f.u.c.king truckers for twenty bucks a pop all night until they overdose on heroin."

He says it so matter-of-factly, like he's discussing the logistics of concrete deliveries for his construction business. I shudder.

"They bring them in from foreign countries, too. Mostly Eastern Europe, sometimes poorer girls from Germany or France. They promise them good high paying jobs in the States, and when they get here the good high paying job is in a brothel and they don't get to keep any of the money they make. Deplorable, really."

He adds his moral judgement with all the conviction of a man condemning a baseball coach he doesn't like. After another bite of meatloaf, he goes on.

"I'm not going to have that in my, ah, territory. Once I work my way up the ladder, I'll be able to tone things down. Not put a stop to it. I can't, you see. I can make sure it's clean, the girls are treated well, they have a chance to get out. If I stamp it out completely, someone else will take over, someone who doesn't care if they die in a cargo box on their way to wherever or get f.u.c.ked to death in some s.h.i.tty honk-tonky trucker dive. The world isn't going to run out of girls any time soon, sweetheart. Our bald friend, see, he isn't like you and me."

Hearing Tom lump me in with himself sickens me. I feel like I'm going to puke turkey club all over my lap.

How can this creature be Hawk's father?

The waitress carries out a plate with two scoops of ice cream sitting in in the middle and sets it in front of me. I take a long spoon and slowly begin choking down bites. It's rich and creamy and very good, and I want to spit it in his face.

"How is that?"

"Good."

"Good. As I was saying, our friend isn't like me, hon. He needs someone like me to regulate him, moderate him. Now, I know what you're thinking, what about the drugs? Drugs hurt people, yes?"

I keep still, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"People hurt themselves. The thing is, I can keep people safe if I have my hand on the tiller. There won't be shootouts and robberies. People will get the drugs one way or another, even if they have to make them on their own. My way, people get their fix and they don't get robbed or shot or blow themselves up with a meth lab in the bas.e.m.e.nt. That makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Yes," I agree. "I suppose."

"I understand you're reluctant. It'll fade in time once you understand how important this work is. You see, sweetheart, the truth is, these are the men who really run the world. We can't stop them, only... guide them. Work with them. It's better to be part of the system than fight against it."

I nod, and take another gulping swallow of ice cream. I finally manage to eat it all, scooping some of the melt up from the plate with my spoon. Tom takes an intense interest in watching me eat, especially when I draw the ice cream off the spoon with my lips. He finally finishes his meal.

"Ginger settled your stomach, no?"

I nod.

He leaves a stack of cash. It must be a tip, since no one brought us a bill. I rise and take the attache, then follow him back through the restaurant and out to the car. My body rebels at the idea of getting inside with him, sitting so close. It made me shiver before, but now it's a discomfort. I'm sweaty all over, my clothes clinging to my skin.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I unb.u.t.ton the top two b.u.t.tons of my blouse. As Tom drives, he keeps one eye on my neck, and shifts in his seat to sit a little higher, as if he might catch a glimpse of cleavage from just the right angle. I look out the window and stare at my own reflection sliding over the world, and think.

Tonight. He said something about a meeting tonight.

I have to find out what that means, who he's meeting with and where. He made it sound like the Amish guy is involved in drugs or something, but that's nuts. Amish drug runners? Or Mennonites. That guy might have been a Mennonite, since they wear the same clothes. I don't know.

When we pull around behind the house, I'm ready to leap out of the car, but I wait for Tom to walk around and open it for me.

He takes the attache.

"That's enough for today. I'll need you tomorrow."

He leans towards me a little, and pulls back, as though he was about to kiss my cheek and stopped at the last second, caught himself. Instead he looks me up and down, very clearly and openly, and heads towards the house.

I follow, slowing when an old red pickup rumbles up into the yard. The thing must be raised up half a foot higher than it should be, on big silly looking monster truck tires. Tom starts over only to stop when the door swings open and Hawk steps out, slams the door, and pats the hood.

"Hey. I bought a truck. Like it?"

The question doesn't seem directed at Tom, but he sneers. "Wonderful. Pull that thing behind the carriage house."

Hawk shrugs, climbs back inside and drives it around.

I can't show too much interest in him. I head back inside, upstairs, and lock myself in my room. Once I'm finally alone, the armor cracks and I stifle a sob into my hands, pull my hair free and quickly yank my way out of my clothes. I'm standing in my bedroom in nothing but my blouse and underwear when I hear a rhythmic tap on the window gla.s.s.

I spin around and there's Hawk, hanging from the side of the d.a.m.n house.