"Don't make this into something it isn't," he cautioned. "Remember what I said about investigations. About evidence. Striving to better, we often wreck what's well."

"Don't lay that on me."

"I didn't lay anything on anyone. I'm paraphrasing Shakespeare: 'oft we mar what's well.'"

"You blame me already."

"I don't blame people, I arrest them, Fiona. I have no plan to make any arrests in the near future."

"No plans right now," she qualified.

"Right now," he said, going along with her, "I've got nothing in terms of hard evidence."

The owl called again and a coyote followed.

Chills ran up Walt's spine.

"Feels like rain," she said.

"I've got to go. I left Kevin at the house, and it's late, even for him."

"Too late?" she asked.

He came up behind her chair and lowered his head next to hers from behind. He kissed her on the left cheek, kept their cheeks touching until he felt the wetness of her tears. Wiped her right cheek with his thumb, pressed their heads together.

"You are not alone," he said. "Trust that."

She shook her head, their cheeks slapping.

"I mean it."

She nodded, sniffling, fighting a losing battle.

"Go," she whispered.

Walt clucked for Bea and the dog jumped up, holding obediently by his side until together they reached the Jeep.

40.

Walt thanked Kevin for sitting his sleeping children, as he walked him to his car.

"How'd all that baseball bat stuff work out?" Kevin asked, as they stood outside on the front porch. The summer insects were in full throat, the smell of fresh-cut gra.s.s and burning charcoal lingering in the air. These were the nights Walt lived for, but this particular one he wished he'd never been through, his head reeling.

"Hmm?"

"El Kabob?" Kevin said, making a motion with both arms, bringing them down sharply from overhead.

Walt shuddered, wondering how he was going to handle this. Some cases go cold Some cases go cold.

"That work is confidential, you know?" He delivered it as a rebuke, and regretted it immediately.

"Whatever. I was just asking."

"It's a work in progress. I appreciate your contribution."

"This isn't a press conference."

"Sorry. I'm kind of preoccupied."

"Would never have noticed," Kevin said sarcastically. He didn't seem to want to go. It was nearing one a.m.

"Everything good?" Walt asked.

"Sure, I guess."

"Your mother?"

"Same. A head case."

"She means well."

"Been thinking about asking Summer up." There it was, the reason for his delay. Summer was a girl Walt knew well, a girl that had nearly gotten his nephew killed. And yet he liked her. They both did.

"For a visit? That's a good idea."

"Thing of it is, I can't exactly ask her to stay with us. Mom has, like, totally taken over the other bedroom, and h.e.l.l if I'm sleeping on the couch and parading around in my skivvies, and even if we got the other bedroom happening, there's only the one bathroom for the two rooms, the one in the hall, and that would be, like, totally not cool."

"She could stay here," Walt said, knowing where this was heading.

"With the girls! Yeah, that's what I was thinking. Take care of the girls for you-we could do that together. You think? Seriously?"

"There are not a lot of high school kids who would want to stay at a sheriff's house. You'll want to clear it with her first. I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you."

"She doesn't think like that with you."

"I put her father in jail."

"True." It was as if he'd forgotten. "Yeah. Well. But I could ask, right? You're offering."

"I am."

"It would only be a couple days. Three or four days." He seemed to be talking himself into this, or needing encouragement.

"Long way to come for a long weekend. Ask her for the week. With your working and all, it's not as if you'll have a ton of time together."

"I'm hoping I can juggle my schedule."

"That might work."

"Seriously, though: you don't mind?"

"I don't mind. Happy to do it."

It was as if the sun had come out in the middle of the night. He smiled widely and stayed on his toes a beat longer than he had to, balancing up there, extending his arms as if he might take flight.

"Smells like rain."

"It does."

Walt remained on the porch and watched him drive off, waving once as a final thank-you.

As he was heading inside, his BlackBerry buzzed, announcing the arrival of a text message, a rare thing for him.

Call me when ur up-B

Walt called Brandon's cell.

"d.a.m.n! Didn't mean to wake you, Sheriff."

"No, Tommy. I'm up."

"What are you doing awake at this hour?" Brandon asked.

"I could ask the same thing."

"You aren't lying in a bed with a hose stuck in your chest."

"No, but I feel like it. How you doing, other than the hose?" Walt asked.

"Appreciate your hanging around here. Gail told me."

"Was worried about you, Tommy."

"Doing fine. They're going to fill up the flat tire, and I'm walking out of here. Like maybe tomorrow, if I'm lucky. Any sign of my shooter?"

"We're on it."

"So, nothing."

"He took off. I'm optimistic. Forest Service is scouring the camps west of the highway below Cold Springs. Guys like this, they get in a rut. He won't go far."

"Smack him around for me when you catch him."

"Yeah, that's my style," Walt quipped. "What's up, Tommy?"

"Wanted you to check the property room."

"For?"

"Not much to do here but watch the tube or stare out the window."

"Yeah . . . ?"

"So I was looking out the window and saw this hawk circling."

"Tommy, I don't mind the call, but it is is late." late."

"So you suppose there's any chance that's what the truck was about? Not a deer, but the hawk?"

Walt heard the sounds of the night like a hum in his head.

"Not sure where you're going with this, Tommy."

"Hawks feed on carrion. Like roadkill. Wouldn't be the first time we've seen a wreck caused by mowing over a hawk or eagle."

"Does that change anything?" Walt asked.

"Truck hits a hawk and skids off the road."

"So what?" Walt asked. He checked his watch, suddenly feeling extremely tired.

"The driver knows what he hit," Brandon said, speculating. "Maybe there's some of it smeared on the windshield. He skids off the road, but gets out. Your witness gave us that."

"I'm listening." Indeed, Walt was perched forward on the edge of the bench.

"The truck, the tracks we found, had nothing to do with Gale," Brandon proposed. "He never saw the body. His attention was on finding that bird."

"The bird . . ."

"Flight feathers," Brandon said.

"I'd like to say I'm following you, Tommy, but I'm afraid I'm not."

"Who gives a s.h.i.t about a dead bird?" Brandon asked. "Sure, maybe he wanted to go back and stomp the thing for sending him off the road like that. But I don't think so. I think he wanted the flight feathers."