The Reluctant Sheriff E-Book

Chris Offutt

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 315

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

FROM AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR CHRIS OFFUTT 'An eventful southern US noir and an international thriller with the deliberative pacing of a Le Carré...Offutt's vivid writing summons an impressively evocative sense of place and an equally strong ear for all the things his often-laconic characters aren't saying aloud.' Irish Times The Reluctant Sheriff is Chris Offutt's fourth book featuring Mick Hardin. A dark and fierce return to the Kentucky hills, where nothing is what it seems. Mick Hardin returns to the trials and tribulations of local sheriff duties, whilst the previous sheriff, his sister Linda, recovers from a gunshot wound sustained in the line of duty. Living in Linda's house in Rocksalt, Mick finds himself entwined in the trials and tribulations of being a sheriff in the perturbing Kentucky community. Unable to retire from a world of dubiousness and violence, Mick Hardin is back with determination to deliver retribution. 'This is a marvellous series… These have become must-reads for me and I enjoy every minute of the reading experience'Deadly Pleasures 'Righteous Kentucky noir... I gulped it down, relishing the burn' Ian Rankin on Shifty's Boys

Leseprobe

JOIN OUR COMMUNITY!

Sign up for all the latest crime and thriller

news and get free books and exclusive offers.

BEDFORDSQUAREPUBLISHERS.CO.UK

Praise for Chris Offutt

‘Beautifully descriptive… Offutt’s Mick Hardin novels are powerful books that feature characters with questionable ethics’ Library Journal

‘Righteous Kentucky noir… I gulped it down, relishing the burn’ Ian Rankin on Shifty’s Boys

‘Another welcome slice of rural Kentucky noir’ The Times UK

‘An atmospheric, exquisitely written Southern noir’ Lesa Holstine, Library Journal

‘This is a marvellous series… These have become must-reads for me and I enjoy every minute of the reading experience’ Deadly Pleasures

‘Kentucky noir, with a twist. Or two or three… It’s a pleasure to read, you have a treat in store’ Reckon Review

‘A terrific series’ Boston Globe

For Cade Smith

who never gave up

You can’t choose where you belong, and where you don’t.

But what if the place you don’t belong is the only place you have left?

—Stuart Neville

Chapter One

The employment application had a section about alcohol consumption and Harley Bolin lied that he never drank. Sometimes in the evening he had a glass of wine with his wife. She liked it with ice and he didn’t mind it that way, but in the hills of eastern Kentucky, most men drank bourbon or beer. He didn’t want word getting out that he went for sweet white wine from a far-fetched place like California.

Getting a job driving a truck that delivered liquor to bars was worth the lie. If he got caught, he could always say he didn’t drink at the time he applied. He told the truth on everything else – graduated high school, three semesters at Rocksalt Community College, no criminal record, and a clean driving history. The company hired him. He was always on time and never missed work, which resulted in two raises his first year. The hours of jouncing in the high cab behind the wheel were offset by unloading cases of liquor and beer. It was a sweat-and-rest job, traveling five days a week in three counties.

Harley usually worked alone but this week he was breaking in a new guy, Ronnie something or other. The kid had just turned twenty-two, legally old enough to deliver, and talked nonstop the first half hour. Harley nodded and grunted in the hope that training Ronnie was a step toward promotion, a bigger territory, maybe even boss of the tri-county area. As Ronnie jabbered, Harley slowly increased the radio’s volume until the kid got tired of yelling and slumped against the door, staring out the window.

One good thing about Ronnie, he wasn’t afraid of work. At the warehouse he’d insisted on loading more than his share of boxes and took on the tricky task of shoving the metal ramp into its slot in the back of the truck. Harley was grateful. Last year a driver lost two fingers doing it and got fired. Harley’s wife was pregnant with their second kid and he wanted to keep his fingers and his job.

The day’s first stop was a Rocksalt liquor store housed in an old train station. The procedure was simple with friendly workers, quick paperwork, and plenty of room to maneuver the truck. Afterward, Harley headed out of town and cut the radio.

‘Next is a bar,’ he said to Ronnie. ‘Bars ain’t as easy as a store. Not a one has a loading dock. We got to wheel the boxes in on a hand truck.’

‘No probs,’ Ronnie said. ‘I did that at the IGA. If you think liquor is tough, wait till you’re hauling a hundred pounds of hamburger frozen so cold it’ll burn your hands. One time—’

‘That’s a lot of meat.’

‘Darn sure is. They were stocking up for Fourth of July. Wieners are the worst. They don’t stack good. Don’t worry, I can push any hand truck you got.’

‘You’ll have to go slow,’ Harley said. ‘It has a gravel lot.’

‘What kind of gravel? Creek rock? Limestone? Crusher run?’

Harley turned the radio up and switched to a pre-eighties country station. He slowed to make a wide turn at a T-intersection, then kept the speed down for the half-mile drive to Ajax Bar and Grill. The tavern wasn’t open yet but the owner was always inside waiting for delivery. Harley steered to the far edge of the lot, then put the truck in reverse.

Ronnie opened his door and jumped out.

‘I’ll guide you in,’ Ronnie said.

Harley ignored him. He was adept at backing up the truck and knew the precise place to stop so the metal ramp would end at the front door. He was intent on the side mirror when Ronnie started shouting and banging furiously on the side of the truck. Harley stopped abruptly, annoyed by the kid. He turned down the radio as Ronnie opened the door, his face pale.

‘There’s a man laying dead out here.’

Chapter Two

Mick Hardin drove the official county vehicle along a narrow blacktop road that bisected the hills. He was filling in as sheriff while his sister recuperated from a gunshot wound sustained in the line of duty. This was Linda’s official vehicle, and a Bigfoot air freshener swayed from the rearview mirror. It was a three-quarter profile view of Bigfoot in mid-stride, looking over his huge, hairy shoulder. The cardboard smelled of pine, or what the manufacturer thought pine trees smelled like, which wasn’t the scent of any tree Mick knew. Earlier he’d given it an experimental sniff in case there was something lurking beneath the chemical tang, maybe ancient dirt or decaying moss. Nope, just fake pine like cheap bathroom cleaner.

During her recovery, Linda was temporarily living under the roof of Shifty Kissick while Mick stayed in his sister’s house. Everything in his life was provisional, including his role as sheriff. He thought it was a kind of metaphor for the hills of eastern Kentucky, a temporariness that never changed. Only nature itself was consistent – relentless, beautiful, benevolent, and cruel.

He turned onto the long dirt driveway to the house of a woman who’d called the station three times. The SUV bounced through a mudhole, causing Bigfoot to hop against the windshield and bend a flimsy arm. It occurred to Mick that no one had ever found the giant bones of Bigfoot. The absence of a skeleton kept the legend alive. Or maybe they lived forever. It was a conversation for Johnny Boy, the former deputy, but he was on temporary leave, whereabouts unknown to everyone except Mick.

The driveway ended at a yard with an old Pontiac on the grass. Mick parked behind it, honked his horn, and got out. The one-story house gave the impression of being close to the ground due to the low slope of the roof that extended above the porch. The screen door opened and a woman in her late forties stepped outside smoking a cigarette. A midsize dog shot from the house, leaped the three steps, and bounded across the yard. Its tail wagged with such vigor that its hips moved as if dancing. Mick shifted his body to look at the dog peripherally and reduce his own threat.

‘Conway!’ the woman said.

The dog stopped moving.

‘He’s friendly,’ she said.

‘I can see that,’ Mick said. ‘I’m Sheriff Hardin. Are you Mrs Morris? Molly Morris?’

‘Yes, I am. I called y’all three times.’

‘I understand, ma’am. We’re short-staffed right now and got behind. How can I help you?’

‘Around back,’ she said. ‘Loretta is up to no good. I don’t hardly know where to start or how to say it.’

‘Let’s start with Loretta. Who is she?’

‘My daughter-in-law. Soon to be ex.’

Mick nodded.

‘Loretta what?’ he said.

‘Loretta Cargill. Kept her own name. That’s how little she thinks of our family.’

‘A lot of women do that these days,’ Mick said. ‘Might not be personal.’

‘Are you a married man?’

‘Divorced.’

‘Did she take your name?’

‘Yes, she did. It was twenty years ago.’

‘Then how do you know what you’re talking about with these young Jezebels and how they think?’

‘I don’t reckon I do,’ Mick said.

She tipped her head and gave it a quick nod, then took a long drag off her cigarette. She blew the smoke hard and fast as if making a point. Its funnel dissipated in a breeze. At the end of the porch, a robin poked its head from a forsythia bush to look at the humans.

‘Your son,’ Mick said, ‘the one married to Loretta. Does he live here?’

‘Well. Yes and no.’

‘It would help if you were a little more specific, Mrs Morris.’

‘Ronnie and Loretta live around back but I ain’t seen him in a few days. I’d just as soon Loretta left.’

‘Around back?’

‘Yes, they made a damn yurt.’

‘A yurt.’

‘That’s what they call it. Some kind of thing made out of sticks. It’s a mess is what it is. Like a hideout little kids built in the woods. One hard wind and it’s gone. I been praying for a big storm.’

‘Okay,’ Mick said. ‘Why did you call?’

‘At first I thought Ronnie had a lot of new friends, but he’s gone and there’s men still coming around. My opinion, she’s doing floozy business.’

Mick nodded and looked at the forsythia bush. The robin had ducked back inside and Mick felt a jolt of envy for the ease with which it could avoid difficulties. Maybe the bird should be sheriff, or Mick should have been a bird.

He walked around the house to a long backyard snugged tight to the ubiquitous hillside. A pair of bee boxes stood near a patch of honeysuckle beside a heavy-duty push lawnmower suited to rough terrain. A mowed path led to a homemade shelter situated within the shade of a sugar maple. He’d seen yurts, a kind of round tent with a sturdy door, while serving in Afghanistan. This one had the traditional shape but it was covered by a shimmering blue tarp staked to the ground. The entrance was an old bear hide, the fur scraped off in sections, exposing the stiff yellow skin.

In front of the yurt was a small firepit built of stacked rock topped by a grate. Four lawn chairs surrounded it. A creek ran along the base of the hill below a damp cliff that was dripping water. Red and green moss glittered on the stone. Like most of eastern Kentucky, it resembled a park that families visited on vacation in other states. Here, the people just lived.

Mick went back to the front, faced the bear hide, and spoke.

‘Hidy,’ he said. ‘Anybody in there?’

The bear hide rustled, then was shoved aside from within. Out stepped a woman in her twenties, moving with an elegance that surprised Mick, considering the situation. She looked him straight on with frank intelligence in her clear eyes. She glanced at the sheriff’s badge and holstered Beretta, then back to his face. He nodded and stepped back.

‘Loretta Cargill?’ he said.

‘That’s me. Do you want to come in?’

‘No, thank you. I’m all right out here.’

‘Is Ronnie hurt?’

‘Not as far as I know,’ he said. ‘I’m not here about him.’

‘His mom okay?’

‘I just talked to her and she’s fine. Reason I’m here, she called three times.’

Loretta walked to a lawn chair and sat. Mick took another chair and they stared across the dead fire at each other. A fly landed on the cooking grate, then another. The scent of honeysuckle drifted and Mick took a big inhale.

‘One of my favorite smells,’ he said.

‘It’s a good pollinator. The butterflies need all the help they can get these days. Reckon we all do.’

‘Mrs Morris thinks you’re running some kind of business back here. Is that the case?’

‘Sort of, yeah. People stop by. If they’re in a hurry, I give them a pull.’

‘A pull.’

‘Yes. Sometimes they give me things. That bear hide. The lawn mower. It’s self-propelled but the drivetrain quit working and the woman didn’t want it. Heavy as heck but free’s free, you know. Her two boys dropped it off. I gave them a free pull.’

‘A free pull?’

‘Yeah, just one apiece, not the full thing.’

‘I’m not sure what we’re talking about.’

‘The tarot,’ she said. ‘Thirty minutes is minimum to get anywhere. Enough time for a couple of questions. An hour’s better. But some folks just want one card, so I pull one. Is something on your mind? I can give you a pull. You look a little troubled.’

‘I am,’ Mick said. ‘But then, who ain’t? Thank you for the offer, but I can’t do it on duty. Can you think of any reason Mrs Morris called about you?’

‘She doesn’t like me.’

‘I got that impression. Why not?’

‘I don’t know for sure. Ronnie is the youngest of six kids. I think Molly is afraid I’ll take him off somewhere. You know, make him move.’

‘Do y’all talk about moving?’

‘No, never. I like it here. I’m from Maysville and couldn’t wait to get away from there.’

‘I understand that,’ he said.

‘You’re from Maysville?’

‘No, I’m from right here in Eldridge County. I left for twenty years.’

‘Then came back to be sheriff?’

‘Not exactly. It’s a long story.’

‘You sure I can’t give you a reading? Or a one-card pull to get you through the day?’

‘I’m sure,’ he said. ‘But you can let me take a peek inside so I can tell Mrs Morris I did.’

Loretta stood and pulled the bearskin aside. The interior was lit by several garlands of small white lights attached to electrical wires. A strong cedar smell came from a clump of dried boughs tied together and hanging from the high domed ceiling. Mick had the sensation of standing inside a Christmas tree. The single room was tidy and furnished with a bed, couch, small table, two chairs, and a dresser. A carpet lay on a raised plywood floor.

Several empty jars stood on a workbench beside a two-gallon jar of clumpy brown liquid. On the table were smaller containers with a metal armature on the neck designed to hold a cork in place. A funnel protruded from one.

‘You caught me in the middle,’ Loretta said.

‘Middle of what?’

‘The big mama is ready for action. I’m making kombucha. You ever try it?’

‘Is it like beer?’

‘No,’ Loretta said. ‘It’s filled with probiotics and antioxidants. Real good for you.’

She used a spatula to lift a ragged disc of brown gunk from the big jar. It dripped a viscous fluid.

‘This is the scoby,’ she said. ‘I call it the big mama. It gives birth to all the rest.’

‘I see.’

‘I jar up honey, too. Been trying lip balm but it’s hard to fool with. I sell and trade, you know, at outdoor markets. Mount Sterling Court Day and Poppy Mountain. Anywhere folks get together. I used to do hooping but people didn’t go for it.’

She pointed to three brightly colored hula hoops leaning against a support post.

‘I still keep my chops,’ she said. ‘Ronnie tried juggling but got bored.’

‘Where is Ronnie?’

‘Out hunting work. Said he’s got a line on a construction crew. He had a delivery job on a beer truck but quit after he found a dead man. Maybe if they catch the guy who did it, Ronnie’ll go back to it. Y’all got any, you know, leads?’

‘Not that I know of,’ Mick said. ‘I appreciate your time.’

‘Hey, let me give you some kombucha. Good for stress.’

‘No, thank you. I can’t accept gifts.’

‘Oh, right. Come back when you’re not the sheriff.’

‘Problem is,’ he said, ‘I’m always the sheriff.’

Mick walked back to the front yard. Jonquils beside the porch steps had bloomed and the petals fallen, leaving clumps of green blades like fat scallions. Mick knocked at the door. Mrs Morris opened it immediately as if waiting for him. She was smoking another cigarette, a different brand this time, long and skinny. Less tobacco, Mick thought, but more paper.

‘Well,’ Mrs Morris said. ‘Did you arrest her or give her a warning?’

‘Mind if we sit down a minute?’

Mrs Morris brightened momentarily and ushered him to a pair of wooden chairs on the porch. Mick wondered if the absence of a third chair was a deliberate insult aimed at Loretta.

‘Mrs Morris,’ he said.

‘You can call me Molly if you want.’

‘Yes, ma’am. The way I see it, Loretta’s not doing anything illegal.’

‘People come and go, night and day. Sometimes men when Ronnie’s gone. They don’t stay long. That ain’t right.’

‘Near as I can tell, she’s doing what she can to make a little money. Sells honey and some kind of health drink. Reads tarot cards.’

‘I don’t hold with that bull puckey,’ she said. ‘The devil’s pasteboards is what it is.’

‘It’s not against the law and it doesn’t hurt anybody. Same as looking at your astrology in a magazine. It gives folks comfort. We all need that.’

‘That’s what church is for.’

Mick nodded silently, waiting for the subject to dwindle. Everybody had a right to believe what they liked and nobody ever won a debate along those lines.

‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘Loretta thinks maybe you don’t like her.’

‘She’s right. I don’t.’

‘Why is that?’

Mrs Morris snorted in judgment and sucked on the cigarette like a hungry baby with a bottle. She blew a fierce strand of smoke in a straight line, then quickly took another long inhale. Her style of smoking was as dramatic as he’d ever seen.

‘Listen a minute, Mrs Morris,’ he said. ‘You called the station three times. I’m here and now you’re holding back. It’s against the law to make a false accusation, like your daughter-in-law selling dope or turning tricks out of a yurt. I’ve got real crimes to deal with. And lying to the law is one. So you’d best tell me why I’m really here.’

‘It’s my sister,’ she said.

‘Is Loretta bothering her?’

‘No, nothing like that. When we were little my sister started fooling with a Ouija board. It messed her up something awful. Didn’t do her one bit of good. I don’t want that to happen to Ronnie.’

‘I didn’t see a Ouija board in there.’

‘She does that damn tarot.’

‘I’m no expert,’ Mick said. ‘But it ain’t the same. Ouija is about dead folks. Tarot is about the living person. Nothing spooky about it.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Here’s what I suggest, Mrs Morris. Ask Loretta to give you a reading. She can do it right here on the porch. That way you’ll know what she’s up to. I don’t think she’s a bad person. Give her a chance.’

Mick went to the county vehicle, weary of being sheriff. He was a homicide investigator, not a family drama interventionist. He wanted to turn on the light bar, crank up the siren, and drive out of state any direction, just go for days as fast as he could. Instead, he drove the speed limit and headed toward the Kissicks’ house to visit his sister.

He wished he’d told Mrs Morris that the Ouija board was nothing more than cardboard and plastic made in a factory owned by Hasbro, the largest board game manufacturer in the USA. Mick’s closest buddy in boot camp had worked in the Massachusetts warehouse as a forklift driver. Alex turned a corner too fast with a full load of flat boxes loaded with a game called Risk. The forklift tipped and he dumped eighteen thousand tiny cubes that skittered across the cement floor. Alex got fired on the spot and enlisted the next day. He said that if he got killed in combat, Mick could go to the warehouse and visit him through a Ouija board, but he’d have to pick the right one since there were thousands in stock. At nineteen, they laughed at the absurd notion of mortality, then cleaned their rifles. A year later Alex died in Iraq.

Mick radioed dispatch and reached Sandra at the sheriff station. He told her he’d completed the Morris call and gave her his current location.

‘You bringing Loretta in?’ she said.

‘No. Next time Molly Morris calls, you tell her we’re not sending anyone out unless somebody is bleeding.’

‘Ten-four,’ she said. ‘That was my mom’s attitude about taking us to the doctor.’

‘Better not tell Mrs Morris that. She might take it as an excuse to stab somebody.’

‘Molly? If she was a stabber, she’d have got her ex-husband years ago. What’s the story on Loretta?’

‘One of these newfangled hippies, near as I can tell. Harmless and naive. I’m going to check on Linda.’

Mick drove along the winding road. There was no center stripe or shoulder. Both sides of the narrow blacktop ended at a strip of weedy grass beyond which grew the heavy growth of the Daniel Boone National Forest. Half of what Mick knew, he’d learned alone in the woods. The rest came from war zones.

He slowed for a turn onto a county road and drove in the middle to avoid scraping his vehicle against the low-hanging branches of willow and maple. Their thick trunks and lush limbs indicated underground water. He parked at a house belonging to Shifty Kissick, a woman in her fifties who’d spent time with Mick’s father in their mutual youth. She’d married another man and had five kids, three deceased. Her oldest son, Raymond, lived with her now. Raymond was a Marine who’d recently come home from Camp Pendleton in California, accompanied by his partner Juan Carlos. They operated a taco truck six days a week and made a good living.

Ostensibly they’d returned to look after Shifty, but Mick believed if anyone in the world did not need personal care, it was her. Shifty’s nickname came from the homemade shifts she’d worn as a child, a habit she still maintained. The only difference was size, quality of fabric, and the pocket Shifty sewed in place to accommodate a small-caliber pistol. The right side of all her dresses hung low from the weight of the gun. She’d taken in Mick’s sister after Linda got hurt on the job. They’d bonded at the hospital, and Shifty’s house had enough room for the bulky rehab equipment.

Mick sat in the official sheriff’s SUV pondering how his life had reached its nadir at age forty – a job he didn’t want, a car he didn’t own, living in his dead mother’s house, divorced, adrift, and befuddled. It was a bad way to be and he wasn’t sure how to repair it. A few months back he’d resigned from the US Army, having served with distinction and received significant decoration, including the Soldier’s Medal and the Silver Star. Now he preferred to sit in his vehicle, wishing he could avoid entering the potential maelstrom of Shifty and his sister Linda, two peas in an angry pod. He knew how to circumvent a trip line that ignited a homemade bomb made of gasoline and metal shards, but not how to talk to people he cared about. That trait had cost his marriage.

Mick left the SUV, crossed the yard to the porch, tapped on the screen door, and entered. A pervasive tension spread like lava throughout the house. Shifty sat in her chair facing a TV tuned to a monster truck rally. She gave him a baleful glance, then looked away. He could hear the clatter and clank of Linda working an elliptical machine for her wounded leg.

‘Hidy, Shifty,’ Mick said.

‘Just what we need,’ she said. ‘Another man broody as an old hen.’

Mick walked down a hall to a large room that served as kitchen, pantry, dining area, and now a mini gym with a stationary bike and an elliptical machine. Sweating profusely, Linda worked the machine or it worked her, Mick was never quite sure of the process. Earbuds ran to her phone, which was mounted on the control screen. She watched a movie, undoubtedly one of her beloved romantic comedies in which an unlikely couple persevered after initial misperceptions of each other followed by many obstacles. Mick hated them.

He moved into her vision. Without missing a stroke in her stride, she waved him away.

‘Not now,’ she said.

He dutifully left the kitchen. From the second floor came a sudden, rapid stream of Spanish, shrill and angry. Mick moved to the foot of the staircase. Juan Carlos continued to shout, his voice rising to a crescendo, then stopping. Raymond’s response was pitched too low for Mick to understand. Shifty increased the TV volume until the whining roar of absurdly oversized vehicles drowned the argument. Mick abruptly wished he was enclosed in the silent yurt, or better – sleeping in a tent in the desert. At least in that situation he knew how to react.

He went outside and sat on the porch. The late May trees were fully leafed out and bright green, each leaf like a hand cupped toward the sky. Spring’s optimism had shifted to the eager cheer of early summer. Heat and gravity hadn’t yet begun to droop the vivid foliage. Mick recalled the first time he sat in the same spot a few years back, drinking coffee with Shifty and watching a chicken walk backward. He’d been married and planning retirement. Shifty had given him sausage on a biscuit, the single food he’d missed most during years of deployment. They’d gotten along fine until he later learned she’d lied through her teeth about every subject except the chicken.

He rested on the porch, mentally going through the future paperwork from the trip to the Morris house. Anticipating the effort was an old trick that made the actual task simple and fast. The words were already composed in his mind, he just had to transcribe them. The sound of heavy boots came down the steps inside the house, followed by rising Spanish. The screen door slammed open, hit the exterior wall, and bounced back. Raymond deflected it as he strode out carrying a government-issue Marine Corps seabag. He ignored Mick and marched across the yard. Behind him came Juan Carlos in shorts and a T-shirt, his face flushed with anger.

‘¡Sigue!¡Vamos!¡Nunca vuelvas! ¡Estúpido!¡Gilipollas!¡Sal ahora!’

Raymond continued in a double-time march across the yard to the road, handling the stuffed seabag as if it were a loaf of bread. The sun dulled the military tattoos on his massive forearms. Mick wanted to follow but remained still to avoid drawing the ferocity of Juan Carlos. He suddenly remembered the backward-walking chicken’s name – Sparky – and grinned. Juan Carlos saw the expression and spun to Mick.

‘No te rías de mí,’ Juan Carlos said. ‘¡Cabrón!’

‘Hola, amigo,’ Mick said.

‘Take him and go,’ Juan Carlos said. ‘I like your sister more!’

‘Tell her I said hidy.’

Mick stood and left the porch, wary as an admonished dog. At the SUV he turned to face the house. Shifty had joined Juan Carlos. The combined force of their mutual glare traveled across the grass and bounced off Mick’s face. He began driving toward town. He was surprised by the distance Raymond had traveled on foot and wondered vaguely if a Marine march was faster than the Army’s. Mick passed Raymond and stopped in the middle of the road. With the fluid motion of a tai chi master, Raymond opened the door, tossed his seabag in the back, and climbed into the passenger seat. He stared straight ahead, breathing calmly despite the exertion. Mick put the SUV in gear and cruised forward.

‘JC seems good,’ Mick said.

‘Fuck you.’

‘He called me a cabrón.’

Raymond grunted.

‘What’s it mean?’ Mick said.

‘You’re a bastard. Maybe a goat.’

‘Both?’

‘I don’t fucking know, dude. It’s not good. He called me a dickhead or a douchebag.’

‘That’s worse,’ Mick said. ‘You want to stay with me?’

Raymond grunted assent and Mick drove to his sister’s house in town. A stoplight halted them beside a drugstore. A few years ago, the parking lot had been notorious as a buy-site for prescription OxyContin. Now it was empty save for a few cars with older men behind the wheel, waiting for a family member. Old-time countrymen never entered a store.

A large church on the corner had been converted to a health care facility. Lightning had struck the steeple three times, prompting people to say that God was mad at the church. They overlooked the fact that the steeple was on top of a hill that was the highest point in Rocksalt. Mick turned onto Lyons Avenue, a narrow residential street that ended at Linda’s house. Due to a steep hill, a creek, and a cemetery, Lyons was the last dead end in town. All the rest had been linked for development. Mick had lived in the house until he was eight. His parents divorced and he went to his grandfather’s cabin deep in the hills. Linda stayed with their mom and eventually inherited the house.

Mick and Raymond entered the carport door and went through the kitchen to the living room. Multiple shelves held twenty-two clocks, with eight more hanging from the walls.

‘Mom’s,’ Mick said. ‘There used to be calendars in every room but Linda got rid of them.’

‘Where do I bunk?’

‘Linda’s room or the couch.’

‘Does she have a gun safe?’

‘No. Why?’

Raymond hefted the seabag in answer, then sat wearily on the couch.

‘Ditty kit,’ he said, ‘change of clothes. The rest is ordnance.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Nobody’ll break into the sheriff’s house.’

Mick sat in one of two large, lumpy chairs from the nineties. A reading light with a crooked shade had a built-in shelf that was covered in coffee rings.

‘What happened?’ Mick said.

‘Me, I guess.’

‘That doesn’t exactly clear the air.’

‘The past twenty years I lived alone or with a bunch of jarheads.’

Mick waited but Raymond shook his head silently as if to himself.

‘If you’re going to stay here,’ Mick said, ‘I need to know more in case it has to do with Linda. You been living with her, too.’

‘I’m not saying nothing against your sister, Mommy, or JC.’

‘But…’

‘In a nutshell, I got on their nerves. Not all at once, but first one, then the other. Then they all three banded together and got mad at me. Soon as that went away, I’d piss off the next one. They all got mad again. Over and over. Pretty soon they were mad at me day and night, like in shifts. I spent most of my time on the porch.’

‘What about the food truck?’

‘I think JC fired me.’

‘You think?’

‘I didn’t catch all the Spanish, but yeah. I’m pretty sure.’

Mick started laughing. Raymond gave him a quick, hard look, then relaxed and giggled. It was a high-pitched sound that tickled Mick, who realized he’d never heard Raymond laugh before. The sound was incongruous with the black ops veteran sitting on the couch, his shaved head resembling a giant bullet.

‘You need a job?’ Mick said. ‘Deputy position is still open.’

‘Johnny Boy not coming back?’

‘I can’t talk about that,’ Mick said. ‘But if I don’t fill the position, the mayor and judge will start angling to put their own deputy in.’

‘When do I start?’

‘Right now. We’ll go to the station and Sandra will give you a badge. You can have a state-issue pistol or use your own. Got one?’

‘Yeah,’ Raymond said. ‘I got four.’

‘Pick one and let’s go.’

Ray-Ray nodded and stood, the expression on his face that of a Marine with a mission. They left and drove to the sheriff station.

Chapter Three

Mick parked in the blacktop lot, backing into the spot in case he needed to leave fast. A late-model Ford with a car seat was at the far edge. The only other car was a red Miata that belonged to Sandra Caldwell. She’d worked a couple of years as dispatcher, lately serving as unofficial adviser to Mick in the intricate ways of the civilian world. Their brief romantic history had been thwarted by Mick’s new job. He couldn’t legally date a subordinate and wouldn’t ethically anyhow. Part of him was glad to avoid the emotional vulnerability. On the other hand he was lonely as the last leaf on a tree in winter.

Mick and Raymond entered through the tinted glass door. Sandra’s desk was actually two metal desks set end to end with an old computer, a fax machine, a printer, and a landline telephone with a built-in crescent to prop on her shoulder. She faced an open laptop while talking on a cell phone. Another cell phone lay on the desk beside a stack of files. As she listened to the caller, she nodded and rolled her eyes.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ she said. ‘I’ll notify the sheriff.’

She ended the call and rushed around the desk.

‘Ray-Ray!’ she said.

She and Raymond hugged briefly and she stepped back, looking him over.

‘What brings you in here? A taco crime spree?’

‘New deputy,’ Mick said. ‘He needs a badge and all the forms submitted to the county and state.’

‘Start date?’ she said.

‘Now.’

‘That’s sudden,’ she said. ‘Did something happen?’

Mick and Raymond stayed silent.

‘Yep,’ she said. ‘Something not good. Mick, I need to talk to you.’

‘Later,’ he said. ‘Take care of Raymond first.’

‘Now’s better,’ she said. ‘It’s important.’

Mick nodded and walked past her desk toward his office door, which was still emblazoned with his sister’s name.

‘Wait,’ Sandra said. ‘Wait!’

The door was ajar and he pushed it open. Sitting in the guest chair was his ex-wife, Peggy. He’d last seen her more than two years ago when he dropped off divorce papers at her new house in Owingsville. It was an uneager task on his part, procrastinated for months, that ultimately left him feeling like a failure. Worse, it had pleased her, which plowed him under with sadness. Divorce made her happy and confident. She’d remarried and had two kids.

‘Hey,’ he said.

‘Mick,’ she said.

He closed the door, moved past her to his desk, and sat. Abruptly he saw the office through her eyes and realized he’d put nothing of his own in the room. A flag of Kentucky hung from a post in the corner. The walls held a large photograph of the governor and several framed certificates of merit, a room for the serious business of law enforcement. With a sense of dismay he realized that if Peggy was here, she had a problem and he’d try to help. Love didn’t have an on/off switch. He wondered if it was him or the way of the hills.

They looked at each other. After a few seconds they spoke simultaneously: ‘You look good.’ Despite the banality, they laughed. It was an old trait of theirs, saying the same thing at the same time. They’d thought it was a sign that they were an ideal couple.

‘How are your kids?’ he said.

‘Good, real good. Growing. Ruby is almost four and Jimmy Z is walking now.’

Mick nodded. It would be appropriate to inquire about her husband but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. She’d gotten pregnant by Zack Jones while she was married to Mick. He studied her carefully. She’d put herself together for the trip to Rocksalt but she was distraught, a barely controlled tension in her posture and face.

‘What’s wrong, Peggy?’ he said gently.

‘I don’t know what to do. I didn’t want to come here but I didn’t know where else to go.’

‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘That’s why I didn’t want to ask.’

Mick nodded. There it was, he thought, the key to their marriage and its demise. Peggy had never asked him for anything so he’d given her everything. They’d never disagreed, never fought, never talked. They’d met young and spent their time going along with each other until eventually they’d each gone on alone.

‘Are you in trouble?’ Mick said.

‘Not me. Zack is.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘He’s in jail.’

‘What’s the charge?’

‘They say he killed somebody.’

‘In Bath County?’

‘He didn’t kill anybody anywhere.’

‘I understand,’ Mick said. ‘I mean is he in the Bath County Jail?’

‘No. He’s here in Rocksalt.’

‘What do the police say?’

‘Not much. At least not to me.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can find out. Do you need anything? Water or food?’

‘I can’t stay,’ she said. ‘The kids are with Mom.’

‘She doing all right?’

‘Same as ever. That’s why I can’t leave them very long.’

‘Are you still at the same number?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘Okay. I’ll look into it and call you.’

Relief passed over her face and for a moment he worried that she might cry. He’d only seen her cry once, the day they got married twenty-one years before. It had disarmed him and he hoped she wouldn’t cry now.

‘How’s Linda?’ she said.

‘Her leg’s getting stronger. She’s got two machines and is on them half the day.’

‘Her place is pretty small.’

‘She’s living at the Kissicks’,’ Mick said. ‘More space. It’s best with me working.’

‘Which Kissicks?’

‘Shifty,’ Mick said.

‘That woman is tough as woodpecker lips.’

‘So’s Linda. They’re a good match.’

‘We were, too,’ she said. ‘For a while.’

Mick nodded. Discomfort