The patrolman's name was Sebriski, and he wanted to hear about the shoot-out in International Falls. Virgil told him a bit about it, and Sebriski said, "Better you than me, brother."
He'd handed over the rifle and Virgil had signed a receipt for it, and they talked for a couple more minutes about Department of Public Safety politics, and the prospect of raises, and then Sebriski slapped Virgil on the back and went on his way, and Virgil threw the rifle in the back of his truck.
Sebriski had been sucking up a little bit, Virgil thought.
In the immediate wake of the shoot-out in International Falls, in which three Vietnamese nationals had been killed, and another wounded, Virgil, who had a second career going as an outdoor writer, had been invited to write two articles for The New York Times Magazine.
There'd been some bureaucratic mumbling about it, but the governor's chief weasel, who was using the episode to pound his Republican enemies, did the algebra, got the governor to clear the way, and the Times published the articles, the second one two Sundays earlier.
The effect had been greater than he'd anticipated-the Minneapolis papers subscribed to the Times's news service and reran the articles, and that had put them in every town in the state. He was, Davenport said, the most famous cop in Minnesota.
Which worried him a little.
He'd always been the genial observer-that was most of his method-and having other people looking at him, questioning him, watching his moves, was unnerving.
He'd mentioned it to Davenport, and Davenport's wife had said, "Well, somebody's got to be the tall poppy."
He hadn't known exactly what she'd been talking about until he looked it up on Wikipedia.
Then he worried more… and now fellow cops were sucking up to him, which made it worse.
He'd have to fuck something up, he thought, to get back to normal. Shouldn't be a problem.
SLIBE WASN'T HOME when Virgil got there.
The pickup was gone, and when he knocked on the door, he got a hollow echo, the kind you get when a house is empty. Virgil had the rifle case in one hand and stepped back from the door and turned toward his truck and saw Slibe II standing in the doorway of the kennel, with a half-bag of Purina dog chow in his hand. The sun was illuminating him, a Caravaggesque saint set against the black velvet surround of the barn's interior.
Virgil went that way, called out, "How ya doing?"
The Deuce didn't say anything; stood in his camo coveralls, one hand in a pocket, and watched Virgil get closer. Virgil thought about the pistol under the front seat of the truck, but kept walking anyway, smiling, called, "Your dad around?"
The Deuce said, "No trespassin'."
"Bringing your dad's rifle back to him," Virgil said.
The Deuce was an inch taller than Virgil, with melancholy, deep-set dark eyes under overgrown eyebrows and shaggy dark hair that looked as though it had been cut with a knife. He was slender, underfed, with hard, weathered hands and a short beard. He wore a Filson canvas billed hat the precise color of a pile of dog shit somebody had shoveled out of the kennels. He considered Virgil's comment for a moment, then grunted, "You can leave it."
"Can't. Need to get your dad to sign a receipt," Virgil said. He turned casually toward the kennels and asked, "How many dogs you got here?"
"Some," the Deuce said. He smiled, said, "Get 'em going at it, we'll have some more."
"The kind of business you want," Virgil agreed.
"Them bitches want it all the time, when the heat's on them," the Deuce said. He spat in the yard, but in a conversational way, not as an insult.
"You know when your dad's coming back?" Virgil asked.
"Nope."
"I'm a cop, I'm looking into that shooting up at Stone Lake."
"Wendy…" The Deuce lost his thought for a moment, as though his mind were wandering through corridors labeled "Wendy," then found it again. "… told me."
"Yeah? You know that country? Up around Stone Lake?"
"The Deuce knows all the country around here." He dropped the bag of dog food by a foot, stepped out into the driveway, turned slowly around, as though sniffing the air, looked north, then northeast, then pointed with his chin and said, "Off that way. About, maybe… I could walk there after breakfast, get back here for lunch, if I hurried."
"You ever do that?"
"Oh, I went by there a few times, but it's not a good spot," the Deuce said, turning his dark gaze back on Virgil. "The trails don't lead in there."
"The trails?"
"Indian trails. I follow the Indian trails. But the lake is there, cuts the trails off…" He looked north again, then gestured. "See, the trails go this way, and that way, but they don't go straight, because the lake cuts them off, so they bend."
"But if I needed somebody to take me in there, you could do it," Virgil said.
"Could. Probably wouldn't," the Deuce said.
"Yeah? You don't like cops?"
"Not much," he said.
TALKING TO HIM, Virgil understood what people had meant when they described Slibe II as not quite right. He thought too long about his words, though the words, when they arrived, were appropriate enough; it was the measure of his sentences that was wrong. And he had an odd sideways gaze, not shy, but shielded, as though he were trying to conceal an unhealthy curiosity, or passion, or fear.
Virgil had met people like him a few times, and he knew for sure that if he accused Slibe II of stealing a ham sandwich, a good prosecutor could get him sent to prison for life.
The Deuce oozed guilt.
VIRGIL WAS ABOUT to go on with the questions about Stone Lake, but Slibe Ashbach turned into the driveway in his pickup, bounced down past the garden, and rolled to a stop fifteen feet from the kennel. He climbed out and Virgil said to Slibe II, "Nice talking to you," and walked over to his father. "Dropped by to return the rifle."
Slibe took the gun case, looked at Virgil a little too long, then said, "Clean bill of health, huh?"
"It's not the gun that killed McDill or shot Jan Washington," Virgil said.
Slibe turned his head toward his son a bit, then asked, "They was both shot with the same weapon?"
"We think so," Virgil said. "That's what the lab people tell us."
"Told you it wasn't me," Slibe said. Once again glanced toward his son and then asked, "So what'd the dunce have to say?"
The Deuce backed into the kennel and out of sight.
"We were talking about Indian trails," Virgil said.
"Mmm. Well, he knows them," Slibe said. He hefted the gun: "You done with us?"
"Not completely," Virgil said, with a smile. "Me'n a friend are gonna go see Wendy tonight. He's sort of a big shot in the country music world, wants to take a look at her."
"Yeah, well," Slibe said, and he walked up to the kennel door, then looked back and said, "You know what I think about that horseshit."
HE DISAPPEARED into the barn, after his son; Virgil waited for a moment, thinking they might come back out, but then he heard them knocking around, and doors started opening down the side of the barn, and fuzzy yellow dogs began moving into their separate cages.
Virgil turned and left. Fuck 'em, he thought, I know where they are if I need them.
Nothing to do; nobody to talk to-Sig was working, Zoe was pissed off. And he had things to think about, so he went back to the motel and took a nap.
GOT UP GROGGY, looked at the clock: time to move. But toothpaste was critical, he thought, smacking his lips.
Virgil and Jud Windrow hooked up at the Wild Goose at ten minutes to seven, found a booth, talked to Chuck the bartender for a couple of minutes, were comped the first two beers on grounds of good-bar fellowship, and paid for two more before Wendy went on.
Virgil had briefed Windrow on the exact nature of the band, the crowd, and the bar, and when Wendy and the other women climbed on the stage, he said, "They got a good look. That dyke vibe works. Is that black eye from the fight?"
"Yeah. You'll notice a big scratch healing up on Berni's cheek…"