My mom and dad took me to a safari park one time when I was nine years old. You drove through, stayed in your car, lions and zebras and everything all over the place, and a sign about every two inches reminding patrons to STAY IN YOUR CAR. That’s what it felt like sitting there in the Aries K, watching the whole thing through the windshield.

I’ll never forget the look on Jason’s face, his eyes so calm, yet at the same time blazing some cold fire, a man or an animal about the devil’s business.

And that’s how I thought of the Jordans now, a whole family of them going about the devil’s business. The chief always told me if you start thinking of people bigger than they really are, then you’ll never maintain law and order. It’s the man with the star on his chest that’s big. I tried to remember that as I approached the Jordan household.

A light on in one front window. The rest of the house looked dark. I eased around the back keeping to the shadows. The front porch light didn’t cast its glow very far.

The side of the house was cluttered with old engine parts, the rusted hulk of a Pinto, an ancient refrigerator. I maneuvered through the debris, not really sure what I was doing here, hoping answers would present themselves without me having to ask the right questions. I didn’t know the questions anymore than I knew the answers. All I knew was everything was wrong and it all started with a dead Luke Jordan, so maybe the Jordans knew the right secrets to make sense of this mess.

So many secrets and so much history for such a small town. Miles and miles and miles of wide open space, yet it seemed like we were in each other’s pockets every damn day. Hell, I knew the other side of the coin too. Going from gig to gig, town to town, and every single face was a stranger’s. When I was on the road with the band, I felt free, but I often felt lonely too.

I couldn’t say which way was worse. I couldn’t make my brain think about it.

More junk rose up in my way. I scooted around a defunct dishwasher and an empty, pitted beer keg. A fence with a gate half open leading into the back yard. I slipped through, quiet as I could step.

Just inside the gate, the Doberman leapt for me.

Like some sleek rocket made of solid meat, he flew, trailing slobber, his bark sending a panicked chill straight up my spine. His jaws snapped shut two inches from my face, and he landed in front of me, barking his head off. I backed up where the fence and the side of the house made a corner, petrified. The dog didn’t come any closer, and I realized he was on a rope tied to a small tree thirty feet away. There was no way to get around him without coming within range of those teeth. He liked showing me the teeth, his lips curled back in a constant growl.

My hand fell to the revolver, but it never cleared the holster.

“Lucifer, sit!” A new voice from the house.

The dog backed up three steps sat, a low growl still trickling out of it.

An old woman came out of the screen door, little more than a silhouette against the light from inside the house. But I could see the revolver in her hand well enough, an enormous lumpy thing from some old war. She pointed it at me. Compared to the dog, I didn’t mind.

“Who’s that?”

“Toby Sawyer, ma’am.”

She squinted at me, leaned in trying to get a look at me. I could tell she had trouble seeing, but the revolver was so close, I’m sure she’d have no trouble putting one right in my gut.

“You one of Luke’s friends? Or Jason’s?”

“Not quite, ma’am,” I said. “But I was hoping to check with your boys if they were home.”

“My grandsons.”

Holy shit, Grandma Jordan. When I was eleven, my dad told me she’d shot an Indian. I wondered if it were true. I wondered if that was the same gun. I hoped in twenty years people wouldn’t be telling the story about the time Grandma Jordan shot a part-time deputy.

“Are they here, ma’am?”

“No. Come inside.”

“Well, if they’re not here, I don’t want to disturb—”

“I said come inside.”

“Okay.”

I went through the screen door and found myself in a hot stuffy room, stacks of books, magazines and newspapers surrounding an old overstuffed armchair. The place smelled like fried bologna and Ben Gay.

She motioned with the revolver. “Keep going.”

I went through the cluttered room and into a small kitchen. She added a second cup and saucer to a tarnished silver tray, kept the gun on me with the other hand. She added a ceramic pot to the tray. The pot had thin little cracks running up the side, a faded pattern of purple flowers. The cups and saucers matched the pot.

She nodded at the tray. “Bring that please.”

I picked it up and followed her back into the stuffy room with all the magazines. She sat in the armchair, motioned at a footstool nearly buried in newspapers. I cleared off the stool and sat, placed the tray on a clear patch of floor between us. I handed her a cup and took the other one.

I sipped. Tepid. A vague hint of mint, slightly bitter aftertaste. She sipped too, her other hand seemingly casual on the gun in her lap. I appraised the old woman, tried to gauge her ability to plug me before I could jump up and run out the door.

Old lady Jordan looked frailer than she sounded, the skin on her face a collection of wrinkled, gray folds. Her gray hair hung long and loose about her shoulders. One eye was completely white with cataracts, but the other eye was bright and vivid blue, seeing everything. Her dress was old and black. Support hose. Ugly shoes. When she smiled, her teeth were so white and perfect they had to be false and gave her a demented Cheshire cat expression.

“I saw Meredith James at Church last Sunday.” She said it like I knew who she was talking about, like we were already in the middle of a conversation. “She’s recovering from a stroke. She’s seventy. You know how old I am?”

“No ma’am.”

“Guess.”

Why did old people like this game so much? “I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”

“I said guess.”

“Sixty?”

“Don’t mess with me, young man. Guess right.”

“Seventy-five.”

“I’m ninety-six.”

“That’s amazing.” I said.

That must’ve been the right response because she smiled. “I still cook all my own meals. The boys take good care of me, of course.” She sipped tea.

“Where are the boys now, Mrs. Jordan?”

She tilted her head, gave me another long look with her good eye. “You’re one of Krueger’s?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She hmphed like she didn’t think too much of that or of the chief. “Looks like you got dragged along ten miles of bad road. You don’t smell so fresh either.”

“It’s been a long night.”

“I never sleep at night, haven’t for years.” She sipped tea, just a little at a time like she enjoyed going through the motions. “When you get my age you either sleep all the time or you never do. I never do. So I’m up all night and hardly ever get any visitors.”

“I’m more than happy to sit with you a bit, Mrs. Jordan.” I sipped tea to show I meant it. “Can you tell me where Jason and the others got to?”

“You and Krueger need to leave them boys alone. We’re good God-fearing white people out here. Every whiskey drinking Indian gets more respect than us, government money, tribal money. Every son of a bitch in the state who can prove a redskin in the woodpile gets a card and all the benefits. Now they’re even changing all the names of the high schools so the mascots don’t give offense. And my own boys can’t do a few extra things to make ends meet without you lot harassing us.”

“I know what it’s like to be poor, ma’am.”

“That’s right,” she said. “But you and me can’t go open no casino, can we?”

“I don’t know anything about that. I’m just worried about people getting hurt. It’s my job to help look after everybody.”

“We look after our own. You want a graham cracker?”