The floor was dark, worn marble. A door on the left had a frosted- glass window with black letters that told him: POLICE DEPARTMENT.

Inside, behind a counter, an elderly woman wore a leather vest. She looked up at him and smiled.

“Yes, sir?”

“My name’s Dan Page. Chief Costigan’s expecting me. I said I’d meet him at five o’clock.”

“And you’re right on time,” a raspy voice said.

Page recognized the voice he had heard that morning on the phone. He turned toward an office doorway, where a lanky man stood watching him. The man’s face was thin and creased, with the dull gray skin that smokers tend to have. He had a mustache and a small scar on his chin. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut close to his head. His uniform was tan. Although his equipment belt held a modern Glock pistol, Page wasn’t surprised to see that he wore cowboy boots.

“What you said about the airport made me curious, so I asked Harry out there to watch for you. He called to tell me when you arrived. You have your own plane?”

“A Cessna 172.”

“I get nervous in airplanes.” Costigan gestured toward his office. “Come in.”

They shook hands as Page stepped through the doorway.

“I don’t know any police officers who can afford a plane.” Costigan sat behind a vintage wooden desk. His swivel chair creaked loudly.

“I inherited it from my father. He was a mechanic in the Air Force. Listen, I hope you don’t mind if we skip the small talk. I need to know about my wife. You said one of your deputies found her car early this morning.” Page did his best to keep his emotions steady.

“Yes, sir. At the side of a road. To be precise, out at the observation platform.”

“Observation platform?”

“That’s one of the things I figured you’d understand better if I showed you rather than told you about it.”

Page waited for him to elaborate, but Costigan made no effort to do so.

“Look, I don’t understand any of this,” Page told him sharply. “Are you sure my wife isn’t hurt?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“And she isn’t with anyone?”

“She’s alone. She’s staying at a motel here-the Trail’s End. I’ll take you to her when we’re finished.” Costigan leaned forward, studying him. “How long have you been a police officer?”

“Fifteen years.”

Costigan concentrated on the right side of Page’s belt, where a chafed area indicated he often wore a holster. “I always feel off balance when I’m not wearing my weapon. Did you bring yours with you?”

“Do you know any police officer who leaves his gun at home? Do you ever go anywhere without yours, even when you’re off duty?”

Costigan kept studying him.

“It’s not my department’s gun. It’s my own,” Page said. “I have a concealed-carry permit for it. Texas and New Mexico have reciprocal arrangements.”

“I know the law, Mr. Page. But you haven’t answered my question.”

“My gun’s in my suitcase, which is safely locked in my rental car. Why do you ask?”

“Under the circumstances, I think it would be a good idea if you kept it there.”

“‘Under the circumstances’?” The words baffled Page until he realized what Costigan was getting at. “Jesus, surely you don’t think I’m a threat to my wife?”

“Domestic disputes and guns don’t go together.”

“But this isn’t a domestic dispute.” Page tried not to raise his voice.

“Really? Then why did you ask if she was with anyone? Why did she tell her mother she was going to visit her in San Antonio yet didn’t bother to tell you before she left?”

Page didn’t respond for a moment. Didn’t know what to say. Then he spread his hands helplessly, trying to keep his words steady.

“Okay, the truth is, I don’t know how to explain this. I have no idea why she left and why she didn’t tell me, and I sure as hell have no idea what she’s doing here in Rostov.”

“Why she’s here-you’ll understand tonight. As for what’s going on between the two of you…”

“You promised to take me to her.” Page stood. “We’re wasting time. Let’s go.”

“We’re not finished talking. Sit down. I’m going to tell you a story.”

“A story?” Page stared down at the man behind the desk. “What kind of crazy-”

“Yes, a story. Humor me-it’s about my father. He used to be the police chief here in Rostov.”

“What’s that got to do with-”

“You still haven’t sat back down, Mr. Page.”

The intensity in the police chief’s eyes made him hesitate.

“And then I’ll take you to your wife.”

Page sat impatiently. “Tell me your story.”

“One night my father got a phone call from a terrified boy who said his dad was beating his mom. When the boy gave his last name, my father didn’t recognize it right away. The family had moved here from Fort Worth a couple of months earlier. The husband had been out of work, and a relative of his who lived here had found him a job at the stock pens.

“When he wasn’t working, the husband liked to go to a local bar, get drunk, and pick fights. It was the hottest September anybody could remember, yet the wife always wore high, buttoned collars and long sleeves. Later it became obvious that she did that to hide bruises. The boy was quiet in school, always fidgeting as if he was afraid he’d make a mistake and get punished.

“That night, when the boy phoned, afraid that his dad was going to kill his mom, my father got in his cruiser and hurried over there. The house was near the stock pens, a run-down adobe with patches of stucco missing on the walls. The lights were on. When my father heard shouting and sobbing, he knocked on the door and identified himself as a police officer. That’s how I imagine it anyhow. I’ve gone over it in my head more times than I care to think.

“The shouting stopped. My father knocked again, and a shotgun blast from inside tore the door in half. It pretty much tore my father in half, also. I doubt he lived long enough to feel himself hit the ground.”

Page leaned forward in his chair.

“When my father didn’t report back in a half hour, a deputy drove over to the house, where he found my dad spread out on the ground. After the deputy threw up, he managed to control himself long enough to radio for an ambulance. At that time, there weren’t any other local police officers. The deputy’s only option was to contact the Highway Patrol, but they said they couldn’t get there for another half hour, so the deputy sucked up his nerve, drew his gun, and went into the house.

“The wife was on the living room floor with her head shot off. Blood was everywhere. The deputy went into the kitchen. No one was there. He went into the master bedroom. No one. He went into a smaller bedroom-the boy’s-and the window was open. The father must have heard the boy leaping out. What the searchers found the next morning made clear that the father chased his son across the road and into a field. Why did he act that way, do you suppose?”

Page inhaled slowly. “A man like that blames his family for making him unhappy. Everything’s their fault, and they need to be punished.”

“You’ve been taking psychology courses?”

“Increases my pay grade.”

Costigan looked beyond Page, as if remembering the night he’d learned that his father had been shotgunned to death. His eyes refocused.

“What you say makes sense. But here’s another explanation. Some people are wired wrong. It’s their nature to cause pain. They’re so dark inside that maybe the only word to describe them is ‘evil.’”

“Yes, I’ve met people like that,” Page said. “Too many.”

“The next morning, the searchers found the boy’s corpse in weeds a half mile from the house. The father was lying next to him. After he’d killed his son, he’d put the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Coyotes had gotten to them by the time the bodies were found.”

Page tasted a familiar sourness in his mouth. He was reminded of the car that had been hit by the drunk driver, of the five children and the woman inside, killed instantly. He thought of the drug dealer who’d shot his friend Bobby, just two days earlier.