In front of the church was a small platform, perhaps two feet high. Not high enough for the anti-casino protesters in back to see the speakers, though, and many stood on tiptoe and craned their necks. What they didn’t see were two men, one sitting on a metal folding chair, the other standing before a single microphone. The man sitting was a priest. From a distance, he reminded me of the priest who had heard the confessions of my teammates and I when we were in high school. Right after practice the day before every football game, he would hear our confessions, and no matter what our individual transgressions, each one of us was given the same penance: five Hail Mary’s and five Our Father’s. We called him Father Minute Wash.

The casino proponents were gathered in a park on the left side of the county road, the Augustus Eubanks Memorial Park, dedicated to the memory of the only Kreel County resident to fall in the Sioux Uprising of 1862—it said so on the metal plaque attached to the huge rock at the park entrance. The platform in the park was much higher, nearly ten feet. This time it was the people in front who had the most trouble seeing the speakers.

About two hundred fifty people were in each camp, many of them holding signs that I couldn’t read from where I stood on the road. Dueling protest rallies in the heart of conservative Wisconsin. I had to admit, I was fairly impressed. They weren’t in the same league as the 1960s civil rights marches or early 1970s anti-Vietnam War rallies, still … Come to think of it, I hadn’t been this close to a protest rally since the Vietnam War, and even then I had only joined to meet girls. The draft had been abolished before I started high school, and I didn’t personally know anyone who was over there, so what the hell.

From where I stood, I could hear the speakers who addressed both sides, their words wafting up from the amplifiers a full two beats behind the gestures that accompanied them. It reminded me of a badly dubbed Japanese movie:

“Hope, this time, is more than the fleeting, seasonal stirrings of spring. It is concrete, and is being poured by workmen just down the road.…”

“If gambling is our game, we should be ashamed.…”

“Look at them! They say no to gaming. I say, Where were you when the Kreel County Civic Center needed your support? …”

“They call it gaming. Gaming is softer and nicer than gambling. But it isn’t the right word. Gaming is checkers and Monopoly and hopscotch. Gambling is when there is a bet on the outcome of a game.…”

“A casino will supply jobs. Many jobs. Real jobs.…”

“What’s next? Hookers in low-cut sequined dresses on Broadway and drive-by shootings in the neighborhoods? …”

“Yes, some people will have a gambling problem. It does break up some families. So does alcoholism, but shutting down the bars wasn’t the answer for that.…”

“What message are we sending to our children if we condone gambling in this community?…”

“It’s a chance to pull ourselves up. It’s a chance to make our community strong again, for us and our children.…”

I paid little attention to the rhetoric. What was the point? Whenever questions of morals and sin arise, factions quickly form and become so deeply entrenched that compromise usually becomes impossible. Just ask the people who have been warring over abortion for the past few decades. Besides, it wasn’t my town.

Instead of listening, I watched a few Kreel County deputies as they sauntered quietly through the two crowds, looking for trouble; others were leaning casually against cars parked along the county road. I was searching for Gretchen Rovick, hoping I’d see her before she saw me. I didn’t want her to know I was in town. Gretchen had lied to me. She had known Alison was in Deer Lake, of course she had. She’d probably helped her disappear in the first place.

I moved to a large oak tree and hid behind it. Two teenagers sought refuge in the same spot, both sporting hairdos that were quite the rage among young men in the Twin Cities about five years ago. They were passing a joint between them, telling each other what a bitch it was growing up in Deer Lake. Yeah, they knew where it was at, and it wasn’t anywhere near them, no way. They had seen the world on Daddy’s satellite dish, and they wanted a piece of it.

I plucked the joint from the taller teenager’s mouth, dropped it to the ground, and squashed it beneath my heel. I’ve seen what drugs do to people, I’ve seen it up close and personal, and I’m no fan. Anyone who tells me grass should be legalized gets it right in the neck. They argue that alcohol is worse. Maybe so. But you can have a drink or two without getting drunk. You can have a glass of wine with dinner or a few beers at the ball game and not be any worse off for it. But you can’t smoke a joint without getting high. And after a while you crave a higher high. Then a higher one still. Pretty soon you want to be up there all the time, until you crash and burn. Not everyone, no. But enough. I’ve seen them. I’ve arrested them.

The teenager stared defiantly, wondering what to do about me until his companion whispered to him, “Narc.” They both smiled nervously and walked away without looking back. I did the same, retreating to The Height until the rallies broke up and King Koehn returned to his office.

Ingrid was wearing a white shirtdress with gold buttons that matched the color of her hair. She was sitting at a table with a calculator, ledger book, and a few dozen invoices stacked neatly in front of her. “We’re closed until eleven,” she told me without taking the pencil out of her mouth.

“My name is Holland Taylor,” I announced, giving her a look at my ID. “Do you remember me?”

She looked at the stamp-sized photo and then at me. “Gretchen’s friend,” she said, taking the pencil from her mouth. “Good to see you again.” She offered her hand. I took it, probably held it too long—a soft, pleasant current of electricity passed through it into me, and I didn’t want to let it go.

“Do you have a moment?”

“Not really,” she said, gesturing at her paperwork. “I’m trying to finish up before the rallies end. I’m hoping for a good lunch crowd. Give me twenty minutes?”

“Sure.”

“Ginger!” she called.

A woman poked her head up from behind the stick like she had been squatting there, listening for her cue. “Ingrid,” she answered back.

“Take care of Mr. Taylor, here, won’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Twenty minutes,” Ingrid repeated, then went back to her calculations.

Ginger motioned me closer to the bar and asked, “What’s your pleasure?”

“Summit Ale?”

I wasn’t surprised when she said, “Sorry.”

“What do you have on tap?”

“Pig’s Eye pilsner—”

I raised my hand quickly to stop her recitation. “Sold,” I said. A moment later she slid a glass of beer in front of me. Pig’s Eye pilsner was named for one of St. Paul, Minnesota’s, more colorful founding citizens, Pig’s Eye Parrant, a rumrunner and all-around scoundrel who had settled in the area when it was still populated almost exclusively by Native-Americans and fur traders. In fact, the city was actually known as Pig’s Eye Landing for many years until a visiting priest decided the name was politically incorrect.

Ginger returned with my beer, and I asked her if she knew Michael Bettich. Waitresses can be a terrific resource for information, especially waitresses in small towns who can actually put a name and occupation to the face of the customers they serve, who are aware of the emotions at the tables they’re waiting. They know when a farmer is having a bad year, when a customer’s balloon mortgage is coming due, when the weather is making people weird; they can point out the customers who are dating for the first time, who are escaping from the kids for an evening, who want to kill each other. Ginger proved to be more knowledgeable than I had hoped and happy to share.