“Deputy Loushine,” I muttered, tasting blood in my mouth. “How good of you to come.”

“Jesus Christ!” he repeated.

“Get ’im outta here!” the sheriff shouted.

“But, Sheriff …” Loushine protested.

“Get ’im outta here!”

“He’s a material witness—”

“Get this sonuvabitch outta my county!”

I rode in the front seat of Deputy Loushine’s white 4X4. A second deputy followed close behind in my car. My hands were free, and I dabbed at my swollen, cut lip with a white handkerchief now stained pink.

“What you’re doing doesn’t make sense,” I told the deputy.

“You’re telling me,” he answered.

“Do you know who Michael Bettich is?” I asked.

“All I know about her is that she’s been living with the sheriff for over two months now,” Loushine replied. “And that’s all I need to know.”

I had to chew on that one for a while. Finally I said, “It doesn’t make sense.”

We drove without further conversation. Twenty minutes later Loushine stopped at an intersection of two county highways, crossed over, and stopped again.

It was nearing 8:50 central daylight saving time, and the sun was fading fast. Loushine sat with his eyes on the road ahead while the second deputy parked behind us, came around, and yanked open the passenger door.

“This is the county line,” Loushine announced.

“I guessed,” I told him.

I left the 4X4 and struggled to my own car. I hurt all over, and my head felt light and fluffy, but I managed to squeeze behind the steering wheel without fainting. The keys were in the ignition; the engine was running; the headlights were on. Suddenly Loushine was next to the door, squatting so that he could see my face through the window.

“Sorry ’bout this,” he said.

“To serve and to protect,” I told him. “Have a nice day.”

I steered my car more or less south, driving on automatic pilot, not knowing where I was until I saw the sign: WELCOME TO MINONG. There was something familiar about it, even in the dark. That and the county blacktop where I turned left, the gravel road where I turned right, and the dirt driveway at the end of the gravel road that I followed to a large two-story lake house.

The pain was a flashing red beacon blinking a simple message: Lie still, don’t move. I ignored the instructions and left the car, hugging my sides like a grocery bag that was threatening to burst open at the next hard jolt. I staggered to the door of the house in the light of my high beams. I immediately recognized the man who answered my knock. He recognized me, too.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, obviously confused.

“Dean, who is it?” a woman’s voice called from behind him.

I moved past the man into the hallway. The woman was wearing a flowing white robe that my wife and I had presented to her on her birthday over five years ago.

“Excuse me, Phyll. I don’t mean to intrude.…” then I collapsed at her feet.

Never let it be said that I don’t know how to make an entrance.

eighteen

A bright ceiling light was in my eyes, and a cool washcloth was on my forehead. Voices filtered through the bedroom door.

“No police,” one of the voices insisted. “Not until we know what happened.”

“Why did he come here?” asked the other voice.

“I don’t know. We’ll ask him when he wakes up.”

“Think he’s in trouble?”

“That’s my guess.”

“He looks different.”

“Honey, he’s beat up. You’d look different, too, if you were beat up.”

I heard nothing for a moment, then: “What are you doing?” my mother-in-law asked. The metallic sound of the hinge of a double barrel shotgun opening and closing punctuated her question.

“Think I’ll just take a look around.”

“Dammit, Dean, you haven’t been in the service for good long time.”

“Honey. Once a marine, always a marine.”

I woke up tired and sore, remembering vaguely a dream in which I was running naked through the forest, chased by a bear wearing a sheriff’s badge. I couldn’t remember if he caught me or not, and then I moved. Oh, yeah! He’d caught me.

The washcloth was still damp and resting on the pillow next to my head. I carried it from the bedroom to the kitchen. Phyllis Bernelle was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee, a black briefcase opened in front of her. Her head jerked up at my entrance.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“How do I look?”

“Like someone beat you up.”

“That’s how I feel.”

I sat across from her, and she poured me a steaming mug of coffee, French almond, one of my favorites. It had been Laura’s mother who first introduced me to the pleasures of coffee made from beans you grind yourself.

“Are you hungry? Do you want some breakfast?”

I shook my head. I doubted my stomach could handle the job.

Phyllis was dressed in a simple sports jacket over a white shirt and blue jeans. That was another one of the things I liked about her. She dressed like me.

“I’m sorry, Taylor, I have to leave. I’m showing some property in about twenty minutes. Guy from Chicago is thinking of buying five lots on the flowage. It’s something I can’t get out of. I’d like it if you stayed, though. Will you, please? Will you stay here at least until I get back? You could use the rest.”

I could at that.

“Thank you,” I said.

She smiled and cleared her coffee cup to the sink.

“Where’s Dean?” I asked.

“Up at the garden.”

I nodded. Dean Bernelle had studied horticulture at the University of Minnesota on the GI Bill, then inexplicably took a job in the accounting department of 3M. He retired the year I married his daughter with a pension I wished I could look forward to, moved to his Wisconsin lake home, and now has the most ostentatious garden in the state—an entire acre’s worth. But while he is quite content digging in the dirt, his wife is not. So Phyllis, who had never worked outside the home while Dean was working, earned a realtor’s license and now makes more money than he ever did, selling lakeshore property. Which was perfectly fine with Dean. “The more she makes, the more I get to spend,” he liked to say.

“How are things, Phyll?” I ventured.

“I was going to ask you the same question.”

“I’ve been better.”

Phyllis Bernelle had a way of asking questions without uttering a sound. She would stare at you with clear green eyes, and you would fall all over yourself confessing to various misdeeds. “The trick,” Laura once told me, “is not to look at her.” But I was looking at her, and I couldn’t resist.

“I was worked over by the Kreel County sheriff yesterday.”

“Why?”

“I think I upset him,” I told her. “Something to do with his girlfriend.”

She stared at me some more.

“I’ve been looking for a woman who was supposed to be dead but apparently isn’t. I found her, and then she was shot.”

“By who?”

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out,” I vowed. And please, don’t let me be an accomplice, I prayed.

Now she was nodding.

“You always had such interesting stories to tell,” she told me. “I’ve missed them. I’ve missed you. I wish we could have seen more of you since Laura was killed.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

My mother-in-law closed her briefcase and pulled it off the table. “I have to go.”

“I appreciate your taking me in.”

“Will you wait until I get back?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me what happened in Kreel County?”

“In grisly detail.”

“Don’t let Dean put you to work.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Listen,” she said, “if you’re in trouble, I know a good lawyer.”

“Thank you,” I answered. “But lawyers are a dime a dozen. It’s friends that are hard to come by.”

“Where the fuck are you?” Hunter Truman wanted to know.

“Minong.”

“Where is fucking Minong?”

“Wisconsin.”

“Where in fucking Wisconsin? Goddammit, you were supposed to call me yesterday. I’ve been waiting by the fucking phone since—shit—since noon. What’s going on? Didn’t you find her?”