Orman grunted again as I asked, “What then?”

“My age,” Charlie confessed. “At first she said it didn’t matter. She said all adults were pretty much the same age, and in the things that counted I was younger than most of the men she knew. But it did matter. I knew it mattered from the beginning.”

“Then why did you get involved with her?” I asked.

He grinned like it was the dumbest question he had ever heard. “Have you seen her?”

“She’s a looker,” Harry confirmed from the corner.

“I guess they’re right when they say there’s no fool like an old fool,” Charlie continued. “I should have known she was only using me.…”

Like Raymond Fleck and Hunter Truman, I thought.

“But, hey, I couldn’t resist. So sue me.” Charlie smiled again. “I have to admit, it was fun while it lasted.”

“You sonuvabitch!” Orman snarled behind me and again made a violent move toward Charlie, who sprang to his feet, ready to take him on. I made sure I was between them, my arms outstretched like I was parting the Red Sea.

Harry in the corner shook his head sadly. “Women,” he muttered. “No matter how old we get, they can still make us act like idiots.”

Charlie didn’t hear him, but the sheriff did. He moved his shoulders like he was shaking off a heavy cloak, then pointed at Charlie.

“Don’t go anywhere I can’t find you,” he warned.

“You won’t have to look for me,” Charlie replied defiantly. “I’ll be here.”

“Nicely done, Sheriff,” I told him when we were outside again. “Ever think of a career in law enforcement?”

“Fuck you!”

“Yeah, right.”

“Otterness is a piece of shit, and he’s finished in this county,” Orman told me.

“Why’s that? Because he slept with your girl?”

“Get in the fucking car.”

The sheriff was out of control, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. If he had been working for me, I would’ve had him relieved from duty. Only he wasn’t working for me; we were in Kreel County, and he was the law here. I was just along for the ride.

“The mural on Charlie’s wall,” I said—maybe if I could remind him who he was—“did you do that?”

“Yeah.”

We were on the county road now, driving well above the speed limit. Orman gripped the steering wheel too tightly for safe driving and nodded.

“So you and Charlie must have been friends at one time.”

Orman didn’t say.

“Behind your desk,” I added. “The whitetailed buck. That’s yours, too.”

The sheriff’s glance shifted to me and then back to the blacktop.

“It should be in a gallery somewhere,” I said.

“I know,” he said matter-of-factly. Then he sighed audibly and loosened his grip on the steering wheel. The car slowed to the posted speed limit. “There’s a gallery in Duluth that’s been wanting it,” Orman continued. “But it was my first truly good painting, and I’m having trouble parting with it. It won first prize in the Minnesota Deer Hunters Association art contest three years ago.”

“No kidding?” I asked excitedly, although I had never heard of the Minnesota Deer Hunter’s Association or its art contest.

“When I wouldn’t sell it, a couple of backers put out a limited-edition print that made some money,” Orman added, warming to the subject. “Since then I’ve been selling paintings through the gallery in Duluth and another one in Minneapolis. I haven’t done badly with it, either.”

“Did you study art in school?”

“No, no nothing like that. It’s just something I picked up when I was with the Wisconsin HP. The watch commander was into it, and he encouraged me to sketch with charcoals and then he critiqued my work. He said it showed promise. But I didn’t get real serious about it until I moved back home.”

“How many paintings have you sold?”

“Seventeen in the past two years.”

“Is that good?” I asked stupidly.

“Yeah, it’s good. Better than most.”

“How long does it take to paint a canvas?”

“It usually takes me three, three and a half weeks to put something together. When I work, I work real fast and furious. I don’t have the luxury to sit down like an artist who works full time. I can’t paint every day. Sometimes I’ll go weeks without touching a brush. It depends on business. When the county is quiet, I paint. When it isn’t …

“You’d think painting would be a nice outlet, even therapy,” he continued. “You’d think I’d be able to come home, take off the gun and badge, and forget about what happened that day. Only it doesn’t work like that for me. I try to create these quiet worlds filled with loons swimming lazily under a full moon. But when the real world is noisy, it shows in my work; my paintings become loud, and the loons are frightened away. Lately it’s been getting worse. The breakdown of families, drugs, alcohol abuse, growing poverty—Kreel County isn’t Mayberry anymore. I haven’t painted in two months.”

“Ever think of doing it full time?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked sharply, but the sheriff knew what I was saying.

Just to be sure, I added, “Any damn fool can wear a badge and carry a gun, but how many can do what you do?”

“You don’t think I should be sheriff?”

“Do you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why did you become sheriff?”

“Sense of duty, I suppose. I figure I owed it to my father. And my grandfather. It’s what they would have wanted.”

“My father was a businessman before he retired,” I told him. “One of the high muck-a-mucks. And I think he wanted me to follow in his footsteps. But he never said so. Instead, he encouraged me and my brother to do whatever we wanted. He only had two rules: Do the best that you can. And enjoy yourself.”

I gave Orman a few moments to reply. When he didn’t, I asked, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I acted like a fucking idiot back there, I know that. You don’t have to rub it in. You don’t need to give me speeches.” After a few more moments of silence, he added, “I was jealous”—as if that excused everything.

“Well, I’ve heard artists are supposed to be emotional.”

“Shut up, Taylor,” he told me.

I didn’t. “What’s next?” I asked.

“I’m not quitting just because some city boy doesn’t like how I run things.”

“I meant what do we do next about Michael.” “Oh.” Orman hesitated a moment, then announced, “King Koehn.”

“Oh, goody. Are you going to throw his chairs around, too?”

“Shut up, Taylor.”

This time I did.

twenty-five

Angel Johannson asked us to wait for a moment. “Fuck that,” Orman said. He pushed past Angel’s desk and strode purposefully to King’s closed office door. He opened it hard; if it had been locked, I have no doubt he would have kicked it open. I was beginning to suspect that the sheriff was wound way too tight for this line of work.

“I’ve been expecting you,” Koehn said evenly from behind his desk.

I was standing behind Orman. Angel was crowding in behind me. If her boss was calm, she decidedly was not.

“Should I call the police?” Angel asked. Orman looked at her and smiled, but there was no humor in his expression. Angel hesitated, then slowly went back to her desk.

With very little effort, the sheriff’s smile became a sneer. He planted himself in a chair in front of Koehn’s desk. “You were expecting me?” he asked, making the question sound like an accusation.

Koehn gestured with his thumb at the telephone. “Charlie Otterness called to tell me you were running amok; he’s probably calling everyone else in the county, too. I’m afraid you’re skating on very thin ice, my friend.”

“You’re not my friend,” Orman retorted.

“Yes, I am,” Koehn insisted. “I’m the one who got you your job, remember?”

Orman pulled the badge off his uniform shirt and tossed it violently on Koehn’s desk. “Fuck the job.”

Koehn stared at the badge for a moment and then glanced up at me. I thought the sheriff’s gesture was a little too theatrical, as well, but I remained silent.