She sighed. I know. I guess I just didnt want to look like too much of a disaster.

Fiske took a deep breath and knocked on the door. He waited and knocked again. Pop. He waited a moment and knocked again, louder this time. Pop, he called out, and kept knocking. They finally heard movement in the trailer and then a light came on. The door opened and Fiskes father, Ed, peered out. Sara looked at him closely. He was as tall as his son, and very lean, although he had vestiges of the powerful musculature shared by both his boys. His forearms were enormous, like thick pieces of sun-baked wood. Sara was able to observe this because he had on a tank-top shirt. He was deeply tanned, his face lined and starting to sag, but she could see he had been handsome as a younger man. His hair was thinning and curly and almost totally gray except for small flecks of black at the temples. She fixed for a moment on his long sideburns, a holdover from the seventies, she guessed. He had on a pair of pants halfway zipped up, the clasp unbuttoned so that his striped boxers were clearly in sight. He was barefoot.

Johnny? What the hell you doing here? A broad smile cracked his face. When he registered Sara, he looked startled and quickly turned so his back was to them. They watched him fumble with his pants until they were right. Then he turned back to face them.

Pop, I need to talk to you.

Ed Fiske glanced over at Sara again.

Im sorry Sara Evans, Ed Fiske, John said.

Hello, Mr. Fiske, she said, trying to sound both pleasant and neutral at the same time. She awkwardly held out her hand. He shook it. Call me Ed, Sara, pleased to meet you. He looked back at his son curiously. So whats up? You two getting married or something?

Fiske glanced at Sara. No! She worked with Mike at the Supreme Court.

Oh, well, hell, where are my manners, come on in. I got the air going, sticky as the damn devil out there.

They went inside. Ed pointed to a worn sofa and Fiske and Sara sat down there. Ed pulled a metal chair from the small dinette and sat down opposite them.

Sorry I took so long. Just nodded off to sleep.

Sara looked around the small space. It was paneled with thin plywood stained dark. Several stuffed fish were mounted on plaques and hung on the wall. Slung across a rack on another wall was a shotgun. In the corner she saw a long, round container with one end of a rod and reel poking out. A folded newspaper was lying on the dinette table. Next to that was a small kitchen area with a sink and a little refrigerator. There was a worn-out recliner in one corner, a small TV across from it. There was one window. Mounted on the ceiling was an air conditioner that was making the room deliciously cool. She actually shivered as she adjusted to the temperature. The floor was cheap, uneven linoleum with a thin rug covering a portion of it. Sara sniffed and then coughed. She could almost see the cigarette smoke lingering in the air. As if in response to her thoughts, Ed pulled a pack of Marlboros from a knicked-up side table and deftly popped a cigarette in his mouth, taking a moment to light up, then blew the smoke to the nicotine-coated ceiling. He grabbed a small ashtray off the same table and tapped his cigarette in it. He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. She noted that his fingers were abnormally thick, the nails cracked, and blackened in spots from what looked like grease. He had been a mechanic, she recalled.

So what brings you two down here so late?

Fiske handed his father a six-pack. Not good news.

The elder Fiske tensed, and he squinted at them through the smoke. Its not your mom. I just saw her, shes okay. As soon as he said this, he shot a glance at Sara. The look on his face was clear: She worked with Mike. He looked back at John. Why dont you tell me whatever the hell it is you need to tell me, son.

Mikes dead, Pop. As he finished saying it, it was as though he were hearing the news for the first time. He could feel his face grow hot as though he had leaned too close to a fire. Perhaps he had waited to see his father, to join his grief with his. He could believe that, couldnt he? Fiske could sense Sara looking at him, but he kept his gaze on his father. As he watched the devastation wash over the man, Fiske suddenly found he could barely breathe. Ed took the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped the ashtray, his fingers shaking. How?

Robbery. At least they think so. Fiske paused and then added the obvious, since he knew his father was going to ask anyway. Somebody shot him.

Ed tore off one of the Buds from the plastic holder and popped the tab. He drank it down almost in one swallow, his Adams apple moving up and down. Ed crushed the beer can against his leg and threw it against the wall. He stood up and went over to the small window and looked out, the cigarette dangling from his mouth, his big hands closing and opening, the veins in his forearms swelling and then diminishing.

Have you seen him? he asked without turning around.

I went up to identify the body this afternoon.

His father whirled around, furious. This afternoon? Why the hell did you wait so long to come tell me, boy?

Fiske stood up. Ive been trying to track you down all day. I left messages on your answering machine. I only knew you were here because I asked Mrs. German.

That shouldve been the first damn place you started, his father countered. Ida always knows where I am. You know that. He took a step toward them, one fist balled up. Sara, who had risen along with Fiske, shrank back. She glanced over at the shotgun and suddenly wondered if it was loaded. Fiske moved closer to his father. Pop, as soon as I found out, I called you. Then I went by your house. After that I had to go up to the morgue. It wasnt any fun identifying Mikes body, but I did it. And the rest of the day has been pretty much downhill from there. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling guilty that his fathers angry reaction was more painful to him than his brothers death. Lets not argue about the timing, okay? Thats not going to bring Mike back.

All the anger seemed to go out of Ed as he listened to those words. Calm, rational words that did nothing to explain or reduce the anguish he was feeling. They hadnt invented the words that could do that, or the person to deliver them. Ed sat back down, his head swinging loosely from side to side. When he looked back up, there were tears in his eyes. I always said you never had to chase bad news, it always got to you faster than anything good. A helluva lot faster. There was a catch in his throat when he spoke. He absently crushed his cigarette out on the carpet.

I know, Pop. I know.

Do they got whoever did this?

Not yet. Theyre working on it. The detective in charge is first-rate. Im sort of helping him.

D.C.?

Yes.

I never liked Mike being up there.

He glared at Sara, who completely froze in the face of that accusing look. He pointed a thick finger at her. People kill you for nothing up there. Crazy bastards.

Pop, theyll do that anywhere these days.

Sara managed to find her voice. I liked and deeply respected your son. Everyone at the Court thought he was wonderful. Im so, so very sorry about this.

He was wonderful, Ed said. He damn sure was. Never figured out how we turned out such a one as Mike.

Fiske looked down at the floor. Sara picked up on the pained expression on his face. Ed looked around the trailers interior, memories of good times with his family nudging him from all corners. Got his mothers brains. His lower lip trembled for an instant. Least the one she used to have. A low sob escaped from his mouth and he slumped to the floor. Fiske knelt down next to his father and wrapped his arms around him, their shoulders shaking together. Sara looked on, unsure of what to do. She was embarrassed at witnessing such a private moment, and wondered if she should just get up and flee to her car. Finally she simply looked down and closed her eyes, silently releasing her own tears onto the cheap carpet. *����*����* Thirty minutes later, Sara sat on the porch and sipped on a warm can of beer. She was barefoot, her shoes next to her. She absently rubbed her toes and stared out into a darkness that was occasionally broken by the wink of a lightning bug. She swatted at a mosquito and then swiped off a trickle of sweat that meandered down her leg. Holding the beer can to her forehead, she contemplated getting into her car, cranking up the AC and trying to fall asleep. The door opened and Fiske appeared. He had changed into faded jeans and an untucked short-sleeved shirt. He was barefoot as well. He held a plastic package strip with two beers dangling from it. He sat down beside her.