She had the unit on the desk beside the entrance to the office, typing at another desk and waiting for the cruisers to start checking in with her. Behind her, desks were set in rows where officers would come in for debriefing after finishing their shift. The desks were empty now. There wasn't any point in having men here waiting for some trouble; best to keep them on the street and have Marge call to tell them where to go if they were needed. Slaughter barely glanced around the quiet room as he entered the glass-partitioned section of the office, sitting at the desk. He reached to swing the door shut, peered out the window at the cars and trucks that went by past the trees out there. Then sipping at his coffee-cool; he hadn't drunk it soon enough-he took the night sheet, leaning back until his chair was braced against the metal filing cabinet.

There were ten notes on the sheet. Last night hadn't been busy. A break-in at the hardware store. He saw that two men from the day crew were already working on that. They would check the manner of the break-in, find out what was taken. Chances were by Monday they would catch whoever did it. Strangers didn't come to steal here very often. When they did, they surely didn't try the hardware store. Most likely these were locals. Even though the town had a population of twenty thousand, it was small enough that there would be no problem discovering who'd suddenly gotten his hands on lots of hardware store equipment.

Two drunk driving, one assault (that was at a truckers' bar-an argument during a pool game), one dog that kept barking all night, and one prowler. That was on the other side of town, and Slaughter would have a cruiser checking there tonight. He scanned the other items on the sheet. Two car accidents, no injuries. A broken window at the high school. A missing person. Well, not really missing. That was Clifford who had left his wife three times already. He kept going out and getting drunk and then not coming home. Clifford's wife would phone to say that he was missing, and they'd find him two days later at a friend's. Well, Slaughter would have a man check all the friends and this time tell the guy at least to phone his wife when he got sober. They had better things to do than run a marriage-counseling service.

That was that. Nothing pressing. Although he didn't want to, Slaughter would have to work some more on organizing traffic control for the Junior Ranchers meeting that was coming up next week. He would have to make a speech there too, and for sure he was going to have to work more on what he planned to say to them. He thought about the old man. Might as well get started. He was reaching into his desk for a pencil and some paper when the buzzer sounded on his desk.

Slaughter pressed the button on the intercom. "What is it, Marge?"

"A call for you. It's Doctor Reed."

Reed had helped calm Mrs. Markle. "Put him through." Slaughter straightened, reaching for the phone. "How are you, Doc?" And then he frowned and listened.

Mrs. Markle was still unconscious from the sedative. She kept talking anyhow. Babbling was more like it. Mixing things like Sam Bodine, the steer, the old man, several other things as jumbled. Mostly, though, she just kept saying Sam Bodine. The doctor thought that Slaughter ought to know.

"You think Bodine owns the steer Doc Markle had on the table?" Slaughter asked.

"I don't know. It's hard to tell. I thought I'd better call you, though."

"I'm glad you did." Slaughter set down the phone, scratched his chin, and peered out the window.

"Marge," he said and opened the door.

She looked at him.

"Sam Bodine and old Doc Markle. Weren't they friends?"

"The father and the doctor were. I don't know much about the son."

Slaughter didn't either. He had heard the old man talk vaguely about him, but he'd never understood the story.

"Guess it's time I took a drive. Anybody calls, I won't be back till after lunch."

It was a place he'd never been. Slaughter had made a point of getting close to nearly all the ranchers around town, but Bodine was a loner, and except for once or twice a year, at ranchers' meetings or in passing on the street, Slaughter almost never saw him. Strictly speaking, Slaughter had jurisdiction only in the town. The state police had power in the valley, so it wasn't strange that Slaughter barely knew him. All the same, the town and valley were related, and he liked to keep on top of what was going on out there.

He meant to tell Bodine what had happened, to find out if the steer the old man had been working on was his. Slaughter could have phoned to do that, but really it was better that he drive out and do it in person. This way, he had a chance to be alone and think, mulling through the times that he and Markle had shared together, facing up to what had happened so he could adjust to it and keep his feelings separate from his work. That was just about the only value that he had, the largest one at any rate. Of course, that value was a mix of several others, but they all combined to just one thing-the need to keep his life as straight and simple as he could. Since his work was really all that mattered to him (so he told himself at least; he wished he had his children with him), that meant keeping his work as straight and simple as he could as well. He couldn't be two people, feeling one way, acting some way else. He had to bring them both together, which was why he liked to have the crew he worked with out at his place on the weekends. Seeing all those people was a way of merging leisure with his work.

So the old man had passed on now. Never mind "passed on." The old man was plain dead. Three days later, Monday, he'd be underneath the dirt. There wasn't anything that Slaughter could do about it. Feeling bad was just a distraction. Anyway, he told himself, how come you're feeling bad to start with? For the old man, for his wife, or for yourself? Is that sorrow or regret? You owed him things. You didn't go around to see him. Now he's dead, and you start wishing that you'd gone. Some friend you turned out to be. All right, hey, get control. Get it straight that next time you've got dues to pay, you pay them. Next time you make friends, you understand the obligations.

Right, he told himself and then repeated. Right, he thought and shook his head. And then because he didn't like the way his mind was working, he did his best to switch it off, to concentrate on driving, to look at the fields around him, at the mountains. The sky was almost white now. He could feel the stark sun burning through the rear glass of the car. Today would be the hottest yet, and he was thinking of the ranchers who'd be working in the parched grass of the range. The cattle wouldn't breathe well. Some would die. Then, because the thought of death was going through him, he began to notice all the carcasses of animals that were here and there beside the road. Five of them in just one mile. A raccoon and a porcupine, a field squirrel, and a rabbit, then a skunk, stiff and bloating in the sun. He thought of old Doc Markle, shook his head, and didn't bother counting anymore.

He turned left, rattling across the grate, heading down the dusty road between the fields, seeing cattle, coming up a rise, then seeing where the house and barn were down there in a hollow. He saw trees and sheds, a wood pile, a big corrugated metal building that looked like it would serve as a garage. The house itself was newly painted, white with gray around the windows and the eaves, fresh and clean and bright against the summer sun. It was big and getting bigger as he neared, wider than he'd thought, a porch that faced off to the left, a gravel parking space on this side of the house. He pulled up, and he cut his motor, getting out, putting on his hat, walking toward the porch.