"Possibly. You could make a good argument that it comes from the lodge, too," Virgil said. "Would you like to suggest a name or two?"

"No, no. But it makes you think," Zoe said.

"It does make you think," Virgil agreed.

After a moment, she asked, "Should you be telling me all of this?"

"Why not?" Virgil asked. "I've got nothing to hide."

"Well, God. What if I blabbed to everybody?"

Virgil yawned, tipped his seat back a couple of inches, leaned back, and closed his eyes. "Go ahead," he said. "I don't care."

AT THE AIRPORT, Zoe pointed him at a metal building; inside, he found a guy with a pilot's hat half asleep on a couch, who got grog gily to his feet and asked, "You the state trooper?"

"Close enough," Virgil said. He rented a Chevy Trailblazer, got his duffel from Zoe's car, and threw it in the back of the SUV.

"How come you don't have a gun?" she asked, through her open car door. "Aren't cops required to carry guns? I read that somewhere."

"In my experience, bad things can happen if you carry a handgun," Virgil said. "For one thing, it causes your shoulder to slope in the direction of the pocket you carry it in. Over the years, that could cause spinal problems."

"I can't tell whether this is some hopeless attempt to be charming, or if you're just being weird," she said.

"Can you tell me where the Wild Goose is? I want to take a quick look."

"Well, follow me. I'll take you over," Zoe said. "It's mostly a women's bar. You might feel a little odd being there by yourself. Lonely."

THE WILD GOOSE was a mile or so north of the Grand Rapids city limits, a standard North Woods country bar-orange-stained peeled-pine logs set on a rectangular concrete-block foundation, a pea-gravel parking lot, a tin chimney, a low wooden porch outside the front door, and a carved wooden upright black bear guarding the front door, an American flag in its paw.

There were four other cars in the front lot, and two more that Virgil could see around the side. Probably the bartender's and the cook's, around to the side-at most country bars, the employees tried to park where their cars wouldn't get hit by drunks.

Inside, the bar was a little softer than most, with lots of booths and only a few freestanding tables, four stools at the bar, and a small stage on the other side of a dance floor; a jukebox. Three of the booths were occupied by women, two in one, three in another, four in the third. One of the bar stools was occupied by an elderly man who was peering into a half-empty beer glass.

They stopped at the bar, and Zoe said, "Hey, Chuck," to the bartender, who took a long look at Virgil, not unfriendly, and Zoe ordered a beer and Virgil got a Diet Coke. Zoe asked, eyebrows up, "Little problem with alcohol?"

"No, I just don't drink much," Virgil said.

The old man at the bar said to Virgil, "If you gotta ask, it's half empty. Not half full."

"Looks more like four-fifths empty to me, partner," Virgil said. The drinks came, and they carried them to a booth. Virgil checked out the women, and the bar in general, saw the bartender watching.

"What do you think?" Zoe asked.

"It's a bar," he said, smiling. "Must pick up at night-mostly people from Eagle Point?"

"Eagle Nest."

"Right, Eagle Nest. Mostly women from the Eagle Nest? Or half-and-half with locals, or…"

"More locals than Eagle Nest. It's just that if you're at the Eagle Nest and you want to get out, you probably come here."

"Gay or straight?"

"Gay or straight," Zoe said. "Same with locals-mostly women, gay and straight. They can come down here, do some serious drinking, and not have to put up with being hit on, or pushed around. Chuck keeps all that runnin' smooth. Most local guys know that this isn't where they want to go."

"You come down here?"

"Sure. Like I said, it's safe and friendly," she said.

A woman came in the door wearing cutoff jean shorts, a tight halter top, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, and sunglasses. She was short, but well rounded, with dark hair twisted in a single braid. She had an Andy Warhol "Marilyn" tattoo on one tanned shoulder. She looked around once, scratched herself between her breasts, wandered over to the bar, and asked, "Seen Wendy?"

"Not in yet."

"Ah, man-we were supposed to meet down at the Schoolhouse," the woman said. She glanced over at Virgil and Zoe, her gaze lingering on Virgil for a moment, then flicking to Zoe, and her mouth turned down. The two women stared at each other for a moment, then the other woman turned back to the bartender. "We're working up 'Lover Do.' If you see her, tell her we're down there, waiting."

Virgil watched her go, and when she was gone, Zoe leaned forward and said, "She's a drummer."

"My type, too," Virgil said.

"Not your type," she said. "She lives with the lead singer."

"Yeah? Maybe they're breaking up," Virgil said, hitting on the Diet Coke. "Musicians lead tumultuous lives."

"The lead singer is Wendy-it's an all-girl band," Zoe said.

Ah, he thought. "Okay."

"You're supposed to say, 'What a terrible waste.' "

"Hey, I'm sophisticated-I went to college," Virgil said. "Anyway, the way you sounded, it's not being wasted."

"Ahhh, poop." Zoe finished her beer in a gulp.

"Ahhh poop, what?" Virgil asked.

"Ahhh…" She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. "Wendy. The singer."

"She's pretty good?"

"Very good. Country, some crossover jazz stuff," Zoe said. "Mostly country, though, Dixie Chicks."

"Really not my type, then, even if she wasn't gay," Virgil said. "Give me a choice between listening to a whole Dixie Chicks album, or sticking a gun in my ear, I'd have to think about it."

"Well, she's my type," Zoe said. "And that's my big problem."

Virgil looked at her for a few seconds, then dropped his forehead on his arms. "No."

"Well, it was gonna come out sooner or later, Virgil," Zoe said, laughing. "We're getting friendly, but I don't want you to get any ideas."

"Poop," he said.

He looked toward the bar and saw the bartender smiling and shaking his head, then hold up a finger, pull another Diet Coke, and bring it around the bar. "On the house," he said, when he put it on the table.

"Coulda put a little rum in it," Virgil said.

VIRGIL SAID TO ZOE, "You know, I can usually pick up on it? I apologize if I've offended you along the way."

"No, no, you were fine," Zoe said, "and I've had boyfriends. Maybe that's why you didn't feel it. But I… like women better. Always did and I finally admitted it to myself. I can still be attracted to some men. I mean, you're attractive in an obvious, superficial way. When I'm attracted to a guy at all, they usually have strong feminine characteristics. Like you, with the long blond hair, and you've got sort of a delicate face."

Virgil said, "Okay-you've guaranteed my shrink's income for another two years."

"You've got a psychiatrist? I think that's very interesting. It shows an unexpected psychological sensitivity."

"I don't really have one," Virgil said. "I was lying."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I lie a lot," he said.

She said, "Sorry about this. I mean, the lesbian thing. I didn't mean to lead you on, if I did."

"That's okay. The band doesn't have a straight saxophone player, does it?"

HE GOT HER LAUGHING AGAIN, then asked, "Why don't Minnesota women wear makeup? There are ten women in here, and a couple of them are pretty good-looking, including you, and none of you wear lipstick. Is it some kind of Minnesota thing? An efficiency thing? An egalitarian thing? What is it?"

"Not many people wear lipstick anymore," Zoe said. "It's a pain to keep it looking good. You wind up chewing it off. But… people will put on a touch when they go out."

"Even gay women?"

"Not so much, maybe," she said. "But… some. The girly ones."