"Probably found a better murder," Lucas said.

"I talked to Helen, back at the office," Carr said. "What's this about Jim Harper?"

"Rusty and Dusty found a kid at the junior high who says Jim Harper posed for sex photos with an adult male," Lucas said. "That'd be a long-term felony and might be worth killing somebody for. The picture came out of a pulp-paper magazine or newspaper. Some kids got hold of it and it may have been passed around the school. Lisa LaCourt had it last. She took it home on Thursday and showed it to this kid who talked to me."

"Who is it? The kid at the school?"

"John Mueller. His father's a taxidermist," Lucas said.

Carr nodded. "Sure, I know him. That's an okay family. Damn, these things could be tied."

Lucas shrugged. "It's a possibility. The Harper kid's parents, are they around?"

"One of them is, the old man, Russ. The wife left years ago, went out to California. She was back for the funeral, though."

"What does Harper do?" Lucas asked.

"Runs an Amoco station out at Knuckle Lake."

"Okay, I'll head out there."

"Whoa, whoa." Carr shook his head. "Better not go alone. Are you gonna be up late?"

"Sure."

"Harper's open till midnight. He'd never talk to us if he didn't have to: never to a cop. Why don't I pick up a search warrant for Jim Harper's stuff out at his house, and we'll get a couple deputies and go out there late? I got church."

"All right," Lucas said. "Harper's an asshole?"

"He is," Carr said, nodding. And he said, "Lord, if these two cases are tied together and we could nail them down in a day or two… that'd make me a very happy man."

"Will Father Bergen be at your service tonight?" Lucas asked.

"Probably not. He's pretty shook up. You heard him this morning."

"Yeah." Lucas crossed his arms, watching Carr. "The Mueller kid said the adult in the photo was a big guy. And probably blond or fair. The kid didn't remember the guy as being hairy, which means he probably didn't have much."

"Like Father Phil," Carr said, flushing. "Well, it wasn't Phil. There are a thousand chunky blonds in this county. I'm one."

"I talked to the firemen. Westrom thinks Bergen did it. He says so. And he looks like someone who'd talk about it."

"Dick's the gossip-central for the whole town," Carr said. Then, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, "God damn him."

"Have you ever heard anything about Bergen being involved in sexual escapades?"

Carr stepped back. "No. Absolutely not. Why?"

"Just bullshit, probably. There are rumors around that he's messed with both women and men."

"A homosexual?" Carr was flabbergasted. "That's ridiculous. Where'n the heck are you getting this stuff?"

"Just asking around. Anyway, we've gotta talk to him again," Lucas said. "After your service? Then we can hit Harper."

Carr looked worried. "All right. I'll see you at the church at nine o'clock. Are we still meeting with the other guys at five?"

"Yeah. But I don't think there's much, except for Rusty and Dusty coming up with the photo thing."

"You're not going to tear Phil up, are you?" Carr asked.

"There's something out of sync, here," Lucas said, avoiding a direct answer. "He's not telling us something, maybe. I gotta think about it."

The yellow-haired girl sat on a broken-legged couch, smoking an unfiltered Camel, working on her math problems; old man Schuler would be on her ass if she didn't finish all ten of them. She hated Schuler. He had a way of embarrassing her.

The couch cushions were stained with Coke and coffee spills, the cushions pulled out of shape by shrunken upholstery. The yellow-haired girl's brother had seen the couch sitting on the street late one rainy night, waiting for the annual spring trash pickup, and had hauled it away himself. Almost good as new, except for the cushions.

She exhaled, playing with the smoke with her mouth and nose. Snorted it. Trying to think. Across the room, the letter-woman, what's-her-name, the blonde, was turning letters on "Wheel of Fortune." She turned two t's and the audience applauded.

A train is traveling west at twenty-five miles an hour. Another train is traveling east at forty-five…

Bullshit.

The yellow-haired girl looked back at the television. The letter-woman wore a silky white dress with a deep neckline, some kind of an overlap on the material, with padding at the shoulders. She looked good in the dress; but she had the complexion and the body for it.

The yellow-haired girl checked herself every morning in the mirror on the back of her door, lifting her small breasts with her hands, squeezing them to make a cleavage, looking at herself sideways and straight-on, at her back over her shoulders. She tried all of Rosie's clothes and some of her brother Mark's. Mark's t-shirts were best. She'd wear them downtown next summer, to Juke's, without a bra. If she lightly brushed the tips of her nipples, they'd firm up and faintly indent the t-shirt material, if she arched her back. Very sexy.

If the trains start two hundred miles apart, how long will…

Doritos sacks littered the floor at her feet. A round cardboard tray, marked with scrapings of chocolate-cake frosting, sat on a spindly-legged TV-dinner table. An aluminum ashtray was piled with cigarette butts, and she'd just dropped another burning butt into the hole of a mostly empty Coke can. The butt guttered in the dampness at the bottom, and the stench of burning wet tobacco curdled the air; and beneath that, the smell of old coffee grounds, spoiled bananas, rotting hamburger.

On the "Wheel of Fortune," the contestants had found the letters T – - – - n-t- – - – n – n -. She stared at them, moving her lips. Turn? No, it couldn't be "turn," you just thought that because you could see the t's and the n's.

Huh. Could be two…?

The truck rattled into the driveway and her heart skipped. The girl hopped to her feet, peered out the window, saw him climbing down, felt her breath thicken in her chest. His headlights were still on and he walked around to the front of the truck, peered at a tire. Sometimes, in her young-old eyes, he looked like a dork. He weighed too much, and had that turned-in look, like he wasn't really in touch with the world. He had temper tantrums, and did things he was sorry for. Hit her. Hit Mark. Always apologized…

At other times, when he was with her, or with Mark or Rosie or the others, when they were having a fuck-in… then he was different. The yellow-haired girl had seen a penned wolf once. The wolf sat behind a chain-link fence and looked her over with its yellow eyes. The eyes said, If only I was out there…

His eyes were like that, sometimes. She shivered: he was no dork when he looked like that. He was something else.

And he was good to her. Brought her gifts. Nobody had ever brought her gifts-not good ones, anyway-before him. Her mom might get her a dress that she bought at the secondhand, or some jeans at K Mart. But he'd given her a Walkman and a bunch of tapes, probably twenty now. He bought her Chic jeans and a bustier and twice had brought her flowers. Carnations.

And he took her to dinner. First he got a book from the library that told about the different kinds of silverware-the narrow forks for meat, the wide forks for salad, the little knives for butter. After she knew them all, they talked about the different kinds of salads, and the entrees, and the soups and desserts. About scooping the soup spoon away from you, rather than toward you; about keeping your left hand in your lap.

When she was ready, they did it for real. She got a dress from Rosie, off-the-shoulder, and some black flats. He took her to Duluth, to the Holiday Inn. She'd been awed by the dining room, with the view of Superior. Two kinds of wine, red and white. She'd remember it forever.