“Would you happen to have a bill handy?” Brandon asked. “Could we maybe get a look at it?”

“I pay ’ em and I throw ’em out, son.”

“It’s ‘Deputy,’ or ‘Deputy Sheriff,’ not ’son,’” Brandon said, making no effort to conceal his contempt. “The vet, Hickenbottom, would have records?”

“Might have. You’d have to ask him.”

“We will.” Brandon withdrew his notebook and scribbled in it.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Lon Bernie said.

“A man’s dead,” Walt reminded. “That’s fuss enough for us.”

The wind picked up. At a certain temperature, it seemed it couldn’t get any colder, but it always did. Lon Bernie still didn’t seem to feel it.

“Ever had any sign of mad cow over this way?” Walt asked, hoping for a reaction.

“That’s never come down from Canada, as far as I know.”

“And the last time you called upon either vet would have been…?”

Lon Bernie cocked his head toward Walt, as if he had only one good eye. “A while,” he said.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Out here, time kinda runs into itself. Drive a man half mad, this time of year. Maybe more than half.”

“Cattle bloat from eating too much green grass,” Walt said.

“A month ago, we had green grass. Early winter this year. Moldy hay’ll do it too. You trying to make a point, Sheriff? ’Cause you’re going the long way around the barn to find the door.” He looked first at Walt, then at Brandon.

“I’ll tell you what I need: I need the truth, Mr. Bernie. And I don’t believe I’m getting it.”

“You calling me a liar, Sheriff? ’Cause, over here, that’s not terribly neighborly. Listen, I’ve got chores to do.” He never flinched, as he maintained eye contact with Walt.

He turned and walked toward the barns.

The foul smell had not been apparent while Walt and Brandon had been out of the vehicle, but as they drove away from the ranch it filled the car again. Complaining, Brandon rolled down the window.

That seemed to only make matters worse.

Like burning hair.

25

ROY COATS TRUDGED AROUND BEHIND THE CABIN ALONG a path shoveled through four feet of snow that created a trench with six-foot-high walls. He avoided the piles of frozen dog excrement, as if they were land mines.

The narrator in his head wouldn’t shut up.

The rebel soldier must learn to improvise if he is to survive. The needs of the few give way to the needs of the man. Faced with the possible death of his hostage, he’s willing to make a sacrifice.

Coats called the two cows and the pig by their names: Bess, Tilda, and Pinky. He didn’t think enough of the chickens to name them. He had, on many occasions, launched into rambling diatribes with only these three as his audience. He’d gone on about the injustices to society brought on by the immigration influenza, the disease of poverty eating into society like a cancer. He had stood on the milking stool and lectured for ninety minutes at a time, his voice carrying over their heads and fading into the thousands of acres of empty wilderness that surrounded his homestead. The government had lost its way, focused entirely overseas, when there was cleaning up to do at home. He’d chosen the name Samakinn carefully, never mind that his recruitment had not gone well. A spear was needed. The Romans, the Croats, the Uzbeks, the Hutus all had the right idea: ethnic cleansing. But it started with being heard, being taken seriously. The government thought they could silence their voices by denying their acts. But once the people heard of what they’d done, how powerful they were, the Samakinn’s message would be heard. Supporters would swell their ranks. Change would be at hand. He sought legitimacy, nothing less: credit where credit was due. The doc would make his report-who didn’t believe a doctor?

He had a long night ahead of him, dressing out whichever beast he decided to kill. It was a great deal to ask of him. The sacrifice had begun.

As prearranged, the daily radio call didn’t happen until midnight; that meant it would be a while before Gearbox could arrive with the insulin. He had no choice but to act, compounding his resentment.

The cows gathered on the other side of the fence, expecting a feeding. Pinky was smart enough to wait inside the pen. He hadn’t realized how difficult this would be. Like killing a house pet. He was willing to see Aker or others die for his cause but not one of his stock.

He considered Pinky first. He had no great rapport with the sow and considered her a dirty, though lovable, companion. But the size of the pancreas mattered, and that quickly took her out of consideration. It was either Bess or Tilda, and Bess’s condition demanded it be her.

He used a can of grain to lure her through the side door of the ramshackle shed at the corner of the paddock, the chickens making noise in the coop as if a fox were on the prowl. He wanted her as close to the block and tackle as possible, knowing he’d have to rig some kind of motor or winch to hoist all eight hundred pounds of her.

He got a harness on her head while she was still standing. Attached a length of chain to the front ring and secured it to a two-ton pickup truck that hadn’t run in years. She was chewing on the grain, the first she’d had in a long, long time, and he knew that for a cow this was as close to heaven as it got.

So he scratched her on the head between the eyes, feeling the hard bone beneath the tough skin. Dust rose from the black-and-white hair. It had formed a permanent layer on both animals.

“You’ve been a good girl all these years, Bess,” he said, his throat tightening. “Your being pregnant is your downfall. What can I say? No greater honor than to fall a martyr for a cause. I ought to know that. I expect I’ll be seeing you soon.”

He stabbed the knife in sharply at the jugular. Dragged and twisted its blade until she sprayed, her eyes pure white, as she reeled and cried out. Leaned his weight into it, pulling for her windpipe, wanting this over with.

Resentment filled that part of his heart emptied by grief. He would see the vet dead for this, after he’d written the report.

26

WALT STOPPED THE CHEROKEE BESIDE THE CLOSED FENCE gate. He could see the end of a double-wide trailer, some outbuildings, and curved mounds in the snow about a hundred yards past the gate.

“Looks like snowmobiles been running in and out,” Brandon said. The track started on the other side of the closed gate and had been beaten down by a good many trips.

“Roads are all snow floor,” Walt observed. “A snowmobile’s as good as a car.”

Walt leaned on the horn, and they waited for some sign of life from the ranch. When none was forthcoming, they left the Cherokee parked where it was and went in on foot. As they neared the cabin, they saw that the snowmobile track connected with others, forming a network of beaten-down paths leading to and from various outbuildings.

Walt shouted, “Sheriff’s Office!” It wouldn’t have surprised either man to be greeted by the wrong end of a shotgun, and Brandon walked with his good hand resting on the stock of his pistol. The cold dry snow squeaked beneath their boots.

When their knocks on the door went unanswered, they checked the neighboring outbuildings. One was a working garage, the other a storage shed overrun with junk.

A snowmobile track continued past a granary, leading toward the fence line.

“I know you think she’s using me to get at you, but that’s not the way it is,” Brandon said, as they trudged through the snow.

Walt stopped and turned to make sure Brandon heard him. “You’re my best deputy. You think that’s coincidence?” He turned and walked on.

“You two were separated.”

“She convinced herself she was a lousy mother. She envied how easily the parenting came to me. It isn’t about you. It’s about the kids. She’s having second thoughts now. She’s going to fight for them. Are you ready for that?”