He left through the back door.

She stood, went into the kitchen, spit in the sink and washed out her mouth, then ran into the shower.

Cliff Baxter drove around Spencerville, feeling very good. He had, at the moment, two women, which was enough for one time: Sherry, mostly for oral sex, and a separated woman with kids, named Jackie, trying to live on what her husband sent her from Toledo. Jackie had a nice bedroom and a good bed, and she was a good lay. Cliff always brought groceries, compliments of the local supermarket. He had a third woman, he realized, his wife. He laughed. "You are all man, Cliff Baxter."

The mobile phone rang, and he picked it up. Sergeant Blake said, "Chief, I had Ward drive by Landry's place with binoculars, and he got the license number."

"Okay."

"So I called these clowns back in D.C., and I gave it to them."

"Good. What we got?"

"Well... they said this plate was some kind of special thing, and if we needed to know more, we got to fill out a form, tellin' why and what it's about..."

"What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"They faxed me this form — two pages."

"What kinda shit is that? You call those sons-of-bitches and tell them we need a make on this plate now. Tell 'em the guy was DUI or somethin', can't produce a registration or nothin'..."

"Chief, I'm tellin' ya, I tried everything. They're tellin' me it's somethin' to do with national security."

"National... what?"

"You know, like secret stuff."

Cliff Baxter drove in silence. One minute he's on top of the world, pipes cleaned, feeling good, and in charge. Now this guy Landry shows up from outside, from Washington, D.C., after how many years?.. Twenty-five maybe, and Cliff doesn't know a thing about him, and just finds out he can't even get a make on his car registration or driver's license. "Who the fuck is this guy?"

"Chief?"

"Okay, I want this bastard watched. I want somebody to swing by his place a couple times a day, and I want to know every time he comes to town."

"Okay... what are we lookin' for? I mean, why?.."

"Just do what the hell I tell you."

"Yes, sir."

Cliff hung up. "The man fucked my wife, that's why." And people in town knew, or they'd remember, or they'd hear about it soon enough. "I can't have that. No, siree, I cannot have that."

Several plans of action began to form in his mind, and he remembered something old Judge Thornsby once said to him... "Sometimes a problem is an opportunity in disguise."

"That's it. This stupid bastard came right onto my turf. And what I couldn't do twenty-five years ago, I can do now. I'm gonna kill him... no, I'm gonna cut off his balls. That's it. Gonna cut off his balls and put 'em in a jar on the mantel, and Annie can dust it once a week." He laughed.

Chapter Seven

A hot, dry wind blew in from the southwest, originating within some ancient weather pattern that once swept prairie fires across the grassy plains and stampeded endless herds of buffalo, blind with panic, into the Great Black Swamp where their bones were still turned up by plows. But now the wind blew through a million rows of corn and a million acres of undulating wheat, through the small towns and lonely farmhouses, and across pastures and meadows where cattle grazed. It swept across Indiana and into Ohio, and over the Great Lakes, where it met the arctic mass moving south.

By mid-September, when the west winds died, Keith Landry recalled, you could sometimes catch a whiff of the north, the smell of pines and lake air, and the sky was filled with Canadian geese. One September day, George Landry said to his wife, Alma, "It's time we got smart like the geese." And they left.

The history of most human migration, however, was more complex, Keith thought. Humans had adapted to every climate on earth, and in ancient times had populated the world by their wanderings. Unlike salmon, they didn't have to return to their birthplace to spawn, though Keith thought that wouldn't be a bad idea.

Keith was acclimating himself to the almost suffocating dryness, the fine dust, the constant desiccating wind, and, like most northern Ohioans, he was thinking about the winter long before it arrived. But acclimating to the weather was easy; acclimating to the social environment was going to be a little more difficult.

It had been a week since his return, and Keith decided it was time to go downtown. He drove in at midday and headed directly for Baxter Motors, a Ford dealership on the eastern end of Main Street. His family had done business there for years, and Keith vaguely recalled that his father did not really care for those people. But the old man was perverse and felt that he could strike a better bargain with people he disliked, and he got a thrill from it.

He was not unaware that Baxter Motors was owned by the family of Annie's husband, and perhaps that influenced his decision, too, though he couldn't get a handle on that reasoning.

He got out of the Saab and looked around. The dealership was strictly Ford, with no foreign car franchise attached, as was common back east.

A salesman beelined across the parking lot and inquired, "How're you today?"

"Very fine. Thank you for asking."

The salesman seemed momentarily confused, then struck out his hand. "Phil Baxter."

"Keith Landry." He looked at Mr. Baxter, a baby-fat man in his early forties with more chins than a Chinese phone book. Phil Baxter seemed pleasant enough, but that came with the job. Keith asked, "This your place?"

Phil laughed. "Not yet. Waitin' for Pop to retire."

Keith tried to picture Annie married to one of these genetic fumbles, then decided he was being uncharitable and petty. He got to the point, perhaps too quickly for local tastes, and said, "I want to trade this customized Ford in for a new one."

Phil Baxter glanced at the Saab and laughed again. "That ain't no Ford, buddy." He got serious and said, "We try not to take foreign cars. I guess you know that."

"Why's that?"

"Hard to move 'em. Local folk drive American." He squinted at the license plate. "Where you from?"

"Washington."

"Passin' through, or what?"

"I'm from around here. Just moved back."

"Yeah, name sounds familiar. We done business before?"

"Sure have. You want to sell me a new car?"

"Sure do... but... I got to talk to the boss."

"Pop?"

"Yup. But he ain't here now. What kind of Ford you lookin' for, Keith?"

"Maybe a Mustang GT."

Phil's eyes widened. "Hey, good choice. We got two, a black and a red. But I can get you any color."

"Good. What's the book on mine? It's last year's, eight thousand miles."

"I'll check it out for you."

"Are you going to take the Saab?"

"I'll get back to you on that, Keith. Meantime, here's my card. Give a call when you're ready."

Keith smiled at the small-town, low-key approach to sales. In Washington, any car salesman could be an arms negotiator or Capitol Hill lobbyist. Here, nobody pushed. Keith said, "Thanks, Phil." He turned to leave, then the imp of the perverse turned him around and he said, "I remember a guy named Cliff Baxter."

"Yeah, my brother. He's police chief now."

"You don't say? He did okay for himself."

"Sure did. Fine wife, two great kids, one in college, one about to go."

"God bless him."

"Amen."

"See you later, Phil."

Keith pulled onto Main Street and stopped at a traffic light. "That was a stupid move, Landry."

He certainly didn't need to go to Baxter Motors; he knew they wouldn't want the Saab, he didn't even know if he wanted a Ford, and surely he didn't have to mention Cliff Baxter's name. For an ex-intelligence officer, he was acting pretty stupid — driving past her house, going to her father-in-law's place of business. What next? Pulling her pigtails? "Grow up, Landry."