"Don't know."

Katina hadn't known Cash or Warr very well, and hadn't liked either one, but their deaths could create problems. "I've got to get down to the church. We had some sisters getting ready to make a run. I better call Ruth right now."

She disappeared, half-dressed, down the hallway, and Singleton stood there, puzzling over it, staring at the very expensive cowboy boots that sat at the end of his bed. Deon and Jane?

Lewis came thundering back. "She already heard, five minutes ago. I gotta get down there. What're you doing, cowboy?"

"I don't know. Still gotta get some sleep. Then maybe see what's going on."

SINGLETON SAT DOWN on the edge of the bed and ran his hands through his hair, worried. What the hell had happened? Hanged? He couldn't get past that part. Maybe he should go look, but too much curiosity… who exactly knew that he'd spent time with Jane and Deon?

Katina knew some of it, of course. Calb knew some of it, knew that he'd been at their house a few times. Maybe some of the other body shop people-the shop was just down the highway, and they may have seen him turning in Deon's driveway.

But he'd taken a little care not to be seen. When he was there, he'd always parked on the slab beside the garage, where you really couldn't see the car. That hadn't been a matter of foreboding, but just common sense. Now the common-sense care might pay off.

WHAT 'RE YOU DOING, cowboy?Lewis had asked.

Loren Singleton was a cowboy, though without a horse or a ranch. He wanted to like horses, but horses always tried to bite him, sooner or later, and he'd quit trying to ride. Besides, Cadillacs were even better-old, over-the-top, seventies and eighties Cadillacs, which, for a cowboy, was close enough.

In his own mind, Singleton was a cowboy and an artist with automotive lacquer, and only in a secondary, unimportant way, a sheriff's deputy and a lookout for a band of car thieves. He knew, though, that something was missing in his life. He felt that all the details were there, but not the color. He felt like a black-and-white photograph-only when he met Katina did a little color begin to bleed into his life.

In other people's minds, Loren Singleton was, when they thought of him at all, a loner, a familiar outsider, a man always standing on the edges. A few women had tried to talk with him-he wasn't bad looking, and the cowboy clothes seemed to give him some kind of personality-but they'd found him unresponsive, emotionally stunted. As a deputy, he had a reputation for casual brutality that seemed to go with his essential coldness. Even his cars, his Caddys, tended to cold, brilliant colors that could set your teeth on edge.

Everybody nodded to him on the street; almost nobody spoke to him.

THEN KATINA LEWIS had arrived to work with the nuns. Singleton wasn't sure that he'd ever loved anyone before he met Lewis. He thought about it sometimes. He probably loved Lewis, he thought-there was no other explanation for the way he felt when he was around her-but did he love his mother? Had he ever? She was the only other possibility for love in his life, and everyone was supposed to love his mother. People got "Mom" tattooed on their arms. People ate at places called "Mom's," because Mom would never hurt you, would always have that extra piece of pie for her little boy.

But Singleton's mom had whacked the shit out of him for years; had beat him up so badly when he was six months old that an uncle had taken him to the hospital, told the doctor that he'd crawled out of his playpen and had fallen down the stairs.

His father, Edgar Singleton, had died in a live-steam accident at the chipboard plant when Loren was two years old. Singleton had heard his mother telling stories, with some relish, about "poached Eg," how his father had been poached from the neck down when a steam line broke in a processing tank, and how he lay in the hospital, burned over 95 percent of his body, waiting to die, without pain, but also without a mind: he'd rambled on for seven days about haying on the old farm, then he'd died.

When Eg was gone, Mom began dressing Singleton in girl's clothes. She'd wanted a girl; girls were more manageable. She did her damnedest to make Singleton into one-would have done better if the nosy old school principal hadn't gotten a restraining order against her, requiring her to dress her kindergartener in gender-appropriate clothing.

Singleton vaguely remembered all of that. After the court order, she still made him put on a dress, occasionally, and serve tea at one of her ladies' poker parties. That ended when he was eleven, big for his age. She'd ordered him into a dress, and he'd refused. She'd begun to hit him with a broomstick that she'd used to beat him in the past, and he'd fled into the winter darkness.

When he came back, she was in the bathtub. He'd gone into the bathroom, and she'd screamed at him and tried to cover her nakedness, but he didn't care about that. He, a big, tough, abused eleven-year-old, had grabbed her hair and shoved her head under water. She'd thrashed and fought and clawed at him, but he'd held her under until she quit struggling.

Then he held her under for another fifteen seconds. When he finally let her up, she lay back against the end of the tub, apparently without breath. Then, she breathed in, a small breath, and then another one. In five minutes, still weak, she tried to climb out of the tub. Singleton heard her, came back in, shoved her head under water again, until she passed out a second time.

The second time she revived, she was quiet about it: crept over the edge of the tub and crawled to the bathroom door and managed to get it locked. She lay there, naked, until the next morning, when she heard him whistling out the door on his way to school.

When he came home that night, he found she'd locked him out. He kicked the back door until the lock broke, found her crouched inside with a baseball bat. He pointed a finger at her, the eleven-year-old did, and said, "Don't fuck with me anymore."

They spent their next seven years together, with the bedroom doors locked at night.

AFTER HE GRADUATED from high school, Singleton had enlisted in the Air Force, had been trained for the Air Police, and had been sent to Eielson Air Force Base outside of Fairbanks, Alaska. All he could remember of the place were the clouds and the cold: better than two hundred days of cloudy skies every year, bone-chilling for seven months, cold for another three, mosquitoes for the final two.

Just like home.

Out of the Air Force, he worked in East Grand Forks for a while, moving lumber around a home improvement warehouse, then heard about a deputy sheriff's job in Custer County. His AP background got him in. But he didn't try very hard, at anything, and after two years was assigned to permanent Sunday-through-Thursday night shift. If he'd take it, he could stay, the sheriff said. Otherwise, it was the highway. He took it.

There was almost nothing to do at night in Custer. In twelve years, there'd been three house fires that started on his shift, and maybe once a month he'd get a medical emergency, which only required that he show up. He'd stop a few speeders on country roads, jail a few drunks, break up the occasional barroom fight with his casual brutality.

Given his work hours, he didn't have a social life. He followed no sports teams, didn't hunt or fish or ride ATVs or snowmobiles, didn't garden or read or pay attention to music or go to movies. Didn't even watch much TV.

His only real interest were the old Cadillacs. He'd get one in his garage, do the mechanical work that would bring it back to life, and then lovingly and carefully strip it down to bare metal. After months of preparation, he'd move it to Gene Calb's auto-body shop, where he rented the equipment to do the paint. He changed cars every year or so, driving one while he rehabbed a second one. His current ride was an '82 Eldorado Biarritz with a custom Rolls Royce grille. The finish was a hand-polished flame-orange flake over a deep mocha base.