The Deuce still didn't say anything, but he moved ninety degrees in his chair, and looked at a pile of outdoor gear that sat against the wall. "I got two boxes of shells at Martin's yesterday. I could stay out there for a while, if I had some Shake 'n Bake."

"I got a twelve-pack in the cupboard, never opened," Slibe said. "I got some cornmeal, I was down at the diner and got a bunch of those little packages of salt and pepper, twenty of them. You want to pack up, I'll go get them."

THE DEUCE WAS PACKED up in fifteen minutes-bivy sack, change of clothes, four pairs of socks, pump.22 with two boxes of shells, fifty rounds in each box, his knife, headlight, head net, gloves, bug spray. He thought about it for a minute, then added an ultralight fishing rod, a compact tackle box, and a yoga pad.

Slibe came back with a plastic sack full of food-Shake 'n Bake and cornmeal and a six-pack of beer. The Deuce said, "I'm not walkin'."

"What?"

"Takin' the canoe. You can drop me off on the river-I'll get down south of Deer River, in those swamps back there," he said. "Stay there as long as I want, eat sunnies and northern."

"I told them you went walkabout."

"If they ever ask, I'll tell them I keep the canoe hid out, and walked over."

Slibe said, "Okay. Okay. But we gotta get going. The girls have gone to bed. I want to move now."

THE DEUCE PACKED the food and tackle box, gathered up the rifle, fishing rod, and yoga pad, and carried them down to the truck. Slibe got two canoe paddles out of the woodshed. It was eight minutes out and over to the roughed-out landing at Big Dick Lake. The canoe, an old aluminum Grumman, was back in the woods, chained to a tree. They unlocked it, loaded it on the truck, and headed over to the river.

"Dark," Slibe said, as they turned off Highway 2 and rolled past a wild-rice processing place, and down to a boat landing.

"Not bad, when you get used to it," the Deuce said.

They put the canoe in the water next to the bridge, working with the Deuce's headlamp. He dropped in the pack, the rifle, the fishing rod, and the yoga pad.

Slibe said, "That pad, you're getting soft."

"Takes the hurt out of the roots," the Deuce said. "Sleep easier." He took the paddles from Slibe, and added, "I don't know what you're up to, Dad, but I'd 'preciate it if you'd leave me out of it."

He pushed off, pivoted the canoe, and disappeared into the night.

Slibe watched until he couldn't see or hear him, then spit into the water and climbed the bank back to the truck.

He stopped at an all-night gas station and bought a bottle of beer and drank it on the way home.

Thinking all the time.

Working the plotline.

20

VIRGIL STOOD ON ZOE'S front porch and pounded on the door like a drunk husband. The porch light came on, then the door popped, and Zoe peered at him through the screen. "Virgil?"

She was still fully dressed.

"Haven't found him. I was out at the Ashbachs'. Can I come in?"

"Sure." She stepped back, and Virgil pulled open the screen door and followed her into the living room and plopped on the couch, his pistol digging into his back. He'd forgotten about it. He leaned forward, pulled it out, and put it on the coffee table.

"You're carrying a gun," she said. Her voice was apprehensive.

"Not for you," Virgil said. "I was out at the Ashbachs' with a couple of deputies and we were ready to go."

"You mean 'kill somebody.' "

"I mean 'shoot back.' We're dealing with some loonies out there. That goddamn Slibe says his goddamn son's gone walkabout, whatever that means."

"It's Australian."

"I know that. I'm a cop, not an idiot," Virgil snapped. "Anyway, the Deuce is out wandering around with a gun, in the middle of the night. When I pushed them on it, all of them out there, Berni, Wendy, and Slibe, pretty much agreed on the killer."

"The Deuce?" She sounded skeptical.

"No. You."

She sat back. "Even Wendy?" she squeaked.

"Even Wendy. Though it started with Berni. Anyway, so here I am, ready to do what I should have done a long time ago, but didn't, because I like you. Go get a rope."

"A rope?"

"Yeah. Like a clothesline or something. Six feet long or so."

SHE HAD TO THRASH around for a while, but finally came up with a piece of electrical cord, which Virgil said would have to do, and he brought her back in the living room, looped it around his neck, put his hand under the cord, in front of his Adam's apple, palm out, turned his back on her, and said, "Strangle me."

"What?"

"Strangle me. Really go for it," he said.

"Virgil, I don't want to hurt you," she said.

"Well, if you start hurting me, stop."

So she tentatively pretended to strangle him, and he shook her off like a flea, said, "Really try, or I will kick your freakin' homosexual ass all over this living room."

That got to her, a little bit, anyway, and she tried harder, and he yanked her around and slapped her off the cord, and said, "Just like a little girl. What a fuckin' pussy. I'll tell you what, my third ex-wife was half your size, and she could've done a hell of a lot better job than that."

The goading worked. The third time, she finally went for it, and he had trouble getting loose, yanking her this way and that, and with one heavy heave, yanked her around and she lost her grip on the cord and cried, "My hands…"

He unwrapped the cord and asked, "You all right?"

"You almost broke my fingers." She was half lying on the couch, where she'd landed, looking at the reddening grooves across her palms.

He sat down and looked at her. "All right. You could've strangled Lifry, but I don't see you cutting her head off."

"I didn't strangle anybody," she said, tearing up.

"Why didn't you tell me that you do Jan Washington's taxes."

"I don't…" But then her mouth made an O. "Oh… shit. Mabel does!"

"You never said anything," Virgil said.

"But I don't do their taxes," she said. "I never even thought… Mabel does their taxes. They bring their stuff in an envelope, give it to Mabel. Or mail it; we send out an organizer with a mail-back envelope-and Mabel does them. I mean, I bet I talk to Jan Washington three times a year, and never in the office. On the street, I talk to her."

He looked at her for a minute, then said, "C'mon."

"Where're we going?" she asked.

"Out to the Eagle Nest."

"It's after one o'clock."

"If I needed the time, I'd look at my watch," he said. "Let's go."

They went out to the truck, then had to go back to the house so Virgil could get his gun, and he put it under the seat and they headed out to the lodge.

AUGUST NIGHTS GET COLD in northern Minnesota, and this one, not cold, was at least crisp. When they pulled into the lodge, a car full of women was just unloading, heading back to the cabins; coming in from the Wild Goose, Virgil thought. The cabins mostly trailed away from the lodge to the right, from the land side. Zoe took him around to the left, behind the lodge, to a cabin set on the highest ground around, with a green-screen porch.

"She's gonna be pissed," Zoe said.

"So what?"

"Just sayin'."

STANHOPE WAS MORE STUNNED than angry. She was wearing voluminous flannel pajamas with a flying-monkey pattern, with a ratty pink terry cloth robe tossed on top. "What?"

"Zoe here has been credibly accused of being the killer," Virgil told her. "I'm either going to clear her, or arrest her."

"What?" Stunned, not angry.

"Let's find a place to sit," Virgil said.

Stanhope's living room was comfortable in a lodge-like way, with shelves for old books, lots of Reader's Digest condensed novels from the sixties or so. A Bible was sitting on the arm of one chair. Virgil picked it up, tossed it from one hand to the other, like a softball, and said to the two women, "'Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord.' Proverbs twelve, twenty-two."